by Iris Gower
‘Mr Bevan, may I have a word with you?’ she said. Watt came to her side at once and smiled down at her.
‘Yes, Mrs Mainwaring, what can I do for you?’ He was respectful, formal in the presence of the other workers. He followed her to the end of the room where it was comparatively quiet and waited for her to speak.
‘How are the stocks of clay and stone? Have we enough to last until spring?’ she asked, knowing the answer but allowing Watt the privilege of his position as overseer.
‘Production has increased rapidly over the winter months, as you know. Stocks are getting a little low, Llinos. I think it’s time I took a trip to Cornwall to order some more clay and stone.’
‘In an emergency we could bring in some clay from Penllergaer, of course,’ Llinos said. ‘But you’re right, Watt, I think you should go to Treherne’s quarry and have them deliver enough clay and stone to last us throughout the summer months.’
He nodded. ‘Providing the weather is all right, I’ll leave first thing in the morning, shall I?’
‘I think so. I’ll have payment ready for you and, Watt, take care. I don’t want you to be robbed on the way.’
As she walked towards the door, Llinos breathed in the atmosphere of the paint shed with a sensation of satisfaction. In the bedroom she might be the passionate, flighty wife Joe loved, but here, in the pottery, she was every inch a successful businesswoman and she loved it.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS WET at the bottom of the quarry and very cold. The rain drizzled mercilessly, running down the sides of the quarry in small waterfalls, bringing with it silt and stone. It was John Pendennis’s first day at Treheme Stone, his first experience of working the china stone as a labourer. He was eighteen years of age, a man doing a man’s job, and yet he felt no pride.
‘Come on, mister, or we’ll never earn a penny piece.’
John smiled at the boy: a pale, weedy lad, his rags already saturated, his thin arms holding the borer with difficulty as he pushed the bit against the wall of rock.
‘You’re right enough, Richie.’ John raised his hammer, hesitating for a moment; one false move and he would break the child’s arm. He swung, the hammer connected and the boy shuddered.
‘How long have you been working down here?’ John asked, lowering the hammer to the ground.
‘How long have I been working down here?’ The boy paused. ‘About two years, I s’pose. I don’t rightly know.’
John looked at his red, chafed hands with pity. ‘Do you like working in a quarry?’
‘Do I like working in a quarry?’ The boy had the habit of repeating everything John said. ‘No, I don’t. I bloody well hates it.’
‘What do you think of the boss?’
‘What do I think of the boss? I don’t think nothing of ’im, don’t see ’im much, only from a distance. Why, what do you think of ’im?’
‘I hate the bastard,’ John said bitterly. ‘Treherne should try working under the same conditions he forces children like you to work.’
‘I amn’t forced, sir. I works to earn money like everyone else. Besides, I’m a man grown, can’t you see that? I can read and write an’ all. My grandfather was a preacher and showed me how to figure and everything. It broke his heart when my father didn’t take after him for learning and such.’
He beamed, suddenly a handsome young boy. ‘But then I took after him and, afore Grandad died, he wanted me to go to school and learn to be a gent.’
John looked at the boy, his thin shoulders and bony arms, his chin without even a trace of beard, and smiled.
‘Of course you are a man, more of a man than many of those in charge of this place will ever be.’ He put down the hammer. ‘But surely you have dreams, Richie. Don’t you want to do anything better with your life than this?’ He waved his hand round the deep quarry.
The boy shook his head. ‘I don’ have dreams. Nightmares, more like. It’s akin to being in a grave, working here. Buried afore we’ve even died, we are.’
‘Well, what we don’t like we must change,’ John said with a sudden sense of resolve. ‘We’re getting out of here. We can both do better than this.’
Richie looked at him in surprise. ‘You might be able to walk out just when you please but I can’t.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘I got to work ’cos I gets my father a pound a month and he needs it to live.’ He peered up at John. ‘What about your father, sir, will he kill you for leaving work ‘fore the shift is done?’
‘I doubt it.’ John thought of his father, a bankrupt, sitting at home in disgrace, not even trying to rebuild his life. ‘But what I do know is I made a mistake coming to work here. It’s not for me, nor for you, Richie. I’m going to find us something better.’
‘We’ll have to ask my father,’ Richie spoke nervously, pointing to where a bent old man was working. In the dim light of the clouded day he looked worn and miserable; his wispy hair was matted, his shoulders hunched as he began to cough.
‘I’m taking your son out of here,’ John called, dispensing with the preliminaries. ‘It’s no work for a young boy, six hours in this hellhole breathing in foul air and then the long, hard climb to the surface.’
‘He can’t go,’ the man said. ‘I needs the money.’ He looked hopelessly at John. ‘Do you think I want him down here any more than you do? He has no mother. What else is there for him, tell me that.’
‘I’ll find him something, believe me,’ John said. He urged Richie towards the ladder. ‘Get climbing, we’re leaving.’
‘I can’t,’ Richie hung back. ‘If my father says I can’t go, I can’t.’
‘Let me take him, for pity’s sake,’ John appealed to the man. ‘I’ll find him something more suitable, you have my word on it.’ The men stared at each other in the fading, leaden light.
‘How old are you?’ John said abruptly. His question took the other man by surprise.
‘You’ve no right to ask me anything but I’ll tell you anyway.’ He rubbed his sleeve across his wet brow. ‘I’m thirty-seven years come pay day.’
‘And you look sixty,’ John said bluntly. ‘Is that what you want for your son?’
The man looked down at Richie for a long moment in silence. ‘Aye, young man’s right. Go with him, Richard, and go with my blessing.’
John pushed Richie towards the ladder and the boy began to climb. Behind him, John watched the skinny shanks with an overwhelming feeling of pity. Anger replaced the feeling as John mused on the misfortune that had befallen his family.
It was Treherne who had thrust the final blade that had ruined the Pendennis business. The families of Treherne and Pendennis had long been enemies, the bitter feud begun many years ago when a Treheme had ruined a lady from the Pendennis family. John had been brought up to think of anyone bearing the Treheme name as a potential enemy. And so it had been proved.
Wilbur Treheme had gulled John’s father, tricking him into a merger of the quarry and the china clay pits owned by the Pendennis family. Treherne had undercut John’s father on quotes for china stone and china clay to all the major potteries and most of them had fallen for it.
The Savage Pottery in Swansea was one exception. The owners had always enjoyed good relations with the Pendennis family. John had known his father to supply small quantities of clay and stone when the pottery was in financial difficulties, and the family had remained faithful as had the larger Tawe Pottery. It was the owners of the South Wales potteries, out of all the potteries including those from Derby and Worcester, who had shown loyalty until the day the Pendennis clay business finally failed.
John climbed steadily, impatient to get to the surface. He had been a fool ever to agree to come to work in the quarry but Treherne had twisted the knife very effectively, allowing John and his father to remain at Pembroke House on the condition that John worked for him as a labourer. Treherne had gloated as John signed in for work, watching while the son of his great enemy descended the ladder to the quarry face. His revenge, he clearly f
elt, was complete and the pride of his enemy dragged into the dust.
Well, John Pendennis would not knuckle under the pressure. He would find a way to rebuild the family fortunes. Of one thing he was certain: he would not work at Treherne Stone for one more minute.
Once on the pitted surface of the quarry Richie stood still, his small chest heaving, dragging in the dust-choked air. John swung himself onto the top, clear of the ladder, and looked around him. A stranger, clearly a customer, was talking to Treherne and one of the managers was standing near by nodding with the sort of servility that Treherne enjoyed. As if drawn by John’s gaze Wilbur Treherne turned. His normally red face became redder and in a moment he was striding across the ground.
‘What do you think you are up to?’ he said loudly. ‘You’re supposed to be underground with the rest of the common labourers.’ He stared at Richie, his mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘And don’t even think about back-chatting me or you’ll feel the weight of my hand across your mouth.’
He turned to look at the stranger. ‘You see the sort of riff-raff I have to deal with, Mr Bevan? Scum of the earth, so they are.’
‘Shut your noise, Treherne!’ John said loudly and several of the overseers moved closer, anxious to hear the heresy from a man whose family was ruined. ‘If you open your mouth any wider, you’ll find my fist in it.’
Treheme moved forward a pace and then stopped, warned by the gleam in John’s eye. ‘How dare you talk to me like that!’ he blustered. ‘Get out of here before I have you thrown out, you scum!’ He was beside himself with rage. ‘And tell that arrogant father of yours to pack up and be out of my property before I arrive with the bailiffs.’
As John strode past Treherne he saw the man lash out at Richie, catching the boy across his thin face. John paused, measured his distance and then deliberately threw a punch that connected neatly with the point of Treherne’s jaw. The man fell to the ground, arms and legs spreadeagled in the mud whitened by china-stone dust.
John looked at the overseers and they stepped back as one man, not willing to confront him. ‘Come on, Richie,’ John said. ‘Let’s find a place where the air is fresh and clean, shall we?’
‘You will get into trouble for hitting Mr Treherne,’ Richie said anxiously. ‘He is a bad man to cross, you knows that.’
‘He has already done his worst,’ John said easily. ‘Come on, I think there’s some fine cheese in the house and a loaf or two of bread. We shall eat and then we shall plan what we are to do next.’
Pembroke House was hidden from the lane behind a hedge of mature trees. Richie gasped in wonder as he saw the mellow stone building, glowing in the light from the sun, the many windows appearing as if they were lit from within.
‘You got servants, sir?’ Richie was suddenly in awe of John, realizing that he came from a very different station in life from himself.
‘Not any longer,’ he said. ‘And don’t be fooled. This all belongs to Treherne now; he’s stolen it by trickery and by foul deeds from my father who is a weak man.’
Inside the hallway John and Richie left grey footprints across the polished floor. The house was silent and the kitchens to the rear of the building were empty. The fireplace was full of dead ash; grey cinders had rolled onto the hearth. The servants had departed some weeks ago and already the place smelled of staleness and neglect.
John took the bread from the slatted box hanging from the ceiling. Alongside it was a cheese wrapped in cloth. ‘This will do us, Richie. It will me, anyway, I’m starving.’
The two ate in silence, sitting at the kitchen table that was bleached from much scrubbing.
‘Do you live here on your own, then, sir?’ Richie asked, his mouth full of food. John smiled at him.
‘Close your mouth while you eat, Richie,’ he suggested, ‘and don’t speak until you have finished chewing. No, I don’t live here alone. My father is in the house somewhere, probably in his bed.’
Richie ate in silence, head down. He was easily rebuffed and John made a mental note to treat the boy more gently in future.
‘I think there’s a few leaves of tea left in the tin. Would you like a drink, Richie?’
‘Tea, I never tasted tea, I don’t know if I like it.’
‘Well, there’s one way to find out.’ It took only minutes for John to light the fire. The dry sticks flared up, igniting the coal. ‘Fill the kettle,’ John said. ‘Not too full, mind.’
The brew was weak but hot and fragrant and Richie tasted it tentatively before deciding that he liked it. ‘Much better than the beer Dad fetches from old Mrs Foster’s place. They say she brews it in an old bathtub and still does her wash in it afterwards.’ He smiled, showing a glimmer of humour. ‘Tastes like she peed in it.’
John rose from the table. ‘I’ll take some tea to my father and see how he is at the same time.’ He felt no pity for his father, only scorn that a Pendennis had allowed a Treheme to fool him so easily. He climbed the stairs, feeling the warmth of the house where he had been born folding around him.
Hatred burned in his gut. Curse Wilbur Treheme and all his family for taking away the house John loved and should have inherited. Where he should have brought a bride and where he might have reared fine sons. All that was nothing but a dream now.
His father was lying in a darkened room, the air stale, the curtains still closed. John approached the bed and placed the tea on the table, covered now in dust.
‘Father!’ he said. ‘Why don’t you get up? Nothing can be gained by lying in bed all day.’
His father did not reply. John lit the lamp and took a deep breath as he looked down at the man in the bed. His face was pale, his mouth dragged to one side, his breathing shallow. It was clear that he was a very sick man. It seemed that Treheme had broken his will to live as well as ruined him financially.
John realized he should send for someone, perhaps the old nurse who lived in the village. ‘Witch’, some called her, but Cassie would know what to do and would be good enough to wait for payment or take it in kind.
John was on the landing when the front door opened with a crash. On the threshold stood a group of men wielding clubs. One even brandished a pitchfork.
‘What’s going on here?’ John hurried downstairs, anger churning in his gut.
‘You’ve got to get out of here, man.’ A burly man stepped forward. ‘I’m Mr Treherne’s bailiff and he says you get out now, tonight.’
‘I can’t do that. My father is sick,’ John said. ‘In any case, proper notice should be given.’
The bailiff looked at John, his lips in a wry smile. ‘I think enough notice was given when you took it into your head to attack Mr Treherne. Now, you can go peaceably or you can be thrown out.’
‘My father needs a doctor.’ John felt desperate, impotent. He knew that nothing would move the man standing before him and he was right.
‘Take him to the workhouse, then.’
Richie came in from the kitchen, his eyes wide in a white face. ‘What’s the matter, Mr Pendennis?’ he said, his voice trembling.
‘I’m being evicted, Richie.’ John looked at the bailiff. ‘At least help me to get my father some help.’
‘That’s not part of my duties. My job is to see you cleared out of this house tonight, so get on with it.’ He turned to the men with him. ‘Up the stairs and bring Mr Pendennis down. He can’t stay here, sick or not.’
‘You can’t be so inhuman!’ John protested. He longed to strike out, to hit anyone and everyone, but it was no use. The men were ascending the stairs with purposeful tread and, after a few moments, they carried John’s father down into the hall.
‘Can’t you even allow us a blanket to cover him?’ John asked, looking at his father who was grey and trembling, his bony legs protruding from the flapping nightshirt.
‘Not one of my duties.’ The bailiff was implacable. ‘Come on, out, the lot of you. I got other work to do. And no trying to get back in. There will be men stationed here all night.’
‘What shall we do, Mr Pendennis?’ Richie’s voice was filled with fear. John lifted his head and stared at the night sky. An iron resolve was born within him at that moment. He would succeed beyond his wildest dreams, he would one day be rich and powerful and Wilbur Treherne would have to guard his back or he might find a knife in it.
‘We’ll find lodgings for tonight,’ he said at last. ‘I have a few shillings left. Tomorrow we leave Cornwall and head across the Bristol Channel towards the coast of Wales.’
Early, before first light, John roused Richie from his makeshift bed on the floor of the humble room he had rented.
‘Come on. We’re getting out of here,’ he whispered.
‘What about your father?’ Richie glanced at the silent man in the bed and shivered.
‘My father died in the night.’ John was pulling on his boots. ‘I have very little money as it is. Let the parish bury him.’
‘But he will have a pauper’s grave,’ Richie said, buttoning his ragged coat. ‘’Tis a shame, that.’
‘I can’t do anything about it,’ John said. ‘In any case, one hole in the ground is the same as any other. Come on, let’s go before anyone spots us.’
The road was rimmed with frost as John strode out towards the coaching inn. Richie panted behind him, the air rasping in his lungs. If he had harboured any doubts about taking the boy with him, they vanished now in the light of the day.
He looked into the pouch containing his meagre supply of money, wondering if he would have enough to take two of them to Wales. Against his thigh swung the concealed bag that held the last of the family treasures, among them the gold watch his father had given him. John felt a lump in his throat. For all his brave, even callous words to Richie, it hurt him to think of his father being put in unconsecrated ground. But what else could he do?