Spinner's Wharf

by Spinner's Wharf (retail) (epub)

  Rhian desperately searched her mind for something to say, anything to break the tension of the atmosphere. ‘Will you go home to Yorkshire before you enlist?’ Her voice was small, falling softly into the silence.

  He tipped back his head to look up at the sky and the moon slid from behind the clouds as though at his bidding. ‘Yes, I’ll need to see Charlotte one last time, my sister too.’ His tone was clipped and Rhian felt a coldness settle over her; he was deliberately putting a barrier between them – didn’t he know there was no need for that?

  ‘I understand,’ she said, but the pain in her voice brought him to a halt. He stared down at her and she wondered for a moment if he meant to crush her in his arms.

  ‘There is no future for us, little Rhian. You are sweet and beautiful, but there are too many barriers.’ He smiled. ‘But at least your future at the mill is secure, I’ve seen to that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked quietly, her eyes wide with bewilderment.

  ‘I asked Mrs Sinman not to discuss it, I wanted to tell you myself. I’ve bought Spinners’ Wharf.’

  She felt anger drag at her limbs so that she was forced to stop in her tracks. ‘You’ve done what?’

  He caught her arm and she stared up at him in disbelief. ‘You’ve bought the mill on some little whim and there’s me wanting to make a go of it for Gina’s sake.’ She took a deep breath, ‘Do you realise the hours I’ve put into that mill, the way I’ve tramped the streets, coaxing people to buy from me? And it wasn’t to make you richer, Mansel Jack, understand that.’

  He released her abruptly and her arm felt bruised where his fingers had been. ‘Go home, Rhian Gray,’ he said flatly. ‘You’re just overwrought, that’s all.’

  His words stung and she faced him squarely, her voice low and cold. ‘You’ve taken Gina Sinman’s livelihood from her, the business that she and Heinz started together; how could you?’

  He stared at her with clear eyes, ‘I think you’re angry because you planned on buying the mill yourself one day.’

  She spun away from him and began to run through the darkness, tears misting her eyes. In spite of her anger, she recognised that there was a grain of truth in what Mansel Jack had said. Yet somehow she felt hurt and betrayed and in that moment she almost hated him.

  In the mill house, Carrie sat before the fire mending a tiny petticoat, sewing a hem that had become torn. She glanced up and her eyes narrowed as they rested on Rhian’s flushed face.

  ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been out on Ram’s Tor courting with some fine handsome boyo.’ Her voice was low and as Rhian sank into a chair Carrie nodded towards the stairs. ‘Little Dewi’s been that cross tonight, there’s a fuss he’s been making – getting his teeth I suppose he is. Hasn’t woken Cerianne yet, but Gina’s spent most of the night up in the bedroom trying to quieten the boy.’

  Rhian was only half-listening as she rested her head against the softness of the armchair, feeling drained and empty.

  ‘What’s the matter, cariad,’ Carrie asked softly. ‘Now don’t go lying to me, for Carrie knows you better than most anyone, brought you up didn’t I?’

  Rhian sighed. ‘I’m so mixed-up, Carrie, how can I love two men at the same time? It’s just not right and proper, is it?’

  Carrie shrugged.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. How can I love Cerianne and Dewi so much when neither one of them is my own flesh? Love’s a funny thing, not doled out in spoonfuls like medicine. Still, there’s doubtless more love you have for one than for the other.’

  ‘But how can I tell which is love and which is just desire for a man’s arms around me, Carrie? Perhaps I’m a floosie at heart and not meant to belong to one man only, like the good book says.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Carrie put down her mending and stared at Rhian. ‘You are no floosie, you’re what I’d call a good girl and if you feel love for two men then bide your time. The moment will come when you have to choose between them, and then you’ll know the answer for it will come from your heart.’

  Carrie spoke with such authority that it seemed she had experienced the same emotions herself. Rhian watched her covertly, but the older woman’s expression gave nothing away.

  ‘Duw, I thought them babbas would never get off to sleep,’ Carrie adroitly changed the subject. ‘Devils they are, the two of them.’ Her voice held such warmth that Rhian felt tears burn her eyes. She was sometimes sorry that she was spending so little time with Billy’s daughter, but she worked long and hard to make a living for them all and was content that Cerianne did not lack affection. Both Carrie and Gina spoiled the little girl outrageously, making up for the lack of parental love in the child’s life.

  ‘There’s down in the mouth you’re looking, girl,’ Carrie said sharply. ‘Done nothing but sit there like a wet week since you came in. Where you been, anyway?’

  Rhian forced a smile, ‘Never you mind where I’ve been. As you said, I might have been out courting on Ram’s Tor.’

  Carrie’s eyes were shrewd. ‘Come on now, don’t hold out on old Carrie, tell me what’s on your mind.’ She rose to her feet and shifted the big kettle on to the fire.

  ‘There’s no need for you to keep asking questions,’ Rhian replied impatiently. ‘I’m not going to tell you anything more than I have already. I mean it, you know,’ she said flatly, ‘I’m not going to say any more about myself or my love life, so you can just forget it.’

  Carrie sighed softly. ‘I don’t mean to be nosey, mind, but I can’t abide seeing you so low in spirits. I’m just plain worried about you, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m sorry I was sharp,’ Rhian said more quietly. ‘Just let me be, I’m so tired I can’t think straight. It’s about time I went to bed.’

  ‘Aye, go on, you look a bit peaky I must say.’ Carrie spoke softly. ‘Settle yourself in and I’ll bring you some hot milk to help you to sleep.’

  In the room that she shared with Carrie, Rhian sank on to the bed and kicked off her boots. Her feet ached, indeed her entire being seemed to ache and she knew that the pain had nothing to do with the physical weariness that seeped through her veins.

  She drew her thick cotton gown over her head and padded into the other bedroom. There were two cots side by side and at the end of the small room Gina lay on her bed, fast asleep. At first they had decided to put Carrie in with the children because Gina needed to be up and in the mill early, but despite being a good idea in theory it had not worked in practice, because young master Sinman had a voracious appetite and needed feeding every few hours.

  Cerianne lay on her stomach, her small bottom jutting above the bedclothes. Her thumb was in her mouth and her breathing was soft and even. She didn’t stir as Rhian leaned over and kissed her but Dewi sat up, his hair sticking on end – so much like his father that it was as if Heinz Sinman had been born again.

  ‘Hush, there’s a good boy.’ Rhian kissed his plump cheek and his podgy fist pressed against her breast as though hoping to find sustenance.

  ‘You’re out of luck there, boyo,’ she whispered and rubbed at his fuzz of hair. ‘Now lie down, let mammy sleep a while.’

  ‘There’s wicked you are, waking my boy like that.’ Gina’s tone was sleepily playful as she climbed out of bed and took her son in her arms. ‘Duw, like a clock he is, don’t miss a minute when his belly’s empty,’ she smiled.

  ‘Sit by here on the bed, Dewi, Mam will get you some hot milk in a minute.’

  It was strangely soothing to sit in the room that was silent except for Cerianne’s even breathing and the soft sounds of Dewi drinking milk out of a cup. Rhian closed her eyes and leaned against the pillow, feeling weariness washing over her.

  ‘There’s a fine pair you are!’ Carrie came into the room and placed a tray on the marble-topped washstand. ‘Left me to rake out the fire and lock all the doors – want mothering, the two of you, don’t know what you’d do without me.’

  Rhian drank a little of the hot milk Carrie handed her
and glanced warily at Gina. ‘Mansel Jack’s bought you out then?’ she asked at last and with a sigh of relief Gina nodded.

  ‘There’s glad I am he told you about it.’ She paused, ‘You do think it’s a good idea, don’t you, Rhian?’

  Forcing a smile, Rhian agreed. ‘Of course, the mill can’t fail now, can’t it?’

  ‘Duw, I hope I’ve done the right thing,’ Gina said softly, ‘but with Heinz gone, I don’t see no reason not to sell out. He said we’d be all right, that we’d continue to work as always.’

  Carrie filled the sudden silence quickly. ‘It’s the funeral of those two poor girls tomorrow and about time, too. Don’t hold with inquests and the like, get people decently buried is what I say. We must all go to the church, mind,’ she added firmly.

  Rhian nodded. ‘Yes, we’ll be there, Carrie, don’t worry.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I’m dead beat, I’m going to bed.’

  When she lay beneath the blankets, Rhian stared up at the cracked ceiling and the flickering light from the candle playing over it and tired though she was, sleep would not come.

  * * *

  Green Hill woke to a cheerless morning with rain dripping from rooftops, running along window panes, slipping from sparse-leafed trees as though in sympathy with the occupants of the O’Connor household. The rooms – spotlessly clean and strangely neat – were silent, for even the youngest of the girls felt the grief that hung in the air like a thick heavy perfume.

  Morgan had been numb ever since he had been told the awful news. He had watched Stella O’Connor’s face, pale and pinched with pain, and heard the words come stumbling from her lips, but could not believe them. Even now on the morning of the funeral, it didn’t seem possible that Honey, his lovely Honey, was dead.

  He sat in the coldness of his room, pulling on his boots, seeing the rain on the windows and feeling the chill of it penetrate his bones. The one scrap of comfort he had was that she was to go to her rest properly in a real pine coffin, paid for by the generosity of the people of Sweyn’s Eye who saw Honey and her friend Janey as heroines.

  Morgan stifled a moan. He had tortured himself with thoughts about the explosion, had agonised in his imagining, seeing Honey’s sweetness extinguished and haunted lest she had suffered. They all said she had not – the doctor who had administered a soothing draught to Mrs O’Connor, the undertaker who had deftly measured the slight young form and the nurse who had spent an hour locked with Honey’s body. Mrs Benson had spoken to the hushed family with just the right mixture of deference and cheerfulness.

  ‘Your little girl didn’t feel a thing, take it from me. There’s not a line or crease on her little face, which proves she never knew what happened. Seen people go sudden and in pain, I have, and it always shows.’ She had pressed her hands against her sparkling white apron. ‘Don’t grieve about her passing over, for it was quick and painless.’

  But a light had gone from his life and he could never love a woman again, not the way he had loved Honey. He couldn’t even share his grief with those who were closest to her, for her mammy had never known for sure exactly how he had felt. As for Mr O’Connor, he was like a corpse himself; he sat in his chair, staring around him with unseeing eyes, unaware even of his other little ones who plaintively begged for attention.

  ‘Morgan, ’tis time you were up and about.’ Stella O’Connor was standing in the doorway, her face a mask of tight control, her eyes sunk back in her head from all her tears.

  He jerked to his feet. ‘I’m ready.’ He hated the coldness of his words – why couldn’t he hold Stella to him, tell her of his own grief, share with her the pain?

  ‘You’re a good lad.’ Stella’s voice cracked a little, but when her eyes met his and he read her understanding, it was as if some of his burden was lifted.

  ‘I’ve made you breakfast, try to eat at least some of it for the day outside is ill-tempered.’

  The kitchen was cold, for with the coffin next door in the parlour there must not be too big a fire burning in the grate.

  The children were dressed, the girls wearing their best black boots neatly buttoned and brightly polished. Morgan had watched Brendan O’Connor work on the footwear the previous night, rubbing and spitting as though his life depended on it. Something to do, they all had the relief of it except himself.

  Why had death suddenly forced itself into his consciousness? He had seen his dad die inch by inch and thought it intolerable. But at least he had lived his life, known pleasure and pain. What had Honey known of anything?

  A loud knocking at the door startled him and Stella O’Connor pulled off her apron and went to answer it. The hearse stood outside in the roadway and Morgan felt a momentary panic – the fact that Honey was going from him suddenly became a reality.

  He was standing staring, open-mouthed, and Stella O’Connor spoke to him twice before he understood the meaning of her words.

  ‘You’ll be a bearer, won’t you, Morgan?’ He nodded, unable to speak and shivering as he followed Brendan into the parlour. One of the men from the undertaker’s gently gave directions and then the coffin was pressing against his shoulder. Morgan wondered at the weight of it. The coffin was set next to the one belonging to Janey Jenkins and the two grieving families took their rightful positions behind the hearse as the horses jerked into movement.

  Morgan became aware that the streets of Green Hill were lined with people who had come to pay their last respects to the two dead girls. He had never seen anything like it – all the way down to the bridge and over to the left bank of the river, the mourning townsfolk stood to attention.

  ‘Mammy, just look at the canaries!’ a child called excitedly and was hushed immediately. Morgan looked towards the gates of the cemetery where, unmistakeable because of their yellow-stained faces, stood the women from the munitions factory – the ‘canaries’ as they were heartlessly called.

  ‘What a send-off our Honey’s having to be sure.’ Stella’s voice, drifting back to where Morgan walked behind the hearse, was filled with tearful pride. It was clear she found comfort in the display of respect, but Morgan felt cheated and absurdly angry that all these girls and women were alive while his Honey was dead.

  Dan y Graig was a cemetery set out on the lower slopes of Kilvey Hill, a large parcel of ground which boasted two churches. Morgan preferred to wait outside in the rain after the cortège had passed under the arched doorway of the larger church and he stared at the marble headstones cheek by jowl with poor wooden crosses, trying to tell himself that none of this was real.

  A piece of ground was ready for Honey, a gash dark and ugly in the face of the earth. What was left for him to want now? He cared nothing for his future, for it was lying wrapped in a shroud inside a pine box.

  But somehow he endured the rest of the ceremony, the laying to rest, the unintelligible words and found himself making the sign of the cross as others around him were doing – knowing it for an empty gesture.

  Mrs O’Connor began to weep as the heavy soil fell on to the coffin. ‘My first-born child, my lovely girl is gone from me and I can’t bear it.’

  Morgan stood rigid, his face muscles aching with the effort to keep control. He too wanted to cry, to rant against fate, to scrape away the soil and bring Honey back into the light. He watched as the grieving parents moved towards the open gates of the cemetery and then stood quite still for a long time staring at the freshly dug earth. He did not think or feel, he simply was.

  It was only when a pale sun slid from between grey clouds, lightening the graveyard, that he realised he was soaked to the skin. Steam rose from his coat and sighing heavily he turned to leave, knowing he would never come here again. Some might find comfort from tending the burial ground of the dead, but not he.

  The crowds which had lined the streets on the way to the cemetery had long ago dispersed and now it was as though Morgan was the only one left in the world. He stared at the docks, at the tall sails which fluttered damply in the sudden breeze and at the steam packe
ts waiting patiently to go out on the tide. It was strange that life could continue as if nothing had happened. He had preferred the rain which had turned the town grey, for it was fitting weather for mourning.

  He strode across the wooden bridge, staring down into the swiftly moving river, watching a small branch torn from a tree twist and turn with the current. The river gurgled and lapped towards the banks, running over stones smoothed by many torrents. It must be peaceful to lie under the turgid depths and forget pain…

  Sharply he drew himself away and moved towards the streets of the town. Sweyn’s Eye was as ever bustling with activity. He saw a milkman lift a clanking churn and place it on his cart and heard the sigh of the horse moving between the shafts as though in protest against the heavy burden.

  ‘Bore da, Morgan, there’s a boy – going to walk past an old chum without a word!’ Peter Harries stood before him and there was a world of understanding in the furnaceman’s deep-set eyes.

  ‘Just come off shift, I have. Jawl, I swear the sheds get more like hard work every day. Didn’t expect you to come in today, Morgan. I knew about the funeral of course – there’s no need for me to say how sorry I am, is there, boyo?’

  Morgan shook his head. ‘Don’t want to talk about it, Peter, she’s gone, nothing more to be said.’

  ‘You’ll feel better once you’re back at work with your mates. Young you are yet and just buried your dad an’ all; life’s not easy for some. Want to come for a pint, boyo? Might take the edges away, like, and they say misery needs company.’

  Morgan shook his head. ‘Not right now, thanks, Peter. Got something to do.’

  The furnaceman rested a hand on his shoulder, ‘Right you are then, see you in work.’ He pulled his cap further down on his forehead and strode away, his tea-can clanking against his side. He was a man who meant well, but he could not understand Morgan’s need to be left alone. Peter Harries was perhaps the only one who knew of his love for Honey, but it was not a comfort to talk about her - rather was it a pain shafting through him, a flashing blade that gouged and ripped. He turned off the main street with purposeful stride, his head high.