Spinner's Wharf

by Spinner's Wharf (retail) (epub)

  To Mary’s consternation she found that she was blushing. Was the upstart doctor paying her a compliment or making fun of her? She rose to her feet.

  ‘Well, thank you for nothing,’ she said breathlessly. ‘There’s a few shillings for your advice, though I don’t think it’s worth a bent penny.’

  He didn’t even bother to reply and as she let herself out of the house, she felt his laughter as though it was something tangible.

  She walked down to the old harbour and stood staring out to sea, feeling as lost as the small boat that bobbed on the waves, mooring rope dragging behind it. Why could she not be content with her life as it was? She had Brandon and he was all that mattered to her surely? She also had her store and made a good living for herself, so why did she feel this continual sense of loss?

  She was becoming obsessed with the idea of having a baby and for all she knew, the young doctor could be right – perhaps she was defeating nature by being too eager. And yet the dreadful fear that she might be barren persisted.

  She sat on the seafront for a long time and it was almost dusk by the time she returned home. The dining-room lights spilled out on to the lawn and the house had an unreal fairy-tale look about it. She had not been born to all this, she told herself fearfully. Was childlessness the price she had to pay for rising above her station?

  Brandon rose briefly when she entered the room and then resumed his seat without another glance in her direction and finished his meal in silence. At last he threw down his pristine damask napkin and spoke to Mary in tones that she hardly recognised.

  ‘When you have eaten, come to the study. I want to talk to you,’ he said. Irked by his tone Mary pushed her plate away with the food untouched, and followed her husband into the book-lined room. She waited impatiently as he poured himself a drink from a gleaming glass decanter, her heart beating fast, her anger growing. What right had he to issue orders as though she was a child, and in front of the servants too – what on earth had come over him?

  ‘Well, what is it you want to talk to me about?’ Mary demanded and Brandon’s eyes were suddenly hard.

  ‘I do not like your tone,’ he said deliberately. ‘Remember that you are my wife and I expect a certain respect from you. Now sit down!’

  Surprised at the command in his voice, Mary obeyed him at once, clasping her hands together in her lap to prevent them from trembling.

  ‘Where have you been until this late hour, and wearing only a flimsy gown? Have you taken leave of your senses, woman?’

  ‘There’s no need to shout at me, mind, I’m not deaf.’ She held her head high. ‘I’ve been giving myself time to think, sitting in our old spot on the harbour. That’s where I’ve been – no harm in that is there?’

  Brandon’s anger dissolved. ‘Why don’t we talk any more Mary? We’ve become like strangers. Oh, we touch and we lie together but in your thoughts you are always far away from me.’

  Mary could not meet his eyes; she longed to tell him what was in her heart and yet how could she broach the subject of her childlessness – might he not think it was a reflection on his manhood?

  ‘You see?’ he said softly. ‘Even now your thoughts are secret from me, I can tell by the way you avoid my eyes.’

  ‘There’s soft you are. I’ve nothing to hide from you, Brandon.’

  He sighed and shook his head. ‘You are doing it again, Mary, keeping me at a distance. I just fail to understand you.’

  ‘Is that so surprising?’ Mary was stung into anger once more. ‘I’m just a working girl and you’re a toff, remember?’ Her cheeks burned and tears threatened to spill over as she stared into the flames of the fire, feeling the warmth of them but not seeing the coals glowing in the ornate grate.

  ‘I will get to the bottom of this!’ Brandon said fiercely. ‘Mary, look at me, I want to know what’s wrong – is it that there’s another man in your life? I want the truth, now!’

  Aghast, Mary turned to face him, suddenly feeling drained as though the blood had flowed from her veins.

  ‘How could you speak to me so cruelly?’ she whispered. ‘Do you think of me as a floosie, then?’

  ‘What am I to think when you come home here late at night, dressed only in a flimsy gown and with your hair disarrayed? In the circumstances, any man would ask himself what his wife might be up to.’

  ‘Up to? How dare you!’

  ‘I dare because I’m your husband and I mean to know what’s going on.’ He grasped her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘Speak, damn you!’

  ‘I’ll speak all right, if only to tell you that I hate you, Brandon Sutton!’ Mary’s voice was hoarse. ‘I can’t believe I’m really hearing these awful things. Hurt me deep, you have, and forgiveness won’t come easy.’

  He seemed to withdraw from her then. ‘You talking of forgiveness – that’s rich, that is. It’s not me running round the town like a wild thing; haven’t you stopped to consider how foolish you must look?’

  ‘I won’t listen to any more of this; damn you to hell, Brandon!’ She hurried from the room and stumbled up the wide staircase, her eyes blurred with tears. What was happening to her marriage? What had she done to deserve Brandon’s mistrust?

  She fell on to the bed, bitter tears tasting salt on her lips. This was their first quarrel, she and Brandon had not so much as raised a voice against each other before. And it was clear that she was to blame. It was her unremitting desire for a child that was turning her heart inside out, souring her relationship with her husband – and even worse was her inability to talk to him about it.

  She heard him come into the room and turned, holding out her arms beseechingly. ‘Brandon, my love!’ He held her close, murmuring her name, kissing her neck, his mouth hot with passion.

  ‘Love me, Brandon,’ she whispered, clinging to him tightly and feeling the hot surge of blood in her veins.

  His hands were tender as they removed the flimsy gown and he caressed her proud breasts, his eyes dark with passion.

  ‘I love you so much, Mary, it’s like a sickness. I can’t get enough of you and I’m insanely jealous – without cause, I realise that.’

  ‘Hush, don’t blame yourself, I’m a vixen to turn on you so and you know I love you more than my life itself.’

  He laid her gently against the pillows and as he drew her close, she felt the lean hardness of him against her and gloried in his strength. Brandon was a fine man and any woman would be proud to have him as a husband.

  His hands were touching, delighting her, bringing sighs of joy from her… and Mary closed her eyes, surrendering to the love which was like sweet wine to her.

  But as Brandon came to her, she could not help the thought which crept unbidden into her mind, growing into an all-important desire which overwhelmed any other. Perhaps now, tonight, lying in Brandon’s arms and full of love for him, she might conceive his child.

  Chapter Six

  The autumn sun shone brightly as though reluctant to accept that summer was past. A drowsing heat hung over Sweyn’s Eye, turning the parks and gardens of the western slopes into a blaze of colour. Late roses rioted in lush grass and the fruits of autumn grew in abundance. Blackberries bursting with juice stood proud on prickly thorn and wild white bryony lingered among leaves that spread upwards like open palms. An air of peace hung over the hot streets where tar turned to acrid liquid and war was a distant threat, an unreality except for the continued announcements in the pages of the Daily Post.

  Rhian was seated in the low grey building of the mill on Spinners’ Wharf, unaware of the haze of heat outside the high round windows. Deftly she placed bobbins on the twister, bringing two threads together to make double ply for knitting. But her thoughts were not on the wool that slipped easily between her fingers. She sighed softly, stretching her arms upwards and easing the ache in her back. And she wondered with a trace of impatience why Mansel Jack’s dark features still haunted her.

  She allowed memories to revolve in her mind, a multicoloured kaleido
scope of emotions falling into a pattern as sure as the wool beneath her fingers. She had chosen to leave Yorkshire without a word, unable to face the strain of saying goodbye. They had become close in an inexplicable way. She had listened to him talk with enthusiasm about the mill, witnessed the ambition in his eyes and marvelled that he even saw her, so high were his sights set.

  But she had worked hard at Mansel Jack’s mill and it was not long before he began to notice her. He had been amused by her flair for making patterns and had eventually given her a free hand, much to the chagrin of the other women.

  On more than a few occasions he had called her into his office – the little room standing in the corner of the mill where the clatter of the carding engines receded to a distant hum. There Mansel Jack had talked to her about her background, his dark eyes appraising and with such an air of authority that she had felt compelled to answer him.

  She had described the humdrum parts of her life in Sweyn’s Eye, had even mentioned Heath Jenkins and that as a young girl she had fancied herself in love with him. But she did not speak of the secret that lay dark and coiled snake-like in her being, though his shrewd eyes missed nothing.

  When, as he sometimes did, he paused at the loom to talk to her, the other women winked at each other, mouthing words over the noise of the machinery. Rhian knew exactly what they thought of her.

  Once Mansel Jack had arrived unannounced at her mean lodgings; she had just washed her hair and it hung curtain-like, dark chestnut over her shoulders. He filled her room with his presence, touching the damp strands of her hair with the gesture of a lover. And she had felt her face burning.

  ‘I’ve admired you for some time now, lass.’ He leaned closer, his mouth curving in a smile, the strong line of his jaw emphasised by the dark hair that curled around his face. ‘You’ve a fine mind and nimble fingers and I like that.’

  There was no time for false modesty. ‘I know.’ She had smiled up at him and he had leaned back in his chair, laughing.

  ‘There, you see, you don’t dissemble or giggle behind your hand, you come straight out and say what you think. You’re a perfect woman, Rhian Gray.’

  Rhian had sighed inwardly, for she was far from perfect. A great fear gnawed at her in her nightmare: the dread of a man’s hand touching her intimately. This was the legacy left her when Gerwin Price had torn and plundered, leaving her for ever scarred. Slowly she shook her head. ‘No, I’m not perfect, not by a long chalk.’

  Mansel Jack had not tried to pursue the conversation, for he had a fine sensitivity and realised there were matters which must be secret. He had simply smiled down at Rhian, his eyes soft, his mouth turning up at the corners, treating her with warmth and friendship. Now she could not erase the image of him from her mind.

  The sound of the door opening startled Rhian. Once more she was at Spinners’ Wharf, working the small loom, and she felt like a sleepwalker waking in a strange place. She looked up to see Heinz framed in the doorway. His mutilated hand was bound in a swathe of cloth and his hair stood on end. Rhian hid a smile, he was so like a big innocent baby sometimes.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mr. Sinman?’ she asked, setting the twister into movement. The bobbins turned in unison on thin spindles, winding wool more quickly than the eye could see.

  ‘We haf lost another order.’ He came towards her, rubbing his uninjured hand against his apron. ‘The shops up in the High Street say they want no more blankets from us.’

  Rhian felt anger run like wine through her veins. ‘There’s daft of them! But don’t worry,’ she said stoutly, ‘I’ll find us some new markets. I’ll go further afield if necessary.’

  ‘Good honest words, Rhian, but you know the bad feelings the people haf for me now.’ He shook his head. ‘I think I must give up the mill and go away like the townspeople tell me to.’

  Rhian shook her head. ‘No, don’t give in, we’re not beaten yet.’ She drew off her apron. ‘I know just where we can get a good order for our wool – you depend on me, Mr Sinman.’

  She washed her hands free of the grease from the wool at the deep sink in the Sinmans’ kitchen, rubbing angrily at her fingers while Gina Sinman poured her a cup of tea.

  ‘Duw, if my belly grows any heavier I swear I’ll go pop – and me got to go down to the market for potatoes and I don’t think I’ll make it back up the hill.’ Gina eased herself into a rocking chair and brushed back a damp curl from her forehead. Rhian stared down at the swollen figure with compassion; Gina still bore the bruises from the stoning, though they were fading a little now.

  ‘You can’t have long to go and the baby will come when it’s ready, you’ll see.’

  Gina smiled dreamily. ‘It’s going to be a boy, a fine son for Heinz, I can tell by the lazy way he sleeps all the time. Used to kick me to pieces he did, but now he’s saving his strength to come into the world.’

  ‘Yes, and you need to save your strength too,’ Rhian said firmly. ‘Look, if you want potatoes I can fetch them. I’ve got to go out anyway.’ Neither of them mentioned the incident of the stoning, but both recognised the need for Gina to stay out of harm’s way.

  ‘There’s kind of you, Rhian. Get me a piece of boiling bacon as well – if you don’t mind, that is.’

  ‘I’ve said I don’t mind, haven’t I? Now why don’t you go and lie down on the bed for an hour, you look all in.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. There’s lazy it seems to be, lying down in the middle of the day.’

  ‘You do as you’re told,’ Rhian insisted. ‘Go and tell that husband of yours that you mean to rest and I’ll see you later. Don’t worry about supper, I’ll put the bacon on to boil if you’re not up when I come back.’

  The streets shimmered in the heat of the sun and Rhian felt breathless, her skin was beaded with perspiration in a matter of minutes. But as she strolled downhill towards the town, her spirits rose. It was good to be alive on a day like this, when even the bees hung lazily over the hedgerows, cells overfilled with honey.

  The birds sang in the high leafy branches of the trees and as she neared the sea a fragrant breeze drifted towards her, caressing her face, lifting her hair from her neck, and she felt as though the gods were smiling on her.

  She paused for a time on the edge of the golden bay, staring out at the clear horizon where a sailing ship was outlined against the backdrop of the Devonshire hills. Such clarity of sky and sea and mountains was a sure sign of the soft rain of summer.

  At last she turned towards the town, the streets seeming hard beneath her feet. A milk cart rattled past, the horse between the shafts moving reluctantly, head drooping. The milk churns clanked, spilling frothy liquid along the metal sides like pearly tears.

  Outside Mary Jenkins’ store, Rhian paused, staring at the display of fine gowns in the windows. She sighed heavily; in such fine weather it was difficult to sell heavy woollen shawls, yet she was bound to try her best. That’s why she was here, to ask her old friend for help.

  The inside of the store was large and impressive and Rhian had to summon up all her courage, putting confidence in her voice as she asked to see Mary Jenkins. But she need not have worried, for her welcome was warm.

  ‘There’s a nice surprise, Rhian! I’ve hardly seen you since you came home, where have you been hiding?’ Mary was genuine in her delight and Rhian smiled in response.

  ‘Mary, I should have come to see you before this, but I do have an excuse. I’ve been working at Spinners’ Wharf.’ She shrugged. ‘Times are hard, Mary, and I won’t deny that Heinz being a foreigner doesn’t help. That’s the reason I’m here, I might as well be honest.’

  ‘Right then, what can I do for you?’ Mary led the way across the store and Rhian, following her, felt dwarfed into insignificance by her stature.

  ‘I want you to give us an order for woollen goods, Mary.’ Rhian spoke appealingly and Mary turned to look at her, shaking her head.

  ‘Duw, there’s nothing I can do for you and there’s sorry I am. Come wit
h me, I’ll show you what I mean.’

  Mary led Rhian along a passageway to the back of the store. ‘Look, merchi, there’s my stock of wool blankets and shawls – not moving in this heat, see?’

  Rhian stared at the shelves full of woollen goods, her heart sinking. She moved closer, lifting the edge of a shawl and staring at it in bewilderment.

  ‘How is it you buy your wool from Yorkshire then, Mary?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Should be supporting local trade, for shame on you!’

  Mary stared at Rhian, her eyebrows raised. ‘What do you mean? I don’t buy wool from Yorkshire at all, but from Alfred Phillpot who is an official of Sweyn’s Eye Cooperative.’

  Rhian fingered the blanket, shaking her head in determination. ‘I don’t know what this Alfred Phillpot is telling you, Mary, but I know the Yorkshire patterns when I see them – didn’t I make up most of these myself? This man is buying his wool from the mills belonging to Mansel Jack – the same mills where I used to work.’

  Mary turned over one end of the blanket and studied the label. ‘Well, look, this says “Welsh wool” clear enough. Are you sure you’re not mistaken, Rhian?’

  ‘As sure as I’m standing here.’ Rhian spoke so positively that after a moment Mary nodded.

  ‘Right then, that man is cheating me yet again. He’s always been a thorn in my flesh and now he’s taking me for a fool into the bargain.’

  Rhian frowned. ‘But Mary, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with Yorkshire wool and I don’t see that you can lose anything by this strange carry-on.’

  ‘Well, I can!’ Mary said angrily. ‘The Yorkshire mills produce goods in such large quantities that the prices are lower than for Welsh wool and it’s Welsh wool I’ve been paying for, do you see?’

  Rhian nodded slowly. ‘I suppose the trick is to prove all this,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I know my own patterns sure enough, but it’s only my word against that of Alfred Phillpot.’

  Mary smiled suddenly. ‘Not if Mansel Jack can confirm what you say, merchi. You must give me his address; come on up to the office with me, this is too good a chance to miss. I’ve been wanting to give Alfred Phillpot his comeuppance for a long time.’