by Iris Gower
‘Vinegary old witch,’ he said out loud. He moved restlessly to the window, the rain was beating up from the cobbles hard and cold. A cat slid wetly around the corner and stood mewling at the door. Sterling opened it and the small animal ran gratefully to the stove and began to lick its fur.
Mali had been just like a kitten, he mused, innocent and unselfconscious, her happiness reflected in her face. It had not seemed wrong to take her onto the platform with him but he might have guessed that others would put their own interpretation on the situation. Since then, she had scarcely been out of his thoughts. He wanted very much to see her again and yet perhaps it was not wise to awake in her hopes that could never be fulfilled. He had seen the way she had looked at him, the admiration that could so easily become something more shining through her expressive face. She was not a flossy and could hardly be his wife so what was the use in pursuing the friendship they had built up between them?
He would be better off turning his attentions to Bea, she would be so well suited for him that it was surprising that their respective parents had not been pushing them together long before this. He thought of the last time they had met, when he had taken her to bed and made love to her. He really should have made an effort to talk to her before this, he thought guiltily, his attitude must seem casual to say the least.
She might be feeling slighted by his lack of attention, after all it was not very gallant to form a relationship with a lady and pursue it avidly for some weeks and then act as though she did not exist.
Bea had been busily engaged at his house too, walking about the rooms with samples of cloth, trying to decide on the best colour schemes for his home. The last time she had been there the place had been filled with workmen and Bea had looked a trifle anxious as though she had something she particularly wanted to say to him. He would go to see her one day soon, he told himself, but in the meantime there was plenty to be done.
He looked down at the figures before him and for once he was not studying copper or even zinc, what interested him now was the price of coal.
The output of anthracite had risen to over four million tons a year, over half of that being exported to Canada. Interestingly, most of it was being shipped through the docks at Sweyn’s Eye.
It was the special properties of anthracite, slow burning and yet producing great heat, that made it so successful a commodity. It had been found suitable for fuelling space and central heating boilers and so anthracite had become very much in demand both on the continent and in Canada.
He turned over the page and bit on the end of his pen thoughtfully; patent fuel works would be a good outlet for the vast amount of small coal any pit amassed. The coal dust, compressed into briquettes, was being shipped from the new King’s Dock in the town at the rate of one million tons a year.
On an impulse, he opened the files, searching for a time among the dusty papers before locating the deeds to the pit owned by Alwyn Travers. His pulse quickened with excitement, it was as he thought, the Kilvey Deep was an anthracite mine. It should by rights be making a fortune yet Travers had not paid his dues in the last three months. Well, the man would be given a little more time to make good his debt and if he failed to do so, the mine would be forfeit. Coal would make a good side line, Sterling thought in satisfaction.
The door swung open and Ben shuffled into his office, his moustache dripping with rain, his sharp eyes missing nothing. After taking off his coat and hanging it near the boiler, he fingered the file that Sterling had just been reading.
‘Here early today, Mr Richardson.’ Ben glanced meaningfully at the file. ‘Going to do something about Alwyn Travers at last are you?’ Without waiting for a reply he moved towards his own desk and seated himself stiffly in his chair. ‘’Bout time too, that’s what I say. Give folks like him enough rope and they always hang themselves.’
Sterling regarded Ben steadily. The old man was loyal to the Richardsons for he had been with the firm for many years, long before any of the partners had been brought in as a desperate measure designed to inject new finance into the company. Perhaps it would be a good idea to try out Ben’s reactions to the idea that had been buzzing through Sterling’s mind for some weeks now.
‘I’m thinking of going into coal.’ He leaned back in his chair, studying the changing expressions on Ben’s face. ‘You know as well as I do that there is great demand for anthracite, a trend that should continue for some time yet. And too there are the patent fuel markets. What do you think, Ben?’
The old man went through his usual pantomime of bringing out his great handkerchief and rubbing at his nose with it, careful not to spoil the stiffened line of his moustache.
‘If it means taking the pit from Alwyn Travers then I’m all for it,’ Ben said at last. ‘Not a man to put his back into anything that one, does as little as possible with the result that anyone working for him adopts the same lazy attitude.’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ Sterling said. ‘But I mean to branch out further than that, Ben. Yes, take over the Kilvey Deep but also acquire other pits, perhaps the string of them that run from Mynydd Newydd down into the Pentre. The Kilvey Deep is the key to it all for it has the Cornish beam engine which pumps the water from all the other pits.’
‘Aye, you’re right.’ Ben’s eyes glowed behind his spectacles. ‘Those mines, properly run, should bring in a steady income right enough and should finance any improvements you wish to make in the copper company.’
Sterling closed the book with a snap of finality. ‘Not a word about this to anyone, Ben.’ He smiled at the old man. ‘Not that any words of caution are needed as far as you are concerned, like the proverbial clam when it comes to business aren’t you? I don’t tell you often enough how grateful I am for your support, Ben.’
The old man coughed into his handkerchief, removing his spectacles and rubbing at them furiously. He said nothing but it was quite apparent that he was pleased with Sterling’s praise.
‘Right, I think it’s time I went down to the sheds, the morning shift should be well in progress and I’d like a word with William Owens.’ As Sterling rose to his feet, he saw a shadow of disapproval cross Ben’s face. ‘We all must do things we don’t like on times, Ben,’ he said ruefully, ‘it’s what is called a matter of survival.’
He left the office and hurried through the cold, pelting rain towards the sheds. The works were built on the side of the river Swan, downhill from the office block. Forests of tall chimneys pointed to the overcast sky, shooting bursts of steam and flurries of sparks that reflected redly in the turgid waters of the river. A fleet of barges moved slowly upstream, the cargo of ore dulled by the rain.
Sterling turned indoors, droplets of rain running inside his collar. In direct contrast to the chill damp weather outdoors, the interior of the works was heavy with oppressive heat from the roaring furnaces and Sterling knew he would never become accustomed to the overpowering stench generated by the sulphur expelled from the molten metal.
He watched for a moment as the men in the tew gang took it in turns to fill a ladle and, moving in a circle, keeping a safe distance from each other, tip their liquid burden into the moulds. He waited until Will Owens stopped for a drink and then moved towards him. The smell of ale was strong and with a quick glance into the jug at the youth’s side, Sterling saw that it certainly was not water he was drinking.
‘I’d like a word with you,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ve a proposition to make, all you have to do is keep me informed as to the mood of the men, what they feel about the new furnaces, that sort of thing.’
‘And what do I get in return?’ Dark eyes hostile in the red glow of the furnace regarded him steadily.
‘What would you say to an extra five shillings?’ Sterling’s tone was clipped. ‘When you think about it, it’s a fair amount of pay for very little work and we can be useful to each other.’
Will took a long swig from the jug, holding it over the back of his arm as he raised it to his lips, his dark eye
s never wavering even as he took great gulps of the dark beer. At last he placed the jug back on the ground and rubbed the back of his hand across his lips.
‘All right, I’m willing to be a bradwr, a traitor to my class for a bit of extra gelt.’ He did not smile, indeed there was no expression at all on his face and Sterling realised that he had underestimated the youth. Will Owens; he was cold and calculating and meant to get what he wanted at all costs. He was not to be trusted and perhaps it was just as well that they were open enemies.
‘Good.’ He began to move away. ‘Start right away and when you have anything to report, slip a note into the office.’
‘No fear.’ Owens spoke quickly. ‘Nothing in writing, is it? Could hang myself that way. No, you come in and talk to me when I stop for a break and I’ll be sure to make it short and to the point so that no one notices anything.’
Sterling moved around the ring of men and nodded to Davie Llewelyn who was working swiftly and with the expertise born of long practice. ‘Morning, Davie,’ he said and was startled to see the big man rest his empty ladle on the ground where a small trickle of copper spat and hissed in the dampness.
‘Mind if I speak to you, sir?’ His tone was respectful but there was a wary look in the man’s eyes that put Sterling on his guard. ‘Made a show of my girl you did, Mr Richardson,’ he said bluntly. ‘Don’t want people talking about her you understand, a good girl is Mali and no one dare say different, not in my hearing.’
He paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes. ‘Meant to be kind you did, so she told me, but can’t go on, things like that, not in Sweyn’s Eye, mind. They’ll be calling my girl a flossy next and then what chance would she have of meeting a fine young boyo and settling down?’
Sterling was slightly taken aback, he stared at Davie for a long moment before speaking. ‘I see your point,’ he said at last.
Davie sighed with relief and Sterling realised that it must have taken a great deal of moral courage for the man to confront him. Sterling could not help but admire him for it.
‘Thank Christ you did not take offence, sir,’ Davie was saying. ‘But a girl soon loses her good name which is all she has to offer a man, isn’t it?’
Without waiting for a reply, he returned to his job, falling into place among the circle of men who moved around the furnace mouth filling the great ladles with molten copper and unloading them expertly into the moulds in a never-ending round of activity.
Sterling left the sheds and walked quickly up the slope towards the office block. The rain had abated now but low grey clouds mingled with the yellow smoke from the chimneys. Sterling paused, staring up at the sky lost in thought.
He had enjoyed being with Mali that day on the beach, he could see again her dewy skin and the brightness of her eyes that were green as the ocean. He felt again the soft silkiness of her abundant hair as he’d tied it up in a ribbon. And the innocent sweetness of her mouth had touched a chord within him that he did not care to examine too closely.
On an impulse, he left the yard and walked through the gates of the works and out into the road. A milk cart was bumping its way along the cobbles, the churns clanking noisily in the early-morning silence.
He felt restless, not at all in the mood for work, it might be as well to have a long drink of ale. He took his watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted the ornate face. The Mexico Fountain had been open since six o’clock and it was now almost seven. He would more than likely be drinking alone but then when had that ever bothered him?
‘Mr Richardson!’ Mali was standing before him, her face pale and her eyes shadowed as though she had not long been awake. She moved uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
‘Good morning,’ he said formally. ‘I have just been speaking with your father.’
Mali blushed fiercely and looked away from him. ‘I’ll have to go,’ she said, ‘I’m late for work already.’
‘As you are in such a hurry to run away, may I see you this evening?’ Sterling asked. ‘I shall be down at the cemetery later on, I hope you will be there too.’ Sterling did not wait for Mali’s reply but turned quickly away, striding purposefully towards the open doors of the Mexico Fountain.
Mali stared after him, her cheeks aflame, her hands trembling. He had practically ordered her to meet him that night, he was so high handed that she felt she should have rebuffed him at once. And yet when she had looked up into his face, she had once again been on the golden sands with the soft breeze lifting her hair and the seagulls crying overhead. She had felt his mouth take possession of hers, experienced the exhilaration of the kiss and had become weak and trembling.
She was foolish to herself and she knew it. She would only find heartbreak in continuing an association with Sterling Richardson. Even if the words Katie had said to her about men like him wanting only to tumble a working girl weren’t true, what good could come out of such an arrangement?
She realised that she was still standing in the street and that the time was going by and if she did not want to spoil her good record at the laundry she had better hurry.
She moved away down the street, past the Mexico Fountain, and could not help peering through the high window to catch a glimpse of Sterling.
‘You are a silly little idiot, Mali Llewlyn,’ she said to herself in a whisper. ‘Open your eyes girl, it’s high time you started to act like a woman. You’ll not go to meet Mr toffeenose Richardson tonight and if he wants to wait around in graveyards then more fool him.’
Late in the afternoon, when the rainy weather had given way to a chilly dryness, Rickie Richardson was making his way down through the town towards the dock area and the warm lounge of the Cape Horner. He was feeling dispirited and restless and a dull anger burned within him. He had cursed himself for a fool a hundred times over for handing Bea Cardigan the proof of Sterling’s birth and God only knew what she would do with the information. She would not confide the truth in Sterling, of that at least he felt certain, for Bea had imagined herself in love with Sterling, he had seen it in her eyes many times. It must have been a rude shock for her when she had read the letter written in her father’s own hand.
A swiftly ridden horse and buggy splashed through the puddles in the gutter sending up a muddy spray, some of which caught the bottoms of his striped trousers. ‘Damn and blast,’ he muttered and directed a dark look towards the driver who appeared not to notice him. And yet if he had been the owner of the copper company, everyone would be touching their forelocks to him, he thought mutinously. There must be some way of shifting Sterling whatever the solicitor chap Irons had said.
He crossed the road, not seeing the gulls that wheeled and called overhead, a sure sign so the fishermen said of an approaching storm. He made his way quickly into the public bar of the Cape Horner and saw at once that Glanmor Travers was in his usual position with his feet stretched out before the roaring fire.
‘Come and sit here, Rickie, I’ve kept a place for you,’ Glanmor said glibly, though the fact that there was an empty seat beside him was due more to luck than judgment, Rickie thought sourly.
‘Glad to.’ He spoke affably for Glanmor was inclined to turn nasty after a drink or two of porter. ‘Cold enough to freeze a brass monkey.’ He sat near the fire and stared at the other man, wondering how much it was safe to confide in him. Should he tell Glanmor the truth about Sterling? Perhaps not, maybe for the moment he would keep that piece of information as his ace in the hole.
The door was pushed open and a group of smelters came into the bar, bringing with them a flurry of cold air. Rickie sniffed and made a wry face at the awful stench that emanated from the men’s clothing, hoping none of them would come too close; but to his surprise Glanmor was gesturing to a dark-haired youth, inviting him to join them.
‘Will Owens, come and sit here, have a drink on me,’ Glanmor said heartily.
‘What you up to mixing with the workers?’ Rickie asked in a low voice and Travers shook his head knowingly.
�
��Rickie, this is Will Owens, a man who shares our mutual dislike of Sterling Richardson.’ He turned to the youth who was straddling a chair as though he owned the bar. ‘Anything been happening that I should know about?’
The youth gave a short laugh. ‘There’s something that will make your mouth water, now,’ he said triumphantly. ‘The boss man has only asked me to be his spy, hasn’t he? Go round with my ears flapping listening to the men’s grumbles and then tell them all to him so that he knows what’s going on.’
Rickie looked at Will Owens and found it difficult to hide his disdain, this copper worker was above himself and might need a sharp short lesson one of these days, but in the meantime, it would be interesting to listen to what he had to say.
Travers was all but rubbing his hands. ‘If you pass on only the information I want you to give him then we should be in a very good position to throw a spanner in the works.’
‘What’s going on then, Glanmor?’ Rickie asked and Travers winked hugely.
‘We all know you and your brother are not the best of pals,’ he said. ‘And there’s a few more of us waiting in line to bring him to his knees.’
Will Owens looked sharply at Rickie. ‘Brother? Are you Mr Richardson’s brother then?’ he asked in disbelief. Rickie nodded.
‘Yes, but that need not bother you, I have my own scores to settle.’ He pushed down his dislike of the cocky copperman and tried to appear friendly. ‘What do you think is going on then?’
‘Nothing as yet.’ Will sounded reluctant to speak and yet Rickie sensed that the minute his back was turned the youth would spill his guts to Travers. Well, he must just bide his time, keep his eyes and ears open and trust to no one.