Spinner's Wharf

by Spinner's Wharf (retail) (epub)

  ‘Well,’ he said, not without humour, ‘what does my dear sister think of world affairs then?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about the war and what’s more I don’t want to,’ Doreen said acidly.

  Mansel Jack smiled and took Charlotte’s hand, playing with her fingers, lifting them one by one as though they were of intense interest to him. ‘I should have known better than to ask you ladies your views on such a matter.’

  Charlotte moved as though she would protest, then she fell silent. The light bubbling mood of the evening had vanished for good and shortly afterwards Mrs Bradley rose to her feet, swishing her soft velvet skirts with an impatient gesture and making her intention to depart quite clear.

  After his guests had gone, Mansel Jack took a glass of brandy to his room and sat staring into the fire, his brows drawn together in a frown. And in the flames of the fire, he saw the vivid eyes and dark red hair of Rhian Gray.

  * * *

  Mansel Jack was not the only man to be haunted by the dark eyes and oval face of Rhian Gray. In his bed, listening to the cheerful throaty song of the robin on the cold sill outside his window, Heath Jenkins was thinking of her soft skin and the way her hair shone darkly red, framing the vividness of her face. His love for her went deep and though it had taken him a long time to realise it, no other woman could fulfil the role of wife to him.

  He did not fool himself that he would be eternally faithful; he was the sort to like variety, but then that was true of most men. But to think of her at his hearth and tending his children made him feel warm inside. His decision to enlist in the Army might seem paradoxical to some but to Heath, the desire to fight for his country was all mixed up with his love for Rhian. This was the war to end all wars – wasn’t that what the politicians and the Army generals were claiming?

  Heath had spoken to Brandon and with an expression of envy, his brother-in-law had wished him well. ‘Though I don’t know what Mary will have to say about it.’ Brandon’s smile was good-humoured. ‘She’ll doubtless try her best to talk you out of enlisting.’

  Heath had returned Brandon’s smile. ‘Aye, she will that, but she’ll be wasting her time.’ He grimaced. ‘But I’m glad she’s your wife and only my sister, for her tongue’s as sharp as a viper’s sting when she’s roused!’

  A cold north wind was gusting around the house and reluctantly Heath pushed back the bedclothes and stood staring out at the mauve hills of Brecon in the distance. It would be hard to leave Wales, but it was a decision he had taken only after a great deal of thought.

  Downstairs Mrs Greenaway was busy over the fire and the mouth-watering smell of bacon filled the room.

  ‘Duw! Up before you’re wise and this is your day off – not ailing, are you?’ She poured strong fragrant tea from the large brown pot. ‘Here, drink this. It will chase the sleep from your eyes.’

  ‘You’re a dragon, do you know that?’ Heath sat down, tucking his long legs beneath the table.

  Mrs Greenaway glowered at him in mock anger. ‘Got to be,’ she said fiercely. ‘Need keeping in check, you do, boyo.’

  Heath ate heartily of the bacon, eggs and laver bread she set before him. He felt good, for his future was decided and strength seemed to flow through his veins.

  Later, he would go into town and be at the recruiting office early. Then he would walk over to Spinners’ Wharf, call for Rhian and take her somewhere nice, perhaps the Mackworth Arms in Wind Street. There, over a fine dinner, he would ask her to marry him.

  Anticipation made his blood tingle. He had not seen a great deal of Rhian since she had come home, but she must know in her heart how he felt – hadn’t she been in love with him when she was just a girl? And now he hoped she would smile and melt into his arms and promise to wait for him until the war was over.

  ‘Duw, there’s dull you are, boyo, spoken to you three times I have and you far away with dreams in your eyes. In love, are you?’

  ‘You could just be right, Greenie,’ he said softly.

  ‘Well, give me your cup and I’ll pour you some more tea. Still got to eat and drink whatever, mind.’

  Heath stared at Mrs Greenaway thoughtfully. ‘I’ve decided to go for a soldier,’ he said, suddenly serious, ‘and I want you to look after the house for me while I’m away.’

  Mrs Greenaway set down the teapot and sank heavily into a chair. She raised her apron over her face as though by the action she could erase the blow of his words.

  ‘Come on now, Greenie, there’s no need to go all awkward on me.’ Heath spoke impatiently; he didn’t know what reaction he had expected, but it certainly wasn’t tears.

  ‘You’ll be killed by them awful Huns, for sure.’ Mrs Greenaway’s voice was muffled. ‘They don’t have no mercy, cruel they are. I’ve heard tell they eat their own babies! Don’t go, Heath – you haven’t got to join up, have you?’

  He rose from the table and took his scarf and coat from the peg behind the door. ‘No, I don’t have to go as I’m in the steel business, but what would the country do if we all refused to fight?’

  ‘That Lord Kitchener, he’s got a proper army. They’re used to wars and guns and all, leave it to them.’

  Heath sighed. ‘I’ll see you later, Greenie. Meanwhile keep what I’ve said to yourself, right?’

  It was cold on the hill with the wind blowing rough coming in from the sea. Pausing to look down into the valley, Heath felt a tug of pride. Sweyn’s Eye was ugly with the fumes and the stink of the copper works, yet the curving gracious bay stretching a full five miles was unspoiled and lovely.

  He moved towards the town, ignoring the tram that swayed to a stop on the roadway alongside him. It would do him good to walk. Above him the sky was overcast, with clouds drifting like grey sheep. The tangy smell of tar and fish from the docks was carried towards him and he felt the old familiar excitement that the ships in the harbour always gave him.

  The town seemed more than usually busy. Pavements were crowded and bands of men stood on corners – faces wan with worry, white silk scarves worn like badges of hope, for unemployment was rife.

  There was a sudden crashing of glass and the sound of angry voices and Heath watched, startled, as a man scrambled through a shattered shop window and began to throw tins of food to a small boy standing on the pavement.

  ‘Run, Dewi, get off home to your mam!’ the man called and as a constable appeared, pushing his way through the throng of people, he gave himself up without resistance.

  ‘My children are hungry,’ he spoke simply. ‘Got to eat, haven’t they?’

  The constable deliberately turned his back and unbelieving of his good luck, the man disappeared into an alleyway. Someone began to cheer and then white scarves were being waved like banners. Heath found himself joining in, his voice hoarse for there was a lump in his throat. He realised quite suddenly that not everyone was as fortunate as himself. Many of the townspeople had been thrown out of work as firms closed their doors. War fever had broken out and over the months the epidemic had spread.

  The recruiting station was crowded with eager young men and first in line was the eldest son of the mayor, who signed his name with a flourish to the sound of cheers from his friends. Heath bided his time, waiting in the background until the crowd thinned out.

  ‘Bore da. Heath Jenkins, what are you doing standing here by my desk then?’ The sergeant was a man who had lived all his life in Sweyn’s Eye; too old now for active service himself, he was set the job of inspiring others to enlist.

  ‘Come to join up, what do you think?’ Heath moved to take up the wooden pen with the nib twisted from too much pressing against paper, but the gnarled hand of Sergeant Meredith stopped him.

  ‘No, boy bach,’ he said softly. ‘The Army isn’t for you, not with your bad chest and all. You’d be living in trenches neck-deep in mud and water – kill you off in no time, it would. Anyway, you’re in a reserved occupation.’

  ‘Are you telling me you don’t want me?’ Heath felt the heat
rise to cover his body; the rejection bit deep and he could scarcely conceal his anger.

  ‘Look, it’s not me personal like – got to pass the doctor, you have. Don’t you understand they won’t enlist anyone with bad health? Just turned away a boy with poor eyesight – got to be fit for to be a soldier, see?’

  As he left the recruiting office, Heath felt the stinging smart of humiliation; now he hardly saw the busy street he was walking along. He moved past the railway station and up the hill, striding out quickly as though to prove to himself that his lungs were as good as ever.

  Breathless he was, but surely that didn’t mean he wasn’t fit to fight? He stopped at Spinners’ Wharf, the silence telling him that there was no work being done that day. Had the world gone mad, he asked himself in sudden despair.

  He paused, wanting to see Rhian and speak to her, yet knowing that the impetus had gone out of his wish to make her his wife. How could he expect any woman to marry half a man who wasn’t considered strong enough to go to the Front?

  ‘Heath, what are you doing here?’ Rhian was leaning out of one of the windows, waving her hand to him. Her hair drifted across her face and she laughed as she brushed it away. ‘I’ll be down now. Don’t go,’ she added urgently as he half turned away.

  He thrust his hands into his pockets and kicked at a loose stone, his mind in a turmoil. He had never thought of himself as anything but a strong man. Hadn’t he worked the tinplate, and done so from a young boy, so he couldn’t be the weakling the sergeant made him out to be.

  ‘What’s wrong, Heath? There’s a terrible glower on that handsome face of yours!’ Rhian was at his side, her soft eyes filled with concern. He walked away without answering and almost running to keep up with him, Rhian grasped his arm.

  ‘Been turned down for the Army.’ The words came out short and sharp and he was aware of Rhian taking a deep breath.

  ‘Oh, Heath, you’re not thinking of going to war, are you?’ She dragged at his arm, forcing him to a halt, her cheeks flushed with exertion. ‘But everyone is saying it will be over before long, so why bother to enlist anyway?’

  ‘Because I don’t think it will be over that quickly,’ Heath said. ‘Nothing as big as a war can be settled that easily; it’s just propaganda put about by the politicians to keep us quiet.’ He stared down at her angrily, somehow blaming her for his rejection which was totally absurd.

  ‘I wanted to fight for my country, is that so difficult to understand?’ he asked. ‘The mayor’s son was enlisting – two years younger than me, he is, and him fit enough to fight on the front line. But me because of an illness I had years ago, I get turned down flat.’

  ‘Look Heath, if you really mean to go, then don’t give up so easily,’ Rhian said. ‘From what you say, the war will go on for some time and more men are bound to be needed. Leave it a little while and then try to enlist again.’

  Heath laughed bitterly. ‘You’re right Rhian. If the war continues, men will die and then perhaps the sergeant won’t be too particular who he sends to the Front.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ She hung her head. ‘And don’t talk that way, it frightens me.’

  Suddenly Heath put his arm around Rhian’s shoulder - it was wrong to punish her for his own disappointment. He hugged her close and led her slowly downhill towards the docks.

  ‘Let’s go and watch the ships coming in,’ he said softly, liking the feel of her slight body against him.

  The tide was high and a sailing ship rose majestically on the water, given precedence by the steamships which waited offshore. The sea was pewter in the cold winter air and wind-lashed waves beat against the wooden struts of the pier.

  ‘I was going to ask you to marry me,’ Heath said wryly. ‘I thought the sight of me in uniform would soften your heart so that you’d say yes.’

  ‘There’s daft you are sometimes, Heath Jenkins.’ Rhian spoke sharply to cover her embarrassment. ‘Sinful it is to tease a girl, mind.’

  ‘I’m not teasing.’ Heath looked down into her face, trying to read her expression, but she avoided his eyes and he sighed.

  ‘You are not going to reject me too, are you?’ He knew he sounded self-pitying but could not help himself.

  ‘I’m not saying anything to you when you’re in such a nasty mood. Talk to me another time, ask me proper-like and I might agree to listen to you.’

  She withdrew herself from the shelter of his arm and Heath sensed she was already regretting her words. She was a strange woman, he thought, so changed from the eager young girl he used to meet outside the Canal Street Laundry. But now she was far more interesting and doubly desirable.

  ‘I’d love you and cherish you, Rhian,’ he said. ‘I’d give you a nice home and children of your own – and I’m fit enough to work, whatever the old buffer Meredith says.’

  ‘Give me time to think,’ Rhian said gently. ‘It’s not every day a girl gets an offer of marriage.’

  ‘Don’t you feel anything for me, Rhian?’ Heath asked and she smiled up at him, her eyes bright.

  ‘There’s a daft thing to ask of the girl who once chased you shamelessly.’

  Heath touched her cheek gently with his fingers. The skin was soft like the petal of a rose and the urge to love and protect her was fierce within him.

  ‘“Once” was a long time ago,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, let’s walk by the sea and climb through the dunes and enjoy a bit of freedom while we can,’ Rhian suggested. ‘We’ll talk no more of marriage or of war, do you understand?’

  Smiling, Heath allowed her to lead him away from the docks and towards the curving stretch of sand that edged the water. She was right, he decided, he would enjoy today and think of tomorrow later.

  Chapter Nine

  The town of Sweyn’s Eye smouldered beneath a blanket of freezing fog. The smoke from the plethora of works on the banks of the river Swan lay heavily beneath the clouds, smothering Green Hill and the cottages of Copperman’s Row in a green mist that stung the eyes and irritated the lungs. But at Spinners’ Wharf the air was clearer, though the river, moving swiftly past the low grey building, had turned the colour of copper which stained the banks and choked the rushes.

  Rhian worked at the larger of the two looms, passing threads of wool through the eyes of the heddles which, when lifted, formed a triangular space through which the shuttle moved with lightning speed.

  Deftly she reversed the movement of the heddles, locking the weft thread into place, but it was not the patterns of the wool she saw for in her mind’s eye was a sparklingly clear picture of Mansel Jack. It seemed his image was imprinted on her mind – the crisp hair, the eyes so shrewd and knowing. She had held him in awe at first, hardly daring to open her mouth when he was around, but slowly she had come to like and admire him. Her feeling might have gone deeper, but Mansel Jack was unattainable, a man about to be married to a rich and beautiful woman.

  Heath Jenkins on the other hand was one of her own kind – young and vulnerable and very dear to her. Over the Christmas season he had been constantly with her, buying her small gifts and taking her out to the Mackworth Arms; in short, he was wooing her. And she was confused by her own mixed feelings – did she love Heath enough to marry him?

  ‘Well, Rhian, you haf worked hard today, now you must eat before you fall sick.’ Heinz had come into the mill without Rhian noticing; startled, she pulled at the thread so that it snapped between her fingers.

  ‘Duw, there’s careless of me.’ She halted the loom and stared at the broken ends of wool knowing she would have to work them together, a tricky and tiresome task.

  ‘Leave it for now,’ Heinz suggested. ‘You haf tired eyes and you be no good to me if you are not strong, so come and eat.’

  Heinz wore an apron which was covered in stains from the wool dyes; he looked like a great gaudy, genial clown and Rhian smiled.

  ‘You’re right, I am tired.’ She straightened and rubbed at the small of her back with her hands, trying to
ease the ache. As she followed Heinz from the mill and towards the house, the appetising smell of steak and kidney pie drifted towards her and she realised quite suddenly that she was hungry. Heinz saw her expression and smiled.

  ‘My Gina, she is a good cook, her pastry is so light.’ He pushed the door open, allowing Rhian to enter the welcome warmth of the kitchen where Gina was sitting near the fire suckling her son.

  Rhian sat at the white scrubbed table and wondered if she would ever feel maternal the way Gina did. Her face was alight with love as she looked down at her child and Rhian felt a sudden sense of envy.

  It seemed that all the normal womanly emotions had been left out of her character, for when she was a young girl she had never sought to lie with some boy beneath the stars on Ram’s Tor. Not even in the flush of her first love for Heath had she overtly desired him. And now, watching Gina, she could not imagine the ties that bound her to the small gurgling creature in her arms.

  ‘There’s pale you’re looking, Rhian,’ Gina said suddenly. ‘Now when you’ve had your dinner, you take the rest of the day off and get out for a bit. It looks as though the rain is going to clear.’

  Before Rhian had time to reply, Heinz bellowed in mock rage, ‘Listen to this woman of mine giving the orders!’ His beard bristled. ‘I not the boss in mine own house no more.’

  ‘Shut up your nonsense!’ Gina said quickly, her entire body shaking with laughter so that the baby in her arms, deprived of her nipple, set up a loud wailing.

  ‘You haf made my son cry now.’ Heinz took Gina’s face between his hands and kissed her mouth. ‘Come on, woman, no more fooling about. Mine belly thinks my throat’s cut, so where is the pie I’ve been waiting for all morning?’

  Gina rose from her chair and handed him his son. ‘I’ll get it for you now if you’ll stop nagging.’

  Together, in the warmth of the kitchen, the three of them ate hungrily. Rhian was more than welcome in the Sinmans’ household, she knew that, but at times like this she couldn’t help feeling like an interloper.