by Iris Gower
‘He’s no good at his job,’ he said at last. ‘Not half the man his old dad was. Too keen on swilling down ale at the dockside taverns if you ask me. Comes in here late, he does, parading around the office as though he owned the place and all because he’s in thick with young Master Rickie.’
Sterling rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Old Ben did like to grumble and he wondered how much of his complaint was justified. If it was true that Glanmor Travers was failing in his job then something would have to be done about it.
‘See, old Joss Travers was a genius when it came to choosing ore,’ Ben continued. ‘Not a bit of rubbish did he buy in all the years he worked for Mr Richardson, God rest his soul.’ He paused. ‘But his son is no chip off the old block, he thinks that college can teach a man to sort out good copper from dross but that’s his first mistake.’ Ben hid his face in a large spotless handkerchief before taking off his glasses and polishing them with quick, nervous movements.
‘Where are the figures for last month, Ben?’ Sterling waited patiently while the old man sorted out the dusty red ledger from a pile of books on the shelf.
‘It’s bad enough without the likes of Travers making it worse,’ Ben said. ‘See, once we’d have got ninety pounds a ton for the copper, now we’re lucky to get twenty.’
In silence, Sterling looked over the pages. It seemed that over the last six months, sales of copper vessels to the brewing industry had slumped.
‘How long is it since we signed Glanmor Travers on?’ he asked, already knowing the answer. Ben frowned in concentration.
‘Just after your father took real sick, it was,’ he said. ‘Let me see now, summer wasn’t it? Yes, six months I’d say.’
‘I see, then we’re going to have to let him go, make up his wages Ben, give him a month in lieu of notice.’
‘He won’t like it,’ Ben said and there was a gleeful light in his eyes. ‘He won’t like it one little bit. Duw, I can’t wait to see his face.’ He was silent for a moment.
‘You do know that your father gave the man’s brother a loan, don’t you?’ he asked. ‘Not that I agreed with it. Too soft you are, Mr Richardson, I told him, but he wouldn’t be swayed.’
‘No, I didn’t know about it, Ben, tell me.’ Sterling sat back in the chair, tipping it onto the sturdy back legs, thawing out a little as the heat from the stove permeated the room.
‘Mr Joss Travers approached Mr Richardson,’ Ben said. ‘It was all done legal and proper, mind. It appears that the other boy, Alwyn Travers, was in difficulties, his mine was losing money though the Lord knows why, the price of coal today. In any event, your father made Alwyn Travers a substantial loan, holding the deeds of the property as surety.’
‘I see.’ Sterling shrugged. ‘Well, I have nothing against this man and so long as he continues to meet his obligations, repaying the loan regularly, I shall honour the agreement.’
Sterling suppressed a smile, he could see by Ben’s face that he thought the young Mr Richardson as soft as his father. Ben rubbed at his glasses once more before settling them upon his nose.
‘Well you’re the boss right enough, Mr Richardson,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But them two boys are not a credit to old Joss Travers, wasters, the both of them, drinking and brawling in the publics and afraid of a bit of work as well.’
Sterling was too deep in his own thoughts to answer the old man. It surprised him that his father had digressed from the usual run of business procedures and made a private loan even to please an old friend and a loyal employee. One thing was sure, now that Joss Travers was dead and his wild sons were left without a steadying hand to guide them, Sterling intended to keep an eye on things. The copper company was not in the business of subsiding loafers.
‘Shall I get a man in to look at the reversing engine, Mr Richardson?’ Ben’s voice penetrated Sterling’s thoughts. He glanced up and nodded.
‘Yes, right away Ben, we can’t afford to lose any time, not with Chile and Cuba to say nothing of Australia exporting large quantities of blister bar.’
Ben looked glum. ‘Sink us they will,’ he said bitterly. ‘These foreigners, taking good Welshmen and getting the secret of the smelting process out of them one way or another. Duw it’s not right, not right at all.’
Sterling looked carefully through the pages of the ledger resting on the table before him; it was clear that drastic action was needed if the business was to survive.
‘We have problems, Ben,’ he said. ‘You’ve worked in the copper all your life, what do you think is going wrong?’
Ben whistled through his teeth. ‘Mainly it’s them old calciners,’ he said at last, ‘most of them are cracked, should have been replaced these twenty years since.’
Sterling nodded. ‘I agree. I’ve been looking at some Gerstenhofer furnaces which have the advantage of utilising the copper smoke, converting it into sulphuric acid.’
Ben pinched at the end of his moustache. ‘No good, you’d need to have alkali and phosphate plants right alongside the works.’
‘That settles it then, I must forget about trying to make the copper more viable and turn to some other source of income.’ He smiled and if Ben had gained the impression that this was what Sterling had been leading up to all along, he was not wrong.
‘Zinc,’ Sterling said firmly. ‘I’ve been looking into the manufacturing of zinc very carefully and it seems the only solution.’
‘Very different it is to copper,’ Ben said with maddening slowness. ‘Most of the works round here have tried the English method of production and damned expensive it is too.’ He coughed and rubbed at his glasses. ‘The ores are reduced in vertical retorts inside a circular furnace, seen it done many times and it’s a process that only yields about one ton of zinc a week.’
Sterling smiled. ‘But there are other forms of processing available now, the Belgian method of extraction for example. It is done by using fireclay about three feet long and six to eight inches wide, closed at one end and arranged in tiers within a cast iron frame.’
Ben looked impressed. ‘You’ve certainly made it your business to find out all about it,’ he said. ‘But do you know that the consumption of fuel in these zinc furnaces is most extravagant?’
Sterling shook his head. ‘No more coal is used than in the smelting of copper.’
Ben shrugged as though bowing to Sterling’s superior knowledge. ‘I may be a little old-fashioned,’ he said, ‘but these newfangled ways are not proven, not like the copper process which has been a secret to the family for over a hundred years.’
Sterling sighed. Ben did not have to speak of his resistance to change, he lived in the past, remembering the glory that had once been the Richardson Copper company. There was a time when the works prospered and flourished so quickly that the word copper was almost synonymous with gold. Well he intended the company should one day in the not too distant future be rich once more. He had examined other companies, seen that change however small had brought increased profits. If he did not move ahead then the firm would go bust, nothing was more certain.
Ben coughed nervously. ‘Do you think you should consult with Mr Cardigan or Mr Sutton before you commit yourself?’ he asked a trifle diffidently. Sterling shook his head.
‘I don’t really think they are interested Ben,’ he replied, ‘and I can’t say I blame them. My father made sure that the company was always firmly under his control and all his partners really did was to put up money, funds that should have been used then for expansion but which have merely subsidised our losses thus far.’
He closed the ledger with a bang. ‘Anyway, I shall have the calciner furnaces replaced.’ He gave a wintry smile. ‘We shan’t lose sight of the copper altogether, don’t worry.’
Ben took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘I’m glad about that,’ he said, ‘for copper’s in my blood Mr Richardson and I can’t imagine the works given over entirely to spelter or the coldness of steel, losing us the good name we’ve got for copper.’
Sterling looked at the older man curiously. ‘Did my father never think of making changes, Ben?’ he asked, and the older man smiled ruefully.
‘Joss Travers tried to persuade him once. Told him that some sort of manure could be made from the smoke, almost got his head blasted off for his troubles.’ Ben gave one of his rare smiles.
‘Duw your father was angry, you should have seen his face. “Manure”, he said, “what’s wrong with good old horse droppings?”’
Sterling could well imagine that his father’s remarks had been far more pithy than that and were modified now by Ben’s ingrained sense of the proprieties.
There was silence for a moment in the small office, both men lost in their own thoughts. The stove, warming the room, made soft noises like the breathing of an animal and outside, a cold breeze ruffled the feathers of the birds clinging to the bare branches of the trees.
Sterling sighed. ‘Well we should get an engineer to look at the reversing machine and as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘See to it, will you, Ben?’
As the older man left the office, a cold rush of air lifted the papers on the desk. Sterling shivered and moved across to the stove, lifting the top to place the canteen of coffee over the blaze. He stood beside the window staring out at the corrugated waters of the river swept into swift movement by the wind. A sailing ship moved gracefully downstream, masts pointing to the sky. It was a sight that was growing rarer with each passing day, soon steam would take over entirely and the picturesque barques would vanish for ever.
Sterling’s eyes roved to the huddle of buildings in the yard. The gatehouse stood near the cobbled street and the small window that was manned by a watchman most of the time was empty and staring like a blank cyclops eye at whoever came into the premises.
To the rear of the office block and just visible from where Sterling stood was the mass of the works. The sloping roofs of the sheds slanted against the dark sky and the forest of chimneys sent out the stench that was like eggs gone rotten.
This, Sterling thought, was his inheritance, and he would build it up into the greatness it had once known. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, determination eating at his gut like a fire. The Richardson Copper Company would not die, not if he could help it.
The inside of the sheds was something Mali could never have imagined. It was a shimmering, steaming, sulphurous place where the air was hot and acrid, almost unbreathable. As soon as she entered the doors, she felt perspiration break out on her brow. She pushed back the shawl that suddenly felt unbearably heavy on her shoulders and stood for a moment looking around her.
She seemed to be in some nightmare world where men did not appear as humans at all but as strange, ill-shapen devils, arms and legs swathed in canvas and caked with mud their only protection against the fierce heat.
Tentatively, she moved forward, her gaze drawn to the nearest open, roaring mouth of the calcinating furnace. A copperman was pushing a long green sapling into the boiling metal which gushed and spewed forth smoke.
It was a dragon, Mali decided, a beast devouring everything in sight. The red-gold liquid grew agitated as the tree was swallowed up, appearing like an exotic stew composed of gold and fire and gushing gases.
‘Mali, what are you doing here, cariad?’ Davie’s voice at her side startled Mali and she stared at him anxiously.
‘I’ve brought your grub pack, Dad.’ She found it difficult to breathe, it was as though her throat was on fire. She blinked rapidly and stared up at Davie, trying to see through the haze of heat. His chest was damp with sweat and the muscles of his upper arms bulged hugely, the sinews standing proud. Mali wanted to take him home with her to the safety of the house in Copperman’s Row.
‘I didn’t know it was going to be like this, Dad.’ She watched as he dipped his arms in a bowl and slapped mud over the faded canvas around his wrists and hands.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks, mind.’ He smiled at her. ‘Lucky you are to see it, the secret of the smelting is passed on only from father to son but there’s no reason girls can’t know it too, I suppose.’ He continued to plaster his arms with clay as Mali watched fascinated. ‘See the copper is roasted for more than a day, takes six furnaces to bring out the real rich heart of the copper. Long job it is but worth it when the metal is rolled out as sweet as silk.’
Mali brushed her hair from her forehead and coughed a little and Davie stared down at her in concern, his task of covering his hands completed.
‘Come on, now Mali, off home with you, the other men in my tew gang will be after my guts if I don’t pull my weight.’
Mali stared at him questioningly. ‘Tew gang, Dad, what’s that?’ Davie waved her away impatiently. ‘Something like a chain gang it is, now go on home, will you?’
Outside, the air was so cold after the heat of the sheds that Mali shivered, drawing her shawl more closely round her shoulders. As she hurried over the cobbles of the yard, she saw the door of one of the buildings open and a tall figure stepped out in front of her.
‘Mr Richardson.’ Mali felt guilty as though she’d been doing something wrong. She squared her shoulders, discomfited by the cool lift of his brows and the scrutiny of the eyes that were so dark a blue that they appeared almost violet. He took in her appearance in a swift glance that encompassed her from head to toe.
‘Trespassing?’ he said lightly. ‘Perhaps I should send for the constable.’
He folded his arms, barring her way and she felt foolish as though he was making fun of her.
‘I’ll walk with you to the gate,’ he said, taking her arm firmly. ‘I don’t think my manager would be very pleased to find that someone had slipped past him, Ben prides himself on his vigilance where the works are concerned.’
She listened to his strong, masculine voice as he talked to her. She knew he was being polite, making conversation with the daughter of one of his coppermen, but he spoke pleasantly and she was happy to listen.
There was a pause and she looked up at him, suddenly aware that he had asked her a question. Flustered, she waited for him to repeat it. He smiled slowly and his eyes seemed to look deep inside her.
‘I was wondering if you had another name, apart from Miss Llewelyn,’ he prompted pleasantly. She felt her colour rise.
‘Mali,’ she said quickly, ‘but I know it’s a strange name, Welsh you see.’
‘Mali,’ he said and the sound of it was magic on his tongue.
They were amid the huddle of the buildings now, hidden from sight. Here there seemed to be quietness and Mali felt conscious that she was alone with Mr Richardson. She glanced up at him, her heart beating uncomfortably fast and he returned her gaze with disconcerting openness.
‘You are very pretty, Mali,’ he said and he seemed to move a little closer to her. Suddenly Katie’s warnings loomed large and threatening in her mind and she backed away from him, stumbling a little in her haste.
He caught her in a steadying grip but she pulled away from him quickly as though his touch burned.
‘Leave me be, you think I’m some cheap little flossy don’t you? I know your sort. I’m a respectable girl and I don’t care if you are the copper boss, I wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘I don’t think you are a – flossy, was it? Indeed, I don’t think of you at all. There’s the gate.’ His tone was dry.
Humiliated, Mali retaliated the only way she knew how – her booted foot shot out and caught him a sharp blow on the shin. Then she was running, through the gate and along the street, wanting only the sanctuary of her own hearth.
Once indoors, she stoked up the fire and pushed the big kettle onto the flames. Her hands were trembling and she knew deep within her that she was beginning to take too much interest in Mr Richardson. He was a boss, a rich, handsome man and doubtless he would want nothing to do with a girl of her sort except for a quick tumble as Katie had said. And yet the pleasant way he’d made conversation with her and the coolness of his e
yes as they’d looked into hers were all imprinted on her mind.
A strange feeling uncoiled within her and she wondered desperately what was wrong with her judgment. Here she was, a silly little fool, fancying a man she scarcely knew. The sooner she put him out of her mind the better.
She sat in the rocking chair wishing Mam was here to advise her but Mam was lying beneath the trees in Dan-y-Graig Cemetery. And those last days had been so hard to bear, with Mam coughing her life away, afflicted by the Dolur Ysgyfaint that stole the breath and burnt out the lungs.
There was a sudden rapping on the door and Katie’s voice calling from outside. ‘Let me in afore I catch a chill.’
Mali realised that in her haste she had pushed the bolt in place as though she could shut out her very thoughts.
‘What’s wrong Katie?’ she asked as she flung open the door, ‘why aren’t you at work?’
Katie shrugged. ‘Been sent home,’ she said with maddening calm. ‘Big Mary said I could have some time off.’ She looked casually at her hands, as though examining her nails and Mali stared down at her friend with a smile stretching the corners of her lips upwards.
‘Come on Katie, there’s a good girl, you’ve got news for me haven’t you?’
Katie pouted. ‘You’re no fun so you’re not, guessing what’s in me mind like that. Oh, all right then, I might as well tell you, there’s a job for you in the laundry and you start today, right now if you’ve a mind to.’
Mali sat down abruptly in her chair, excitement and apprehension warring within her; she was going to work for the first time in her life and suddenly, she was afraid.
Chapter Five
Bea Cardigan sat in the conservatory, her sewing lying idle on her lap. A pale winter sun shone in through the windows, shedding a slant of light over the glossy aspidistra plants that rose stoutly from thick china pots. A feeling of discontentment pulled down the corners of her full mouth and her dark eyes held a dreamy faraway expression, for her thirtieth birthday was fast approaching and there was no sign of marriage anywhere on her horizon.