Primmy's Daughter

by Primmy's Daughter (retail) (epub)

  ‘You should be careful what you say about folk,’ she snapped. ‘Spreading lies about them is called slander, and you could be made to pay heavily—’

  The old woman gave a sudden cackle that made Skye’s heart stop for a moment and then race madly on.

  ‘Pay? What would I pay with, my pretty? The likes of me don’t have money to squander, ’cept for they who want a special potion or a bit o’ special advice. And you’d best come down off your high horse if ’ee knows what’s good for ’ee. I’ll say one thing for ’ee, though.’

  Skye knew she shouldn’t ask. She should peddle away as far as possible from this disturbing old crone. But almost against her will she found herself snapping out the question.

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘I heard tell of Morwen Tremayne and her doings from a sister long since gone, and you’m a spit of her, by all accounts. Same looks, same hoity-toity manner, and same nature. ’Twill be the ruin of ’ee if ’ee don’t watch out.’

  ‘Why should it be? It wasn’t the ruin of Granny Morwen!’

  Dear Lord, why was she even continuing this conversation and defending herself? thought Skye. She got back on her bicycle without another word, and pedalled onwards without glancing back. But she didn’t need to do so to sense that the old crone was standing motionless, watching her go.

  As she reached Clay One she was telling herself to forget it. At least, the last part. She didn’t intend forgetting the snippets of family history that had come her way so oddly, and which tantalised her so.

  And then she saw the stationary dark green motor car that had almost knocked her off her bicycle. Without thinking, she marched up to the man getting back into the driving seat now, and rapped on the window to attract his attention.

  ‘Where I come from, we have a name for people like you who have no consideration for others on the road,’ she snapped, before she could stop to think.

  Theo Tremayne looked up in annoyance. He had been far too occupied with juggling with the new work rosters to waste time on flippety young women who spent their time idling about the countryside just to take a look at the quaint clayworkers.

  But now he registered the flashing eyes and the sharp accent. And he knew at once who she was. He opened the car window a fraction, as if it was all he could spare, and he drawled back at her, exaggerating his Cornishness in a welter of sarcasm.

  ‘I’m real mortified if our rusticated ways offend you, Ma’am, and you’ll understand that we country folk are only just getting used to these new-fangled mechanical machines.’

  Skye glared at him, knowing he was mocking her, and thinking that if this was a sample of her granny’s clayworking folk, then she didn’t care for their manners.

  ‘You could at least apologise!’

  ‘What for? For driving on my own bit of moorland at my own pace? You’re the one who’s trespassing, girl, not me.’

  Skye looked at him silently. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Now why should I tell you that? It’s no business of yours, and I see no reason to pander to your nosiness.’

  Before she could think what he was going to do, he had shot off in a downhill direction, leaving her seething at his rudeness. Pig, she thought again, finding great satisfaction in the word, while thinking she did the lovely pink creatures a disservice by even comparing them with that oaf.

  She became aware of a few curious onlookers. She smiled at the clayworkers, only to have them retreat into whatever part of the works they were involved in. So much for trying to be friendly, she fumed. It was obviously true what they said. Cornish folk were wary of strangers.

  Chapter Six

  Theo Tremayne acknowledged that his cousin Skye was a corker, but too young for his taste, despite her spirited manner. He preferred more worldly women, and had little interest in flighty younger things – especially colonial cousins. There had been enough of those in the family already.

  But he was hugely looking forward to visiting his grandmother with his parents that evening, and showing Miss High-and-Mighty Skye Tremayne just who he was.

  His mother didn’t tell them his Uncle Luke would probably be there as well, until they were nearing New World in Theo’s motor. Just in case it persuaded them to turn back…

  ‘Well, that’ll put a damper on proceedings for sure,’ Walter grunted. ‘It’ll be grace before supper, and grace after supper, and giving thanks to the Lord every which way he can think of for the girl’s safe delivery here.’

  ‘It’s called celestial insurance, Father,’ Theo grinned. ‘Didn’t you know he’s preparing his place in heaven?’

  ‘Stop it, the pair of you,’ Cathy scolded them. ‘Anyway, Luke’s not a socialising man, and it’s more than likely he won’t stay long, nor want to come to her welcome party.’

  ‘Hallelujah to that!’ said Theo.

  Cathy clamped her lips together, privately agreeing with the sentiments, but too dignified to say so. Besides, while the men conversed privately with Morwen it would give her a chance to let Skye know the party was arranged for two weeks’ time. Subject to Morwen’s agreement, of course, she amended.

  Luke’s sedate horse-driven carriage was already at the house when they arrived. He scorned all modern transport, believing that the old and trusted gave him a certain prestige and solidity in the church and his flock at Prazeby and the surrounding moorland area.

  Theo groaned, seeing it. To his mind, the old goat was as stuffy as a horse-hair sofa, and he wondered just what he would make of their volatile cousin.

  He felt a quickening of interest, remembering those flashing blue eyes and pithy tongue – and contrasting them with Luke’s ponderous and sermonising ways. If ever two related folk were at opposite ends of a personality scale, it was those two, he thought.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’ve cheered up, Theo,’ his mother said severely, ‘Now be on your best behaviour, both of you.’

  Walter glanced at his son, privately wondering how the hell his sweet and lovely Cathy had turned into this waspish monster…

  Three people awaited them in the drawing-room. Luke greeted them as grandly as if he owned the place, while Skye looked at Theo and felt her face flood with colour.

  ‘It’s you!’ she stuttered.

  ‘I do believe it is, dear cuz,’ he said mockingly, enjoying her discomfiture.

  ‘Have you two met already?’ Morwen exclaimed.

  ‘I wouldn’t say we had met exactly, Granny Morwen,’ Skye snapped, before Theo could add his own piece. ‘If you mean was I almost knocked down by a thoughtless oaf driving a motor far too fast on a country lane, then yes, I suppose we’ve met.’

  She was suddenly aware of the silence in the room and knew how tactless she had been in bursting out with her feelings. She should have been serene and dignified, like Aunt Cathy, but that had never been Skye Tremayne’s way. If a thing had to be said, then it had to be said.

  Luke cleared his throat in the irritating way he had. ‘Strong words, my dear young lady—’

  ‘Oh, I can use far stronger ones if the need arises,’ she said, seemingly unable to stop herself retaliating. And then she chewed her lip, knowing how badly she must appear to these fine folk. She looked directly at Morwen, her eyes appealing.

  ‘I’m sorry. Mom always says I’ve a miserable habit of speaking before I think. May we begin again, do you think?’

  To her amazement, she heard Theo laugh.

  ‘Of course. And I promise to go slower the next time I see a pretty girl on a bicycle.’

  He was half-mocking, but she had the grace to smile and to accept his apology, by which time everyone was making noisy conversation. But she knew her quick temper had to be curbed. Especially here, where she was the outsider.

  Theo’s final peace offering was to suggest taking her to a theatre in Truro one evening the following week.

  ‘There’s a mime party touring the towns, and I think you’d enjoy it. Although it’s nothing as grand as you’d see in New York or o
ne of your big cities, of course.’

  ‘I don’t come from a big city, and I hate New York,’ she told him. ‘Mainstown is very small-fry. But thank you for the invitation, and I accept.’

  If he was prepared to offer her friendship, she’d be foolish to refuse it. Just because they had got off to a bad start, they were still kin, and remembering the suspicious looks she had got from the clayworkers, she wasn’t turning her back on friendship.

  Luke stayed long enough for supper, and to say the obligatory prayers of thanks for Skye’s safe arrival. He told them importantly he had other folk to visit on the way back to the parish, or he would gladly have stayed longer. They all heaved a sigh of relief when he had gone.

  ‘How did you ever come to have such a son, Mother?’ Walter asked mildly. Before she could reply, he turned to Skye.

  ‘You’ll have already discovered, my dear, what a diverse bunch we are.’

  ‘Was he always so pious?’ she asked carefully, knowing there were plenty of less complimentary thoughts in her mind. Luke Tremayne might be a stalwart of Prazeby parish, but there was no warmth in him, and Skye guessed he would show no mercy to one of his flock who fell by the wayside.

  ‘He used to be a gentle soul, overshadowed by his brother Bradley,’ Morwen told her. ‘He once had ambitions of following Walter and Ran into the clayworks. Then, when Bradley left for Ireland with your Uncle Freddie, and your mother went to America, Luke changed completely. It was as if he had to wait until his brother and sister left him space to breathe.’

  ‘Good God, Mother, you’re turning quite poetic in your old age,’ Walter said with a grin. ‘Anyway, we were such a large brood, we all needed a bit of space to breathe, not just brother Luke.’

  ‘You didn’t lack for space up on the moors,’ Morwen said tartly. ‘And you always knew just what you wanted.’

  As Skye listened to them, the journalist in her was piecing together the revealing fragments of their relationships as if it was a giant jigsaw puzzle. Which was just what it was, she thought. Every family was unique, and with such a large one as this, there must be so many untold stories…

  ‘So what do you make of us all, Skye?’ Cathy asked, smiling, the perfect lady.

  Why did people ask such inane questions? Skye thought at once. And how was anyone ever supposed to answer them?

  ‘Give her time, Mother. She’s hardly stepped off the boat, and she’s not met the hay-seeds yet,’ Theo drawled.

  ‘Thank you, Theo,’ Morwen said. ‘Now, do you boys have business to discuss wi’ me or not? Cathy and Skye can amuse themselves while we go into Ran’s study.’

  She never called it anything else. The wood-panelled walls and leather chairs, the family photos and sketches that had belonged to Ran, still evoked his aura in her mind in that room, and she would have nothing changed in it. She sat behind Ran’s big oak desk and waited.

  ‘We’ve sorted out the shift work rosters, Mother – at least, Theo’s done it, and the men are satisfied with it.’

  ‘They’ve got no choice,’ Theo put in arrogantly.

  ‘There’s always choices,’ Morwen said. ‘Your daddy and granddad Hal never needed to lord it over ’em, and nor do you. And if the clayers chose not to work and had to tighten their belts for a few weeks, then we’d be the poorer for it as much as them, so don’t give me any of that pompous boss nonsense. You’re as bad as your Uncle Luke sometimes,’ she added, knowing it would rile him.

  ‘God preserve me from that,’ Theo muttered, but realising he’d gone too far.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Walter said heavily, when there was a pause. ‘The shift work’s taken care of, but we should seriously look towards getting the autumn loads on the move before time this year. ’Twould mean paying overtime, but the weather’s fine and the clay settles quickly now with the new air-dries, and there’s no shortage o’ workers.’

  ‘Why such haste?’ Morwen said, suspicious at any hint of change. ‘We’ve never brought the dispatches forward before, and Stokes and Keighley may not agree to send their wagons at an earlier time from the usual.’

  ‘Yes they will, Mother.’ Walter sounded more urgent now. ‘Young Enoch Stokes is more progressive than his father ever was, and they’re keen to expand their chemical and medical supply depot. But ’tis only because we’ve been in business for a good many years now that they’ll take all the clay we can get ready by the middle of August—’

  ‘What? A month before time? It can’t be done!’

  And she hadn’t worked at the linhay, scraping and stacking for all those years, without knowing the truth of it. But even as she spoke, she knew that those days were long past. Things had become more streamlined, production was speedier, and far fewer women clayworkers were needed now.

  ‘Yes it can, Gran,’ Theo assured her. ‘In fact, I’d strongly advise it.’

  In the small silence then, Morwen felt her stomach clench and go cold. She recognised the feeling. It was not so much a presentiment of something that might happen, but more a certainty that events were about to shape all their lives, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. It was a feeling that she hated, and which had frequently proved to be as certain as the sun rising each morning. She spoke angrily.

  ‘Will you two emmets tell me what all this is about, or do I have to play guessing games about my own clayworks?’

  ‘It’s not just the northern dispatches that we need to think about, Mother. You’d best read this letter,’ Walter said. ‘I can’t pretend that things don’t look black.’

  She took the envelope he held out to her. She knew the name on the back of it. Hans Kauffmann was one of their best European customers, and had become a friend over the years. She read his words quickly, skimming the usual platitudes until she came to the part that Walter indicated.

  “I have no wish to alarm you, my friend, but despite the way the sun shines and the people are enjoying the hot summer, there are storm clouds gathering over Germany. There are rumours everywhere, and it would be a foolish man who does not heed them. We have been friends and business colleagues for many years, but if our two countries were at loggerheads, for want of a more sinister word, I fear for us all. Both our businesses would suffer, and communication between us would cease. I cannot make my anxieties any clearer than that, and nor do I wish to put into words what I so strongly dread.”

  Walter watched his mother, feeling additional alarm. She had always seemed invincible, but right now she looked the old woman that she was; still with the remnants of a long-ago beauty in her face that time would never destroy, but with parchment-like cheeks and sunken eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ he said roughly. ‘I didn’t want to worry you, but you had to know.’

  ‘Not worry me? I’m still a partner in Killigrew Clay, and anything that concerns it, concerns me, and I’m not ready to be put out to grass yet.’

  But the spark quickly faded, and she spoke more thoughtfully. ‘Hans Kauffmann is a cautious man, and not one to speak out unless he strongly suspects something. I’ve heard war-mongering tales from Birdie, but I’ve not repeated ’em, since such gossip can produce wildfire panic. But you’re thinking ’tis not all nonsense, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am. And I agree that Hans is not a man to write such things unnecessarily, however guarded.’

  Yes, that was the word for it. It was a guarded letter, thought Morwen. As if the likeable German who had come here several times to visit the clayworks was looking over his shoulder even as he penned the words, for fear of repercussions.

  ‘Then if you think ’tis wise to get the clayers working double shifts or overtime to get the clay dispatched as soon as possible,’ she said carefully, ‘see to it right away.’

  Walter spoke quietly. ‘I think ’tis a very wise move, Mammie. We may have to be payin’ out bonuses as well, but ’twill benefit us in the long run.’

  The unspoken words were all there, and Morwen wasn’t stupid. If war came… if war came… then the Eu
ropean markets would be closed to them, and they would have to rely on the few American markets they had – and the reliable northern firm of Stokes and Keighley. At least they would want as much raw clay as they could acquire, she thought, echoing Birdie’s words in her mind, since there would be a huge demand for extra medicinal supplies…

  She shivered, not wanting to think in those terms for one moment. She had already lost a son and a grandson to a war, and although there were no young boys of military age in the family now, she had no doubt that patriotic pride wouldn’t stop those who had a mind to enlist.

  And since Charlotte’s girls had always taken after their mother’s caring and child-minding ways, they would almost certainly want to go off and be nurses… Morwen could see it all happening as clear as daylight.

  Theo was adding his piece now. ‘Now we’ve got your blessing, Gran, you can leave it all to us. We’ll explain everything to the clayers tomorrow. And my rosters have made allowances for extra shifts where necessary.’

  He eyed her warily as he spoke, knowing she would see that this had been planned before they came here tonight.

  Had she actually given any blessing, Morwen thought? In any case, wasn’t that more in Luke’s line of business than hers? Her thoughts were becoming muddled, because what was she giving her blessing for, exactly?

  To get their autumn dispatches off to Europe earlier than usual to Kauffmann’s Fine China Factory, to steal a march on a country that might or might not be going to war with themselves; and to provide a chemical and medical supplies company with the wherewithal to patch up the multitude of young men who would be wounded or dying in such an event.

  She experienced one of those moments when everything in her mind seemed to be slipping sideways, sending her imagination to places where she didn’t want to go, and seeing horrors she couldn’t even begin to contemplate.