The business had begun to flourish with a suddenness that startled Rhian. There was not a fortune coming into the mill, but at least enough to keep the women and children in comparative comfort. There was even some left over to have the machines overhauled from time to time.
Nowadays every woman in Sweyn’s Eye wanted a shawl or blanket that would show loyalty to the war effort. In the richer homes, the woollen goods were flung lazily over a sofa or even hung against a plain wall. The poorer women bought hanks of wool and knitted red, white and blue pullovers for husbands and sons when they came home from the Front. And Rhian glowed with happiness at the success of her venture.
She sighed, knowing the reasons for keeping herself so busy were as much to do with her tangled emotions as the need to earn a living. She had not heard from Heath for some weeks now, yet it was not he who dominated her thoughts but Mansel Jack, the image of whose dark face even haunted her dreams at night.
Her back ached now as she tugged the potatoes free of the soggy ground. She shook away the damp earth and stared with pride at the vegetables that would provide the basis for more than one good meal.
‘Ruining your hands, you are,’ Gina said, shaking back her fine hair. ‘Never be taken for a lady, with your fingernails black with soil and fingers red from washing out wool.’
Rhian felt as though a cold hand had touched her briefly in passing and she shivered. ‘I wasn’t born to be a lady but a working girl; there’s soft you talk sometimes, Gina.’
‘Maybe, but come along in now, dinner’s nearly ready.’
As Rhian entered the kitchen with Gina still protesting at her side, Carrie held a finger to her lips.
‘Hush your clatter will you, girls? I’ve just got those two little devils off to sleep.’
‘My Dewi isn’t a devil,’ Gina said, half-laughing and Carrie made a wry face.
‘He is when he gets the top off the honeypot and sucks the stuff all over himself. Washed him three times, I did, before his hair was clean – going to have a handful there when he grows up, you are.’ Carrie’s voice held a touch of pride. ‘Be-oo-tiful children both of them and I’ll flatten anyone who says different. Here, give me those potatoes, don’t stand there dropping mud all over my nice clean floor.’
Rhian scarcely heard her, far off in the distance was an ominous booming which just might have been thunder. She looked up sharply, wondering if anyone else had heard the sound.
‘What is it?’ Gina asked in a hushed voice. ‘Is it a storm starting or what?’
‘Probably.’ Rhian went to the door and opened it wide, but there was nothing now except the rushing of the stream outside and the calling of a bird flying overhead. Yet a terrible feeling of fear was gripping her; as she moved outdoors and stared across the valley, her mind was repeating the name like a chant: Mansel Jack.
* * *
It was as though her eyes were glued together. Katie moved her arm, rubbed the blood from her face and sat up. Then she stared round her in horror, for part of the shed looked like a slaughterhouse. Blood stained the walls and dimly she could hear someone moaning.
Experimentally, she rose to her knees and looked down at herself, finding she was unhurt except for a cut on her forehead.
There was a pounding in her head which she quickly realised was the sound of footsteps running towards the building. There had been a bad explosion, she thought distractedly – God, what had happened to all her girls? With a feeling of relief she saw that some of the women were sitting up, scrambling to their feet, faces white with shock.
She placed her folded handkerchief on the cut, which was bleeding profusely, and pulled her cap firmly over it.
Mansel Jack ran towards the shed and their eyes met.
Katie shook her head, ‘I don’t know who’s been hurt, not yet.’ Together they moved to the pile of shattered wood which had been Katie’s bench.
‘Christ!’ Mansel Jack was pulling at the wooden struts and Katie sank to her knees, waiting, though she didn’t know what for. She stared around her, wondering that the explosion had ripped asunder only part of the building. Around the area where she had worked with her small crew there was devastation and, had she not been standing near the door, she would be under the pile of rubble right now.
And what of her girls: Doris, Janey? And Honey had just finished talking, telling Katie about Morgan Lloyd – oh, Honey!
Other men had joined Mansel Jack and the small building was crammed with people. Katie could see an ambulance drawn up outside, the horses moving impatiently between the shafts. She stared up at the patch of blue sky she could see through a jagged hole in the roof, wishing she could turn the clock back, stop the dreadful thing which had happened. And yet she felt numb inside.
It was Doris’s face she saw first through the pile of splintered planking. Doris was pale, her eyes starting out of her head but appearing to see nothing.
‘In shock,’ Mansel Jack said firmly. ‘Come along, you men, lift her carefully now – that’s right, take her to the ambulance.’
Doris seemed to waken suddenly. ‘I’m all right, man, there’s daft. Not taking me to no hospital…’ Her voice trailed away tearfully.
‘I think you’d best go outside for some fresh air, lass.’ Mansel Jack’s hand was resting on Katie’s arm but she shook her head.
‘They’re my crew.’ Her knees were sore from the hardness of the ground, but she couldn’t have moved even if she had tried.
Carefully the men pushed away the debris and then Janey was uncovered. Quickly, Katie closed her eyes, but she could still see the image of the girl who from the chest down was nothing but blood.
But Honey would be all right, she must be, Katie thought fervently. Please Mary, Jesus and Joseph, make her all right; she’s so young, so pretty, so full of life and she’s got a boy who loves her.
There was not a mark on Honey… no wound, no blood and her face was set in lines of peaceful repose as though she was asleep.
‘Honey!’ Katie said quickly, ‘Honey, ’tis Katie talking to you. Why don’t you answer me?’
Mansel Jack caught her arm and lifted Katie to her feet. And as she watched, a coat was placed over Honey’s gentle young face. The hair, so warm and golden and alive, hung free, gleaming and beautiful. Katie began to weep, silent tears running salt into her mouth, and was not really aware of Mansel Jack even when he put his arms around her and held her close to his powerful shoulders.
It was only when she heard other women weeping that Katie realised what she was doing; she was weak, she should be leader here and she was letting her workers down. She straightened her cap and moved out of Mansel Jack’s arms.
‘I’m all right now.’ She stood tall and straight, her head erect, her eyes flashing to encompass the other women. ‘Sylvie, I’ll work on your table until mine is replaced,’ she said firmly. ‘Come on now girls, no shirking, the job’s got to be done and standing looking at it won’t do any good at all.’
She took up a hammer from the floor, seeing that the handle was covered in dry blood. The girls, her girls, had given their lives and she was going to make sure this was not in vain.
‘Come on, then, back to work! We’ll show the Huns that we’re made of stern stuff, just like our soldiers fighting at the Front.’
Katie didn’t know many Protestant hymns, but there was one that she had sung over and over again in times of trouble. She took up some of the gaines, staring unseeingly at them, and after a moment’s hesitation the other women followed suit.
Slowly, tremulously at first, her voice soared into the shattered room.
‘Abide with me, fast falls the eventide…’ And one by one, the other women began to sing with her.
Chapter Twenty
Sweyn’s Eye slumbered beneath an uneasy sky. Clouds obscured the face of the moon and the sleeping hills crouched silent in the gloom.
Mary stood at her window staring out into the darkness, her spirits low, tears trembling on her lashes. Behind her
in the large bed she could hear the even sound of her husband’s breathing and wondered in sudden anger how he could sleep at a time like this. It was his last night at home with her, for tomorrow he would rejoin his regiment.
He looked so handsome in his uniform as an officer in the 14th Welch, tall and distinguished, a handsome stranger. The long months he had spent in the Army had altered him and now he was thinner of face, his brow creased in a perpetual frown. And there was an elusive quality about him too, as though his leave was merely a pause in a way of life now become all-important to him.
Tonight they had gone through the motions of making love. She had lain in his arms, held near to his heart, yet she had known – they both had known – that the closeness between them had vanished.
When had the marriage begun to falter? Mary asked herself. She could not blame the arrival of Mary Anne Bloomfield, for the wedge had been there long before that. In her heart she knew the answer: she blamed him for not giving her a child and yet feared that the fault was her own. Impatiently she pushed the thoughts away; she was becoming obsessed – was Brandon’s love not enough for her?
The moon slid from between the clouds, silvering the trees in the garden, turning the small pond into a shimmering jewel. She had so much, Mary thought painfully. She must be grateful, for she had risen above her origins and the terrible grinding poverty of her childhood. She had made a success of her life, owned a big store, married well and for love, so why did she allow discontent to sour everything?
She glanced at the figure in the bed; his broad shoulders were uncovered and his skin was silk in the silver light. She loved him so much, how could she bear for him to go away again?
Wide-eyed, she slid into bed beside him and lay still, staring up at the ceiling. Perhaps she would lose Brandon to this terrible war – the thought was like a blade piercing her soul. Tentatively she reached out and slipped her fingers into his; he stirred a little and she held her breath, not wanting to wake him. Hot bitter tears welled into her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she turned her face into the pillow.
The early morning light crawled into the bedroom and Mary realised that she must have fallen into an uneasy sleep. At her side, Brandon breathed peacefully and for a moment she felt once more a stinging anger against him. As she rose quickly from between the sheets he opened his eyes, staring up at her; he had the gift of being lost in sleep one minute and the next moment being fully awake. He smiled and gestured for her to come to his side. She obeyed and clung to him, willing herself not to cry. When he smoothed her hair and kissed her closed eyes, his touch though sensuous was a gesture of farewell.
At breakfast, Mary ate little of the crisp bacon with devilled kidneys specially prepared by the cook. She watched Brandon closely and once when his eyes met hers she was shocked to see the eagerness in his face. He wanted to go to the war, to be a soldier again. He saw her watching him and reached out to cover her hand with his own. ‘Try to understand, Mary, this is something I have to do.’
She sat in the conservatory while he changed into his uniform. Determined not to cry, she held her head high; her mouth was dry but she managed a smile.
‘I’ll be home on leave again before you know it,’ he whispered in her ear. The cloth of his uniform was rough against her hands as she kissed him lightly and moved back a pace, wishing he would go and get the parting over with, yet dreading the moment when he would walk through the door.
‘Do you want me to come into town with you?’ she asked and in spite of herself, her voice trembled a little.
He shook his head. ‘No, Mary, I want to think of you in our home, standing here just like you are now, so elegant and beautiful that I ache with pride in you.’
They clung together for a long moment and then he released her. She stood on the step watching as he made his farewells to the staff, who had lined up on the drive like a guard of honour. Her throat was thick with tears and she could barely keep her lips from trembling. She heard the engine of the car spring into life and then Brandon was climbing in beside the driver, tapping Jim on the shoulder to show he was ready.
Mary raised her arm in one last farewell gesture and then moved back into the house, running up the stairs and into the bedroom to fling herself on to the still warm sheets which bore the scent of him. How could she bear the continued loneliness of being without him?
The sound of the car died away into the distance and Mary closed her eyes, knowing that he was gone from her and not all her crying would bring him back. She wished for a moment that she could turn back the clock a few hours to when she had lain in his arms; why had she withheld a small part of herself? And then the tears came, scalding, painful and she felt the same uncertainty she had known as a child lying in a hovel, hunger and unhappiness a way of life. She had shown courage then and so must she do now, she told herself fiercely. She would throw herself into her work, settle down to the life of a woman whose man was at war as so many other women in Sweyn’s Eye had to do. But at least they had children… the errant thought crept into her mind as she buried her head in Brandon’s pillow.
Later when she travelled down into town on the tram, no one would have known from her bland expression that she had spent most of the morning weeping. The town was thronged with people – mostly women, young boys and old men – and Mary realised for the first time just how the war had affected Sweyn’s Eye.
Suddenly she felt uplifted and as she entered the emporium, there was an easing of her pain. She had much to be thankful for, she thought soberly.
She was greeted at the door of her office by Mrs Greenaway, her face sombre, her eyelids drooping as she twisted her hands together in distress.
‘Have you heard about the explosion, Mrs Sutton?’ she asked at once and Mary moved into the warmth of her room, shaking her head.
‘What’s happened, Greenie? I haven’t been in town for days.’
Mary sat at her desk, staring at the pile of unopened letters, strangely unwilling to involve herself in the work of the store.
‘Down at the munitions factory, like a bloodbath it was, so they say. One of the young girls, Janey Jenkins, was ripped to pieces by the blast – couldn’t find enough of her to fill the coffin.’
Mary shook her head, wishing that Greenie would not be so graphic. Her heart sank at this news; although they were only very distantly related, she had lived near the family once, a long time ago when Janey was a baby.
‘She can’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, poor child,’ she said aloud now, and Mrs Greenaway nodded.
‘Aye… and that Honey O’Connor, beautiful girl, sweet as a spring lamb she was, with lovely golden hair – she’s dead too, but they say there wasn’t a mark on her.’
Mary stared up from her chair, suddenly feeling ill. ‘Those were the girls working with Katie Murphy.’ The words came out hoarsely and Mrs Greenaway looked at her anxiously.
‘Katie’s not hurt – well, not too badly – cut on her head, that’s all. She was a heroine by all accounts, keeping the rest of the gang’s spirits up, carrying on working in spite of the terrible thing that had just happened. Deserves a medal, she does.’
Mary rubbed at her eyes, ‘Duw, there’s awful, two young girls killed and for what? But if anything had happened to Katie, it would break my heart.’
‘I know, friends for years you’ve been,’ Greenie said softly. ‘Katie’s like the sister you never had, I suppose.’
Mary sank back in her chair. ‘Send for some tea, there’s a love.’ She pushed the pile of letters away from her with an impatient gesture. ‘I don’t feel a bit like work today.’
At the door the older woman paused. ‘What about the funeral? I expect you’d want to attend, wouldn’t you?’
Mary nodded. ‘Will you order some flowers, Greenie?’
The day was one of unreality and afterwards Mary didn’t know how she got through it. The thought of returning home to a house empty of Brandon’s presence did nothing to cheer her spirits.
By late afternoon she was weary and, glancing at the clock, she put down her pen; it might be a good idea to take her tea at the store, she decided.
Suddenly she realised she had not eaten all day and felt hungry. She closed the silver top of the inkwell and rose from her chair, stretching her arms above her head, trying desperately not to think. She didn’t want to remember that her husband had gone away or that the awful thing called war was impinging on her life, eating away at the heart of it, destroying everything loved and familiar.
The tea rooms were crowded and the hubbub of voices was almost a tangible blow. She moved between the damask-covered tables, nodding in greeting to her regular customers, trying to stretch her face into a smile though her jaw ached with the effort.
‘Mrs Sutton – isn’t it lovely to see you again, honey – won’t you join me?’
Mary stared blankly at the American woman seated with her daughter, presiding smugly over the silver teapot like a fat spider, her plump white fingers covered in rings.
‘I don’t really think…’ Her words trailed away as Mary Anne interrupted her. ‘I’ve said goodbye to Brandon. Isn’t it dreadful that a man like him has to be a soldier? It’s scandalous.’
Mary sat heavily in a tall-backed chair, her legs suddenly weak.
‘You’ve seen Brandon today?’ She could not help asking the question, even though she knew the other woman was glorying in her bewilderment.
‘But of course my dear – you don’t think he could return to the Front without saying farewell to me, do you?’
Mary took the hot strong coffee that Mary Anne handed her and sipped it without noticing the bitter taste.
‘I really didn’t think he was obliged to you in any way,’ Mary said coldly. ‘After all, what happened between you was a lifetime ago.’
Mary Anne glanced meaningfully at her daughter and the girl sank back in her chair, her eyes downcast, her mouth drawn into a sulky pout.
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