Copper Kingdom

by Iris Gower

  From the drawing room he could hear the sound of Victoria’s voice and carefully he moved towards the wide staircase. He had no wish to be sociable to anyone at the moment, least of all his mother.

  ‘Bitch!’ His own vehemence startled him and he ran the rest of the way up the carpeted stairs and along the broad, spacious landing. Inside his room he closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, staring around him. A big fire roared in the grate – kept alight, no doubt, by the faithful Letty. The drapes over the bed were fresh and clean, the quilt thick and silky. The sheets were of finest linen, pristine white and folded just so. If he had taken his home for granted until now, it was because he had not realised that it was rightfully his.

  He lay on the bed and put his hands behind his head, staring up at the ornate ceiling. Tomorrow, he mused, he would see Gregory Irons. If the man lived up to half the reputation he’d gained for being the shrewdest if not the most crooked lawyer in Sweyn’s Eye then he should be able to help him sort out what the letter meant in terms of the inheritance.

  There was a timid knocking on the door and before he could speak, Letty was in the room, her face pale and tear stained.

  ‘Master Rickie, you’ve got to help me.’ She came close to where he lay, staring at him wide eyed, her hands outstretched to him in supplication. His first reaction was to order her out of his sight but on reflection, this might be the last time he would see her. In any case, he was curious.

  ‘Come and sit beside me, tell me what’s troubling you.’ He placed his arm around her shoulder, drawing her soft warm body close to him. Her eyes stared into his imploringly and he kissed her trembling mouth before she could burst into tears.

  ‘What is it?’ he urged and she leaned her head against his neck, sniffling in her misery.

  ‘Cook has made me pack my bag,’ she said in a small voice. ‘She says I’m to leave here at first light.’

  ‘Now why would Mrs Griffiths tell you that?’ Rickie asked. His hand was searching in the bodice of her heavy gown and at last his fingers came in contact with her firm breast.

  ‘You know I can’t do without you,’ he said softly. He pushed her back on the bed, ignoring her small protests.

  ‘I must go downstairs, Master Rickie, cook will be going on at me again if I’m away too long.’

  ‘Never mind cook.’ Rickie’s voice was hoarse. ‘There are more important things to worry about than that old crusty virgin.’

  ‘No, please, not now, Master Rickie, I just can’t think of anything except having to leave here.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I won’t let any harm come to you.’ He kissed her, silencing her words and at last, she relaxed beneath his searching hands.

  ‘I love you, Master Rickie.’ She breathed his name as though it was a prayer. ‘I’d be that miserable if I was sent away.’

  ‘Hush, it won’t come to that.’ The urge was strong within him and roughly he lifted her skirts, thrusting against her so that she cried out in pain. It gave added spice to the event that this was to be the last time, at least with Letty, soon there would be a new chambermaid to amuse him.

  It was over quickly and Letty lay like a bundle of soiled washing in the softness of the bed. Rickie moved away from her, looking into the darkness of the sky through the window. Suddenly he shivered. Out there somewhere was Glanmor Travers, scheming and plotting his way through life, a man who should not be trusted at any price.

  ‘Master Rickie.’ The small voice from the bed captured his attention. ‘It will be all right won’t it, you will speak to Mrs Griffiths?’

  He turned to look at her, trying to hide his impatience.

  ‘Go on now, back to the kitchen before she misses you and yes, I’ll have a word with cook, don’t worry about a thing.’ He bundled her forward, taking a quick look along the corridor before thrusting her outside and closing the door in her startled face. It was a good thing she was leaving Plas Rhianfa, she was becoming far too clinging, demanding his attention as though it was her right.

  He drew his chair nearer to the fire and stared into the flames, there was a great deal for him to think about and Letty was the least important of them all. He settled himself back and closed his eyes, his feet stretched out to the blaze. One day all this would be his, he would be master not only of Plas Rhianfa but of the Richardson empire.

  Outside the wind was rising sharply and frost made patterns, complicated and beautiful, on the windowpanes but Rickie saw nothing, he was locked inside his own imaginings.

  It was cold when he awoke, with a pale sun shining in through the open curtains. The fire was dead and grey and he sat up stiffly, aware that he had not gone to bed at all but had slept all night in the chair. His neck was stiff and the back of his legs ached and he cursed the servants for not showing their usual efficiency in attending to his fire at first light.

  He rose and pulled savagely at the bell rope. He was cold and uncomfortable, his mouth was dry and he felt as if he had been awake all night. There was no hot water on the stand beside his bed and no morning tray waiting for him. He pulled again at the rope and shrugged himself out of his jacket.

  ‘Excuse me, Master Rickie.’ Gwen the kitchenmaid elbowed her way into the room, her apron damp and her hair escaping from under her mob cap. She was a singularly unattractive wench, Rickie thought distastefully as she moved into the room, her large hips swaying, her heavy breasts straining against the coarse material of her gown.

  ‘Cook says I have to see you this morning, there’s no one else you see, for Letty’s been sent away in disgrace.’

  She poured the tea and impatiently Rickie took the delicate bone china cup from the tray.

  ‘What on earth are you babbling on about, girl?’ he said as though her words were not filling him with triumph. She stood before him, hands raw and large, clasped together under the mound of her stomach.

  ‘Donno what she did, pinched something as I heard it, but she’s been sent packing anyways and I’ve got to do for you until there’s another chambermaid.’ She smiled at him coquettishly; it was clear she knew there was a deeper meaning to Letty’s departure. Was there no hiding anything from the servants?

  ‘Light the fire and bring up some hot water, as soon as you can,’ he said abruptly. He drank his tea and threw himself across the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He would wash and dress and then go down to breakfast and later, he would seek out Gregory Irons, it was about time he made his first move in the fight to gain what was rightfully his.

  Chapter Eight

  Mali awoke to the sound of chapel bells ringing and she rubbed at her eyes sleepily, relishing the knowledge that today she did not have to go to the laundry and stoke fires all day long. She sat up in bed and stretched her arms above her head, conscious of the cold wintry air that permeated her bedroom. For a moment, she indulged herself in the luxury of snuggling down into the warmth of her blankets once more, even putting her head beneath the bedclothes, closing her eyes with a delicious sense of delaying the moment when she would have to arise and begin her chores for the day.

  There was the salt fish to cook, resting now in its bowl of water where she had placed it, hard as a board, last night before she’d gone to bed. She would boil it slowly, just at a simmer, and top it with butter and a poached egg just the way Dad liked it.

  Suddenly, Mali’s sense of wellbeing vanished as she remembered Davie’s return home from the Mexico Fountain smelling of cheap perfume, a hangdog expression in his eyes, and it had become clear in that moment that he was still seeing Rosa, spending his time and money upon a girl who cared nothing for him. What fools men could be.

  She quickly threw back the blankets and stepped out onto the cold linoleum that covered the creaking wooden floorboards, padding towards the marble-topped table in her bare feet. Shivering, she splashed water from the tall jug into the large china bowl, washing her hands and face with her own home-made soap. It was a relief to draw on her long woollen stockings and a thick wool skirt topped
by a flannel blouse, knowing that soon she would be warm enough for she would be busy in the kitchen all morning.

  It seemed child’s play lighting the fire after her week of working in the boiler house. She set the twists of paper in a neat pattern and then topped them with pieces of stick, lastly using up the cinders before covering the whole with gleaming coal richer and more fiercely burning than the coke used at the laundry.

  Within half an hour the kitchen was snug and cosy and the kettle steaming on the newly blackleaded hob. Outside the bells rang with more urgency than ever as if to stir the consciences of the inhabitants of Sweyn’s Eye.

  Mali drank her tea hot and sweet, cradling the earthenware cup between her hands, absorbing the warmth through her fingertips. She moved towards the window and gasped as she saw the thin layer of pure snow that encompassed the landscape. Even the slag tip was a beautiful white mountain. Figures moved through the brightness, heads bent against the wind that still brought with it flurries of snow, a late last cry from winter, before giving way to the softness of spring.

  Mali thought she could see Katie among a group of people labouring through the snow, at any rate, she glimpsed a bright splash of red-gold hair above the dark collar of a coat and guessed that the Murphy family were on their way to mass at St Joseph’s Church down in the hollow of the valley.

  She had gone once with Katie to a Catholic service and had liked the way Father O’Flynn had greeted his flock with an easy familiarity that was lacking in her own chapel.

  Pentre Estyll was Welsh Baptist, narrow to the point of austerity, where even a ribbon set among a child’s curls was frowned upon as being worldly and against the teachings of the Good Book.

  Once, when she was very little, Mali had witnessed the gruelling sight of a young, white-faced girl taken to stand before the Set Fawr, the great bench occupied by a frightening array of deacons, there to be castigated for some sin of which Mali had no comprehension.

  The young girl had begun to cry, her sobs echoing up into the glowering rafters. Distressed, Mali had tugged her mother’s skirts, asking in a loud whisper what the lady had done wrong, but Mam had hushed her, a frown marring the clear line of her forehead.

  Later it had been Davie who had tried to explain the matter to her. He had taken her upon his knee and brushed back her unruly hair and kissed her cheek with warm affection.

  ‘She is carrying a child within her,’ he explained. ‘That would not be wrong except that she has no husband, a babba needs a father as well as a mammy so remember that, little one, and don’t bring home trouble to your mother and me.’

  Mali had been too afraid to protest that she still did not understand why the men in their high-buttoned coats and stiff moustaches over even stiffer collars had looked so disdainfully at the pitiful, beaten creature standing before them.

  She moved back now to the warmth of the fire and finished the tea quickly, she must not stand around dreaming, there was a great deal to be done. She put the salt fish on to boil and then began to clean the turnips and carrots ready for dinner. Dad would no doubt complain that she was failing in her duty by not going to morning worship but she would make up for it by attending Sunday school and evening prayers. With a wry smile, she wondered how it was that Davie could ignore the chapel with impunity.

  It was quiet now with the pealing of the bells hushed, and only faintly carried by the wind could she hear the sound of voices raised in hymn singing. She thrust a spoon into the huge black pot balancing on the flames and the fish moved in the simmering water as though coming to life.

  Quite suddenly, with the familiar chores accomplished, she thought of her mother lying in the cold earth covered now by a blanket of snow, and her eyes grew moist with tears. Soon spring would come and then summer but Mam would see none of it.

  The sound of movement from upstairs startled her. Davie was up and about and would be ready for his breakfast. She shifted the coals with the long-handled poker, causing the water in the pot to boil more vigorously. Rubbing her hands on her apron, she went to the larder with its cold stone slab and took out a loaf of bread, placing it on the wooden board so as to make the cutting easier.

  ‘Morning, Mali.’ Her father looked bright-eyed as though he had not stumbled in through the door last night with a belly full of drink, wanting only to fall into his bed and sleep.

  ‘Morning, Dad,’ she said brightly. ‘Breakfast is nearly ready.’

  He smiled and settled himself before the fire, stretching out his long legs towards the warmth.

  ‘That’s all right, cariad, you’ve worked hard all the week and should have stayed abed this morning.’

  ‘There was the fish to cook,’ Mali explained. ‘Wouldn’t keep any longer, be throwing it out to the cats if I didn’t boil it today.’

  Davie grinned. ‘That’s a fine thing to tell a man just before he eats his grub isn’t it? Well I suppose it’s all right, smells good anyway. That’s what woke me up, the smell I mean, starving I am, could eat a scabby horse between two pit props I could.’

  ‘Well make do with salt fish will you?’ Mali said smiling. ‘There’s a nice poached egg to go with it though.’ While they ate breakfast, Mali watched her father covertly. Deep inside her was the need to talk to him about his association with Rosa, yet she feared his displeasure. When his belly was full, that was the moment to speak, she decided.

  ‘Seen the snow?’ Davie asked. He bit into a great slice of bread and ate with relish. Mali stared at him as though trying to see him through the eyes of another woman, one not related to him by blood. He was handsome and big and lusty, not all that old, she supposed and yet he was surely not so lacking in discrimination as to be fooled by a girl the like of Rosa?

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Davie asked, his green eyes alight with amusement. ‘Have I grown two heads or something?’

  This was the time then. Mali took a deep breath and her heart was suddenly beating rapidly.

  ‘It’s this woman you’re seeing, Dad.’ The words came out in a rush and Mali saw Davie frown, moving back in his chair as if attempting to put as much distance between them as possible.

  ‘I’m sorry Dad but I must speak,’ she continued desperately. ‘Rosa is common, she’s not even clean and tidy, what can you see in her? If you want someone to take Mam’s place, you could surely do better than that?’

  Davie moved uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘You don’t understand, Mali,’ he said. ‘A man needs certain things, company and more.’ He lifted his huge hands. ‘I can’t explain it to you.’ His face was red and angry and he pushed his plate away from him, staring down at the remains of the fish as though it had reared up and suddenly bitten him.

  Mali swallowed hard. ‘But Dad, she’s just a cheap flossy, a girl who will go with any man for a shilling, how could you bear to be near her and after Mam was so perfect?’

  Davie hung his head. ‘Your Mam was one on her own,’ he said. ‘She was the sun and moon to me Mali, but she’s gone and I have to do something to remind myself I’m still alive.’

  He rose abruptly from his chair. ‘Enough, I’m going to chop sticks for the fire and shouldn’t you be getting ready for Sunday school?’ He moved away through the kitchen and out into the yard and Mali sank back in her chair, knowing herself defeated. It was as if Dad had become trapped by this Rosa, this woman of the streets who cared nothing for him except to relieve him of his money. Why didn’t Dad look round for a respectable woman if he could not live without one?

  In a fury, she mixed up fruit and flour to make Welsh cakes for tea, cracking an egg into the bowl with an excess of zeal as though it was Rosa she was attacking. It was an effort to lift the heavy griddle onto the fire but she wouldn’t ask Dad for help, not after the way he had walked out, his face set and hard, his eyes the colour of the bottom of the ocean.

  She dropped a little fat onto the griddle and it spat viciously, an indication that the heavy iron plate was hot enough to receive th
e rolled circles of pastry that would flatten out into small circles, browned both sides with delicious hot fruity centres. While the cakes were cooking, Mali flipped them over with the skill of long practice. She sighed heavily and from the larder fetched a tin in which to keep the cakes until they were needed for tea.

  The morning seemed to drag by and Mali was happy when at last her chores were finished, the dinner over and done with and the dishes washed and put away. Sunday school was not very exciting but at least it would take her away from the sound of Dad chopping at the wood in the yard as if he was taking out his spleen on it.

  It was cold in her room and she shivered as she dressed in her best black serge skirt and the dark striped calico blouse with its pin-tuck pleats down the front, one of the last garments Mam had made for her. On Sundays, Mali did not wear a shawl but a straight, heavy woollen coat that was nipped in at the waist and was meant to reveal an hourglass figure. It was a trifle too big and hung loosely over Mali’s thin frame but it was warm and neat and that was all she required it to be.

  It was about half an hour later when she let herself out of the house. Dad was still out back chopping wood, ignoring the snow that was falling heavier now. Mali felt her boots slip a little and her hat wobbled precariously on her head as she grasped the wall for support.

  ‘Going to chapel, Mali?’ Dai End House was smiling at her in approval even though he himself obviously had no intention of making his way down the hill to Pentre Estyll. He was coal black and his brushes were slung over his shoulder, it was quite apparent that he was working.

  ‘Yes, taking Sunday school class as usual,’ she replied. ‘But who is having chimneys swept on the Sabbath then?’ She was curious, most of the inhabitants of Copperman’s Row were God-fearing people abiding by the laws set out in the Bible. Dai End House had the grace to look sheepish.

  ‘It’s Mrs Benson. She claims she’s too busy midwifing most of the time and can’t keep regular hours like other folks, has to have the work done in between delivering babbies. Right enough, mind.’ He raised his grubby hat to Mali before passing her and continuing on his way, a ludicrously black blot against the whiteness of the snow.