Mary pushed a pen absent-mindedly through the blotting paper on her desk. She must not blame Rhian too much – how could she after what she had done herself?
And yet she felt deeply for Heath, knowing her brother would take the news badly.
Rhian’s face was shadowed. ‘We only had a few days before he had to return to the Front, but I mustn’t grumble I suppose.’
Their eyes met and Mary knew that they both felt the same fear, the same emptiness.
‘I was so sorry to hear that your husband is missing, though you must not give up hope at this stage.’
‘What regiment is Mansel Jack in?’ Mary forced a cheerful note into her voice, watching Rhian as she seemed to square her slight shoulders.
‘The 13th Welch,’ she answered quietly, ‘though I must confess I thought he would have gone home and joined a Yorkshire battalion.’
Mary shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll meet up with many of his fellow Yorkshiremen once he goes to France. In any case, I think the war has united us all for we face a common enemy.’
She rose from her desk, feeling a sudden anger against Rhian as she thought once more how badly hurt Heath was bound to be by this marriage. ‘Let’s get out of here and treat ourselves to a cup of tea, shall we?’ she suggested with forced brightness.
Rhian smiled. ‘I think that’s a good idea. I can’t be too long though; I have to get over to Doris’s house and take her wages to her.’
Mary stood taller than Rhian by a head and, looking down at her, she wondered at the change in her since this man Mansel Jack had come into her life. She was more sure of herself somehow and obviously happy – but did she feel no pity for Heath? Still, there was little point in dwelling on it and Mary had enough to worry about on her own account.
The tea room was crowded, but Mary always had a table reserved for herself to the back of the room, almost hidden by a plethora of plants set in heavy china jardinières.
‘A pot of tea for two, Greenie.’ She glanced up at the older woman and watched compassionately as she made her way slowly towards the kitchen; she really should be resting at home at her age. Mary had been forced to release Joanie, Nerys and even Muriel who had worked for her so loyally, so that they could go into more essential occupations.
When the tea was poured and Greenie had taken away the silver tray, Rhian leaned forward with her elbows on the table.
‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you ever since the wedding,’ she spoke softly. ‘I’ve been feeling so guilty about Heath; I had to write and tell him what had happened and try to explain, but I haven’t received a word in reply. Have you heard anything?’
Mary shook her head. What was wrong with her, all she was doing nowadays was wallowing in guilt; she had even forgotten to write to Heath. It was about time she pulled herself out of it.
‘I used to write to Heath several times a week,’ she sighed heavily. ‘I’ve sent him parcels of course, like everyone else who has someone at the Front, but since… well, I’ve been so upset and unhappy lately.’
Rhian bit her lip. ‘Mary, I was right to tell him about my marriage, wasn’t I? I know it must be awful for him to get a letter like that when he’s already going through hell, but I was afraid he would come to hear of it from someone else and that would be even worse.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Mary said more sharply than she had intended. ‘Our Heath is pretty tough, he’ll survive.’
‘But I feel so guilty. I promised to wait for him and I didn’t – couldn’t keep my word. There’s awful I feel about letting him down like that.’
‘No point in feeling guilty,’ Mary said quickly. ‘We all do things we regret, just don’t let it warp your life. It’s pointless to go on about it, what’s done is done.’ She smiled to soften her words and poured more tea, but Rhian was picking up her bag and pulling on her gloves.
‘I’ll have to go over to Doris’s house,’ she said quickly and Mary realised her feelings were hurt.
‘Do you want some company?’ she asked more warmly.
‘There’s a good idea,’ Rhian smiled. ‘I’d like that very much.’
Mary sighed. Anything was better than sitting in the office or wandering aimlessly about the shop. She hurried off to fetch her coat, but when she returned to the tea rooms there seemed to be some sort of argument going on. Mary moved smoothly through the doorway and then her heart began to pound in her breast as she saw Mary Anne Bloomfield confronting Mrs Greenaway who was twisting her small white apron into a ball in her agitation.
‘Oh, Mrs Sutton, there you are!’ Greenie’s lined face relaxed and Mary put a steadying hand on her arm.
‘What seems to be the trouble?’ She avoided Mary Anne’s eyes, but the American woman would not be ignored.
‘This servant tells me there are no tables available in there.’ She jabbed her finger towards the tea rooms. ‘I’m sure you can find room for me, can’t you Mrs Sutton? After all, we have so much in common.’
Mary heard the insinuation in Mary Anne’s voice and in that moment felt she hated her. She turned to look at her with a steady gaze.
‘You can have my own table, Miss Bloomfield,’ she spoke coldly, ‘but be careful not to presume too much on my good nature.’
She turned to where Rhian was waiting silently. ‘If you’re ready, we’ll be off,’ she said in a controlled voice and Rhian hurriedly followed her out into the street.
‘There’s cheeky, that woman is,’ Rhian said in amazement. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t throw her out on her fat little head – you would have done once.’ She giggled. ‘I remember how frightened we all were of you at the laundry – once you got into a temper, we all ran for our lives.’
Mary hardly listened. She was furiously angry, knowing that she couldn’t endure Mary Anne’s attitude, her blackmail… yet just what could she do about it?
Doris was lying back in her chair with her eyes closed, her hair tangled over her face. Her mother bobbed a curtsey to Rhian and Mary, fussing round and offering them chairs, her careworn face creased into worry lines.
‘Is she any better?’ Rhian asked quietly and Jessie Williams nodded her head. ‘She’s right as rain at times, but then she takes to wandering in her head, like. Thinks she’s back in the laundry sometimes, talks about her old friends a lot as though they are here in the room.’
‘Has the doctor been to see her?’ Mary asked, staring at Doris and seeing the same strong girl who used to haul coal in the laundry – yet somehow there was an indefinable difference.
‘Oh, aye, old Doctor Thomas comes round regular like, he says it’s shock and will wear off in time, but I think that thing going off hurt her mind so badly that she can’t face the true world any more.’
Mary was saddened by the change in Doris, remembering her as a laughing girl, always good-natured.
‘We’d better be going.’ Rhian rose to her feet and delved into her bag and Mary moved to the door to avoid causing Jessie Williams any embarrassment. Though Rhian’s voice was low, Mary could hear her clearly.
‘Here’s Doris’s pay – and don’t worry, the money will be here every week until she’s better.’
‘That’s good of Mansel Jack,’ Mary said as they left, drawing on her gloves and shivering in the gusting wind that drove down the length of the narrow street.
Rhian smiled. ‘Yes, he has a kind heart even though some might think his tongue is a bit sharp.’
‘Best to be outspoken, mind,’ Mary said quickly. ‘I always found that it paid to speak the truth rather than nurse a grievance.’ Her words seemed to hang upon the air as she realised the irony of them.
They walked for a time in silence and then Rhian put a tentative hand on Mary’s arm. ‘There is something wrong, isn’t there, besides your worry about your husband? Are you ill, Mary?’ She spoke breathlessly, almost as though she expected a rebuff, and Mary’s heart contracted.
‘I won’t lie to you, Rhian. Yes, there is something wrong but it’s nothin
g I can talk about – not just now anyway.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Rhian said at once and Mary smiled ruefully. ‘Yes, so am I,’ she said tersely and then, regretting her shortness, smiled down at Rhian. ‘It’s nothing really. I expect I’m building a mountain out of a molehill. Anyway, it’s freezing – look, your nose is red and your eyes are watering – are you coming back into the store before you go home?’
Rhian shook her head and her face softened. ‘No, I won’t if you don’t mind. I should be working at the mill, getting out some more shawls while the weather calls for them.’
‘Of course. I hope we’ll get together again before too long,’ Mary smiled, ‘and let’s hope your husband sorts out our problems in France; he seems like a man capable of great things.’ She saw the flush of pleasure rise to Rhian’s cheeks, she obviously enjoyed having her husband praised and rightly so. What had gone so sadly wrong between herself and Brandon over the years, she wondered miserably; their love had blossomed so promisingly at first. She sighed – now it had come to such a poor pass that she was not even sure if he was the father of her child.
‘Are you all right?’ Rhian asked, concern in her lovely dark eyes. Mary warmed to her; Rhian Gray had matured from a spoiled young girl into a very nice woman.
‘I was thinking about Brandon,’ she replied truthfully, shuddering. ‘I hate to look at the soldiers coming from Parc Beck, some of them with empty sleeves and others maimed in all sorts of ways, it’s just horrible.’
‘You mustn’t think like that,’ Rhian said quickly. ‘We must hope and pray that Brandon is safe and well somewhere – it does happen, you know!’
‘You sound very wise,’ Mary said, smiling, ‘and of course you’re quite right.’
A cold rain had begun to fall and Mary drew up her collar, relieved that they were near the store where it would be warm and noisy and where she would not be alone with her thoughts.
‘Won’t you come inside, just until the rain stops?’ she asked and even as she spoke, Mary became aware of Mrs Greenaway hurrying towards her, waving her arms frantically. She had a heavy shawl thrown carelessly around her shoulders and her hair was windswept.
‘Oh, my God!’ Mary whispered. ‘Something’s wrong.’ She was vaguely aware of Rhian standing at her side, unwilling to leave her.
‘I’ve just come from Heath’s house,’ cried Mrs Greenaway, handing Mary a folded sheet of paper. ‘I thought I’d best open it – oh dear, there’s awful it is!’ She began to cry even as Mary unfolded the letter and stared down at the words with disbelieving eyes.
‘Mary, what’s wrong? Can’t you tell me?’ Rhian spoke anxiously and Mary turned, a feeling of unreality clouding her mind.
‘It’s happening to me again,’ she could scarcely form the words. ‘It’s Heath, he’s been reported missing believed killed.’ Mary felt darkness engulf her and with a sigh she abandoned herself to it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The war against Germany seemed to be clambering over itself in order to disrupt the natural workings of the town. Sweyn’s Eye had become almost empty of its youth. Young men no longer stood on corners with white scarves hung around cocksure throats, and in the parks there were no noisy games of rugby to relieve the dullness of a Saturday afternoon.
Older men took on extra work and the tasks they could not do fell to the women. Even the Sunday services in the many churches and chapels lacked colour and vigour, for most of the true pure tenors were gone, leaving the choirs unbalanced.
Gina Sinman was seated in the kitchen of the mill house, her arms resting on the table and a pen clutched between her fingers. Upstairs the children slept – Dewi, her son, and Cerianne who had become like her own child.
She paused over the letter she was writing to Billy Gray; she had told him that Cerianne was talking like a little demon and that she ate hearty and slept like a top and now there didn’t seem much else she could say.
Biting the wooden shaft of the pen, she tasted ink in her mouth and rubbed at her lips with her fingers. She wanted to tell Billy that there were people at home who cared about him, but of course he knew that for Rhian had sent him a parcel of clothes and a supply of Woodbines only last week. And Gina felt she was doing her bit by writing to him – weren’t the papers always telling folk to make someone at the Front happy with a letter? She frowned and for a moment the words she had written on the page before her were blurred.
Heinz Sinman was gone from her and she would never see him again. Mansel Jack was a man to be believed and trusted and though it was difficult, she must accept that she had lost Heinz for ever.
It seemed that he had never even reached the internment camp. His strong spirit had rebelled at the thought of prison and apparently he had made a run for freedom and been struck down by a bullet fired in panic. But she had no wish to dwell on the manner of his going, the fact remained that her beloved Heinz was dead.
She turned her attention to the letter once more and wrote that Rhian seemed very happy and content in her marriage and that Mansel Jack was a good kind man who would take care of her always. She found she was going on to say that she herself was lonely. Surrounded though she was by kindness and company, she lacked a mainstay in her life – someone who was hers and hers alone. She had her son of course, but she could not tell her heartache to a little child.
The door opened and Carrie came into the kitchen, bringing with her a flurry of cold damp air. ‘Have you heard about Heath Jenkins?’ she asked, her face a pale glow in the lamplight. Gina sat up and folded the letter, unwilling for any other eyes to see it.
‘No, what’s happened to him, injured is he?’ Gina watched as Carrie shook out her shawl and hung it on the peg on the back door. Her movements were slow, as though suddenly she was giving in to the years which had crept up on her so stealthily that no one had noticed the grey in her hair and the lines around her eyes.
‘Missing believed killed.’ The words fell like a strange religious chant into the silence of the room.
‘There’s awful, I expect his sister’s heartbroken, isn’t she?’
Carrie nodded and stared into the fire. ‘I expect so.’
‘Make us a cup of tea, Gina,’ she asked wearily, tears slipping down her face. ‘Empty inside I am and Heath Jenkins was special to me. There’s cold I feel, perhaps a drop of tea will warm me up.’
Gina rose instantly and pushed the kettle on to the flames. It was so rarely that Carrie asked for anything that it was clear she was very upset.
‘Don’t be too downhearted, girl,’ Gina spoke softly. ‘If he’s missing there’s no proof that he’s not well and chirpy as a cricket, hiding in one of them French haystacks or something. It’s not so final, is it?’
Carrie sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘I suppose you’re right, but I’ve loved that boy these many long years and I can’t bear to think of him lying in a ditch somewhere foreign, hurt and frightened maybe… oh, to the devil with this war!’
Gina made the tea, her hands trembling. ‘Here, have this, there’s plenty of sugar in it to bring out the shock.’ She sat down and stared at Carrie worriedly. ‘What about Rhian? She and Heath Jenkins were very close before Mansel Jack, weren’t they?’
Carrie made an effort to staunch her tears, sipping the tea, her lips trembling on the brim of the cup.
‘Aye, she loved him too in a way – part of her youth he was, had a passion for him in those days. Might have worked out for the two of them if Mansel Jack hadn’t come into Rhian’s life. But the right man for Rhian he is, mind, and I’m not saying any different.’
The clock ticked loudly in the silence of the kitchen and the gaslight hissed and popped, sending shimmering patterns of light on to the flagstone floor.
‘I’ve been writing a letter to Billy Gray,’ Gina volunteered, trying to take Carrie’s mind off the painful subject of Heath Jenkins. ‘Only doing my duty, but then I have to admit that I’ve a special feeling of friendship with Rhian�
��s brother. Hard done by he was, what with that hussy Delmai Richardson running out on him and dumping her babba like a sack of spuds. Is it wrong of me to spend so much time writing to another man? I feel it’s disloyal somehow to the memory of my Heinz.’
Carrie sat up straighter in her chair and really looked at Gina for the first time since she had entered the room.
‘Duw, you follow your heart, merchi – you’re doing a good job, keeping Billy’s spirits up, writing to him every week like you do. This war has done funny things to us and we must grab at any little piece of happiness we can. I’m sure Billy loves hearing from you, so write to him all you like and feel proud of yourself for doing him a kindness, that’s what I say.’
Carrie was rising to her feet then, pulling her shawl from the peg and swinging it round her shoulders. ‘It’s no good, I can’t sit still. I’m going to see Mary Jenkins; I must talk to her about Heath, for I can’t get the boy out of my mind.’
Gina watched her go to the door and shook her head helplessly. ‘But it’s past eight and getting dark and there’s a bit of rain in the wind too.’ But her words made no difference, Carrie let herself out and closed the door with a click of finality. After a moment Gina sighed, spread out the letter once more and picking up the pen began to write.
As Carrie hurried through the dark windswept streets, her thoughts were of the past. She remembered with a feeling of warmth the night she had lain in Heath Jenkins arms; she’d been renting her own little house then and lived quite well on the money paid her by Agnes Gray to do a bit of cooking and cleaning.
Heath had been a bull of a boy, randy as hell and after every bit of skirt in the town. Got his way with them too, if Carrie was any judge. It had been wonderful to be bedded by him, he had youth and vigour and a clean unlined skin and she had gloried in the time she had spent with him.
She hurried through the Strand and up the hill, ignoring the lighted trams that rattled along on the shining metal lines, growling like a beast chained and fettered.
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