Fields of Gold

by Fiona McIntosh

  Ned swallowed. He was almost undone by the sympathy in the doctor’s kind eyes. ‘Doctor Fritz, you’ve been very good to us,’ he began, hearing the tremor in his voice but determined to live up to what was expected of him.

  ‘Please, don’t mention it.’ Fritz squeezed his shoulder. Ned wished he hadn’t. The gentle touch prompted a rush of emotion and he needed to stay composed and strong. ‘What about next of kin? Has anyone —’

  ‘There is no one,’ Ned interrupted.

  Everyone shifted awkwardly. The manager scratched his beard thoughtfully and Fraser began to pace.

  ‘No one?’ Fraser repeated, incredulous. ‘Your parents have no parents still living, no brothers or sisters?’

  Ned shook his head. ‘They were both only children and all our grandparents are dead.’

  The four men around Ned looked lost for words.

  ‘No need to worry about that now, Mr Sinclair,’ Hannigan said, recovering first. ‘We must ensure we take care of your good mother and offer all the help we can. I will contact the club the expatriates frequent immediately.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ned said. ‘Um, may I see my mother, Dr Fritz?’

  ‘Of course. She’s sleeping, but you should,’ he said, ushering Ned towards the door.

  Ned’s movement prompted the men to finally shift from their somewhat stunned positions, each promising to be back later in the day, including the doctor.

  ‘Mr Fraser,’ Ned called as the quartet retreated from the suite. ‘May I have a word, please?’

  ‘Of course,’ Fraser replied, although he looked deeply uncomfortable. ‘Ned, I don’t know what to say. Your father survived the killing fields of Europe but …’

  ‘There is nothing to say,’ Ned offered, surprised by his own composure. ‘I’m struggling to make it feel real in my mind too. I keep thinking this is all some terrible mistake and that my father’s about to breeze in through that door and sweep my mother into his arms. We’ve been looking forward to this moment of arrival for so long …’ Ned cleared his throat and took a steadying breath. He had to remain strong for his mother and Bella. ‘Mr Fraser, I need to have a private word with you about money.’

  Fraser took a step back. ‘Ned, I’m sorry but I don’t have any more to give you.’

  He’d expected this. ‘I’m not asking for a loan, Mr Fraser. I’m wondering how much you know about my father’s financial situation out here?’ He frowned. ‘Wait, what do you mean, you don’t have any more to give us?’

  Fraser ran a hand through his hair, clearly embarrassed. ‘I lent your father all the savings I had. You see, his first pit was a bit of a disaster, but he was determined to make a go of it – especially after I got my first taste of success. Until I return to England and reap some profits for the past year, I have no more money myself.’

  ‘You mean my father has made nothing?’ Ned asked, panic spreading through him.

  ‘He made debt. That’s about all. But, Ned, I don’t want that money back. Not now. He always thought success was just around the corner and in truth I agreed with him. No one could foresee this.’ Fraser sighed. ‘He never got his chance.’

  Ned ripped off his jacket and flung it at a chair. He pulled at his collar and tie, feeling short of breath. ‘My mother has nothing, Mr Fraser. My father used all our savings. We have – had,’ he corrected quickly, ‘nothing but my father’s prospects.’

  Fraser looked as helpless as Ned suddenly felt. ‘Perhaps back in England you can —’

  Ned ground his jaw with anxiety. ‘There is no one back in England for us. There is nothing waiting for us. The war has beggared everyone. This was our one chance to make a new life.’

  ‘Ned, I’m so sorry. Why don’t you go and see your mother and I’ll send your sister back up? I think you need some time.’ He began withdrawing. ‘We’ll talk again shortly.’

  Ned nodded. None of this was Fraser’s fault, although Ned wanted to blame him, and knew his mother would.

  ‘I’ll show myself out,’ Fraser murmured, and his relief to be leaving was palpable.

  4

  Three days passed. People came and went in a blur of soft placations and apologies but Ned barely registered them. He was focused on containing his own hurt and keeping Bella occupied, yet despite his best efforts she was fretting over her mother’s sudden silence, her father’s continuing absence and the unhappiness surrounding what was meant to be a joyous family reunion.

  The inexorable heat continued to stifle rational thinking, and leeched Ned’s resolve to stay strong.

  He looked at his sister and felt ashamed at how ragged she suddenly appeared. Even though money was limited, his mother always turned them out well with neat, clean clothes in good repair. But the frock Lorna had painstakingly smocked for Bella’s reunion with her father was torn now, and grubby. In fact, Bella definitely needed a wash; whatever she’d been eating in the kitchens with her minder was all over her.

  ‘Let’s get a bath drawn for you, Bell,’ he had said hours earlier, feigning brightness.

  ‘Mummy normally does it. When’s she going to wake up, Ned?’

  He hadn’t been able to answer her question, but he had persuaded her to play in the grand bath and Mrs Fritz had kindly offered to sit with her and was even brave enough to wash the young girl’s hair. Bella had protested immediately, but Mrs Fritz had a wonderfully soothing manner.

  Lorna Sinclair seemed unaware of the kindness being shown to her family, from the general manager’s magnanimous offer for the trio to remain in the hotel gratis until arrangements could be made for their future, to the doctor’s free service, or the meals that quietly arrived in her room and were removed untouched. Ned imagined William Sinclair’s body would arrive in Rangoon shortly. Yet nothing had been organised because his mother hadn’t spoken a word to anyone since she’d regained consciousness. Fritz had used the term ‘hysteria’ to describe her catatonic state but all Ned could see in his mother was silent grief – a deep, desperate, dangerous grief.

  He tried so hard to talk her round and make her understand that her family needed her, to assure her that they could get through this. He kept up a steady stream of encouragement and suggestions, from him taking over the mining of his father’s pit in the north, to cutting their losses and selling whatever they could from their few newly delivered trunks of possessions to earn their passage home. But nothing moved Lorna; she didn’t even seem to notice when Ned took her hand or kissed her cheek. For almost six years of Ned’s life his father had been absent, and though he wanted to view William in heroic terms – a warrior through the war, a pioneer and adventurer beyond it – it was Lorna who had been his rock. She had bolstered his education outside of school hours, pushing him hard, and he knew that was probably why he was the youngest qualified electrician in Britain.

  Lorna looked even more petite than usual in the huge hotel bed. Ned craved the comfort of her touch, the reassurance of her voice, but privately berated himself for those feelings. After all, he was almost eighteen now – he was a man. More importantly, he knew Bella needed her mother. The fact that their mother didn’t even turn at the sounds of their voices or react to their affection frightened them both. She seemed utterly lost.

  Ned didn’t know what to say to the hotelier and the other kind people around them when their generosity was exhausted. And it would be. He had empty pockets and his mother’s few pounds would not stretch far. He had to find some way to coax Lorna out of this stupor – perhaps shock tactics might work? He planned to get firmer with her in the morning, even if he had to shake some sense into her.

  They were sharing interconnecting rooms. That night he lowered himself carefully onto the double bed, exhausted. Arabella was asleep in a selfish sprawl of childish limbs and he breathed a sigh of relief that they’d made it through another day.

  Tomorrow would definitely be different, Ned decided as he drifted into sleep. He was the head of the family now, and it was up to him to take charge.

&nbs
p; Ned awoke suddenly, startled by a sharp noise. The heat had not abated and his side of the bed was damp, the bottom sheet imprinted with his shape as if he had not moved since his head touched the pillow. But where was Bella? Her absence was worrying and he slipped out of bed and headed for his mother’s chamber.

  The fan was off and the hot night air was so still it felt as if a heavy blanket were draped around his shoulders. Scotland’s most bitter cold didn’t contrive to steal one’s sanity, but if he spent long enough in this wet, sapping heat, Ned felt he could spin into a sort of angry madness.

  The door to his mother’s bedroom was ajar and inside he found Bella, curled beneath a loose sheet, fast asleep. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips were full and pink and she looked like an angel, but Ned’s relief was dashed instantly by the realisation that his mother was not beside her. When he reluctantly checked the closet, she wasn’t there either.

  It was baffling. His mother’s small watch on the teak side table told him it was just before midnight. He’d been asleep for barely half an hour. How could she have slipped away? The last time he’d seen her, Lorna had been lying on her back staring at the ceiling. In that short time since he’d dozed off, Bella had gone in search of her mother and snuggled in beside her, while Lorna for some curious reason had risen and left the room.

  Ned walked into the sitting room. He turned on the ceiling fan to high and the soft whirr was a welcome sound. He opened the shutters, yawning, hoping against hope that a breeze might blow off the river and help clear his thoughts. The sounds of the night hit him first, along with the muddy smell of the brown Irrawaddy, and the pungency of spicy cooking. And, as always, the strongest fragrance of all was from the orchids growing outside the window. His sleepy gaze fell upon the night activity of The Strand, the great street on which the hotel stood. Trams, motor-cars, bicycles, rickshaws and sacred cows jostled for position with the endless stream of people. Horns blew intermittently and the occasional voice singled itself out briefly – a shout, a burst of laughter.

  His attention was drawn to a commotion not far from the hotel. Cars had stopped, accounting for the sudden increase in impatient horns being sounded, and a tram had halted. There was a growing crowd of people. He watched the activity for a few moments, frowning because he couldn’t make out what was going on, but was interrupted by an urgent knock at the door.

  The general manager of the hotel appeared, his countenance so haunted that Ned was instantly filled with an unnamed dread.

  ‘Mr Sinclair,’ the manager said, his voice shaking. ‘It’s your mother, sir. She walked out into the traffic. There was nothing anyone could do.’

  5

  Jack ignored the white feather he found waiting for him after climbing the steps to the engine room. The building clung precariously to the cliffs and was continually buffeted by fierce Atlantic gales. Outside the miners were arriving, clutching their felt hats and candles, most of them stained with the dark-pink dust that clung to their skin and clothes from previous days down the shafts. Nothing would rid them of the earth’s touch. Not until bath night in front of the fire, usually before church, would the reddish hue be cleaned fully from their skin. Their mining clothes never lost it.

  He opened the window, inhaled the sharp air; it would be a cold winter, adding insult to the injury of the flu epidemic, which was sweeping through Britain. The ‘Spanish flu’ had started its death toll in the killing fields on the Western Front. Jack was yet to hear of any cases in Cornwall but it was only a matter of time, and there were rumours that the government authorities were about to start spraying the streets. He was sure Penzance would not escape the killer’s touch.

  Jack looked down at the accusing feather in his hand, hating what it signified, and let it float off on the breeze, along with his despair, telling himself to empty his mind as he did so.

  The truth was, Jack’s mind was always empty when he was working and concentrating. His mother was right. Lowering the men for their working day and then returning them to the surface when their shift ended was an enormous responsibility. Safely raising the ore to the women called Bal Maidens, who worked at the surface smashing up the ore, was a relentless task and he needed to remain focused. Control was Jack’s key quality when he was first admitted to the School of Mines. His teachers recognised that almost immediately, and that his grasp of the mechanics and machinery of mining in the twentieth century was second to none. But even more important was his agile mind. Bright, intelligent youngsters were needed now more than ever and with the industry predicting a gloomy future, Jack was fast-tracked through his training. The mining magnates needed qualified men to prop up the mines that had slid into debt and also to man new ventures and pursue fortunes overseas.

  His engineering skills were currently in demand winding the famous Levant ‘man engine’, which moved scores of men up and down the main levels of the shaft. Getting to the actual rock face where they’d be digging was a different matter, of course. The miners would alight from the man engine and scatter down the honeycomb of tunnels into the pitch dark, using ladders to reach the lower levels, where the engine didn’t travel.

  Mining at Levant was said to reach back two centuries, previously yielding copper before it started producing tin.

  It was the gregarious Cornish inventor Richard Trevithick and his engineering colleagues who had developed the engine that Jack was in charge of this morning. The men stood on timber rods and Jack would be lowering some of them down as deep as eighteen hundred feet. Usually, three men worked the three shifts tending the engine. Today, Jack realised, it would be just two of them and a longer than normal shift. While he was in no hurry to be home, he was eager to be rid of the guilty cache in his pocket. His plan was to pay off Sir Wally as soon as he could and by week’s end to have a serious discussion with his father about the future. He was now determined to put his head down, to work hard and responsibly, but he was equally determined to finally gain his father’s support for his plan to give up his job. There were any number of roles for Jack in the family business but so far his father had refused him any part.

  Sometime between leaving home and arriving at the engine house this morning, Jack had made his decision to leave mining behind him. If that did not win satisfaction from Charles Bryant, then he’d also made a pact with himself to escape Cornwall – Britain, if necessary – to seek his fortune elsewhere.

  It felt as though a massive burden had been lifted from his shoulders in making this promise to himself. Suddenly, Rally’s threat and his father’s disappointment drifted away, along with the feather. Now he had a plan for the future.

  Jack actually grinned but his mood was soured almost immediately.

  ‘Bryant! I’ve been looking for you.’

  It was Pearce. Jack schooled his features into a neutral expression. He quickly took control of the conversation. This was a tactic he could thank his father for. ‘Mr Pearce, you’re after the wrong man. I did not make Helen pregnant, no matter what anyone is saying.’ He was careful not to directly point the finger at Helen for the accusation. ‘I only took her out for the first time about a fortnight ago.’ Jack added, taking a defensive stance, opening up his muscled arms to the older man.

  ‘Not according to my Helen. She’s three months up the duff!’

  ‘Mr Pearce, I am not the father. I give you my word.’

  ‘That’s supposed to be worth something, is it?’

  ‘It’s as good as the next man’s and I don’t give it freely.’

  Pearce had advanced, his face as stormy as the ocean crashing against the St Just coastline, his fists clenched, itching to land a blow.

  Jack didn’t want to fight Pearce, especially not today when his spirits had lifted for the first time in a long time, but he didn’t take a step back. While Pearce was hardly a small man, Jack was more than a match.

  ‘Helen says it’s yours, so it’s yours,’ the older man said, poking a sausage-like finger into Jack’s chest.

  ‘That
’s because Helen wants it to be mine, Mr Pearce.’

  ‘You’re an arrogant swine, Bryant. And staying true to form, I see. As tall and broad as you are, you’re still the coward, shirking your duty. Turn around so I can see that big yellow stripe painted down your back! I don’t know what she sees in a cringing sissy like you.’

  Jack’s fury rose. ‘I don’t know what she sees in me either, so why don’t I give you a list of the men who have given your daughter a poke in the last few months and you can choose one of them instead?’

  Pearce’s rage spilled over and he took a swing. ‘Good-looking, my Helen claims? I’ll soon change that, you bastard,’ he growled, just as the mine’s manager entered the engine room.

  Jack never did get the opportunity to respond to Pearce’s blow, which missed his jaw but connected with his cheekbone as he tried to dodge the clenched fist. He now sat at the controls of the engine, with a swollen eye, blackening by the minute, and an aching cheek. But it was his pride that hurt the most.

  Mercifully the mine manager had only seen Pearce doing the thumping, so Pearce copped all the blame. He was forced to cool his heels and was sent home. His wages were docked and he was told to return for the afternoon shift. Until then, the manager would cover alongside Jack.

  As it turned out, the rest of the morning passed uneventfully. Jack lowered the men on Billy’s shift as the old crew rose to the surface one at a time without a hitch. Then he’d spent the rest of his hours going through some checks on the main fly-wheel, and getting on with the usual maintenance. It was absorbing work that left him to his own company, which was precisely what he needed.

  ‘Bring the men up for changeover and then you’re done. Leave immediately, Bryant. I don’t care about the state of your face. I want no continuation of earlier.’

  ‘Right,’ Jack said, resisting touching his aching bruises. ‘Captain Jenner … I, er, I’m sorry about this morning.’