Spinner's Wharf

by Spinner's Wharf (retail) (epub)

  The doctor did not speak, he simply drove in silence and she was grateful. When they arrived he handed her over to Mrs Greenaway with a few brief words of explanation and then took Mary’s hand, though she refused to meet his eyes.

  ‘I’ll come to see you soon, Mrs Sutton,’ he said formally, ‘and in the meantime, get all the rest you can.’

  It seemed an eternity before she was in her nightgown and alone in the silence of the big bed. As she closed her eyes, tears forced themselves from beneath the tightly shut lids and the pain that squeezed her heart was almost physical. But at last she slept and in her dreams she was in Brandon’s arms, loving him, giving him all of herself, and for a brief time she was happy.

  It was dark when she awoke and the moon was silvering the room, casting a glow over the bed that made the white of the sheets appear like snow that had drifted into folds. Mary sat up, her mind clear as she lit the lamp, pulled on her dressing gown and sat in her chair near the grey ashes of the dead fire. She thought carefully, going over dates in her mind – sifting, remembering – but there was no answer to the question that reared up in her mind. Only one fact stood out plain and clear: she did not know who was the father of her baby.

  She had lain with Brandon the night before he had gone to join his regiment. The coupling had been soured with mistrust and discontent – could such a union have resulted in the child she so desired after such a long barren time? Or was it not more likely that her stolen night with a virtual stranger was the occasion when she had conceived?

  She bit her lip… if so, then she had betrayed Brandon in the most cruel way a man could be betrayed. Clasping her hands together, she wondered if she could pluck up the courage to speak plainly to Paul Soames and if she did, whether he could possibly answer her questions?

  And yet slowly the misery began to vanish. Mary wrapped her arms around her still smooth stomach and joy rose within her like great coloured bubbles, shimmering golden and bright and making her breathless with joy. Here within her was the child for which she had pined, the baby she thought she would never conceive! Hot, happy tears poured down her cheeks, so that she gasped with the force of her feelings and softly rocked herself to and fro. ‘My baby,’ she whispered between her tears.

  * * *

  So the days passed in a haze where Mary’s feelings fluctuated between overwhelming joy and equally overwhelming guilt. She began to make a reassessment of her life, realising she had loved Brandon as deeply as any woman could love her man and yet had betrayed his memory. This was a fact which she could not alter and so she must come to terms with it.

  At first she continually blamed herself for the momentary weakness which had allowed her to give herself to the doctor, yet common sense told her that she had been out of her mind with grief, needing consolation and comfort from contact with another human being. Gradually she came to understand if not forgive herself, deciding at last that what she had done must remain hidden away for ever. The guilt of her betrayal might gnaw at her for the rest of her life, but it was the price she must pay to keep her child’s name unblemished.

  Now Mary stood on the high platform of the tram, her uniform heavy and uncomfortable, the waist already feeling a little tight. This was her last day as part-time conductress, for she did not think it good for the health of her unborn baby to be rushing upstairs and down in all kinds of inclement weather. She smiled as two soldiers boarded the tram, wearing the blue uniform of the wounded.

  ‘Going to Parc Beck are you, girlie?’ One of the men smiled down at her and Mary tried to ignore the empty sleeve pinned over his breast.

  ‘There’s daft you are, mind, doesn’t it say Parc Beck on the front there?’ She smiled cheekily and the soldier responded by planting a kiss on the tip of her nose.

  ‘Duw, there’s good it is to hear an honest-to-goodness Welsh voice. I never want to go to “Froggie land” again!’

  Mary frowned in confusion and the two soldiers laughed. ‘France, girl! Don’t you know there’s a war on?’

  She watched the men take a seat; there was no need to issue a ticket because the wounded travelled free. There was a pain inside her as she thought of Brandon lying buried in an unmarked grave in France – oh, she knew there was a war on, all right.

  At the end of her shift she prepared her figures, hoping and praying that the money she had taken would tally with the tickets sold. Sometimes there was a discrepancy and then it worried her that she who was so good with figures should have made a mistake.

  When she left the terminus she wandered into the street, staring at the tram which was swallowing up the waiting crowd and feeling a pang as though there was something lost. Yet she had never set much store by her job as a conductress – it had been merely a way of helping out when there were hardly any men left to do such jobs.

  But now she was unaccountably lonely. Although she did not feel like going back to the house yet, she was not dressed for the store and her uniform would be hot and uncomfortable. Suddenly she brightened: she would go to see Katie. They had not talked since just after the terrible explosion at the munitions factory and Mary felt guilty, she had been so wrapped up in herself that she had given no thought to anyone else, nor to how Katie must still be suffering at the loss of her two young friends.

  There was a chill wind blowing along Market Street and the stalls clustered together in the square brought back swift, sharp memories of the time when Mary had worked in the market, enduring all sorts of weather as she endeavoured to build up her trade. She remembered the duplicity of Alfred Phillpot who had tried to outwit her, starving her of supplies so that she would be forced to sell her stalls, but she had beaten him in the end.

  She frowned, for even now he was bent on provoking her and there was the business of the woollen goods he had bought from Yorkshire, changing the labels so that she believed the articles to be Welsh. Well, Mansel Jack – mill owner from whom Phillpot had purchased – had come down to Sweyn’s Eye himself to sort that one out. Strangely enough he had remained to run the munitions factory where Katie Murphy worked and the terrible accident had occurred.

  The pungent smell of fish hung on the breeze and Mary wrinkled her nose in disgust. Yet here in this house she had received such hospitality, sharing a curtained-off section of Katie’s own room. She sighed, for she had been remiss in neglecting her friend so badly.

  Katie was looking much better and the gash on her forehead was almost healed, but there were shadows still beneath her eyes.

  ‘Come in, me darlin’, sure ’tis lovely to see you.’ Katie took her arm and hustled her into the kitchen where Mrs Murphy sat as usual in her chair, skirts hitched up and knees bare to the heat from the fire. Mary’s heart sank – there would be no chance to exchange confidences today. The youngest of the Murphy boys was playing on the floor, running a red-painted wooden tank over the rag mat.

  Katie held her hands to her head and frowned in mock annoyance, then pointed to the stairs. ‘Come up to my room – we’ll not hear ourselves speak down here with that boy making so much noise.’

  ‘Oh, Katie!’ said her mother, ‘shame on you taking away our company like that, you don’t consider your old mammy at all, do you?’

  Katie sighed heavily. ‘We’ll talk to you after, don’t worry yourself… and how about making us a nice hot cup of tea? That’ll give you something to do, so it will.’

  Katie’s room was different from the time when Mary had shared it and now there was linoleum on the floor, covered with strong tufted mats. The walls had been decorated and the window and bed were hung with good heavy coverings.

  ‘Nothing so posh as your house, Mary.’ Katie’s shrewd eyes were watching her and Mary shook her head.

  ‘No, but it’s very nice Katie – a palace compared with the hovel I was brought up in – and don’t you forget it, for I won’t!’

  ‘I know that. Come and sit down and tell me what’s been happening. I can see in your eyes there’s something important you want to say.’<
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  Mary smiled. ‘There’s knowing you are,’ she said, ‘far too nosey if you ask me, mind.’ She settled herself on the bed and leaned back against the wall, clasping her hands around her knees and wondering how much she was going to tell Katie – her mind buzzed with the need to confide in someone who would understand.

  ‘I’m going to have a baby!’ The words fell into the silence of the room and if Mary had expected great surprise she couldn’t have been more wrong. Katie merely smiled and brushed back her red-gold hair.

  ‘I knew that the minute I set eyes on you.’ Her smugness was infuriating. ‘Not that your belly’s got big yet, but there’s something about your eyes; you can always tell.’

  ‘Oh, can you indeed!’ Mary laughed, a little piqued at being deprived of her moment of glory.

  Katie put her hand on Mary’s shoulder. ‘This is something you’ve been wanting for a long time. I know how much it means to you and I’m so pleased for you Mary, but then you know that. Can I be godmother?’

  Mary smiled. ‘Yes, but you don’t deserve it for guessing my secret without me having to tell you.’ She stared through the small window for a moment and saw that the coast of Devon was barely visible through the mists that were rising from the sea.

  ‘Then why aren’t you happy?’ Katie’s words dropped softly into the quietness and Mary did not turn to look at her. She knew she must speak, the words were burning at her and she so needed a friend – one person to whom she could tell her awful secret so that the burden would not be so heavy.

  ‘Katie, I’m not sure that Brandon is the father of my child.’ The words fell into a pool of silence and Mary realised at once that she had made a mistake.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Katie was genuinely shocked.

  Mary turned to her earnestly: ‘I’d had the telegram to say Brandon was dead… I don’t know what happened to me then – oh, I can’t begin to explain…’

  The silence seemed to stretch interminably and looking at Katie, Mary felt she was staring into the eyes of a disapproving stranger.

  ‘Mary, how could you?’ Katie asked, her tone as well as her words holding a reproof. ‘You and Brandon were so… so right together, I didn’t think you could be unfaithful and so soon after…’

  Mary looked down at her hands as her friend’s voice died away. ‘Katie, with your past I should have thought you would understand more than anyone.’ As soon as the words were spoken, however, she regretted them. Katie had loved William Owen and had lain with him in the hills and been his woman, but it was not until long after he had died that she had turned to another man.

  ‘I’m sorry, forget I said that!’ Mary apologised quickly, ‘There’s soft I was to burden you with all this, there’s nothing anyone can do about it.’

  Katie stared at her in silence and Mary felt moved to try to explain how it had happened. She had no wish to be at the receiving end of Katie’s outraged anger. ‘I was unhappy, anyway. I thought that Brandon was interested in Mary Anne Bloomfield again. Indeed, when he was on leave he went to see her.’ She knew she was babbling but she could not help herself.

  ‘And so you wanted to pay him back for what you thought he’d done? Mary, that’s not worthy of you!’

  ‘I didn’t plan any of it,’ Mary said in despair. ‘I can’t explain it even to myself.’ She rubbed her hand over her eyes. ‘Oh, I don’t know how it happened – the doctor was kind and I needed kindness just then… it was all so easy somehow.’

  Katie rose to her feet, her face aghast. ‘Mary, you didn’t go to bed with the young doctor?’ She brushed at her long hair, her eyes wide. ‘By the name of all the saints, don’t tell this to anyone else – you could destroy that man’s whole life, don’t you know that?’

  Mary bit her lip. This meeting was not turning out at all as she had planned; she had wanted help, advice, reassurance perhaps, but all she was getting was condemnation.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you.’ She spoke in a low voice and then felt Katie move away from her.

  ‘You’ve behaved like a spoiled little girl, Mary.’ She spoke harshly: ‘I think you deserve a good hiding, if you must know – not sympathy.’

  Mary got to her feet and stared at Katie, suddenly angry. ‘All right, if you’re going to be “holier than thou” all of a sudden, then I’ll go. I’m sorry if I’ve upset your fine sensibilities.’

  She strode from the room and hurried down the stairs, her heart beating swiftly. Barely nodding to Mrs Murphy, who was pouring a cup of tea, she made her way quickly through the kitchen and along the passage out into the street.

  Behind her she could hear Katie calling but she didn’t stop, hurrying down the hill towards the docklands where she and Brandon had spent much of their time together. Her eyes were filled with tears and though she recognised them as self-pity she could not check their flow. She sat at the quayside, oblivious to the cold air that blew in from the Channel as she stared at the ships waiting to go out on the tide. Katie’s attitude had hurt deeply and yet Mary knew the Irish girl was right – nothing could ever excuse what she had done.

  After a time she began to walk back through the town. Her thoughts were still in a whirl and when she found herself outside the shabby house where Doctor Soames had his surgery, she paused – wanting, needing to talk to him.

  ‘Come in, Mrs Sutton.’ He spoke formally, but his eyes were warm and Mary felt glad she had called.

  She sat in the cold leather seat, staring at the familiar bony skeleton in the corner and took a deep breath.

  ‘A doctor is like a priest, is that right?’ The words came out baldly and he looked at her in surprise. ‘I mean… you can’t ever repeat what you hear between these four walls?’

  Her tone was desperate and Paul Soames looked at her in concern. ‘You can say what you like to me, you must know that, Mary.’ He smiled down at her and she averted her gaze. She tried to relax the tenseness in her fingers, stretching them wide and staring at the thick gold wedding ring on her finger.

  ‘Is there any way we can tell who’s the father of my baby?’ Now she had said it and she glanced at him, relieved to see that he had not recoiled from her.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s very difficult,’ he said softly. ‘There are ways whereby probability may be decided upon, but nothing we can pinpoint with any certainty.’

  ‘I was with my husband before he left for France – could the child be his?’ Mary had to ask the question though the words were torn from her lips.

  The doctor shrugged. ‘Let me speak plainly, Mary.’ He took her hand in his. ‘The likelihood is that I’m the father of your baby, don’t you see that?’ He looked away from the pain in her eyes. ‘There is a possibility, a remote one, that you conceived that last time with your husband – but it’s not really likely.’

  Mary took a deep breath. ‘So there’s no way I can know for sure?’ She met his eyes and read sympathy there as he shook his head.

  ‘I’d advise you to forget this – to go on home, have your baby and enjoy it. If there’s anything I can ever do to help, you only need to ask. It would be a privilege and surely I owe you that much.’

  She forced a smile. ‘You owe me nothing. Thank you for your kindness.’ As she rose and opened the door of the surgery a figure moved smartly away and Mary froze into stillness.

  ‘Hello, honey!’ Mary Anne Bloomfield smiled enigmatically, her eyes running over Mary’s figure knowingly. ‘It seems we may have more in common than I first thought.’

  The words were innocent enough, but Mary knew without doubt that the American woman had heard everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The hum of the mule and the clatter of the loom were like wine to Rhian’s senses. Over the last few days she had worked harder than she had ever done in her life, yet a warm feeling of happiness accompanied her labours.

  She glanced across the hopper to where Mansel Jack stood, shirtsleeves rolled above his elbows as he fed raw wool on to the card
ing machine. The matted wool was evenly distributed to the first group of rollers on the scribbler which, covered in jagged teeth, pulled the wool from one roller to the other until all the fibres were worked loose.

  Mansel Jack adjusted the flow of wool and made sure that the doffer scraped off the loose fibres, watching as these were conveyed on an overhead belt and laid broadside on the input to the Scotch intermediate feed, which had much finer teeth and created a uniformity in the wool texture.

  He had worked with Rhian for the best part of a week and each morning she feared he would tell her it was his last at the mill, for now the Army had first claim on him.

  Becoming aware of her scrutiny, he smiled and as his dark eyes held hers, she found herself moving towards him as though led by some outside force. He stared down at her and her mouth was dry; she looked into his face and knew that in the too brief time they had spent together, she had become bound to him more surely than if the strongest web of wool had entangled her.

  Mansel Jack did not speak, he stood over her – a big handsome man, his hair tangled into curls, sweat running down the open neck of his shirt. He was not dressed like a gentleman now, yet there was a quality of steeliness about him still.

  The door of the mill swung open and Rhian saw a tall, elegant woman standing framed in the light from the yard. Some instinct told her that this must be Charlotte – Mansel Jack’s future bride. When she stopped before him her face was calm, but Rhian could see that the fine gloves were being twisted between slender fingers.

  ‘I had to come,’ she said in a slow, cultured voice. ‘I want you to release me from my promise to marry you.’

  Mansel Jack made a move towards her, but she held up her hand.