Spinner’s Wharf
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Copyright
With love to Luther and Hilda
Chapter One
The train twisted and turned through the Welsh hills, spitting out steam and cinders in great gusts like a monster sensing its prey. Small fires began softly in the grass bordering the track before bursting into flames and marking the progress of the iron beast with irregular pyres which were quick to die. For a fine rain had begun to fall, misting the narrow windows, a million tears slipping along translucent cheeks, grieving.
Imprisoned within the carriages as though inside a gigantic glass necklace were men in flat caps and white scarves with lean, blue scarred faces – the stamp of the miner. From along the corridor came the singing of soldiers freshly clasped to the bosom of Kitchener’s Army. They sang bravely and cheerfully, ‘Goodbye Dolly, I must leave you,’ for war was not yet a reality.
In one of the dusty plush seats sat a girl who seemed unaware of the people around her. She wore thick boots and from beneath the hem of her flannel skirt peeped the edges of a coarse calico petticoat.
She leaned back, her face hidden by the shadow of her bonnet, apparently reading an advertisement for Fry’s chocolate cakes at 3d each as though it was of the utmost importance to her. No one would have guessed that because of her mixed emotions she fought a constant battle with the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.
Rhian Gray was coming home and as the train clattered remorselessly against the lines, she seemed to come alive, turning to look at the now familiar countryside on the outskirts of Sweyn’s Eye. When she saw the low, dark stone sprawling buildings of the copper works lying along the banks of the river that was dull red, the colour of old blood, she shivered.
As it entered the station, the train jerked and shuddered as though in its death throes. Rhian rose shakily to her feet, brushing at her skirt, knowing she must look crumpled and untidy. She picked up her bag, clutching the handle with fingers that trembled; she was back in Sweyn’s Eye, yet there was no happiness in her homecoming.
Yorkshire had been left far behind and the new life she had made there seemed a distant dream. At the Mansel Mills where she had worked for almost two years, she had been sharp and quick to learn. She knew how to weave thousands of threads together into a colourful pattern; she had even designed turnovers, the small shawls which were worn by the women of the Yorkshire mills just as they were by their counterparts from the Welsh valleys. And in Yorkshire she had regained her pride.
Rhian walked quickly along the platform, flinching as the acrid smoke from the engine burned her eyes. She could taste the ashes and she coughed as she rubbed dust from her skirts, straining to see a familiar face in the throng of people at the station gates.
‘Rhian! Come here, merchi, let me look at you. Duw, there’s a lovely young woman you’ve grown up to be, proud of you I am!’
‘Carrie, I’m glad you could come to meet me.’ She hugged the older woman, warmth sweeping through her for it was Carrie who had cared for her as a child. Carrie was the one who had mothered her when Aunt Agnes was too tired; she had been part of the household, coming in each day to light fires, to clean and cook – yet there was more to Carrie than met the eye.
‘How’s Auntie? I came as soon as I got your letter,’ Rhian said and Carrie’s face fell into lines of sadness.
‘There’s a terrible change in Agnes,’ Carrie said softly. ‘She won’t eat anything, gone as thin as a bird and her face pointed, the bones standing out sharp – but her eyes are seeing everything as usual, mind.’
As she left the bustle of the station at Carrie’s side, Rhian became aware of the silence that hung over the town. There were no bakers’ vans or horse-drawn milk carts creaking along the roads. She stared round in amazement and paused as she saw a bill posted in one of the shop windows:
WE ARE AT WAR. GREAT BRITAIN’S FATEFUL STEP.
FIGHT FOR
NATIONAL HONOUR AND SAFETY.
Beneath the banner headlines was printed a story of a German cruiser being sunk. And the Kaiser’s troops had been repulsed by the Belgians. Rhian turned away, her heart beating swiftly in fear. The poster crystallised the fact of war which, engrossed in her own problems, she had almost dismissed as being scaremongering.
‘There’s terrible, isn’ it?’ Carrie caught her glance. ‘The damned war has changed everything, factories shut down, copper works silent and even the docks are at a standstill; like a dead town Sweyn’s Eye is – and all because of them foreigners.’
As Rhian walked towards her home along achingly familiar streets, she saw men standing on corners talking in hushed tones, eyes lowered and faces solemn. There was no flashing of sparks from the copper works, no glare as the blast furnaces were tapped; it was as Carrie had said, a dead town.
‘Even the pawnshops are closed,’ Carrie said with a trace of humour. ‘Comes to something when you can’t hock your best pair of boots. There’s soft men are, wanting to fight each other.’
Rhian’s throat constricted, her eyes clouding with tears as she drew nearer to the neat row of cottages. She saw them as if through a haze and painful memories pressed on the edges of her mind…
Sharp images of a man with ugly tufts of hair and ugly hands. Gerwin Price had torn and plundered, violating her soul as well as her body. She pushed the agonising thoughts away, but she was trembling.
‘Come on, merchi, no good standing out by here, let’s go in and have a nice cup of tea, shall we? I’ve made some nice teisen lap for you.’
As Rhian followed Carrie indoors, the aroma of the cake – rich with fruit and baked flat on a plate – filled the house.
‘I’ll just run up to see Auntie and then I’d love that cup of tea,’ Rhian said cheerfully.
It was just as well that Carrie had warned her of the change in Aunt Agnes, for she was nothing but a pale shadow of the strong woman she had once been. She lay huddled in her bed, as thin as a child beneath the sheets, and only her eyes held anything of her former spirit.
‘Auntie, there’s good it is to see you!’ Rhian kissed the parchment-thin cheek, half afraid to touch lest she damaged the frail bones.
‘She’s been talking to you, hasn’t she?’ Aunt Agnes stabbed a thin finger towards Carrie. ‘Told you I’m losing my brains, I’ll warrant, just because I want to die out of it all.’ She lifted her head and for a moment she was the old Aunt Agnes. ‘And die I will, so don’t try your wiles and weepings on me, my girl.’
Rhian sat carefully on the edge of the bed. ‘Now, Auntie, why talk like that? There’s plenty of spirit in you, anyone can see that, and what would I do without you? If only you
’d eat sensibly, you’d be back to your old self in no time.’
Aunt Agnes sighed. ‘You’ll do very well without me, you’ve proved that. Anyway, you don’t get my meaning, do you girl? I want to go, I’ve had enough of life – and don’t pity me because I know full well what I’m saying for all that Carrie tells me I’m deranged. There’s this war – do you think I’m going to endure seeing our young men go to shed their blood in some foreign land? Oh no, I’m better out of it.’ She looked at Rhian imploringly. ‘Try to find your brother Billy, that’s all I ask.’
Rhian nodded her head. ‘Of course I will, Auntie – and just think, the war may not last long, everyone is saying it’ll be over before it’s really begun.’ Her aunt simply turned her face to the wall and Rhian sighed softly.
‘I’m going to unpack my things and then perhaps we can have tea together. Draw the curtains, Carrie, will you? And put more coal on the fire, it’s chilly in here.’
Rhian was unconscious of the air of authority she had assumed, nor did she notice the quick deferential glance Carrie gave her. She followed the older woman and stood on the landing a moment, staring at the closed door of her own bedroom.
‘What do you think?’ Carrie asked, her voice trembling. ‘Should we have Dr Thomas to look at her? She goes mad if I even suggest it, but you’re here now, perhaps she’ll listen to you.’
Rhian shook her head. ‘I’ll talk to Auntie later,’ she smiled. ‘If I threaten to send for Bryn Thomas, that may be enough to do the trick!’ She brushed back her hair wearily, ‘And if it isn’t, then I’ll decide what’s to be done in the morning.’
Carrie looked at her with new respect. ‘You’ve grown up,’ she said quietly and Rhian allowed herself a small smile.
‘I suppose I have.’ In her heart she knew her childhood had ended a long time ago. Her thoughts veered away sharply; one indulgence in unpleasant memories was enough for anyone.
‘I’m going home now,’ Carrie said. ‘I’ve spent more nights by here than under my own roof lately.’
‘There’s good of you, Carrie.’ Rhian’s tone was warm, ‘I do appreciate your kindness. I seem to have taken you for granted all these years, but I won’t make that mistake again.’
‘Duw, don’t you go praising me, mind. I’ve got to have something to fill my days, haven’t I?’
Later as Rhian sat alone in the silence of the familiar living room, she acknowledged that it was good to be home. The fire glowed behind black-leaded bars, the kettle was singing on the well-polished hob. And yet strangely there was a homesickness within her for the things she had left behind.
She thought nostalgically about the craggy, rugged hills of Yorkshire, where nothing grew except the tough grass that fed flocks of thick-coated sheep. She had severed herself abruptly and with difficulty from the satisfying life she had made there, for the simple reason that Auntie Agnes needed her.
Rhian slipped from the chair on to the mat in front of the fire and covered her face with her hands. She thought of Mansel Jack with a sense of loss, even knowing that she had not the right. Yet she had found herself so drawn to the man whose very presence in a room made everyone stop and stare. He was her boss, owner of the small woollen mill where she had learned her trade. He had wrested a living from wool, pitting himself against competition from some of the biggest mills in the land, and making a success out of a venture which had appeared to be doomed to failure.
Yet it was not his success that impressed Rhian so much as the man himself. There was a steeliness about him, a quiet strength and the feeling he imparted that Mansel Jack could cope with fire and flood and come through smiling and victorious.
Moreover there was an unexpected softness in him that seemed to be only for her – or had she imagined the overt liking that shone from his eyes whenever he looked at her? When the letter had come from Carrie, it was like tenuous fingers of love and duty drawing at her soul and she knew there was no other choice but to return home to Sweyn’s Eye.
And now that she had given up the trade she loved and was so proud of, would she simply sit here along with her dying aunt and become old and sere herself? Feeling tears burn against her closed lids, she was angry. She rose to her feet and with fierce jabs of the twisted poker riddled the fire so that the ashes fell sparkling into the grey dust beneath.
‘Turning into a crybaby already and only home two minutes, there’s daft!’ Her voice sounded strange in the silent room; she lifted her head and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner seemed unnaturally loud. It was about time she stopped feeling sorry for herself, so she resolutely turned and went upstairs to bed.
Yet she could not sleep but tossed and turned, trying to ease the tempest of thoughts that rushed through her mind. She saw behind closed lids the shadowy figure of her brother Billy. He had been the talk of Sweyn’s Eye once, the subject of avid gossip over silver teapots and fine bone-china cups.
The entire town seemed to believe he was a man who had got away with murder and then had run off with a married woman who was far above his station in life. Yet Rhian knew that Billy was innocent of any crime except that of loving Delmai Richardson.
Rhian wished her brother could be here to help her cope with the awful dogged determination to die which gripped Aunt Agnes. But God alone knew where Billy had fled when he left Sweyn’s Eye behind him.
She turned over in her bed and closed her eyes tightly, ashamed of the tears that burned behind her lids.
* * *
Heath Jenkins walked through the narrow streets of Sweyn’s Eye, his step eager, his spirits high. He had heard that Rhian Gray had come home and was on his way to see her. At the edge of the harbour he paused and stared at the sailing ships lifting and rising on the tide, his thoughts drifting and a smile curving his lips.
She had chased him shamelessly once, but Rhian had been a young girl then and perhaps she had changed. Yet his feelings for her had grown, fed by her absence, and love for her burned deep in his gut.
He watched the gulls wheel and curve overhead; as they called raucously to each other, they reminded him of flurries of rice thrown at a wedding. He might bring Rhian here when the time was right and propose to her. The edge of the sea would be an ideal setting and he knew that to women, such things were important.
Heath felt he had a great deal to offer Rhian now. She would have her own comfortable house on the lower slopes of the hill near the sea and a fair bank balance to go with it. For the last year or more he had been manager of Brandon Sutton’s steelworks and had put the increased wages to good use. Some said his rise in position was due to the fact that his sister was married to the owner, but Heath had worked damned hard for promotion and he felt he deserved it – not that he intended to remain at the steel company much longer.
He could scarcely remember the hovel where he and his sister had been born. Mary was bitter about it still; it had marked her life, made her strong and independent. She was a successful businesswoman and no one could attribute her achievements to anything other than her own iron will.
Heath wondered how Rhian would feel about being the wife of a soldier, for against all advice from Mary and from Brandon he had decided to enlist in the Army.
He was well aware that steel-making was an occupation that would be more necessary than ever now that the country was at war, and there would be no shame attached to him if he remained in Sweyn’s Eye to work the steel. But his young blood called out for combat; he needed to be at the heart of the conflict, he’d not be content with being on the sidelines.
Rhian would be proud of him, he felt sure of that, and he was sure too that she would agree to be his wife. She had come home with no ring on her finger, still the same Rhian Gray who had left town nearly two years earlier.
Heath had understood her need to leave Sweyn’s Eye; she had to renew herself, find inner peace after the terrible thing that had happened to her.
His hands clenched into fists at the thought of the barbarism of Gerwin Pric
e, who had taken away Rhian’s innocence in the most cruel and defiling act which it could be any woman’s misfortune to bear. Rhian had felt unclean, degraded and Heath could understand that too. But he loved her and he wanted to marry her, for her past was dead and gone just as was Gerwin Price himself.
He was about to move away from the harbour when he caught sight of a slim figure, dressed in a light cotton skirt and blouse, dark red hair peeping from under a stiff calico bonnet. He knew even from a distance that it was Rhian - he loved every inch of her, she had been part of his pulse since he was a boy and he had always known that one day she would come back to him.
Slowly he moved towards her, noticing the tilt of her head, the grace of her movements, the precise way her small, booted feet touched the ground. She was more beautiful than ever, a woman now and no longer a light-headed young girl.
‘Rhian, cariad, you’ve come home!’ They stared at each other for a long moment and her eyes were alight as they looked into his face. He held out his arms and she came into them as though she had always belonged against his heart.
‘Heath, I’m so glad to see you, let me look at you properly.’ She held herself away from him, the palms of her hands cool against his cheeks. Unable to prevent himself, he leaned forward and kissed her and, startled, she drew back.
‘Rhian, my lovely, I won’t hurt you.’
‘I know.’ She held his hand and smiled at him, colour tinging her cheeks. ‘You look well and so handsome it takes my breath away!’
She was more poised, Heath thought. Rhian had learned to conceal her feelings. Her dark eyes were clouded, as though to deter anyone from knowing too much about her.
‘And how’s Mary?’ she asked lightly. ‘Has your sister got any children yet?’ Her face softened. ‘I’m going to have such a lovely time meeting up with my friends again.’
Heath shook his head, smiling. ‘No, she’s far too busy for motherhood – you know Mary. Anyway, I think she must have had enough to do bringing me up, I probably put her off for life.’
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