* * *
Once the reduced orders for the autumn dispatches had gone, the Killigrew workforce shrank alarmingly as more men signed on, and were sent to do their inadequate training and then sailed for France with alarming speed.
By mid-October only young boys and old men and a scattering of women workers were left at the idling clay pit that had once been throbbing with activity. Boastful assurances that it would all be over by Christmas were heard less and less, and across the English Channel the battle of the Marne had been fought to a bloody conclusion.
With guarded privileged information, Skye learned from David Kingsley that newspapers were instructed to play down the real horrors, and to make much of the triumphant announcement that a threat to invade Paris had been averted by our brave Tommies and the French soldiers. But it also told those shrewd enough to read between the lines, that the German army was a force to be reckoned with.
Posters depicting Lord Kitchener’s stern face and pointing finger were already demanding many thousands more volunteers; and Birdie, the fount of all knowledge, whether true or false, told Skye sourly that the number was to replace the number of dead on both sides of the conflict.
And Queen Mary appealed to women to form knitting circles to knit 300,000 pairs of socks for their brave boys to wear in the winter months to come.
* * *
Making an obligatory visit to her Aunt Cathy at Killigrew House in St Austell one afternoon, Skye encountered a group of earnest-faced women knitting furiously, their needles clacking like a thousand cicadas in a forest. The fact that they all sat in a circle in Aunt Cathy’s parlour wearing their outdoor hats made the scene even more incongruous.
‘If you want to help, Skye, there is more wool and needles in the box,’ Cathy told her.
‘Thank you,’ she said in a strangled voice. ‘But I’m sorry. I never learned to knit.’
There was the briefest pause in the clacking, and then it continued even more furiously and disapprovingly, as if to make amends for this brash American girl who couldn’t even knit a pair of socks for a soldier. And she could have sworn she heard one mutter something about the long hair being so unsuitable for a woman of Skye’s age.
Aware of their scorn, she felt appallingly useless, and she left them to cycle on up to the moors to the clayworks. All the workers were at Clay One. But Clay Two was where the old linhay was, that was supposedly going to be turned into a pottery and save the Killigrew fortunes.
‘Miss Tremayne!’
She heard her name, and she turned with a start. The Pit Captain, Bert Lock, was coming out of the linhay, and behind him was someone who could only be his brother, and a younger, brawny man. Skye’s fleeting thought was to wonder why the younger one wasn’t rushing to enlist like all the others, and then she saw the heavy black boot, and the way he limped to compensate for his clubbed foot.
Bert apologised for not shaking her hand. ‘I ’ouldn’t want to mess up your fine gloves, Miss, but perhaps you’d care to see what me and my brother Tom and young Desmond here have been a’doing. ’Twill turn into a going concern, I reckon, with all the raw materials ready for the using.’
‘You don’t mean the pottery? But I thought it was all put on one side for the time being.’
‘Ah well, since these two misfits have nothing much else to do with their time, the two on ’em thought they might as well move their tackle up here where they’ve got more room than in town. Poor Desmo can’t do nothing in the way of war work, see, on account of his foot, and Tom’s only useful with his hands and not his brain.’
‘Mr Walter made no objections to the plan, Miss,’ he went on anxiously, in case he expected her to go tale-telling to her uncle. ‘We’m only using up the clay that’s standing around useless, and Mr Theo gave us the say-so an’ all.’
‘Then I’m sure it’s all perfectly in order,’ Skye said. She was surprised no one had told her about this before, but why should they? She was only the American cousin, and Walter and Theo spent more time in Truro with the accountants lately than at the clayworks or visiting New World. And Morwen seemed to have lost interest in anything that went on outside her own four walls.
‘So are you going to show me what you’ve been doing?’ she asked, as none of them seemed able to make a move without some direction. Tom Lock definitely looked two cents short of a dollar, thought Skye, and his son was large and oafish in appearance. But she was prepared to be charitable, and anyway, everyone said you couldn’t judge a book by its cover, even if she had always thought it was a crazy and short-sighted remark to make.
Inside the linhay her eyes widened. The potters had indeed brought up all their tackle as Bert called it. They had installed two wheels, and buckets of water and all the raw materials they needed was spread around them. On a shelf nearby there was a small range of pots and dishes that they had evidently been working on. To Skye’s inexperienced eyes they looked passable, but not a patch on Emma’s.
She went to pick one up, and was stopped at once by Desmond Lock’s huge hand. Trying not to flinch, she heard him speak in a slow and ponderous voice.
‘Don’t touch ’un yet, Miss. ’Tain’t dry, see? ’Twill come to slop in your hands if you try picking un up yet.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Skye said humbly. ‘So what happens next?’
But she half-knew. Hadn’t she seen Emma’s little oven and felt the fierce heat that emanated from it? For the first time she felt a kindling of interest to master a skill that Em, and two such unlikely folk as these could do so well, and when she had watched them for a while, she asked tentatively if she might have a try.
With a grin that did nothing to enhance his features, Desmond handed her a clay-encrusted overall from a hook on the wall, and she slid it over her head. And at Tom’s suggestion, she tied back her hair to stop it falling into the wheel and the wet clay.
‘Sit you here, Miss Tremayne,’ Tom said, ‘and feel how the foot-pedal works. And when you’m comfortable with the feel of the treadle, centre the dollop o’ clay on the spindle, and if you’ll permit me the liberty, I’ll stand behind ’ee and guide ’ee in the process.’
‘Oh, please do,’ she said hastily, unsure exactly what he intended, but just as sure that if he didn’t guide her every step of the way, her dollop of clay would end up as just another dollop of clay.
Ten minutes later she gazed in awe at the pot she and Tom Lock had made, though she admitted it was his skill and her clumsiness that had actually produced the lopsided pot. He had eased her fingers into the centre of the soft wet clay and helped her work the revolving mass into a cone-shape at first, then pressed down to change the shape of the mass.
He continually threw water over the clay to keep it moist, and together they had finally shaped the fluted rim, with Tom’s thumbs pressing over hers to indent the soft clay at intervals. When he instructed her to stop the foot pedal, he ran a wire beneath the pot and lifted it on its square of greased metal to place it on the shelf beside the others.
‘I never knew how quick a process it would be,’ she said, realising he was knowledgable about the craft but no expert after all. ‘But I know I couldn’t do it myself, Mr Lock.’
‘Me name’s Tom,’ he told her. ‘And o’course you could do it. You could come and work wi’ we, if you’d a mind to it—’
His Pit Captain brother intervened quickly. ‘Tom, this is Miss Tremayne,’ Bert said sharply. ‘You can’t ask her to come and work with you and Desmond.’
‘Why can’t he?’ Skye said, seeing his crestfallen face.
‘’Twouldn’t be right, Miss, and Mr Walter ’ouldn’t like it,’ Bert said uneasily. ‘Besides, there’s reasons…’
‘Mr Walter needn’t know. I’ll come up here when I’ve got time to spare,’ she said recklessly. ‘Once we’ve got a number of pots to show him, he’ll be amazed that we’ve been so enterprising. What do you say to that?’
The amateur potters said nothing, just gaped and nodded uneasily. And Skye swilled her hands in on
e of the buckets of water and removed her apron, thinking that it would be a diversion for her, no more.
For there were far more important things to be done now that war was a reality. As she had expected, Vera and Lily Pollard had gone off with the Red Cross, and were already somewhere in France, Charlotte had told her mother proudly. Skye needed to be useful as well, and not just an ornament.
She presented herself at The Informer offices in Truro a few days later.
‘What can I do? I know you’ve lost some of your reporters,’ she told David Kingsley peremptorily. ‘Can I replace anyone?’
‘I’m sorry, no,’ he said coolly. ‘If you want to send me any reports on local women’s efforts from time to time, I’ll print them if there’s space, but I don’t need you here, Skye.’
She saw at once that he was paying her back for rebuffing him. She needed a job, and he wouldn’t give her one, except to report on prissy women’s doings, like Cathy’s knitting circle.
No matter that women were already working in factories in large numbers now, and doing men’s jobs. She had heard that those who could handle a vehicle were even driving tractors on farms. Some factories were already being turned into munition factories, and this nitwit couldn’t see beyond the fact that she was a woman who hadn’t responded to his flattery.
She left the offices in a huff, cycling aimlessly, and noting that Truro’s Army Recruiting Office was awash with men of all sizes and ages, eager to go to war. Some were already marching about the town in makeshift lines. It was a mark of the male ego, she thought resentfully, and the days of the hunter stalking his prey were not yet over.
Without realising it, her cycle ride took her to the gates of Madron College. There were still people walking around the grounds and the grassy lawns, even though classes were over for the day. Some of the staff who had rooms would still be here, of course. Philip would be here.
She was lost in thought until she realised that the gate porter had come out of his lodge and was clearing his throat for a second time.
‘I said, can I help you, Miss? Is there someone you wanted to see?’
‘No. Yes. Well, if Mr Philip Norwood is available, I have a message for him. From my uncle,’ she invented wildly.
‘Very well. Can I have your name, Miss?’
It was awful. As he looked her over, Skye could see he didn’t believe her, and probably thought she was one of Philip’s students, badgering him out of class-time.
For the first time in her life she wished she had cut her long hair, or pinned it up in a more sophisticated style, and didn’t look such a hoyden after riding over the moors in the cool afternoon breeze. She lifted her chin, staring at the man, her candid blue eyes daring him to think any such thing.
He picked up a telephone and pressed a few buttons, while Skye waited, her thoughts milling in all kinds of directions. And the one uppermost in her mind now was that, if Philip’s room had a telephone, she had only needed to know his number to have spoken with him at any time. She had never done so, nor thought she had the right, any more than she had the right to be here now. She turned to go.
The porter spoke. ‘Mr Norwood requests that you take tea with him, Miss. Room number forty-five, at the far end of the long corridor. You may leave your bicycle here, and it will be quite safe until your business is completed.’
‘Thank you.’ And he would know exactly when she left, and how long she had been here. Not that she intended staying more than a few minutes, or even knew why she was doing this at all, unless it was to lay a ghost. They hadn’t communicated at all since the night of her party. And, she told herself frantically, this was just to see him once more, to know that the mad passion that had flared between them was over.
The moment she entered his room and was drawn into his arms, she knew the foolishness of such a thought.
‘Philip, I honestly didn’t come here for this,’ she said faintly.
He ignored her words, his thumbs gently caressing her shoulders through the fabric of her jacket.
‘Sweetheart, it was like a miracle to hear old Trethewy’s telephone message just now. You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to call you at your home all these weeks, just to hear your voice for a moment. There was something I was desperate to tell you, but I could never find the right words.’
‘I think I know,’ she murmured, half ready for flight at the intensity of his voice.
‘No, you don’t know,’ he said, to her surprise. ‘You can’t know how guilty I felt at wanting so badly to tell you that Ruth and her aunt left Truro for Wales more than a month ago, and that they intend to stay there until the war is over, and then return to London.’
‘Why should it make you feel guilty to tell me?’ she said, not daring to think any further for the moment.
‘Because the engagement is off, my dearest girl. Ruth made it plain that she no longer wanted to marry a man who was so obviously in love with someone else. And the fact that she put into words what I was too cowardly to say, was what made me feel the guiltiest of all.’
‘Oh, God, no!’ Skye whispered, shocked at how much she must have hurt the other girl. ‘You know I never meant for this to happen, Philip…’ she tried to back away from him, but he held onto her too tightly.
‘No more did I, my love. But if it comforts you at all, it was apparently no hardship for Ruth to tell me it was all over between us. We had been like brother and sister for too long, and there was no great passion between us, you see. We both knew it wasn’t the right basis on which to build a marriage, but I would never have let her down.’
But nor could Skye help feeling acutely embarrassed at being the unwitting cause of all this, even though she couldn’t agree more with Ruth’s sentiments. There could be nothing worse than a loveless marriage, or a humdrum one.
‘I just don’t know what to say,’ she said at last.
‘Then I suggest that you don’t say anything, and let me do what I’ve ached to do for so long.’
He was still holding her close, and she felt the first sweet touch of his mouth on hers. And then the kiss became harder, more demanding. The flame in her heart became a fire, and she was responding with a passion that had been far too long denied.
‘You know that I want to make love to you, don’t you? To make you mine, for always?’ he murmured against her mouth.
She took fright at once. She was modern, sophisticated… and a virgin who had always strongly believed that a decent girl saved herself for marriage.
‘I can’t… we can’t… I’ve never…
She was babbling, because for all her high ideals she knew that she wanted this too, more than she had ever wanted anything. But she was so afraid of the consequences, of scandal, of bringing shame on herself and her family.
‘I’d make it safe for you, Skye,’ Philip’s voice was desperate with need. ‘I promise I would let nothing happen to you. I never would.’
He was gently unbuttoning her jacket now, and she felt his hand slip inside it to cup her breast. Her so-willing breast that responded immediately to his touch… She seemed hardly able to catch her breath as desire swept through her as she felt her nipple surge into life beneath his fingers. And she gave a shuddering sigh, knowing that nothing on earth was going to make her resist…
They moved towards his bedroom, and sank down on the narrow bed together. For just a little while, she thought faintly, they could pretend that this was forever.
They could pretend that there was no war or devastation going on in another part of the world. No guns or bombs or men being slaughtered. It meant nothing to them, and they were not part of it. There was only this…
He made love to her sensuously and considerately, knowing it was her first time, and when it was over, Skye still held him tightly. For all her self-confidence in other ways, this had been a new and deeply emotional experience, and she needed to know that she hadn’t failed him in any way.
‘Did I disappoint you, Philip?’ she whispered.<
br />
He gathered her in his arms more closely. Their flesh was still damp from exertion, and everywhere they touched they clung together. Such closeness made her feel wanted and loved, but she also needed him to tell her so.
‘You could never disappoint me, my darling girl. I love everything about you. Your quick voice, and your laugh, and the way you tilt your head when you’re considering something. I love your mouth and your eyes, and your glorious hair. I love the way you smile and the way you walk. Now, if I’ve left anything out – oh yes, there is one thing,’ he added with mock solemnity. ‘I love the way you make love with me.’
‘Oh, stop it – you’ll make me blush,’ she said, giggling nervously at his audacity.
‘I love the way you blush,’ he said.
Chapter Nine
‘There’s something else I have to tell you,’ Philip said slowly against her cheek.
She was still wrapped in him, skin-close, glorying at the wonder of it all. Despite her so-called worldliness, she knew she was a babe in arms at making love, and he was such a willing, wonderful teacher…
‘Do I want to hear it?’ she said provocatively. She ran her hands slowly down the broad expanse of his chest, amazed at how quickly she had become so unembarrassed at her first naked encounter with a man, and knowing she could never bear to be apart from him now.
She couldn’t think beyond the thought that they were obviously destined to be together. Ruth had seen it, and so had Morwen… and, in their hearts, so had they.
‘No, you won’t want to hear it,’ he said, making her heart stop for a moment. ‘And I don’t want to say it. But I had made my decision before seeing you again, and I can’t go back on it now.’
‘Philip, you’re scaring me,’ she whispered. ‘What decision have you made?’
He moved slightly away from her body, so that a small chill separated them. It seemed ominously significant to Skye.
‘You know I’m here for six months and that my time will be up at Christmas. I’ve been offered the option to stay on if I wish, but I decided I could be better occupied elsewhere.’
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