by Iris Gower
Boyo climbed the stairs taking care not to jar April more than he could help. Fon hurried up the stairs behind him and pushed open one of the bedroom doors. Boyo carried April inside setting her gently on the bed.
‘Go on downstairs and see to the fire for me, there’s a good boy,’ Fon said quickly, ‘I’ll get April into her nightgown and make her comfortable.’
‘Is it the influenza?’ Boyo asked thickly. Fon met his eyes, her gaze steady. ‘I’m very much afraid it is.’
The doctor when he came, confirmed their fears. He could do little but advise Fon to keep the girl dry and warm. He left after only a few minutes and Boyo bit his lip, frightened by the way the doctor shook his head as he went out the door.
Fon did her best, Boyo watched as she made a mustard plaster and carried it upstairs. He knew it was an attempt to relieve the rattling in April’s thin chest.
‘You’d best go back to the tannery,’ Fon said at last. ‘They’ll be worried about you, won’t they?’
He nodded. ‘I suppose so. Can I come back in the morning?’ Fon took his arm. ‘Of course, if they can spare you from work, that is.’
He walked home not feeling the cold bite of the winter night nor seeing the brightness of the stars in the crisp, clear sky. All he could see was April’s white face, her blue-shadowed eyes and a great fear was within him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Arian put down her pen, her wrist was aching and she wished most heartily that she had taken the trouble to learn how to operate one of the typewriting machines in the office below. She felt overworked and anxious about her newspaper, cursing the epidemic that had swept the town. Most of her staff had fallen prey to the influenza, there was only one junior reporter still active as well as herself and of course the indestructible Mac was, as usual, a tower of strength.
Arian leaned back wearily and rubbed her eyes, she had reported the deaths of some of the most prominent citizens in Swansea. It was a harrowing time and one Arian prayed she would never have to repeat. And through it all, at the back of her mind, she asked herself what she was doing estranged from Calvin Temple at a time like this.
The outer doorbell pinged and Arian heard the sound of footsteps crossing the room. Her own door swung open and Mac came in, his face reddened by the wind and cold. ‘It’s like a ghost town out there.’ He slumped into a seat and threw his hat in the general direction of the stand in the corner. It landed on the floor and he ignored it. ‘It’s as if the great plague had come to Swansea, doors and windows are closed and the only people about seem to be funeral directors in black coats.’
Arian closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Any news of Calvin?’ The words were forced through stiff lips and she looked up to meet Mac’s eyes half fearing his reply.
‘He’s fine, looks as healthy as ever. I saw him in the street, just been visiting a sick friend, a lady friend. Well-heeled she was, by the look of her house.’
‘Was?’ Arian asked tentatively. Mac nodded. ‘Aye, that’s the word. She died this morning.’
Arian was suddenly angry with Calvin, what was he doing putting himself at risk, visiting those afflicted with the influenza, was he that careless of his own health?
‘Loyal man, that Calvin Temple,’ it was as though Mac had read her thoughts, ‘takes guts to put yourself in the firing line the way he did. Could have stayed at home out of harm’s way, couldn’t he?’
‘Let’s close up the office.’ Arian rose from her chair so abruptly that it tipped backwards and teetered for a moment before falling with a crash against the wall. Mac righted it without comment and then followed Arian from the room.
Upstairs, it was gloomy with rain beating against the windows. Only the fire burning low now gave any sign of warmth. Arian bent and placed more coals in the grate and Mac watched her laconically.
She looked up and caught his eye. ‘The maid’s sick, gone into the infirmary, I don’t think she’s going to last the night, poor girl. Hang on, I’ll get us some brandy from the kitchen.’
Mac came into the kitchen after her and sank into one of the chairs. ‘Why don’t we stay in here? It’s much warmer than the sitting room, brighter, too.’
Arian nodded. ‘You’re right, this side faces the sea and catches what little light there is. Oh, how I hate the cold winter days.’
‘You have to have the bitter to enjoy the sweet, my dear Arian.’
‘So wise and so damn smug and a cliché to boot!’ Arian poured the brandy and sat opposite Mac, enjoying the warmth of the liquor in her mouth.
‘You could go away for a week or two,’ Mac suggested. ‘You could even afford to take a trip abroad, somewhere you’d see the sun. Why not?’
‘I don’t think there would be a paper if I took time off, you can hardly run the place single-handed, can you?’
He shook his head. ‘You’re right there. I could get someone in though.’
Arian shook her head. ‘Mac, we’re selling more papers than ever, the people who are not sick are buying it just to see who has died.’
Mac laughed mirthlessly. ‘I’ve noticed, I think it gives some people a sense of satisfaction that they’ve outlasted their peers.’
‘Don’t be cynical, Mac.’
‘I’m being realistic.’ Mac held out his empty glass and Arian refilled it. ‘It’s only human, it’s a case of thank God it’s not me.’
Arian returned to the subject uppermost in her mind. ‘Calvin, how did he look, did he mention me?’ She hated herself for asking and yet she felt she had to know.
Mac bent his great head with its shock of greying hair and looked into his brandy. ‘No. I volunteered the information that you were well and carrying on with the business.’
‘Hm! I bet he made some sarcastic comment about business coming first.’
‘He didn’t as a matter of fact.’ Mac looked up and met her eyes. ‘He appeared as anxious to know more about you as you are about him.’
‘That’s not the impression I’ve got, not from what you’ve said.’ Arian felt her depression deepening.
‘Ah, well, you weren’t there, you didn’t see the expression on his face when I mentioned your name.’ Mac drained his glass. ‘Anyway, I’ve got work to do, I’d better get down to the printing room see how many of our workers are still on their feet.’ At the door of the kitchen he paused. ‘Why not go to see him, Arian? Put yourself out of your misery.’
‘I don’t know.’ She rubbed her eyes, ‘I just don’t know, Mac. Shouldn’t he be the one to come and see me?’
‘Heaven save me from a stubborn woman.’ She heard the sound of the door to her apartments closing and suddenly, she was alone in the silence.
She sighed, putting her head for a moment into her arms as they rested on the kitchen table. ‘Calvin, Calvin, why don’t I know what it is I really want?’
Eventually, she rose and moved purposefully to the door, she had work to do and she might just as well get on with it as sit here brooding.
April was dead. Jamie it was who had come to the tannery to break the bad news. Boyo had not cried, not even when Jamie had hugged him as if he was his son but now the numbness was wearing off and all he felt was pain. Her funeral was the darkest day of his life and Boyo felt he would never recover from the horror of it all.
Boyo went about his work in the tannery with fierce determination, trying to concentrate on something other than his gut-ripping grief.
‘Duw, duw, slow down, man, you’ll kill yourself.’ Harry was in the currying house scraping a hide clean of the coarse hair that clung to it. He was sweating in spite of the cold weather and Boyo stared at him uncomprehendingly.
After a moment, his vision cleared and he saw that Harry was tired, there were lines about his mouth and his eyes were shadowed. ‘I’ll have to get more hands in,’ he put down the scouring brush and rubbed his palms on his leather apron. ‘We are all working too hard, we need at least three more men.’
‘Aye, both the casual labourers died in t
he epidemic, poor sods but thank God, the worst is over now.’ Harry smiled cheerfully. ‘And we are keeping up with the orders in spite of everything but that’s down to your efforts. I reckon you’ve increased our trade to double what it was in Jubilee’s day.’
‘More call for the leather,’ Boyo said flatly but of course, that was only part of the answer. Mostly, the upturn in business was because of his selling abilities. He’d gone out on the road, clad in a new suit and a crisp shirt with a fresh white starched collar and had canvassed the businesses in the area with great results. It seemed he was a natural salesman, his grave manner served to impress potential buyers as did his knowledge of his subject.
Under the tutorship of Caradoc Jones, his acumen with figures and his ability to work out complicated sums in his head gave him a great advantage, for while clients were scribbling on paper, he had the answer to costings on the tip of his tongue.
As for the influenza epidemic, for a few weeks it had slowed up sales but as Harry said, the worst was over. For some people, but not for Boyo, never for him. He swallowed hard as he left the currying house, he needed to see Ellie, to talk things over with her, it was only right he consult her about the hiring of any new hands.
Ellie was sitting in the parlour with Martha who was almost completely recovered from her illness. Rosie was just bringing a batch of rock cakes out of the oven, her cheeks flushed and her hair falling about her face in wisps. She smiled when she saw him.
‘There you are, Boyo, just in time for a nice hot cake.’ She was trying her best to cheer him up and even as he returned her smile there was no lightening of the pain inside him. He shook his head. ‘No, I’m not staying, I’ve been working in the currying house and my clothes stink to high heaven.’
Ellie wrinkled up her nose. ‘We had noticed. Come on, sit down, for heaven’s sake. I want to talk to you.’
He pulled back a chair, the legs scraping the flagstones and sat down heavily.
‘You are tired,’ Ellie leaned towards him, ‘are you doing too much, Boyo?’
‘We all are.’ He replaced his cup in the saucer. ‘I need to employ more hands, at least three. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Well that’s entirely up to you, Boyo,’ Ellie said, ‘you don’t have to ask my permission, you’re the boss now.’ She put her hand over his. ‘It’s kind of you to consult me, Boyo, but it really isn’t necessary.’ She sighed. ‘I have abandoned any idea of renting a house in Swansea, the terrible influenza epidemic made me realize that time is precious, I feel I simply must go and live with Dan in Lampeter.’ She looked at Boyo worriedly. ‘I’ve already discussed this with Martha and Rosie and they are both in agreement. I’m sorry to break this to you so abruptly but you do understand, don’t you?’
Boyo nodded. ‘Aye, I understand and I’ll miss you but I’ll manage, don’t you worry.’
‘It won’t be for ever,’ Martha smiled encouragingly at him, ‘once Daniel has finished college we’ll come back home to Swansea, won’t we Ellie?’
‘And I won’t be far away, mind.’ Rosie paused wiping her floury hands on her apron, ‘When Caradoc and me are married he’ll still be coming to look over the books and I’ll be with him.’
‘You’re not a bad bunch.’ Boyo tried to smile but it was a half hearted attempt and everyone knew it. ‘I might as well wash and change and go into Swansea this afternoon. I’ll call in at The Times, put in an advertisement for some hands.’
‘That’s fine by me, Boyo. I don’t want to see you wearing yourself out doing the work of three men.’
He left the kitchen and made his way upstairs to his room. There was water in the jug on the table and he splashed some into the bowl and stripped off his working clothes shivering a little in the cold air. He glanced through the window, the skies were as grey and as dark as his own feelings. He bent his head. ‘April,’ he whispered his eyes tightly closed, ‘oh, April my love, how am I going to face the rest of my life without you?’
Arian was standing in the outer office talking to Mac when the doorbell jangled and a rush of cold air heralded the arrival of a visitor. She looked up to see the young man from Glyn Hir Tannery standing inside the doorway, smartly dressed, hat in his hand and with his hair slicked down flat across his head.
‘Good afternoon,’ she smiled warmly, she had found Boyo pleasant on the few occasions they’d met but she saw now that there was a new air of gravity about him as though in the last few weeks he had grown from a boy into a man. Hadn’t there been some talk of him walking out with April O’Connor, the young girl who had died in the epidemic? If so, it was no wonder he seemed so subdued.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Smale.’ He came closer and she could smell the cold of the winter air on him. ‘I need to place an advertisement for some hands,’ he said. ‘I want experienced men but not too old and I want workers who live in the vicinity of the tannery.’
Well he certainly had no difficulty in making up his mind or in communicating his thoughts, Arian mused. She watched as Mac hastily scribbled the requirements on a piece of paper and then handed it to Boyo for his approval. After a moment, the young man nodded.
‘Will you send the bill to me at the tannery, please?’ He turned to leave and Arian, on an impulse, stopped him.
‘I understand you are the new manager up at the tannery, these days?’
‘That’s right.’ Boyo, it seemed, was not going to volunteer a great deal of information unless pressed.
‘You do realize you are very young to be in such a position,’ Arian persisted, ‘it would make a good story for my paper, human interest, we call it. Would you allow me to interview you?’
‘What now?’ He looked surprised.
‘Why not? Unless you have a pressing engagement somewhere else.’
Boyo shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t. What sort of thing do you want to know?’
‘Well, where you came from, your background, are you betrothed, that sort of thing.’
He gave her a long look that made her feel slightly uncomfortable. ‘Then I will have to disappoint you on all counts,’ he said. ‘I grew up in the workhouse, I knew nothing about my parents until now and as for being betrothed, I was once but she died.’
His bald statement of facts made Arian feel as if she had been prying, which of course, she had. ‘I am so sorry,’ Arian said quickly, ‘I didn’t mean to re-open any wounds.’
It was only when he had gone, striding out along the grey street that Arian realized the full import of their conversation. Boyo had known nothing about his background, he’d said, not until now. So there was a story there after all and it might be interesting to find out what it was.
Calvin sat before the window staring out at the rain soaked grounds. Trees dripped incessantly, swept by the wind and above them the skies were lowering and heavy with more rain to come. His visitors would be back from their trip to the shops soon and would be looking for the warmth of the fire.
His aunt meant well, she was the last of the Temples of his mother’s generation. She had never married but was bringing up the daughter of a dead friend, a pretty girl and very rich. It was clear what Aunt Margaret had in mind. She had not yet broached the subject but soon, any day now, she would get around to the point of her visit and start trying to play the matchmaker. Well Calvin had no intention of getting married to the girl, suitable and pleasant though she might be. Aunt Margaret would just have to go back to the country and admit that her visit had been a failure.
A copy of The Swansea Times lay on the table before him and he thought of Arian, her pale skin, her clear eyes, how he wanted her, her sweetness, the soft scent of her, the feel of her silken hair against his skin. Curse her!
Perversely, his next thought was to thank God she had escaped the influenza epidemic that had taken the lives of several of his neighbours in the close-knit community on the hills outside of Swansea. The lower orders had fared worse than their betters which was an indictment of the way they lived, he supposed. Th
e poor endured bad sanitation, inadequate meals and drank far too much raw liquor. The poor of Swansea, for the most part, eked out a miserable existence in cold, damp dwellings. Perhaps, he mused, he should put some of his not inconsiderable fortune into the improvement of housing in and around the Swansea area. It was something he should seriously consider.
Unless he and Arian were reconciled, there would be no heirs, no-one to make use of Calvin’s money. He might as well do some good to someone rather than the fortune go into the state coffers. Not that Calvin wanted to be a replica of Lord Shaftesbury, who everyone knew had done great work for the poor of his own area in his own time, but at least he might work quietly to make the town a better place for all to live in.
Was he growing soft? He glanced down at The Times once more, he always took it, read every page as though somewhere there would be a message from Arian for him but it was a vain hope. Perhaps he should make some effort to see her but could their differences ever be reconciled? He rose to his feet and thrust his hands into his pockets. He still thought it entirely reasonable that she give up the proprietorship of the newspaper; as Lady Temple she would find her social life increasingly demanding. It simply wasn’t possible for her to spend hours, sometimes late into the night, down at the offices in the Strand. And yet she had been adamant that she would continue to run The Swansea Times. Could they perhaps come to some sort of compromise where she spent most of her time at home and only a small part of it at the office? It was worth discussing with her, surely, for his life had become empty without her.
He moved over to his desk and seated himself before drawing a sheet of paper towards him. After a moment’s hesitation, he began to write. ‘My dear Arian.’ He paused, his pen falling onto the sheet as he searched his mind for just the right words that would bring her to him.
Arian wrinkled her nose as the cab came to a halt outside the rambling house at Glyn Hir, how anyone could bear to live in such surroundings, she just did not know. The horses moved uneasily between the shafts as though anxious to be away. ‘Can you collect me in about an hour?’ Arian paid the driver and the man lifted his cap in acknowledgement.