‘Oh, why?’ Alfred Phillpot was becoming increasingly uneasy.
‘Because they’re the goods you’ve been buying cheap, changing the labels and reselling at a greater price as Welsh wool – now do you remember?’ It was clear that his words instilled the fear of God into Alfred Phillpot and Mansel Jack leaned closer. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet, but I’ll be back,’ he said evenly.
He left Sweyn’s Eye almost at once, for there was a great deal of business for him to wind up at home.
Doreen was anxiously waiting for him. ‘My dear, you were away so long I was becoming quite worried.’ She petted and fussed him and he smiled at her a little ruefully, seating himself near the fire burning in an ornate marble grate.
‘Come and sit down, Doreen,’ he said calmly. ‘There’s something I want to tell you.’
She obeyed at once, her eyes wide and Mansel Jack felt himself soften towards his sister. It was not her fault that she was capable of forgetting there was a great big world outside the four corners of her house.
‘I’m going to move to Wales, at least for a time.’
‘Move to Wales, indeed? I never heard such nonsense!’ The words exploded from Doreen’s lips.
‘Will you listen to what I’m saying lass?’ He tried to keep the edge of impatience from his voice. ‘The country is at war and if I were a few years younger I’d be in the thick of it. As it is, I’ll be running a munitions factory.’ He paused. ‘It’ll be a challenge, lass. I’ll be making shells, which at least is more like war work than weaving wool.’
‘But Mansel Jack, why can’t you run a factory here in Yorkshire?’
He rose to his feet, sighing in exasperation.
‘The factory in Wales is built and ready to go into production, also the place is reasonably cheap.’ He regarded her steadily. ‘In any case, Doreen, I’ve had a very good offer for the Mansel Mills and I’m prepared to take it. If I don’t, a newer and larger mill will be built on our doorstep and then we’ll be finished anyway.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll not be leaving the wool trade entirely; I might buy myself a small run-down mill in Sweyn’s Eye as a sideline – something to be built up from nothing, just as I did with our own mill. It’s a good business move – trust me Doreen.’
When she did not reply he shook his head impatiently. ‘I’ve made up my mind to go, Doreen. You may stay here in Yorkshire, if that’s what you want.’
She put her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with distress. ‘I don’t want you to live alone and yet to move away from my friends, live among strangers – it’s too much to ask.’
Mansel Jack rested his hand on her shoulder comfortingly. ‘It won’t be for ever, so don’t be distressed.’
Doreen began to cry, pressing a linen handkerchief to her face. She was a sorry sight, her eyes red, her usually neat hair falling free of the restraining pins.
‘And what about Charlotte, your wife-to-be, have you considered her feelings?’
Mansel Jack realised with a flash of surprise that he had not. But Charlotte was a sensitive woman, she would understand his need to be involved in the war in the best way he could.
In his mind’s eye he suddenly saw an image of Rhian, her vivid face so full of character and beauty and the soft loveliness of her voice which seemed to haunt him.
‘I’m going upstairs to change,’ he said with forced calmness. ‘I’d like supper to be on the table by the time I’m washed and ready.’
In his room he stared out at the gardens, shadowed and dark now that the weak sun was dying so that the thick oak trees bordering his grounds seemed flat and dead. Why did Rhian Gray continue to come into his mind, he asked himself. She was so different, beautiful and fiery but certainly not a lady in the way that Charlotte was. The two women were poles apart, yet the fire in his belly told him which one he desired.
* * *
The mill at Spinners’ Wharf seemed to slumber in the swirls of mist that rose up from the river: there was no chattering of looms to break the silence in the low buildings. Rhian sat in the kitchen staring into the fire, feeling lost and alone.
There was the sound of light footsteps on the stairs and she forced herself to smile as Gina came into the kitchen, her baby wrapped in a shawl Welsh fashion.
‘I’m all packed,’ Gina said softly. ‘You know why I have to go – say you understand, Rhian.’
‘There’s a soft thing to say, of course I understand. I’d do the same thing myself if I was in your shoes.’
Gina sighed. ‘I’m not sure if I shall be able to visit my Heinz, I only know that all the prisoners have all been sent to an internment camp at Camberley. But I must try to find him, there’s nothing to be gained by sitting here moping.’
Gina handed Rhian the keys of the mill. ‘It’s yours, for as long as you want it,’ she said gently. ‘We may be back one day if God is willing, but you will always be part of the mill and part of our family.’
Rhian felt tears burn her lids and her lips trembled even as she smiled.
‘Let me come with you to the station, Gina – that’s the least I can do.’
Gina shook her head. ‘No, I don’t want you to come with me Rhian. I’d only blubber like a child when the time comes to leave. Better if we say goodbye now, isn’t it? Come on, give Dewi a kiss and wish us well.’
As the door closed behind Gina, Rhian stared into the fire. The coals shimmered through the black-leaded bars of the grate and she rubbed at her eyes impatiently. The silence was almost tangible and the building seemed empty of life. Was this to be her future, this silent loneliness?
She sighed. At least there was work for her to do and she must not waste time in self-pity. Now she must be responsible for everything from the dyeing of the wool to the final wash. She would have to put her heart and soul into it, she told herself fiercely. But doubts teased the edges of her mind, for who would buy from her?
Well, it would do no good to sit around and stare into the fire, she chided herself. She must stir herself out of her apathy, for there was no other way she could earn her living except by weaving – not unless she went with Doris to the munitions factory.
Suddenly she felt overcome with emotion and couldn’t bear to sit in the silent kitchen haunted by the shadows of Gina and Heinz Sinman. She needed to be among people so, drawing a heavy woollen shawl around her shoulders, she let herself out of the house.
The mists were clearing from the river and the red swift waters roared between the banks, for the tide was high. Rhian stood staring into the murky depths for a time, searching her mind for a way out of her problems. She would break her back producing wool, but that was not the trouble – she must find customers. Perhaps the townsfolk would buy from her now that Heinz was gone.
She walked on past the river and made her way towards the heart of the town. The copper works spewed forth green smoke and noisy gushing sparks which intermingled with the greyness of the skies and at first glance everything appeared to be normal. Yet subtly it was all altered. The war had touched the town with harsh fingers, throwing many out of work. Men of the Territorial Army filled the streets – peacetime volunteers who now, confronted with the realities of war, swilled ale and laughed loudly to cover their fears.
As Rhian walked past the Flint Mill, she heard through the open window the rise and fall of raucous voices. The smell of stale beer swept up at her from the doorway and the sawdust that covered the floor trailed out into the street.
She seemed to be surrounded by bustling busy people who had purpose, a destination, yet she felt more alone than ever. It was as though she had no form or substance, was a ghost moving unseen among the living.
Leaving the busy streets, she made her way uphill to where the serene houses of the rich of the town perched on the hillside facing the sea. She stood for a moment outside Pen y Bryn wondering if Heath might be home. The need to be with and talk to another human being who cared that she was alive was strong, so Rhian swung open the large gate, making her way steadily
along the pathway.
She stared at the windows, looking at her as though they were blank eyes, and had to force herself to lift the brass knocker. The sound reverberated through the house and she suddenly felt self-conscious about her appearance. Wearing her thick dark flannel skirt and a heavy shawl, and with a faded bonnet covering her hair, she looked like someone begging at the doorstep, she thought ruefully.
‘There’s a fright you gave me, Rhian Gray, banging on the door like the bailiffs come to take away the furniture!’ Mrs Greenaway opened the door wider. ‘Come on in, you. Heath Jenkins is not home yet, mind, but he would want you to wait, I know that much.’
Gratefully Rhian stepped into the hallway. It was a modest house by the standards of the others on the hill, but gracious and elegant in comparison with the cottages of the workers. Heath Jenkins could be proud of his achievements, Rhian thought warmly.
‘There’s sad about that nice Mr Sinman being taken off to an internment camp – don’t seem right at all.’ Mrs Greenaway moved towards the kitchen and not knowing what else to do, Rhian followed her.
The room was mellow as though filled with sunlight, the white scrubbed table gleamed with cleanliness and on the stove against the far wall, a conglomeration of heavy black pots simmered and danced.
‘Sit down by here and we’ll treat ourselves to a cup of tea.’ Mrs Greenaway pushed the kettle on to one of the hobs and smiled easily at Rhian. ‘There’s pale and peaky you look, not eating enough I’ll warrant.’ She rubbed her hands against her spotless white apron. ‘Well, stay and eat with Heath Jenkins. I know he’ll insist on it and so will I.’
Rhian seated herself in one of the kitchen chairs and leaned forward, hands supporting her chin. ‘I’m all right, Mrs Greenaway, it’s just that I’m worried about Gina and her son. Worried about myself making some sort of a living too, if the truth be told.’
Mrs Greenaway warmed the brown china pot and spooned tea into it with generosity. ‘Likes my brew strong,’ she said with a smile. ‘Now, tell me all about it.’ She seated herself and placed the cups in position, pouring the tea quickly with the deftness of long practice.
‘Gina Sinman gave me complete charge of the mill,’ Rhian said softly, ‘but the trouble is – where can I sell the woollens? Toil like a slave I will, doing the job that really is the work of two people, but what’s at the end of it when no one wants to buy from me?’
Mrs Greenaway scratched at her greying hair beneath the crispness of her starched cap. ‘Aye, I see the problem, merchi.’ She frowned pensively. ‘What about Mary Sutton – can’t she be persuaded to buy from you? Heath would surely put in a word with his sister.’
Rhian shook her head. ‘Mary’s done all she can, but times are difficult for her too because of the war.’
‘It’s a puzzle then, isn’t it? What about giving up your work in the mill? Don’t you think you could find a job somewhere else?’
Rhian shook her head, a set expression on her face. ‘I must make a success of it for the Sinmans’ sake if not my own. Anyway, the only jobs about are those in the munitions factory and I wouldn’t do that for all the tea in China.’
The sudden sound of the outer door opening startled the two women. ‘Duw, there’s Heath Jenkins home for his dinner and me not half-ready yet.’ Mrs Greenaway swept the teacups into the sink and rubbed at the white table with a cloth. ‘Go on you, Rhian Gray and keep the man company. Talk to him until I get myself organised or it’s the boot for me!’
Heath was hanging his coat on the stand in the hall and his face lit up when he saw her. He came towards her and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close.
‘There’s a lovely surprise to walk into my house and find you here! It would always be like that if I had my way.’
His love was like a balm and Rhian closed her eyes, leaning against the young strength of him. The fondness that had been with her since childhood rose up now and swamped her, so that she felt in herself a longing to cling to Heath and have him take away all her troubles.
‘There’s a light in your eyes that gives me hope,’ he whispered. He bent from his great height and kissed her eyelids gently and Rhian responded by putting her arms around him and burying her head in his shoulder.
He led her into the drawing room and together they sat on the big comfortable sofa, hands entwined.
The silence surrounding them was an oasis of peace and Rhian wanted to cling to the moment. Her loneliness had vanished and she felt warm and secure.
Mrs Greenaway smiled as she stepped into the room. ‘The supper will be ready in a couple of minutes – lovely onion stew it is and mutton pie cold to follow. I bet you’re starving, Heath Jenkins.’
He relaxed against the cushions, still holding Rhian’s hands. ‘Sounds nice enough to eat!’ he joked and Rhian felt lightness and laughter bubbling through her. She had always loved being with Heath; even as a young spoiled girl who thought of no one but herself, she had enjoyed his gift for humour.
The meal – taken in the small dining room lit by a chandelier blazing with candles – had almost a festive air. Rhian found herself forgetting her worries and laughing for the first time in what seemed an eternity.
‘Why not stay here tonight?’ Heath asked as he poured her a glass of porter. ‘We’ve a spare room and there’s nothing to take you back to the mill, surely?’
Rhian pondered for a moment, tempted by the offer, for the house on the wharf would be cold and silent. But finally she shook her head.
‘I’d better get back,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t like to leave the building empty, there’s no knowing what might happen.’
Heath frowned. ‘Well, that makes me more uneasy about you staying there alone, Rhian.’
‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be all right. Anyway, the mill’s my home and I won’t be driven out of it.’
The moon was silvering the trees when at last they left the house and began the journey downhill towards the town. Once or twice Rhian turned to look over her shoulder, troubled by an uneasy feeling that they were being followed. The street lamps shone in pools of brightness and she tried to shrug away her worries, telling herself she was probably nervous and overtired. But the feeling persisted and as Heath led her into a grove of trees Rhian felt a prickling of fear. She stopped walking and grasped his arm.
‘There’s someone behind us, I’m sure of it,’ she whispered and Heath looked down at her, his eyes unreadable in the darkness.
‘I think so too, but keep on walking and don’t panic – it’s probably nothing to worry about.’ His voice was curt as he took her hand and began to walk rapidly towards the clearing.
The bushes rustled and a twig snapped and as a shaft of moonlight penetrated the branches of the trees, figures came silently out of the darkness. Heath drew Rhian close, his arm protectively around her.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded in a strong voice. ‘We’ve got no money or valuables if that’s what you’re after.’
As the men moved closer Rhian could see that there were four of them, their faces covered with white silk scarves.
‘It’s not money we want, boyo, it’s your hide!’ The voice reached out sinuous and snake-like in the silence and Rhian felt Heath stiffen at her side.
‘Well, if your business is with me then the lady can go.’ He spoke harshly, pushing Rhian away from him. She had almost reached the clearing when a hand caught her by the hair and held her fast.
‘That’s not what we want at all, is it, gel? There’s daft you must think us, you’d be back with a constable before we could start on our business with Mr Jenkins.’
He took off his belt and dragged Rhian’s arms around the trunk of a tree, tying her wrists together with the leather so tightly that the buckle bit into her flesh. But her fear was not for herself as she watched the men advance towards Heath.
A fist lashed out and Heath dodged it, turning to trip his assailant who fell heavily on to the ground, groaning in pain.
; ‘The bastard, I think he’s broken my leg.’ The words were spoken in small gasps of pain. ‘Give it to the coward, boys – and one for me as well.’
Heath fought valiantly, hitting out with all his strength, but he was outnumbered. Yet it still took a mighty blow with a branch of a tree to put him on the ground. Rhian screamed as she saw a boot swing towards his head and connect with a sickening sound that brought from him a hissing sigh.
‘You’ll kill him!’ she cried out, anger chasing away her fear. ‘You mad dogs, you’re too cowardly to take him on in a fair fight – there’s scum you are, the lot of you!’
Her words seemed to strike home and one of the men motioned the others back. ‘That’s enough to teach him a lesson. Leave him his present, boyos, and let’s get out of here.’
Rhian watched as a small box was laid beside Heath’s unconscious form and then the men were stumbling away into the darkness carrying their wounded companion between them.
As she struggled against the cruel leather which held her wrists, tears of frustration and pain clouded her eyes. But she must free herself, for Heath was still lying silent on the ground. She tugged at the belt with her teeth, ignoring the bitter taste of the leather, twisting her head and worrying at the buckle until at last she felt it loosen.
With a cry of relief, she ran towards Heath and crouched beside him on the grass.
‘Heath, oh God Heath, what have they done to you!’ She rubbed at his hands, seeing with despair the way his eye had swollen to the size of an egg. His mouth was cut and there was blood on his shirt. Rhian lifted his head and cradled it against her, wondering frantically if it was best to stay with him or leave him to find help.
He stirred in her arms and moved awkwardly and Rhian felt relief pour through her like a stream of pure joy. ‘There, there, cariad, don’t you try to move now, just lie still a minute and get your breath back.’
‘At least I put one of them out of action.’ He mumbled the words through swollen lips. ‘And when I find out who’s done this, I’ll have the bastards’ guts for garters.’
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