Doris put her head on one side. ‘Are you kin to Heath Jenkins and his sister Mary who is gone all posh now?’
The girl’s colour rose. ‘Yes, I am – and not posh at all is Mary, still one of the workers in her heart. Just good at making money she is, mind.’
‘No offence meant,’ Doris said a trifle huffily and Katie hastened to smooth over the awkward moment.
‘Mary is a real friend, sure enough, always fine to me and to you, Doris – didn’t she lose her job in the laundry rather than put you out of work?’
‘Aye, she did that, I’ll give credit where credit’s due.’
Mansel Jack moved easily towards the table, the force of his personality reaching out and silencing the women although he had not spoken. For a moment he studied them individually and Katie felt he was memorising their faces.
‘Your job will be to fit the gaines,’ he said at last, holding up a tube. ‘This is a gaine and it is to be pushed into the TNT. Its purpose is to ensure that the fuse in the nose cap effectively detonates the contents of the shell.’ He stared around the small group, waiting to see if they understood what he had said, his glance resting on Katie for no more than a moment but filling her with a tingling sensation that she could not explain. All she knew was that this Mansel Jack was a man of power and the like of him she had never seen before.
His face relaxed into a smile. ‘You, Katie Murphy, will be in charge of this table. You may all come to me at the end of the week and collect the uniforms you will be wearing.’ As he moved away the girls stared at each other in silence for a long moment.
‘Isn’t he a lovely-looking man – and how did he know your name, Katie?’ Doris asked.
Katie shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea, but it’s my guess that there’s not much that one doesn’t know about any of us. Come on then, we’d better start work or we’ll be put out of a job before we’ve begun.’
At first Katie – along with the other women – handled the explosives with timidity as though packing eggs. But soon familiarity with the job took over and she found herself singing along with Doris, wondering if perhaps Mansel Jack had been overcautious in his warnings.
By the end of the day, Katie was so tired that she could hardly stand. The shift had lasted twelve hours with short breaks for dinner and tea, and her arms felt as though they were no longer part of her.
‘I’ll have just enough strength left to fall into bed,’ she said, her voice cracking with weariness.
Doris turned, a wry expression on her face. ‘Duw, you’re lucky. I got to go home and feed my kids; me mother will have had a guts-full of them and that’s for certain. Still, got to do your bit in this life, haven’t you - and when I think of my man gone to fight the Huns I’d do anything to help the war effort.’ Tears trembled on Doris’s lashes and she brushed them aside impatiently. ‘There I goes, blubbering like a babba myself, don’t take no notice of me.’
On the train journey back into Sweyn’s Eye, Katie leaned back in her seat too weary to talk. Her wrists ached with the effort of holding and filling the gaines and her skin tingled. She examined her hands – they seemed to be tinged with yellow but it must be a trick of the light she told herself.
‘There’s a strange day it’s been,’ Doris said in a low voice. ‘What do you think of the boss then, Katie? Isn’t he the finest, handsomest man you ever saw?’
‘Duw, I could lay down and die for him.’ The small voice of Janey Jenkins broke the silence and Doris turned to look at her disapprovingly.
‘I wasn’t speakin’ to you, merchi, so don’t stick your nose in where it’s not wanted, right?’
Katie sighed and roused herself. ‘Hush now, Doris,’ she said wearily. ‘We’ve got to work together for the saints know how long, so don’t let’s quarrel among ourselves. Come on, give Janey a chance – she’s done a good day’s work today, you must admit that.’
‘Aye, all right,’ Doris said reluctantly. ‘A good worker she is an’ all, can’t say no different.’
‘Then that’s settled,’ Katie sighed with relief. ‘Perhaps now I can have a bit of peace.’
She closed her eyes, realising she had not answered Doris’s question. What did she think of Mansel Jack? she asked herself. Well, one thing was sure: if she had not already been so much in love with Mark, she might have fallen head over heels for her new boss!
The grey of the night greeted her when she stepped off the train, the platform suddenly filled with women who walked wearily towards the entrance, a silent stream of humanity thankful to return home.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I don’t know how I’m going to make my way up that hill,’ Katie said, sighing as she leaned on the fence that bordered the railway line. ‘I must get some new boots, the floor of the factory is as hard as flint and cold with it.’
‘Come on,’ Doris took her arm. ‘Lean on me – I’m like an ox, my man always says so.’
Katie brushed back her red-gold hair and forced herself to move forward. ‘I’m going to get my mammy to bring in the tin bath and fill it to the brim with hot water, and then I’m going to soak for hours and hours.’ She smiled, though every part of her seemed to ache. ‘Working in the shop was like playing a game compared with the munitions factory,’ she said wryly.
‘Well, I’m glad of the money I’ll be getting,’ Doris said eagerly. ‘The work’s hard, right enough, but no worse than humping coal scuttles in the Canal Street Laundry. Soft you’ve gone, Katie Murphy, you’ll soon toughen up and then you’ll enjoy yourself, see if I’m not right.’
At the foot of Green Hill Katie paused. ‘Well, it’s different roads for us now,’ she said. ‘I’m going to miss leaning on your strong arm, sure enough. See you tomorrow at the station… and Doris, don’t be too hard on Janey. She can’t be more than seventeen and she’s got a lot to learn yet.’
Doris nodded. ‘Aye, you’re right, and she’s not such a bad sort really. Just there’s some people you takes to and some you don’t, can’t be helped.’
As Katie trudged wearily up the hill towards Market Street she could hear the mournful notes of Dai-End-House’s accordion drifting on the silent air. She paused and bent down to rub at her ankles in turn, but her feet seemed to be swollen to twice their normal size. ‘Gone soft, just like Doris says,’ she told herself and with an effort covered the last few yards to her home.
It was almost midnight by the time Katie was ready for bed. She brushed back her hair with long sweeping strokes, almost too tired to lift her arms, then sat on her bed staring at the flickering light of the candle, her eyes misting with fatigue. She had spent only a short time with Mark and when he had laughingly complained about the acrid smell that clung to her, she had bitten his head off.
He had been wonderful, so kind and understanding; he had taken her in his arms and kissed her gently, cradling her as though she was a baby. How she loved him! Yet his visit had left her with a tinge of unease, for he had talked a little about the war and the urge he had to enlist. She had taken great pains to point out that he was needed at home working in the copper and he had readily agreed. But there had been a restlessness about him which had frightened Katie.
She snuffed out the candle and lay back against the pillows, her eyes burning as though covered in sand. She longed for sleep, yet it was as elusive as the shadows that stalked the room when the moon slid silently through the clouds.
With a sigh, she pushed back the bedclothes and got up to stand near the small window, staring down into the street. The town of Sweyn’s Eye slumbered like a beast beneath the skies marred by the ever-present copper smoke. What did the future hold, Katie wondered fearfully. The war had altered the even tenor of the town; shops sported posters of Lord Kitchener pointing an accusing finger at the young men, telling them their country needed them. Factories now produced the trappings of war: the shells, the copper bands, the weapons that would be used to bring death to ordinary soldiers.
Katie shuddered and took her rosary from the shelf, runnin
g the beads through her fingers and muttering prayers with an urgency that had not possessed her since she was a child. At last she climbed into bed and lay wide-eyed, staring up at the ceiling, giving up the unequal struggle to find release in sleep.
* * *
Mansel Jack stood in the window of the modest house he had rented on the seafront and stared at the smooth waters that flowed out into the Bristol Channel. Sweyn’s Eye was a beautiful place and he felt sure he had taken the right decision in coming here.
His second meeting with Alfred Phillpot had been fruitful. The man was so frightened at the thought of being exposed as a cheat that he would have paid any price for his silence. He smiled grimly; it was poetic justice that the profit Alfred Phillpot had made on the woollens should go towards leasing the munitions factory.
Mansel Jack had received a gratifying price for his mill in Yorkshire and though it was a wrench parting with the business, the excitement of the move he was making had been adequate compensation. Doreen had decided to remain at home, keeping the house like a shrine waiting for his return. He smiled – she would wait a long time, for he fully intended to buy Spinners’ Wharf and make a success of the little mill.
Restlessly, he thrust his hands into his pockets. He was having difficulty in tracing the owner of the mill, but then difficulties had always made him more determined. His face softened as he thought of Rhian Gray, struggling to keep the place going, slaving from morning till night for a business that was not hers.
He moved from the window and jerked the curtains together. What was wrong with him? he thought impatiently. The girl was becoming an obsession.
Turning out the gaslight, he stood for a moment in the darkness. Soon he would go to see her, but he would wait until the time was just right.
Chapter Fourteen
The train swayed and groaned as it wound slowly between the folding hills into the town of Sweyn’s Eye. A mist was rising from the turgid waters of the river, mingling with sulphurous smoke from the copper and tinplate works that presented to the newly arrived the ugliest face of the town.
Delmai sighed and lifted the baby higher in her arms, grasping her bag awkwardly, her mouth dry and her heart beating uncomfortably fast as she peered through the narrow begrimed window of the carriage.
The platform was thronged with people. A farmer leaned heavily on a shooting stick, his flat cap shadowing his face, his wide-legged trews tucked into heavy riding boots. A girl – small and pale, dressed in a frilled apron and woollen turnover – stared eagerly into the train, her eyes wide. Delmai shuddered – would her own daughter wear that look several years from now? She shrugged the uncomfortable thought aside and pushed her way out of the carriage towards the open door, a sudden feeling of fear gripping her. And then she saw him… her heart lurched and she trembled as though she was physically ill.
Rickie was standing aloof from the crowds on the platform and as she watched, he took out a watch and consulted the ornate face before tucking it away into his waistcoat pocket once more with a deliberate movement that betrayed his impatience. It seemed he might stride away at any moment and, panicking, Delmai forced her way through the throng of people.
‘Rickie!’ She waved her hand in a wild gesture that almost knocked the bonnet from her head. He turned, staring at her coldly as his eyes lit on the child in her arms. Then he took a few steps away from her and she hurried towards him desperately.
‘Rickie, wait a moment, please wait!’ Delmai hastened to his side, grasping his arm, but he averted his gaze.
‘Get rid of that child and then you can come up to the house and we’ll talk.’ He pulled away his arm roughly and the next moment had disappeared into the crowd.
Delmai wanted to weep. She had cherished a small hope that he would look at Cerianne and relent, that he might accept the little girl into his home and into his life, but she realised now that she had been deluding herself.
She sank on to a bench and stared around her, wondering in desperation what would happen if she left the baby here alone on the station platform. Would she be cared for or would she simply remain alone for ever with people constantly passing by and looking the other way until, half-starved, she was put behind the grim walls of the workhouse?
Delmai lifted Cerianne higher in her arms and left the station, standing in the Stryd Fawr and wondering where she could turn. When she looked up the slope towards Green Hill a thought tingled on the edges of her mind, gaining strength even as her feet led her upwards away from the bustling shops as hope blossomed anew.
The hill seemed to grow more stony and steep with every step, and her shoes slipped against the hard rocky surface. Delmai was breathless and when the child in her arms began to cry, she shook her angrily. ‘Be quiet! I’m doing my best for you, aren’t I?’
At the brow of the hill she paused, leaning against a drystone wall, resting Cerianne on the hard rock and struggling to regain her breath. A young girl with honey-gold hair was coming towards her, staring curiously, and Delmai drew herself upright.
‘Can you tell me where Rhian Gray lives?’ she asked without preliminary and the girl answered in a soft Irish brogue.
‘She’ll be at Spinners’ Wharf – it’s down there by the stream, not very far.’ The girl held a finger tentatively towards Cerianne and the baby gurgled with pleasure, her blue eyes wide, her lashes curling upwards so sweetly that Delmai felt tears constrict her throat.
She turned quickly and hurried in the direction the girl had indicated. As yet she had no idea what she would say to Rhian, or how she could convince her that she must take Cerianne, but convince her she must – there was no other way.
The house was small and behind it stood the long building of the mill. When Delmai knocked at the door, it swung open under her touch. The kitchen was empty but a cheerful fire glowed in the grate, so Rhian could not be far away. Then she heard the clatter of the loom and sighed with relief.
Delmai put Cerianne on the rug and looked down at her with tears in her eyes. ‘Now don’t you touch anything, be a good girl!’
Biting her lip, she left the house and hurried towards the roadway. Her hands were trembling and her eyes misted with tears. But Cerianne would be safe with Rhian, who would have to keep her now.
Her arms felt cold and empty and Delmai paused for a moment, tempted to turn back and to go to her child. She stood in the mean cobbled street with its small cottages crouched drunkenly together; this would be her life for evermore if she didn’t show some spirit now. ‘I’m sorry, baby,’ she whispered and then with renewed determination hurried away from Green Hill.
Afterwards she did not remember the journey up the western slopes to the big house on the hill. She was faintly aware of the surprised stare she received from the young maid who opened the door to her, and realised she must look like a peasant dressed as she was in a rough flannel skirt and heavy boots, her hair covered with a harsh calico bonnet.
‘Go upstairs for God’s sake and get yourself scrubbed clean,’ Rickie said in disgust and ashamed, Delmai hurried up the wide staircase towards her room. Even in her confusion and despair, she felt the warmth of the house fold around her with comforting arms. The light shone through the huge window and in the ornate grate a fire glowed with warmth. She took a deep breath, knowing that never again would she forsake all this, no matter what happened.
The bath was prepared and as the soft scented water flowed over her skin Delmai felt renewed. She rubbed briskly at her naked flesh, as though to remove the long months of grinding poverty and dirt. Briefly she thought of Billy, for the perfume drifting from the water was making her feel voluptuous. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine him here in the gracious bedroom and her heart sank.
He could never be part of her life again – her time with him was an episode best put away from her. Now she must be a dutiful wife to Rickie Richardson and please him in all things.
Rickie would take the money and lands which her father would leave her and make them
his own, then she would have nothing except what her husband provided by his goodwill. Yet if she could bear him sons that would satisfy him and he would find release with his whores as he had always done. That was the answer then – she must get with child as soon as possible.
Dinner was a strained affair. Rickie sat staring down the long length of the polished table, the glitter of lamplight on the silver cutlery reflected up into his face. He had scarcely glanced at her as she came down into the dining room, but Delmai knew she looked well in the rose-pink velvet dress that was gathered into a series of tiny bows at the back, falling softly to her satin pumps. But she was ashamed of her hands. They were rough and red like those of a kitchen maid and she hid them swiftly in her lap.
Rickie ate his meal in silence and Delmai simply picked at her food, unnerved by him and almost wishing that he would rant and rave – anything but stare about him as though he was alone. He had not asked about the baby and Delmai did not expect him to, yet her heart felt as though it was being squeezed inside her as she imagined Cerianne’s soft warm arms winding around her neck.
She glanced quickly at her husband, afraid that he would read her thoughts, but he was helping himself to more meat and seemingly engrossed in his task. He was fuller of figure, Delmai realised – manly and almost handsome – but there was a coldness about his features which marred his looks.
‘Well, Delmai.’ His meal finished, Rickie turned to look at her and her heart beat faster even as she tried to compose herself. ‘So you’ve come home?’
Delmai hung her head. ‘Yes, Rickie, and I’m grateful to you.’ The words stuck in her throat and her husband laughed knowingly.
‘Yes, so you should be.’ He leaned back in his chair and stared at her through half-closed eyes and with such intensity that she shifted nervously in her chair. ‘You’ve changed,’ Rickie said thoughtfully. ‘I think, my dear wife, that you may have learned the meaning of humility.’
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