‘There’s a right lecherous look on your face, boyo!’ Peter was grinning at him, sweat dripping unnoticed from the end of the nose and chin for he bore the full brunt of the heat from the furnace. ‘Jawl, what it’s like to be young – forgotten that bed’s anything but sleeping in, me!’
Morgan smiled. ‘And if I believe that, I’ll believe the moon is made of English cheese, right?’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘Well, I’m off home; got better things to do than stand in this hellhole.’
The air was cool as he left the sheds, the clouds were lowering with the threat of rain and the stink of sulphur hung like a pall over the valley. A gust of sparks from the tall chimneys added to the illusion that this was a place out of hell inhabited by demons with copper faces.
Morgan told himself to stop being fanciful, he must be more tired than he had realised. It was when fatigue overcame him that morbid thoughts haunted his imaginings and his skull became a dark cavern full of horrors. He forced himself to walk more slowly up towards Green Hill, but the feeling of darkness and despair continued to haunt him. He told himself that soon he would wash the stink and dirt of the copper from his skin and sit around a civilised table to eat. And he would be with Honey.
He thought of his father, a prisoner in his bed with only a blank wall for company. The image brought a knife-edge of pain and guilt and he recognised that this then was the seat of all his unhappiness. He had watched his dad die little by little as the weeks passed, powerless to halt the deterioration by one iota.
Now the old man could not even wash himself. Too proud to allow a woman who was not kin to see him naked, he would stubbornly wait until Morgan came home. Sometimes he would have worn stained clothing all day, for he could not always reach for the chamber pot in time.
The lights from the windows of the little house showered a welcome upon him and Morgan stood for a moment in the wash of warmth, wondering where he would have been without the kindness of the Irish family.
He recognised that he was in love with Honey and knew her parents would not approve; they would want a good Catholic boy for their daughter.
‘’Tis late you are tonight, Morgan boy.’ Mrs O’Connor descended the stairs quickly, moving to close the door to the kitchen where the family sat around the large table. ‘You’d best go straight up to your old fellow,’ she said softly, sympathetically. ‘I’ve had the doctor to him again, but there’s little enough he can do.’
It took a few seconds for the words to penetrate Morgan’s weary mind, then he was taking the stairs two at a time, his heart pumping in his breast. The sound of his father’s breathing was like nothing Morgan had ever heard before. Each breath was sucked in through a mouth which had fallen open, seeming to dominate the drawn grey face. The thin chest rose and fell with each effort to draw in air and Morgan felt himself grow weak with pain and pity.
‘Daddy.’ Morgan moved to the side of the bed, listening to the harsh sounds of the tortured lungs. ‘There’s an old cheat you are, falling sick behind my back like that.’ He rested his hand on his father’s cheek and the old man’s eyes flickered open, a little warmth coming to them as Morgan leaned closer.
Fingers thin and trembling reached out for his. ‘I thought I’d miss you, boy, but I hung on till you came.’ The voice was a faint hiss of sound that drained the last of the old man’s strength. Tears rose to Morgan’s eyes as he caressed his father’s face; the skin was cool and thin, the bones arched upwards, skull-like in the flickering light from the lamp.
Morgan knelt on the floor, longing to pour his young strength into his father’s frail body. ‘I love you, Daddy,’ he said and the blue eyes staring up at him kindled with light. His father nodded wearily and then his lids were fluttering, thin lashes coming slowly to rest on cheeks that looked now as though they were carved from old yellow wood.
Morgan raised his fists to heaven in terrible anger, impotent in the face of his father’s premature death. And then he was crying harsh sobs that tore and hurt as he averted his face from the still form in the bed that was no longer his father. Silly, inconsequential thoughts ran through his mind and he wondered where he would sleep that night, for he could not share a bed with a corpse.
He became aware that Mrs O’Connor had come into the room, had put her hands on his arms and was urging him to his feet.
‘Come on, Morgan, there’s work to be done here and you are best out of it.’
Morgan moved obediently towards the stairs and down into the kitchen, where the children fixed him with curious stares for they had never seen a grown man cry before. Honey looked at him for a long moment in silence and then, resolutely, she rose from her chair and came to him, cradling him in her arms. He smelled the freshness of her, felt the silk of her hair against his fingers and was comforted.
* * *
Funerals were not grand affairs in Emerald Court. A makeshift trestle was nailed together and the deceased set upon it, covered by a shroud. There was little money to be spared for such luxuries as the hire of a hearse, so folks managed without. The funeral of old John Lloyd, retired miner, was no exception. The bearers were the men of the O’Connor family and Morgan in his one good suit walked behind the entourage as befitted the close kin of the dead.
Morgan felt soft rain mingle with the tears on his cheeks as he walked through the mean streets of Green Hill. He looked up at the leaden sky, wondering if life had any meaning at all. He was not aware of the rush of the river as they crossed over the bridge and even the high sloping folds of Kilvey were out of sight, shrouded in thick mist. The walk was a long one, but he scarcely noticed it. He glanced down at his boots, polished so well by one of the little O’Connor girls that the puddles of water spurting up from the roadway met the shiny surface and rolled away again.
At the graveside, he lifted his head and stared across the sloping land to where the docks lay, dull mirrors flung down apparently at random, pewter in the grey light.
Well, he was on his own now, he told himself – free to join the Army, see the world, do anything he wanted to do. And yet the knowledge was like sawdust in his mouth, for his world had revolved around his father. The simplest tasks like shaving the coarse bristles from the gaunt chin had become a ritual of caring. He had done a thousand things for his dad but had not been able to prolong his life by one minute.
As he listened to the priest’s heavy voice, his eyes were suddenly dry. He must not look back, he must go forward but one thing he vowed – if he ever had sons they would never work in the dusty blackness of the pit.
The service over, he turned and followed the O’Connor men to the bar of the Cape Horner. He would drink with them, give them something for their trouble and then he would go back to the little room in Emerald Court and pack up his few belongings, for now there was no excuse for him to stay.
Chapter Seventeen
The rain beat an incessant tattoo on the pavements, washing the streets and houses in a greyness that not even the lamplight or the glow from shop windows could dispel. The heavens seemed to glower over rooftops, mists creeping between buildings, a close world of drizzle and fog from which there seemed no escape.
Mary Sutton sighed as she stood on the running board of the tram and lifted her ticket machine higher to ease the ache in her shoulder. Why, she wondered for the hundredth time, had she taken the job as conductress? But she knew why – she had harboured some romantic notion of helping the war effort – though surely there were more congenial jobs in which she could serve her country just as well?
It seemed that a restless guilt had been eating at her, for the emporium ran itself, especially now that she had employed old Mrs Greenaway to take charge. Greenie had scarcely changed from the days when she had worked with Mary at Sutton’s Drapery Store. There was a little more grey in her hair perhaps, but she had grown in self-confidence and Mary thought that came from working for Heath. Greenie had treated him like a son, crying bitter tears over him when he enlisted. Running his home took very little
of her time and she had appeared overjoyed when Mary offered her the position left vacant by Katie Murphy. At first Mary had doubted the older woman’s capacity to shoulder so much responsibility, but Greenie had been triumphant, stalking the tea rooms in a long black dress and keeping everyone in order.
Mary sighed. Almost everyone in Sweyn’s Eye was engaged in some sort of war work and she had not wanted to be the exception. She had been a fool to choose a part-time job on the trams, but now that she was here she might as well do the thing properly and take fares from the passengers, who would just as soon skip off without paying.
Reluctantly, she climbed the metal staircase to the open-topped upper deck where the rain dripped remorselessly from hat brims, falling on to hunched shoulders and finding secret holes in shabby footwear.
It was almost impossible to work in such conditions, for even as she attempted to write out tickets the ink ran in spidery patterns, defeating her. Angrily she clattered back down the stairs, avoiding the curious looks of the passengers who had not yet paid. She was wet and miserable and her heavy uniform smelled of dampness and mothballs.
It was a relief when her shift was over. She handed in her tickets and the heavy leather bag of coins and waited impatiently while the checking was done. But at last she was able to turn towards home and, sighing with relief, she made her way towards the waiting tram – pleased to be simply a passenger on the trip up the hill.
It was good to luxuriate in a hot bath before a roaring fire. Here in the peace of her home she could almost believe the war was nothing more than an excuse to make life difficult for people like her. As she rubbed soap over her arms and breasts a frown creased her brow – war was a reality, for Heath was now a soldier in the 14th Welsh battalion and might at this very moment be at the Front.
Mary was angry that Heath had been accepted into the Army with his record of chest sickness. She thought back to the time when her brother almost died of the lung complaint; it was then that Brandon had shown how much he loved her, sitting up at night with her, caring for Heath with untiring patience and then when her brother was over the crisis, he had taken her into his arms and she had known it was where she belonged.
The bathwater ran comfortingly over her body, along the flat planes of her stomach. Mary pressed her fingers there, wondering how it would feel to have life growing within her. The ache for a baby was almost a physical pain; her breasts stood full and proud as though begging for a child to suckle, but in spite of all her hopes it seemed she was still unable to conceive.
She had found it impossible to raise the problem with Brandon, for his eyes would darken and his mouth set into a stern line almost as though she was chastising him. Perhaps he felt that the fault lay in him, she thought with sudden insight.
She dressed in soft cotton petticoats prettily embroidered with rosebuds, then from the wardrobe took a dress of plum velvet, her favourite colour and one that seemed to suit her very well. She brushed her hair back from her face, twisting it up into a bun. Once there would have been a maid to do this for her, but the war had swallowed up most of the young girls and they now worked in factories or on the land. It was only the elderly who were spared… or the mothers of young children, she thought bitterly.
Hearing the front door slam, she knew with a quickening of her pulse that her husband was home. She hurried downstairs just as he was shrugging himself free of his topcoat and ran into his arms eager for his kisses.
‘And how did it go?’ He put his arm around her waist, leading her into the drawing room. ‘Still aching from running up and down tram stairs all day?’ he inquired.
She smiled up at him, revelling in the clean scent of him, her heart warm with happiness for she loved this husband of hers dearly. ‘I’m all right, just sick of the rain, that’s all.’ She kissed his cheek, watching as he poured them both a drink, realising suddenly that he had something on his mind. She knew at once what he was about to say, and fear gave a looseness to her tongue which she could not control.
‘We had the funniest old woman on the tram today,’ she began breathlessly. ‘Berated some young soldiers for leaving the Front and the poor devils were dressed in hospital blue, wounded they were, but she wouldn’t listen to their explanations.’ She saw from his face then that she had given him the very opening he’d needed.
‘We’ve spoken about this before, Mary,’ Brandon said quickly, ‘and you managed to convince me that my responsibilities lay here at the works.’ He shrugged. ‘Now it’s not enough for me.’ She remained silent, not knowing what to say; she had known this moment had to come and yet now she could not face it. ‘Mary,’ he took her hand and kissed her fingertips gently, ‘I can safely leave the running of the works to one of the older men.’ He paused and looked at her anxiously. ‘I’m enlisting first thing in the morning.’
She put her arms around him, her face buried against his shoulder. Although she didn’t want him to leave and felt terror at the very thought of him going into battle, she knew instinctively that she must not hinder him. ‘There’s strange I’ll feel without you lying beside me in our bed,’ she said softly. Her voice was muffled but she managed to keep back the tears.
‘Thank you, Mary, for not making a fuss.’ He kissed her mouth gently. ‘Don’t you think I’m going to miss you? But it’s for you I’ll be fighting, for peace and freedom, and every day I stay at home I feel more and more like a coward.’
Mary took his face between her hands. ‘How long will it be before you have to go?’ With an effort she kept her voice steady and Brandon smiled, understanding the expression in her eyes.
‘Not long, perhaps a few days or even a few weeks, I can’t be sure how much training I’ll get.’
Training to hold a gun and fire it at other men, Mary thought despairingly, but she was becoming expert at concealing her feelings. Yet Brandon sensed something of her thoughts because he held her close, kissing her hair.
‘Don’t make barriers between us, Mary,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t like to be shut out as though I were a stranger.’
‘There’s daft you’re talking,’ Mary replied quickly. ‘I love you, Brandon, I love you more than I ever did.’
He held her a little away from him. ‘But that’s not what I’m saying.’ His eyes seemed to penetrate into her soul and she wanted to be honest with him, but how could she speak again about her longing for a child, especially now when he was going to war.
‘I’m just afraid of being lonely, that’s all.’ She closed her eyes, leaning softly against him, and his arms tightened round her protectively.
‘You’ll have something in common with most of the other wives in the town,’ he said. ‘Mali is alone, has been for some time, you’ll be able to keep each other company.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Mary replied quickly. ‘I have my store and the work on the trams; there’s enough to occupy me, goodness knows.’ And Mali has her children, the thought crept treacherously into her mind; Mali was fulfilled, she had a son and a daughter, both children a small piece of their father. What Mary would give to have Brandon’s child within her!
‘You’ll be busier than ever,’ Brandon said, smiling. ‘I shall expect you to keep an eye on the works for me, no mean feat but you’re capable enough, Mary Jenkins.’
She slapped his hand playfully, ‘“Mary Jenkins” indeed, I’m a respectable married woman, I’ll have you know!’
He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘And I’m the luckiest man on earth, honey.’
They ate dinner in silence, each locked in their own thoughts. Mary scarcely tasted her food, for misery gnawed at her with the knowledge that soon she would be parted from her husband. It was her punishment, she thought, for greedily wanting more when she had so much already. And yet, was it asking too much of fate to allow her a child – wasn’t it every woman’s birthright to be a mother?
The meal was almost finished when a letter was brought to Brandon on a silver salver. He took it from the maid with a st
range look on his face, then slit open the envelope and took out a thick sheet of paper which crackled in his hand.
‘What is it?’ Mary asked curiously but Brandon shook his head, continuing to read in silence. Watching the fleeting expressions on his face, Mary felt her heart fluttering in fear; she half-rose from her chair, but Brandon waved her back.
‘Finish your dinner, Mary. I’m going into the study – there’s quite a lot of paperwork for me to catch up on. As for this,’ he thrust the letter into his pocket, ‘it’s nothing to be concerned about.’
She stared after his retreating figure with open-mouthed surprise and took up her glass, sipping the wine slowly, trying to calm herself while questions raced through her mind. Why was Brandon being so secretive about the letter, retreating into his study which was regarded virtually as forbidden territory so far as she was concerned? Clearly he was shutting her out and she was hurt at the rejection.
She moved to the drawing room and sat twisting the stem of the wine glass between her fingers, staring into the shimmering liquid with eyes that saw nothing but Brandon’s closed face. He had accused her of raising barriers, but that was just what he was doing now.
Eventually she gave up waiting for him and retired to bed. A fire blazed cheerfully in the grate and the heavy curtains hung close over the windows. Mary crept beneath the sheets and lay staring around her as though seeing the brilliant gaslight beneath the opulent shade for the first time. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she was too proud to shed them. She didn’t know why she felt bereft and alone, but it was as though Brandon had already gone away from her.
When at last he came to bed, she pretended to be asleep. She had hunched herself over to her own side of the bed, feeling childishly that she wanted to punish him for acting so strangely. She lay for a long time, wide-eyed, staring towards the pale light that crept beneath the curtains and listening to Brandon’s regular breath. How could he sleep, she thought angrily, when she was so unsettled?
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