by Iris Gower
At last, she flung the remainder of the swiftly cooling water over the cart, satisfied that it was as clean and fresh as she could make it. She watched the rivulets stream from the boards, dropping into the dusty ground to be immediately soaked up. She hoped that the timber would dry quickly for she must set about making the cart look more presentable.
She remembered that in the old tin trunk under her Mam’s bed there was a square of dark silk so old that the violet colour was almost black. It had once been intended to make a shawl with a silk fringing decorating the edges, but that had been before Mam’s sickness had taken hold.
She returned to the kitchen, pushing aside thoughts of her mother. She washed the soda from the bucket and placed the cleaning materials behind the curtain beneath the sink.
‘It’s done, Dad,’ she said at last. He looked up at her as though just realising that she had returned, his eyes were green and luminous as though they had been washed in a mountain stream.
‘There’s still the smell of fish,’ she said desperately. ‘It’s in the wood, nothing will shift it.’
Davie rose to his feet, like a man about to go to his doom. ‘Don’t fret about that, girl.’ His voice held bitterness. ‘There’s no one to notice, ’cept us.’
The silence was heavy, a coal moved in the grate and the room was full of shadows. ‘I’ll just be a minute, Dad,’ Mali said. ‘I’m going to cover the cart with a piece of silk.’
In the room upstairs, the window stood open and a rush of cold January air swept over Mali, but it was not from coldness she shivered. She would not look towards the double bed but rummaged beneath it, dragging out the trunk, selecting the material from sense of touch rather than sight, for the room was almost dark.
She left the place quickly, closing the door with a sigh of relief. She knew that Mam would not hurt her while she was alive so why should she fear her in death? Yet she was glad to reach the warmth of the kitchen once more.
She paused to catch her breath before going towards the back door. ‘I won’t be a minute, Dad.’
Outside, she heard Big Jim breathing gently as she covered the rough boards with the silk.
‘It’s all right, boy, I won’t keep you standing here much longer,’ she said reassuringly.
‘Come on girl, time you were dressed.’ Her father was calling to her from the doorway. ‘Go on, your job is finished, it’s all up to me now.’
In her small room, Mali leaned against the windowsill, sighing deeply. She listened to the heavy tread of her father’s footsteps as he entered the next bedroom and she closed her eyes, not wanting to imagine his task.
She pressed her hands to her face, wondering how her life could have changed so much in the space of a few short months. Now the very cottage in which she had been born was no longer hers. The copper boss owned it and would want it back, for yesterday Dad had been dismissed from his job.
Mali flung off her damp apron with the smell of soda still clinging to it. It was good to feel anger against someone and the owner of the Richardson Copper company would do very well indeed.
It had been wrong of him to give Davie his marching orders when he had worked all his life at the furnace mouth. It was so unjust that because Davie had been forced to spend time with his sick wife these last weeks, he was to be no longer employed by the richest family in Sweyn’s Eye.
Her anger faded as panic began to beat within her. She could vividly imagine how it would feel to have their new possessions put out of the house into the dust of the lane, for she had seen such a thing happen when she was a child. Once the copper had done with you it was out into the streets and no going back.
She dressed quickly, the cold bringing goose bumps to her flesh. Her crisp blouse with its Peter Pan collar was quickly buttoned over her woollen chemise. She drew her one good flannel skirt up over her boots and stood for a moment, hands against her cheeks, summoning up the strength to face the coming ordeal.
Her father’s voice rang out harshly in the stillness, calling to her that he was ready. She pulled on her shawl and hurried down the stairs, ignoring the trembling of her limbs.
Davie’s only concession to the occasion was that he had slicked down his hair with water in a vain attempt to tame the unruly curls. His shirt sleeves were rolled up above the elbows and only his waistcoat offered any protection from the chill of the evening air.
‘You’ll be cold, Dad,’ Mali said, and her tongue felt thick in her mouth. He shook his head without replying and, silently, she followed him outside.
The cart drew Mali’s eyes and she saw that the dark silk now covered the coffin. The horse had been standing in patient submission and jerked into movement at the clicking of Davie’s tongue. Mali walked behind, head bent, staring down into the dust of the lane without really seeing it.
‘We’ll go down past the pluck, girl,’ her father’s voice drifted back to her. ‘It’s more private that way.’
Though Mali did not look left or right, she was aware of the silent neighbours standing in doorways, paying their last respects the only way they could. Mali’s dark hair drifted across her face, blown by the cold wind, and she was thankful to be hidden from curious stares, however kindly.
The waters of the pluck nestled in the valley, a natural lake formed from many hillside streams and now they gleamed richly copper, illuminated by the flames that flew forth from the forest chimneys above the works. Mali glanced around her as though she was witnessing the spectacular display for the first time rather than being born and bred amid the copper.
Smoke trailed upwards, green and thick, pouring from the tall stacks to mingle with the sky’s grey clouds. The sun was dying now and had small chance of competing with the rich cauldron of colour that lit the banks of the River Swan.
The cart shook precariously as it moved across the wooden struts of the bridge spanning the swollen waters. Mali seemed to be walking in a dream, not thinking or feeling but keeping her emotions tightly in check.
Above her loomed the twin slopes of Kilvey and the Town Hill, large and black against the sky. Mali stumbled a little and forced herself to concentrate on the pitted track that was leading her around the mountain side and away from the works. The dusty roadway curved gently, sloping down towards the graveyard. The effects of the copper dust did not reach this far and Mali wondered suddenly why the smoke should kill everything beautiful in its path.
‘There it is, Dan-y-Graig Cemetery.’ Davie spoke softly. Mali saw him pause in mid stride and his shoulders stiffened as he lifted his hand to his eyes, straining to see into the distance.
‘It seems the Richardsons are burying their dead too, girl,’ he said huffily, as though affronted. ‘See there are six fine horses and an elegant hearse and God knows how many carriages. There’s no justice.’
The cemetery was divided into two parts by a low, thick hedge that formed a barrier. On the one side along the path which Davie took was a piece of ground bristling with wooden crosses while the other part of the graveyard was resplendent with gracious marble headstones.
Mali, watching the carriages roll by, saw that the one nearest her was occupied by a stately woman wearing a black fur cape and a hat that sat hugely on glossy dark hair. And then the cortege was past and Mali became aware that Davie was drawing Big Jim to a halt.
‘This is the spot I’ve picked out for my Jinny,’ he said sombrely. ‘Just here underneath the trees with the wall running alongside.’
The gaping hole that was Mam’s last resting place was all ready to receive the coffin, for Davie had worked off and on as a gravedigger during the last weeks. He had spent several hours a day at the cemetery, toiling so that his wife could have a decent resting place at very little cost.
Davie struggled to slide the coffin from the sloping cart, easing it into the ground. His strength was great but even he felt the strain, for after he had put Jinny into the earth, he leaned panting against the tree trying to recover his breath.
After a time, he took
up the spade and filled in the grave. Mali bit her lip, wishing there was a minister from the chapel present, just so a few holy words could be read over Mam. Mali stared up into the branches of the tree that was barren now but in spring would be heavy with blossoms, and her grief was almost too much to bear.
Davie had finished filling in the grave and was mopping his brow. With an uncharacteristic gesture, Mali moved forward and slipped her hand into her father’s strong fingers, which were still grimed with earth.
‘I’ll say a prayer, Dad.’ She spoke softly and after a moment, Davie nodded and bowed his great head.
Her voice, lilting and small in the silence, asked the Good Lord to look down on Jinny Llewelyn and to be with her always. Mali moved away then, sensing that Davie wanted to be alone.
‘I’ll come after you in a minute, Mali,’ he said softly, and it was as though they both recognised that she had become a woman.
As Mali walked past the lines of wooden crosses, she shivered a little and drew her shawl closer around her shoulders. The sound of hooves clopping along the pathway drew her attention and looking up, she saw that the procession of mourners from the Richardson funeral was returning along the path towards the gate.
Suddenly a dark shape loomed up out of the twilight, bounding towards her. Mali had cried out in alarm before realising that it was only a large dog, coming to a halt before her with tongue lolling as though waiting to be patted.
‘Sam, to heel boy!’ The voice was strong and masculine, fine and English. Mali stood with her hand on the dog’s head as the tall figure approached her.
‘Sorry if Sam startled you.’ He was much taller than Mali, with a proud set to his shoulders. He stood with easy grace and yet there was a quality of litheness in his stance that suggested whipcord strength. Even in the gloom she could see the gleam of his bright hair.
‘I’m all right,’ she said self-consciously.
The clouds moved across the sky and a late shaft of light pierced the dimness, the last flare of the dying sun. Mali caught her breath as she saw clearly now the clean-cut line of the jaw and the level brows framing piercing violet eyes. The mouth beneath the golden moustache was strong and sensual, curled upwards at the corners as though in amusement.
He was regarding her steadily. ‘Do I pass muster?’ he asked lightly, and Mali felt the rich colour suffuse her cheeks as she realised she had been staring. She turned to move away but he caught her arm.
‘Don’t run off.’ His voice was assured and he spoke with such authority that Mali stood obediently still.
He was the one staring now; his eyes moved over her with such an intense scrutiny that Mali almost felt he was reaching out and touching her.
‘Mr Richardson!’ The voice calling through the stillness broke the spell and the man holding her in such an arbitrary manner glanced over his shoulder.
Mali froze. She tugged her arm away and stood staring up fiercely.
‘Are you Mr Richardson,’ she demanded, ‘boss of the copper works?’ Suddenly she longed to hit out at the handsome face, of course he was Mr Richardson, who else would he be?
‘So you’re the one who gave my Dad the sack.’ She heard her voice strike at the silence like hard stones. ‘Punishing a man because he takes time off to look after a dying wife, that’s your way isn’t it? Well I hate you, Mr high and mighty Richardson, and I hope you rot in hell!’
Mali turned and ran back to where her father stood over his wife’s grave. He did not notice her presence. She leaned against the flank of the patient horse and Big Jim turned and nuzzled her arm. Suddenly tears were in her eyes, trembling on her lashes and running into her mouth. ‘Oh, Mammy I miss you!’ she whispered and the cold wind lifted her words and carried them away.
Chapter Two
The small township of Sweyn’s Eye huddled round the basin of the harbour, encroaching insidiously on the surrounding hills. Shops crouched on grey cobbled streets, glassy-eyed windows bearing gaudy advertisements for Sloan’s Liniment and Pears Soap.
The outer edges of coffin-shaped doorways sported strings of highly polished boots from which emanated the tangy smell of leather. Brisk scrubbing brushes lay, like a plague of overturned bugs, in wide-mouthed zinc buckets.
Set between twin hills, Sweyn’s Eye faced the seas of the Bristol channel, a small, South Wales town grown fussy and important by involvement in the business of copper smelting. Once graceful barques had sailed into the wide, natural harbour but now steamships brought bustling activity to the proud new docklands. Chinamen walked with easy familiarity along the narrow, stone-built quays while Indians in fine bright clothing bartered with Welshmen over the price of a chicken.
To the east of the town lay the copper works, diminished in number now for the foreigners from Chile had learned the art, kept secret so long, of extracting pure blister copper from crude ore. And yet the smoke and stench still lingered on and some of the eastern hills were desolate and barren, sporting only a show of bleached camomile flowers resting like skulls against the brownness of the earth.
Around the headland to the west sat fine villas with gleaming windows facing clean golden beaches and rolling seas. All were elegant but the most magnificent of them was Plas Rhianfa, a tall, turreted house supported with pillars like a Grecian temple. This was the home of the Richardson family, come from Cornwall a hundred years before to build an empire.
Sterling Richardson was now the head of that empire and at twenty-six years of age, he was man enough, he felt, to do justice to the task before him. He sat in his bedroom, staring into the fire and thinking about the funeral earlier that day. It had all seemed strangely unreal, and rather than grief he had felt only relief that his father had slipped so painlessly from life. He closed his eyes and the image behind his closed eyes was of a young girl with tousled dark hair and large, trusting green eyes.
He had been chasing after Sam; the damn dog had spotted some small creature in the grass and had run away from the funeral cortege. Truth to tell, Sterling had felt relieved to be given an excuse to leave the long faces behind him for a moment. Perhaps that was why the girl had provided a pleasant diversion, at first.
He had been amused at her scrutiny of himself and more than willing to oblige her with a tumble in the hay at some future date but then, once she’d known his name, she had treated him like a leper.
He had watched as she’d run away from him, skirts flying, and had seen her join her father beneath the shelter of the trees.
Sterling knew David Llewelyn of course, a strong man and a fine ladler. What he didn’t know was that the man had been dismissed, for Ben the manager dealt with matters of that sort. But there was no great difficulty, he would reinstate Llewelyn as soon as possible. Not that he cared a damn about the opinions of others, certainly not some little wench from the poorer quarter of the town. But Llewelyn was too good a worker to lose, especially as the man had a reasonable excuse for his many absences from work.
Workers were easily dealt with but Sterling was not too sure about his partners. Both James Cardigan and Dean Sutton were older than he was and might well resent the fact that he was now in charge. What they didn’t know was that Sterling had taken the burden of work from his father’s shoulders, albeit discreetly, for some time now. But if the partners chose to remain distant, as they had done, then they must accept decisions that were made without their knowledge.
Some months before, Sterling had cornered his father in his study. ‘Look Father,’ he had held out a sheaf of papers. ‘You can see from these trade figures that Chile is manufacturing enough copper to supply all demands. They have their own mines while we need to import ore.’
His father had waved him away. ‘We have developed the finest method of smelting in the world, son, there will always be the need for Welsh copper.’
Sterling had sighed. ‘But we are too slow, Father, it takes six operations to bring out the blister copper. Why not change to steel? Just consider it, that’s all I ask.’
Sterling rose to his feet and moved across to the window. Outside, a pale wintry moon was shining across the sea; he could just make out the headland of Gilfach with its lighthouse sending out intermittent signals warning ships to steer clear of the craggy reef that reached with long fingers out into the channel.
Cuts would have to be made. He would pare the workforce down to a minimum, streamline the existing copper sheds before beginning to explore the possibilities of introducing steel and tinplate.
A chain of lights shone into the sea, colouring the water. Sterling smiled, thinking once more of the girl at the cemetery. If he was not mistaken, she was a blossom ready for plucking.
Victoria Richardson sat alone in her room. Soon she must go downstairs to the dining room, sit with her sons, talk with them, make a pretence of eating. No doubt any suspicion of vagueness on her part would be taken as a sign of her natural grief over the loss of her husband. And of course she would miss Arthur badly, he had been solid and dependable, always there when she needed him.
She rose to her feet and stared at her reflection softened by the gas lighting. At forty-five she was still an attractive woman, she thought a trifle complacently. Her glossy hair, brushed wide on her forehead, held only a few streaks of grey. Her round face above the high collar of her dark velvet gown was scarcely lined at all. Jet beads, a gift from Arthur’s mother and a sign of mourning, hung over her full breasts. She turned from the mirror abruptly, there was no one to admire her looks now and her eyes misted with tears of self pity.
But she had been loved in her time, oh how she’d been loved. She sat in her chair and stared into the coals. She had been young and her blood had run singing through her veins. She had given herself to James Cardigan with complete abandon, meeting him secretly wherever and whenever she could. It had been difficult to escape from the vigilance of her parents but she had been cunning, stealing an hour from a visit to one of her friends or meeting him in summer on the outskirts of her parents’ estate while she was walking her pet dogs. No one had ever suspected, not until she had conceived James’s child.