Spinner's Wharf

by Spinner's Wharf (retail) (epub)

  As she left the store and stepped out into the cold of the day, she shivered. Her great hope that Mary Sutton’s order would save the Sinmans from ruin had been dashed and there seemed nothing more she could do. She was defeated.

  She wandered past the line of the shore and stared at the sea merging into the pearly sky so that there was no visible horizon. Were there German ships out there in the Channel just waiting to attack Sweyn’s Eye, Rhian wondered?

  She returned to the mill almost reluctantly, for she knew that Gina and her husband would be eagerly waiting for her return. And she would have to tell them that Mary Sutton would take the stock already in hand, but then there would be no further need for production.

  In the cosy kitchen where the brasses gleamed brightly and the table shone white in the flickering flames, Gina Sinman was nursing her baby son. She looked up at Rhian and her face was shadowed. ‘There’s sad you look – does that mean bad news?’ she asked softly.

  Rhian sank into a chair and stared into the flames. ‘Mary Sutton will buy our existing stock, but after that she must deal with the Yorkshire mills, for they can sell their goods more cheaply than us.’

  Gina stared at Rhian, her eyes steady. ‘And the folks of Sweyn’s Eye don’t want to put shawls on their backs which were made in the mill of a foreigner, is that right?’

  Rhian looked down at her hands. ‘I suppose that’s about the size of it and in a way you can’t blame the people. They don’t understand Heinz; they are panicked by all the war stories we’re forever hearing.’

  She closed her eyes and leaned back wearily in her chair. ‘They are afraid, Gina – wanting to strike out at something and Heinz is a convenient scapegoat, so…’ Rhian never finished the sentence, for there was a loud crash at the front door and the mad calling of angry voices like the baying of an animal.

  ‘Iesu Grist!’ Gina rose to her feet, clutching her son close to her breast, and Rhian moved in front of her protectively as the door of the kitchen burst open.

  ‘Where is the bradwr?’ a voice demanded. ‘Find that traitor, men, even if you have to take the place apart.’

  ‘There is no need of that.’ Heinz moved into the room, his round face sombre, rubbing his injured hand against his apron in a familiar gesture. In the surprised silence, Rhian took Heinz’s bandaged hand and held it high.

  ‘Look at this!’ she said loudly. ‘Heinz Sinman cut off his own fingers so that he would not have to go to war against the people he has lived among most of his life. You, Dai-End-House, what are you doing here with this gang of hooligans? Get off home, the lot of you!’

  There was an uneasy stirring among the men like the sound of the sea rippling over the stones and Dai-End-House threw down the pick-handle he was carrying.

  Rhian’s eyes searched the room in the hope of seeing another familiar face, but most of the crowd were strangers, come in from the valleys no doubt.

  ‘Are you men or not?’ A harsh voice shattered the silence. ‘We know that the soldiers of the 6th are rounding up all the damned foreigners in town and we must do our bit to help. This Sinman fellow might be sending out messages to the Huns. There were two German ships in our own docks and how did they come here? Ask yourselves that!’

  ‘Stop!’ Rhian commanded. ‘Mr Sinman is no traitor and if you boys are so eager to help, why aren’t you in uniform yourselves?’

  The leader of the men moved forward; he was a tall man with curling hair and the look of the gypsy about him.

  ‘Are you this man’s wife?’ he demanded. ‘For we will take you too, mind.’

  Heinz spoke up quickly. ‘I haf no wife,’ he said thickly. ‘I will come with you, but leave the women alone, they haf nothing to do with me.’ His eyes met Gina’s, begging her to be silent. In her arms the baby cried out as though in protest.

  Aware that attention had been drawn to his son, Heinz lunged forward, throwing himself heavily against the leader. His huge weight bore the man to the ground and for a moment Rhian watched helplessly as they struggled together. And then, like the slow silent pictures that haunt a nightmare, Rhian saw clubs raised, blows being rained down on Heinz’s unprotected head and body and in the background Gina’s voice rising to a scream.

  It was all over in seconds, though it seemed like an eternity, then Heinz was being dragged, half-conscious, out into the street.

  ‘I must go with him,’ Gina said brokenly, but Rhian grasped her tightly around the waist, holding her back.

  ‘Not now, cariad, wait until morning and then we’ll find out where they are being taken. Think of Dewi and what that crowd of animals might do to him if they find out he’s a foreigner’s child.’

  Gina sank into a chair and covered her face with her fingers, trying to stem the tears. On her lap the baby cried too, as though his mother’s unhappiness had communicated itself to him.

  Rhian walked cautiously along the passageway and found that the front door had been completely torn from its hinges. She tried to lift it, but it was too heavy and with a sigh she gave up the struggle. The street was empty and silent now, the gaslights from the road shimmering over the waters of the river that ran dark red, like blood. Rhian shivered and went back into the house.

  Chapter Ten

  The copper sheds were steaming, the heat shimmering the air so that the eye was tricked into believing that the very ground wavered. Molten copper hissed and spat as green saplings were pushed into the fiery glow, sending up gushing clouds of steam.

  Morgan Lloyd had just finished his shift and stood for a moment with his mutton rag over his face, fighting a losing battle to stem the sweat that darkened his hair and ran in rivulets on to his eyebrows.

  ‘Have you heard the news then?’ Peter Harries was fresh and clean, just come in to begin his shift; he hunkered down beside the furnace to take the enamel top from his tea-can, thirst already gnawing at his throat.

  ‘What news?’ Morgan rubbed at his neck with the sodden cloth and particles of copper stung his skin.

  ‘Sterling Richardson is going to war – our boss is enlisting in the Sweyn’s Eye battalion, got to admire him.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so,’ Morgan conceded, ‘though I’m sick of the war and of seeing the town filled with Territorials. Camping out in the streets, some of them are.’ He didn’t add that his feelings were heightened by the fact that he longed to enlist – he wanted to be a soldier, to be fighting the Hun, but with his dad sick it was out of the question.

  ‘Well, needed here we are, boyo, everyone knows that. Got to have copper for shell bands, so we’re doing our bit – don’t you fret.’ Peter knew a little of Morgan’s circumstances and was making a clumsy attempt to be comforting.

  Morgan smiled at him gratefully. ‘Here, give us a drink, boyo,’ he said lightly, and at once Peter handed him the rounded enamel lid of his can filled to the brim with tea.

  Morgan drank thirstily, his own brew having been finished a long time ago.

  ‘Get off then, you lucky bugger,’ Peter said good-humouredly. ‘Wish I was ending a shift instead of just starting.’

  The air outside was cold in spite of the pale spring sunlight and though Morgan shivered it felt good to be away from the searing heat of the shed.

  He was looking forward to a thorough scrubbing and then a hot meal cooked by Mrs O’Connor, who was a wonder at conjuring up a satisfying dinner out of little more than a few potatoes and some scraps of meat. The O’Connors were finding it difficult to make ends meet, for Brendan had lost his job – through drinking too much, it was said, but Brendan O’Connor insisted that a Welshman had taken his place and he was furiously bitter about it.

  Morgan had increased his rent of his own accord, giving Mrs O’Connor twelve shillings instead of ten, for he needed little for himself – just enough to keep Dad in a small amount of comfort.

  He strode uphill with his hands thrust into his pockets, the sweat drying rapidly as the chill air encompassed his body. In time working the copper must take away a man
’s strength, he mused, but for now his blood was young.

  As he passed the towering slag tips, he caught sight of a sun-yellow daffodil – the first mark of spring – and his spirits lightened. Dad had been bad of late, his cough worsening, but surely with the coming of the milder weather he would take a turn for the better?

  ‘Hello there, sure it’s yourself, Morgan Lloyd, catching me at my prayers.’ Mrs O’Connor looked up at him as he entered the house and placed her rosary on the small altar she had erected in the parlour.

  ‘Duw, don’t stop because of me,’ he said quickly, embarrassed for he had no religion. ‘I’ll just get the bath, rub some of this copper dust from my skin before I go up to see Dad.’

  ‘That’ll be fine.’ Mrs O’Connor smiled at him. ‘You’ll have the privacy of the kitchen, ’tis nice and warm in there,’ she said. ‘The three youngest girls are out with their daddy and Honey is gone to work.’

  Morgan felt his heart sink. ‘Work – does that mean she’s been taken into service then?’

  ‘It does, so.’ Mrs O’Connor’s sad eyes belied her cheerful tone of voice. ‘And to be maid to Mr Richardson in that big house is a good chance for her. At least she’ll have her own little bedroom and plenty to eat and…’ her voice trailed away and Morgan saw a tear glint in her eye.

  ‘Don’t cry then,’ he said awkwardly and Mrs O’Connor shook her head.

  ‘I know it’s foolish, but I just don’t want to part with my sweet girl. My first-born, Honey is, and I do hope they’ll treat her right.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t they?’ Morgan felt his hands gripped together into fists as he waited for Honey’s mother to continue.

  ‘I don’t know, I’m being a silly old woman I expect, but there’s been talk about Rickie Richardson – him whose wife ran off with a gaol bird. One for the girls he is, by all accounts.’

  Morgan’s hair seemed to rise on the back of his neck. ‘There are other servants, surely. She won’t be up at the big house alone, will she?’ He was relieved when Mrs O’Connor shook her head.

  ‘Oh no, not alone, her daddy wouldn’t have that. Don’t like to think of her going at all, he don’t, but we need the money, what with himself out of a job now.’ She sighed. ‘Away with you now and have your bath, for your old fellow will be looking to you for a bit of company, sure he will.’

  The warmth of the kitchen was welcoming as Morgan pushed the big kettle on to the fire. He took the zinc bath from its hook outside the back door and set it in front of the gleaming brass fender. The silence of the house seemed strange, almost oppressive.

  It took several kettles of water to cover the ridged bottom of the bath and even then there seemed more steam than anything else, but Morgan stepped into the warmth and sighed with the pleasure of it. He had no room to sit, for he was a big fellow and it was with difficulty that he settled himself on his knees.

  He scrubbed at his skin with the bar of carbolic soap, feeling the particles of copper sting his flesh. If he remained in the trade, eventually he would become bronzed because of the copper dust impregnated into his skin. It was not only the trade folks referred to when they called the men ‘copper boys’.

  Morgan heard a small sound in the doorway and looked up, astonished, to meet Honey O’Connor’s startled gaze. For a moment their eyes locked and he saw with a quick beating of his heart how the delicate colour rose to her creamy skin.

  She made no move and as though frozen they remained motionless, neither knowing how to break the spell. They stared at each other and Honey slowly lowered her eyes, but not before he saw a glow in them. It was a sound from the parlour which galvanised them into action and Morgan reached for a towel as Honey pushed the back door shut with herself on the other side.

  ‘Are you decent yet, Morgan?’ Mrs O’Connor called. ‘I need to see to the meal if we’re not to starve to death.’

  Morgan wrapped the towel round his body and stepped out of the cooling water. ‘I’m decent enough, Mrs O’Connor.’

  She came into the room, scarcely giving him a glance as he moved to the door awkwardly. ‘There’s a fool I was not to get my clean clothes ready, like. Upstairs they are – I hope you don’t take offence at me being half-naked in front of a lady.’

  Mrs O’Connor laughed out loud. ‘I may have all girls, but I was brought up with six brothers, so don’t think you’ve got anything I haven’t seen before. Get upstairs with you, talk to the old man for a bit and I’ll see to the supper, sure I will.’

  ‘Give me a few minutes to dress and then I’ll empty the bath out the back; now don’t you go trying to lift it, Mrs O’Connor.’

  ‘Oh, away with ye, boy, ’tis like a horse I am.’

  Morgan hurried up the stairs and into the room he shared with his father. The old man was asleep and as Morgan dressed he stared anxiously towards the figure in the bed. His father’s cheeks were not quite as pale as usual and his breathing seemed a little easier. Hope began to flicker inside him and Morgan’s spirits rose – perhaps with the coming of spring, his father’s health was going to improve.

  ‘What you looking at, boyo?’ His father chuckled, ‘Duw, a man can’t even sleep in private without waking to find his son staring at him, gives a man a turn it does.’

  Morgan buttoned up his trousers, ‘You’re feeling better then, Dad?’ He sat at the side of the bed. ‘Have you eaten anything today? Now tell me the truth, for I’ll only ask Mrs O’Connor.’

  ‘Don’t bully me, boyo, or I’ll fetch you a clout around the ear. Yes, Mr Nosey-Parker, I did eat today – some nice red beef that Mrs O’Connor got me special, like.’

  Morgan felt gratitude run like fire through his veins. The Irish family were treating Dad as one of their own; they could scarcely afford to eat, yet they were giving him the best. Morgan could never have expected such kindness as he had found at Emerald Court.

  ‘What’s the latest talk about the war, boyo?’ John Lloyd settled himself more comfortably against the pillows. ‘Is it true that all the Germans been rounded up and packed off on the train to an internment camp?’

  ‘Aye,’ Morgan sighed. ‘The war sounds glorious according to the newspapers, with the British fighting like ten men against the Germans, but it hasn’t done Sweyn’s Eye much good.’

  ‘From what I read in the Daily Mirror, this Captain Grenfell belonging to the 9th Lancers was saved by the Duke of Westminster. Look, it says so here on the front page.’

  Morgan took the newspaper and glanced at it quickly. ‘Aye, right enough, but this paper’s more than six months old; I expect a lot has happened since then.’

  ‘Well, try to get me some new papers then, Morgan, so I can keep up with things. It’s the only bit of life I get, lying by here.’

  ‘I know, Dad,’ Morgan sighed. ‘I’m working such funny hours though – I hardly get to the shop in time for papers. What if I give one of the O’Connor girls a halfpenny to fetch the Mirror for you tomorrow?’ He moved from the bed, sniffing appreciatively. ‘I think the supper’s nearly ready. Good thing too, I’m starving.’

  ‘You go down and get your grub then, boy. I’ll have mine later, after I’ve had a tot of whisky.’ He winked at his son. ‘Fine stuff this, Morgan, keeps the old spirits up.’ He laughed. ‘Spirits, boy – joke, see?’

  ‘Aye, I see, and a bloody awful joke it was too – think you’re a music-hall turn now, don’t you?’ Morgan ruffled his father’s hair in an awkward gesture of affection.

  ‘Aw, get out of here before I throw you out, don’t appreciate wit when you see it.’

  Morgan left the bedroom, his throat thick with emotion. His father was a sick man, yet still he found the courage to make jokes.

  ‘Well then, Morgan, good to hear you and your dad enjoying a laugh.’ Brendan O’Connor sat at the head of the kitchen table, now neatly covered with a cloth and with the food set out appetisingly.

  ‘Aye, Dad seems to be more himself today.’ He seated himself next to Honey with a quick glance in her directio
n, but all he could see was the golden tips of her lowered eyelashes.

  ‘Honey’s come home for some more of her things,’ Mrs O’Connor said quickly. ‘Perhaps after supper you could walk back with her to Mr Richardson’s house.’ She pushed a plate towards her husband. ‘Brendan here’s got to go down to the Dublin as soon as he’s finished his meal – heard of a job going – well, that’s what he says.’ Her eyes rested for a moment on her husband, who carved the meat in stubborn silence.

  ‘Yes, I’ll walk with Honey, glad to,’ Morgan said casually, though his tongue almost refused to form the words.

  ‘Right, ’tis settled now. Let’s give thanks to God for our bread and get on with our meal before it’s cold.’

  Morgan sat back in his chair and let the excited chatter of the younger girls flow around him. He felt warmed by the thought of walking with Honey O’Connor in the night air. She didn’t reveal anything of her own feelings, for she kept her face turned away from him. He wondered if she had thought him ugly, catching him in the bath the way she had. She was well brought up and not used to boys; it was doubtful if she ever saw anyone except her father even without a shirt. Well, she had seen enough of him, Morgan thought ruefully.

  ‘A gang of ruffians went down to the Sinmans’ place,’ Brendan said, glancing in Morgan’s direction. ‘Dragged that poor Austrian bugger away from his own hearth. Don’t know what the world is coming to – did you hear anything about it in work?’

  ‘Aye, heard a bit of it. Rhian Gray was there and tried her best to speak up for Heinz Sinman, but the men were armed with pick handles, knocked three kinds of…’ He stopped, aware that there were ladies present. ‘Beat him bad anyway, they did.’

  ‘Scared, folks are,’ Mrs O’Connor said shortly. ‘Afeared of anyone different and who can blame them with this stupid war going on? Saw a soldier the other day without a leg, hopping on two sticks so he was – didn’t take long to send him back from France and him half the man he was before.’