by Iris Gower
The sound of the hooter echoing through the building was such a relief that she fell back on her heels sighing softly, the coke dropping from her hands. Sarah looked down at her and there was a hint of compassion in her tired face.
‘You’re not done yet, lovie,’ she said, her brisk tone belying her expression. ‘My wash isn’t finished, got to give it another fifteen minutes at least.’
Mali struggled to her feet, the coal bucket was empty. It seemed a great effort to lift it and walk to the door of the coke house where mountains of egg-shaped fuel rose to touch the ceiling. She picked up the small shovel and heard the clatter as the coke showered into the bucket. The pain in her arms was like toothache and tears of self pity burned her eyes. Angrily, she brushed them away and half dragging, half carrying the bucket, returned to the boiler house.
‘Here, give me that and get off home, merchi.’ Big Mary took the bucket easily and opened the door of the furnace, throwing the coke inside. Mali stood staring at her for a moment and then turned and made her way towards the door. ‘Early tomorrow, mind,’ Big Mary called after her. ‘And tie some padding round your knees, you’ll find the work less painful that way.’
Outside it had grown dark, and the pungent smell of bad eggs drifted from the copper works, penetrating closed doors and windows mercilessly. A sudden burst of shooting sparks illuminated the roadway where a group of girls from the laundry were gathered. Mali moved forward wearily and stood on the outskirts of the crowd, resting her hand on Katie Murphy’s shoulder.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph is that really you Mali Llewelyn?’ The Irish girl backed away in mock horror. ‘Or is it some demon from Hades that I’m seeing?’
Mali was in no mood for laughter; she rubbed tiredly at her burning eyes and shook her head without replying. At once, Katie put her arm around Mali, contrition on her face.
‘The spirit has gone out of you so it has. Come on home with me and let me ma feed you, sure ’twill give you strength to go to cook some grub for your dad.’
Mali felt warmed; the prospect of returning to her kitchen and lighting yet another fire before she could eat had been a daunting one.
‘All right,’ she said and then wondered if her tone had been ungracious. ‘It’s good of you Katie,’ she added quickly. She would have moved away then along the hard cobbles of the street but a big girl with hair braided tightly around her head barred her way.
‘You’re the one who’s taken Doris’s job away from her aren’t you?’ Her eyes glittered redly in the light from another gust of shooting sparks. Mali stepped back a pace, staring up in bewilderment.
‘Hey, Sally Benson, there’s no call to go picking on me friend,’ Katie said swiftly. ‘She don’t know Doris from a pig’s arse so how can you put any blame on her? We’ve seen that Doris is swelling up more with every week that passes and it’s not dropsy she’s got that’s for sure.’
‘What’s the matter with you, blackface, got no tongue?’ Sally ignored Katie and poked a finger at Mali’s shoulder. ‘Come on there’s a good girl, answer when you’re spoken to is it?’
‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.’ Mali’s voice shook in spite of herself and she knew that Sally Benson sensed her reluctance to quarrel.
‘No guts either, should have known it, a mewing little brat who’s never done a day’s work in her life before, spoiled by your daddy is it?’
‘Come on now haven’t you got a home to go to?’ Big Mary pushed her way into the crowd. ‘Oh you are the one causing trouble, Sally, I might have known it. Picking on new girls is your sport for the day isn’t it? But you’ll feel the back of my hand if you don’t scarper, mind.’
Mali walked along Canal Street, almost too weary to put one foot in front of the other, all she really wanted to do was to fall into a soft bed and sleep. Suddenly she became aware of someone barring her path. She looked up and was dismayed to see Sterling Richardson staring down at her, running his eyes over her begrimed dishevelled figure as though he had never seen anything like it in his life.
‘What in heaven’s name have you been doing?’ he asked, his eyebrows lifted in amusement.
Mali glared at him, her defiance concealing the chagrin she felt at being caught in such a state.
‘Honest work, that’s what I’ve been doing,’ she said. ‘Stoking boilers down at the laundry. Not that it’s any business of yours.’
Sterling gave a wintry smile. ‘Then good luck in your new job,’ he said abruptly and walked quickly down the street as though he regretted having stopped at all.
Katie tugged her arm. ‘Good of Mr toffee-nosed Richardson to pass the time of day with you,’ she said lightly. ‘Never mind,’ her voice held a hint of laughter, ‘there’s nothing wrong with you that some hot water and good food won’t cure. Come on, black face, sure and won’t I race you to Copperman’s Row?’
‘Go race yourself, Katie Murphy,’ she said ruefully. ‘I’ll come along in my own good time.’
Mali brushed aside her tangled hair and paused to look up at the turgid clouds above her. In a sudden mood of optimism she made a silent vow that she would be the best boiler stoker the Canal Street Laundry had ever known.
Chapter Seven
Rickie Richardson sat in the humid, smoke-filled bar of the Cape Horner, staring out of the dusty window moodily. Across the road, in the grey waters of the dock, the towering masts of the Eleanor May bobbed to and fro with the wash of the tide. The sailing ship, paintwork peeling and shabby, had come in for repairs and she stood out now like an old scar in comparison to the shiny new steam packets that were hove to alongside her.
In spite of the coldness of the weather, fishermen sat on the quayside mending their nets, hands blue, faces gaunt with concentration. Rickie shivered, rather them than him be on the receiving end of the easterly wind that was blowing in off the water.
His thoughts turned inward and he saw again in his mind’s eye the letter that had crystallised for him all the resentment and bitterness he had always felt for Sterling. It was as though he had sensed even from an early age that he was being usurped from his rightful place in the order of things. And the letter had been proof of that, God knows.
He glanced around him, suddenly aware of the crowded bar. It was about time Glanmor Travers turned up, he was late, Rickie thought – in irritation. He settled back into his seat and hunched his shoulders, blocking everything out so that he could concentrate on his thoughts.
It had been Letty who had brought it to him. He had been bedding the maid for some time and her gratitude knew no bounds. She was a plain little thing and at first he had taken her with very little enthusiasm, simply as a release for his natural urges. But she had turned out to have a surprisingly fine body, her breasts when freed from her impeding undergarments were full and high, her waist small and her hips shapely. But better than that, she was convinced that she was in love with him and her adoration warmed him.
At first she had been afraid to show him the letter, her pebble-brown eyes looking at him doubtfully and he, not understanding the importance of the paper she held between her small fingers, had grown impatient.
He had told the maid in no uncertain terms what she could do with the letter. She had pressed it upon him then and once he had begun to read he was suddenly alert. The blood had been pounding within his head as he’d read the words penned in passion and love, words that had the power to change his entire life.
His mother, proud, upright Victoria Richardson, allowing another man to take her into his bed as if she was some little parlour maid, it was unthinkable! And yet the more he allowed his mind to dwell on it, the more it all fitted into place. He had known all along that Sterling was the apple of his mother’s eye. He had often watched covertly as she brushed back the golden hair from the clear brow of her elder son, her affection plain for all to see.
Later Rickie had felt the biting pain of rejection when he alone had been sent away to receive what his parents had called a ‘good educati
on’. It was abundantly clear then that there was some vital difference between himself and his brother. As he had stared at the letter, his first instinct had been to rush from his room and arouse the household, to shout aloud the momentous discovery he had just made. In his impatience, he had pushed Letty aside, half out of his bed, and then sweet reason had asserted itself.
‘Have you read this?’ He had spoken harshly to the trembling chambermaid and dumbly she had nodded. He had taken her arm, dragging her back into the warmth of the blankets.
‘And what did you make of it all, pretty little Letty?’ He had smoothed her hair back from her hot face, soothing her fears. Tentatively, she had smiled at him.
‘I know enough of writing to understand that you are Mr Arthur’s real son and that Master Sterling is not.’ She had bitten her lip worriedly.
‘You mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone, do you understand?’ His tone had been silky and she had crouched against him, her hands running over his body in a way that sent shivers along his spine.
‘I wouldn’t do anything to harm you, Master Rickie.’ Letty’s eyes were limpid. ‘I love you so much that I would die for you.’
He had bent his head and kissed her, after all if it had not been for her prying, he might never have known the truth. He had made it good for her then, knowing within himself it would be for the last time. She was a danger to him now, he wanted to be the only one with the knowledge that could split the Richardson family asunder.
She was sweet beneath him, moaning her surrender. He would miss little Letty, there was no doubt about that, but then maids were two a penny, he would soon find fresh fields to explore.
His first job the next day had been to contact Glanmor Travers with whom he’d shared rooms at college.
‘There’s this chambermaid.’ He’d spoken lightly. ‘Had my fill of her now but she’s young and willing enough, any notions as to how I can be rid of her?’
Glanmor had laughed shortly. ‘Me, ideas? I’m full of them,’ he’d said with an air of supreme confidence. But that had been two days ago.
Rickie glanced at the round face of the clock ticking away the minutes on the barroom wall. Perhaps Glanmor Travers was not as clever as he pretended to be and had found no solution to the problem after all.
The doors swung open, allowing a flurry of cold air into the bar. Rickie leaned back in his chair, sighing with relief.
‘About time you showed up,’ he said dourly. ‘I was just about to leave as a matter of fact.’
Glanmor shook his head. ‘Oh ye of little faith,’ he said reprovingly. ‘Wait just a moment, while I order a hot toddy, I’m frozen.’ He lifted his hand and the landlord nodded, familiar with his customers and their requirements.
‘Now, why are you looking so worried?’ Glanmor sat opposite Rickie, resting his arms on the stained wooden surface of the table. ‘All your problems are over, dealt with by the efforts of your reliable friend. Tomorrow, Letty will be nothing but a memory.’
Rickie looked at him expectantly. ‘What are you going to do with her?’ he asked, but to his disappointment, Glanmor shook his head.
‘Best you don’t know too many details, suffice it to say she will be placed in a position where she will be out of your way and where she can do little harm.’
‘Harm?’ Rickie echoed the word. ‘She can do nothing to me, what makes you think otherwise?’
‘There’s usually a reason for getting a worn-out doxy put aside,’ Glanmor said, tapping the side of his nose knowingly. ‘But you know old Glanmor, the soul of discretion, that’s me, so don’t worry your head about it any longer.’
Rickie drank a little of the thick dark ale, staring over the rim of his glass. Glanmor was digging into his pocket, paying the landlord for the steaming toddy of whisky and hot water standing now on the table before him. Glanmor was not a handsome man, there was too much of the ferret in his narrow eyes and sharp features for that, but perhaps to women there was something compelling about the man’s confidence and the air of toughness he exuded.
Rickie did not even like Glanmor. He had been a useful roommate at college, there was no denying that but his arrogance and his attitude of being hard done by irked more than somewhat when one was forced to spend a great deal of time with him.
‘Well, do I proceed?’ Glanmor said and Rickie became aware that he was staring.
‘Yes, why not?’ he said quickly. ‘I’m sure you know what you are doing. Now, how much do I owe you?’ Rickie had soon learned that Glanmor did no favours, not for anyone.
‘Nothing, at least not now but perhaps later on there might be a return gesture of thanks?’
Rickie was uneasy. ‘Come along, Glanmor,’ he said with false heartiness, ‘it’s not like you to be so reticent, shall we make it a nice round sum, say ten guineas?’
Glanmor stared at him levelly, his narrowed eyes seeming to gleam in the light from the fire burning alongside him. He shook his head.
‘There’s nothing at the moment. I shall not let you forget you owe me a favour, don’t you worry.’
But Rickie was worried, he did not like being indebted to Glanmor; perhaps consulting him on the subject of Letty had been a mistake. He drank down his ale and rose to his feet.
‘I’d best be off home, I’ve sat around this freezing bar for long enough.’ His tone was surly and he saw a fleeting expression of anger cross Glanmor’s face.
‘When will it happen?’ he asked abruptly. ‘I don’t want this business hanging on any longer than necessary.’ Glanmor took a slow drink from his glass, deliberately keeping Rickie waiting. He was a sadistic bastard, Rickie mused.
‘Consider it done,’ Glanmor said at last. Rickie would have moved to the door but Glanmor’s hand on his sleeve stopped him.
‘Did you know that brother of yours has given me notice?’ His tone revealed his bitterness. ‘That’s all the thanks we Travers get for working faithfully for the Richardson family all these years.’
Rickie felt bewildered. ‘I had no idea,’ he said. He wrapped his collar more tightly around his throat, doing up the top button, giving himself time to think. Why had Sterling suddenly dispensed with Glanmor’s services? He did nothing without good reason, what did he have hidden up his sleeve now?
‘Nothing I can do about it if that’s what you’re hoping for,’ he said shortly. ‘You know as well as I do that Sterling doesn’t give a horse’s fart what I say about anything. He won’t reinstate you so perhaps you’d better take that ten guineas I offered you.’
Glanmor sneered. ‘No thanks, and you must be a fool if you think I’d even consider working for your brother again, ever. He can go to hell his own way and he will from what I’ve heard.’
Richard sat down again, leaning forward, his arms on the table. ‘And what might that be? Come on Glanmor, you know you mean to tell me sooner or later.’
Glanmor leaned back against the seat, his eyes shrewd. ‘They really don’t tell you anything, do they? Well it seems that your brother isn’t content with the rich pickings he’s getting from the copper, he wants to go into steel too. Work’s about to start on changing the furnaces any day now.’ He shrugged. ‘Some people are never satisfied with what they’ve got, always looking for new ways to line their pockets. What a pity you won’t inherit, Rickie.’
‘You could just be wrong about that.’ The moment he had spoken, he realised his mistake. Glanmor’s eyes lit up and he sucked in his breath on a whistle.
‘Holding out on me, boyo, well don’t tell me, not if you don’t want to, but I shall find out anyway, sooner or later.’
His laugh echoed behind Rickie as he left the public bar of the Cape Horner. It was sharp and cold on the quayside and Rickie stood for a moment staring down at the pewter water running high between the ships berthed in the dock. He was furious with himself for giving away too much back there. Glanmor was like a dog with a rat, he wouldn’t give up once he’d sunk his teeth into something. Rickie did not feel like the walk
back up the hill and so he took the tram, swinging himself aboard easily, seating himself near the doorway. A cold draught of air blew against his cheeks and he sank back, hands in his pockets, wishing himself home near the warmth of the fireside.
He turned his head to look out of the window. Down below he could see the shops of the town spread along a street shaped like a question mark. It seemed peopled by midgets, dark figures scurried to and fro, small shadows seen from a distance.
It was growing dusk, the sky fading to a dull indigo. There would be no sunset, not tonight, for the clouds were grouped thick and heavy, hanging low over the sea. To the east was the river, dull and dirty, lit occasionally to a glowing red by sparks from the forest of chimneys above the copper works. In pride of place was the Richardson Copper Company, the squat buildings lying near the banks of the Swan, standing like a monument rising up from the scarred land. This then was the inheritance that should have been his, and anger burned low in his gut as he thought of Sterling lording it over all, strutting about the sheds, issuing orders, hiring and firing, little better than a thief.
He alighted from the electric tram and watched it roll away back down the hill. The gaudy advertisements for Rowntrees’ Cocoa and Cherry Blossom Boot Polish slid away into the growing dusk. He began to walk briskly along the pathway towards the house that lay back from the road as though disdaining contact with anything other than itself. Plas Rhianfa was elegant and gracious and the pain within Rickie was burdensome as he realised it would never be his. Sterling would possess it as he possessed everything else; was there no justice?
The trees that edged the long wide driveway swayed and moaned above him, bare branches waving like skeleton fingers in the wind. Rickie glanced upwards and paused for a moment to stare at the lowering clouds. He would not let Sterling get away with it, damn it.
He entered the hallway, brilliantly lit by the chandelier overhead, and looked around as though seeing his home for the first time, the rich patterns of the carpet glowed up at him, the colours jewel bright, swamping his senses. All this should be his, and by God he meant to fight for it.