White Rivers

by White Rivers (retail) (epub)

  Not that these were her countryfolk, her being from over the water and not a true Cornishwoman… in some folks’ eyes, she was still as much a foreigner as the Germans…

  As clearly as if she could hear Theo putting his inciting arguments to the clayers and adding his snide remarks to demean her, she knew exactly what was going to happen. He would be prepared to rest on his laurels and let her be the scapegoat for all that had happened. Somehow, Skye Tremayne Norwood would be getting all the blame.

  ‘Sit down,’ she heard a voice say sharply, and then Lily was pushing her head between her knees as the world seem to swim in front of her eyes. She felt a cup of cold water pushed against her lips and she swallowed automatically. But she was made of stronger stuff, and as she recovered almost at once, she looked into the scared eyes of Ethan Pengelly.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said huskily. ‘I just felt faint for a moment, but it’s nothing to worry about.’

  Lily spoke swiftly, seeing her pinched white face. ‘You don’t have to be here at all today if you don’t feel up to it, Skye. Ethan and I will get on with things.’

  ‘Of course I have to be here. No one’s going to say I’m hiding away, and I’m going to start on the window posters to say that we’re open for business as usual.’

  But she avoided Lily’s eyes then, knowing that each of them were wondering if there was going to be any business to speak of, and not wanting to put their doubts into words.

  She forced herself to be optimistic. The Christmas advertising would be going into The Informer newspaper very soon, and when Ethan had shown Skye his efforts at pottery making, she was surprised to find how adept he already was at it. He was definitely an asset, and they would survive. They must.

  By the middle of the afternoon the posters were in all the windows, and the clearing up of the damaged showroom was complete. The final Christmas orders for export were ready for dispatch, and had just made their quota by depleting the showroom shelves. Ethan was in his element in the workroom, with a tray of pots already waiting to be fired in the kiln – and as many others discarded. His efforts weren’t always up to standard by any means, but he was keeping busy at doing what he liked best. And there was always a ready market for less than perfect items at a cheaper price, Skye had discovered. It wasn’t only the rich who needed pottery goods for their tables and displays.

  Ethan at least was happy… while the two women waited for customers that never came, and filled in time by rearranging shelves, and washing and dusting the goods that had got covered in a grey film during the German boys’ rampage. It was necessary work, but it didn’t compensate for having no interested townsfolk admiring the potters’ work, nor a clutch of determined shoppers wanting something specifically Cornish to give to their friends and families on Christmas morning.

  ‘It’s only November, Skye. Folk don’t start their buying for weeks yet. Most of them leave it until the last minute,’ Lily tried to reassure her as the hours dragged on.

  ‘It didn’t happen that way last year, nor the year before,’ Skye said. ‘We might as well face it, no one’s going to come here. But there’s no point in worrying, and I’m sure that next week it will all come right, after David prints my piece in The Informer.’

  But before that she had to write it, and she was almost afraid to admit that right now she was experiencing a block in her mind such as she had never known before. Words had always come easily to her, but they had never been so important as these words. And even as she thought it, she felt ashamed. However important this business was to her, it was still a shallow thing compared to the comfort and hope she had given to Cornishwomen when she had written so honestly and sincerely from the front. No words had ever been so important as the words she had sent home during those dark days, nor ever could be. She could only hope that the compassion she had shown then would stand her in good stead, and that the readers would recognise her for her honesty and sincerity, now, as they did then.

  ‘I think we may as well go home,’ she conceded eventually to her fellow workers. By now the daylight had begun to fade a little, and the chill of the November day was beginning to depress them all. There was no point in staying here any longer, and after her feeling of lethargy, Skye was suddenly itching to get home and find paper and pencil to formulate the words that were going to restore the pride of the clayworkers as well as saving her business. She hoped.

  ‘Hold on a moment. We’ve got a customer,’ Lily exclaimed.

  Skye’s heart leapt, but not with anticipation. ‘Oh no, not her. That’s all we need.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  Ethan spoke up, his voice half fearful, half full of bravado. ‘They say she be a witchwoman that can work magic spells,’ he uttered, eyeing the hobbling gait of old Helza as she approached the pottery.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Lily said, starting to laugh. ‘Well, if you believe that, maybe you’d best ask her to weave a magic spell to put things right here.’

  ‘I ain’t asking her nothing!’ Ethan told her, and backed away into the workroom, leaving Skye and Lily alone as the doorbell tinkled and the old crone came inside, wafting her own air of rankness before her.

  Lily, fresh from Plymouth and with a more sophisticated Truro background than that of moorsfolk, stared the woman out.

  Skye spoke huskily. ‘Yes? Can we help you?’

  Helza cackled. ‘’Tis more likely that I be able to help you, lady, if all that I hear be right.’

  ‘What have you heard?’ Lily said sharply. ‘Don’t waste our time with nonsense, old woman.’

  Skye didn’t need to ask such a question. She may not be Cornish born and bred, like Lily, for all her upcountry manners now, but she was canny enough to know that Helza wouldn’t have needed to be told anything. Helza would just know all that had been happening.

  She saw the old crone put her head on one side, her little black eyes as darting as a bird’s, her mouth a thin slash in her grizzled face as she studied Lily.

  ‘You’d be a mite improved wi’ a good man to rest your feet on of a night,’ she said sourly. ‘’Twould make ’ee less of a shrew.’ Before Lily could catch her indignant breath, Helza turned to Skye. ‘And you’ll still be missing yourn, I dare say, lady, but there’ll be another un for you, never fear. And not so far off neither.’

  Lily’s face was puce now. ‘How dare you come here, upsetting my cousin like this, you old witch,’ she stormed. ‘Don’t you know she’s in mourning?’

  ‘’Course I know it, and I came to see how the pretty one fares after the recent trouble, not to bandy words wi’ the likes of you, madam.’

  ‘I’m well enough, Helza,’ Skye said quietly, oddly touched at the old woman’s concern, if that’s what it was.

  Helza nodded. ‘And the corner will soon be turned for ’ee, my pretty. I seen it in the stars.’

  Skye heard Lily snort, but by then Helza had turned full circle towards the door, almost as though she was on a pivot. At the last minute she turned back and glared at Lily.

  ‘I pity the man who falls for ’ee, lady.’

  ‘What damn cheek!’ Lily raged as the door slammed behind the old woman. ‘As if I was interested in men, anyway. I haven’t seen one yet who I’d give a tuppenny toss for.’

  ‘No?’ Skye said with a grin, thankful to steer the talk away from their present problems for the moment. ‘And I thought there was a certain look passing between you and David Kingsley last night.’ Was that really only last night? Already it seemed like years ago, thought Skye in shock. And then she caught sight of Lily’s face. ‘My Lord, I was right,’ she squealed.

  ‘Rubbish. I merely thought he was more interesting than most, if you must know,’ Lily said airily. ‘At least he can talk about something other than clay blocks or throwing pots. You found someone intellectual in Philip, and I’d aim for nothing less, no matter how charming. And oh God, I didn’t mean to upset you by mentioning Philip.’

  ‘You didn’t. I don’t want to forget his existe
nce and nor do the children. And now let’s go home. I’ve had enough of White Rivers for one day.’ She called out to Ethan. ‘You can come out now. Helza’s gone, so if you want a ride, we’ll take you home.’

  Ethan’s scared little face peered round the workroom door before he came out, wiping his hands on a rag.

  ‘Me mammie says that t’other old un that used to live on the moors never died at all, and the one called Helza’s really the same. If she touches you, she’ll put her spell on you.’

  ‘Good Lord, will you listen to the child?’ Lily said. ‘The tales some folk will tell!’

  ‘Come on, Ethan, there’s nothing to harm you here,’ Skye said gently. ‘Even if it were true, everyone knows there are good spells as well as bad ones.’

  It may have mollified him, but from the look Lily gave her, it was clear she was thinking her American cousin was as batty as the boy.

  * * *

  The next day they were feeling slightly more settled. Skye still hadn’t found the right words to write, and in any case the children had been enchanted to find that Lily was staying at the house, and they had both romped with them until bedtime. There were no unexpected visitors or telephone calls, and as things had surely got as bad as they could get, the women began to feel a sliver of optimism for the future. It was shattered in a moment when they reached the pottery.

  ‘Oh God, who could have done this?’ Skye croaked.

  ‘It’s bloody obvious who’s done it,’ Lily snapped. ‘It’s Theo’s precious clayworkers, that’s who!’

  Every window in the place that had been proudly proclaiming that the showroom was open for business, had been daubed with red paint saying TRAITORS in large letters. Except that in places the word had been misspelled. It hardly mattered. The effect was just as heart-stopping and sickening, however illiterate the writers.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get some of it off, missus,’ Ethan’s shrill voice came from around the corner. ‘But ’tis all dried on and ’twill need paint-stripping stuff and we ain’t gone none.’ He sniffed, wiping his nose and eyes on his sleeve, and near to tears at his inability to work miracles before they arrived.

  ‘You did well, Ethan, and you’re right,’ Skye told him, thinking rapidly. ‘I’ll go down to St Austell to get some paint-stripping stuff to clean it up properly. Meanwhile, you and Lily make some more posters and paste them on the outside of the windows to cover up the red paint. We’ll go on doing it until they stop. They’re not going to win.’

  She couldn’t think of the proper name for the paint-stripping stuff any more than he could, but that didn’t matter. What mattered to all of them was that they were doing something to put things right. She left them planning the new posters and drove down to the nearest hardware store in St Austell, her hands shaking.

  After trying every shop in town she began to realise that whether they had the stuff or not, she wasn’t going to get any. She was met by either hostile silence or by clipped negatives. Folk in the streets stepped out of her way and didn’t look at her. Where she had once been so popular, she now felt like an outcast.

  And it had nothing to do with the fact that she was the grieving widow respectfully left alone. It was more to do with the fact that she had been on the German youths’ side. She had expected folk to be pleased she had rid the town of them. Instead of which, she was becoming more and more suspicious that in doing so, she hadn’t let them have their full pound of flesh. She had helped the enemy to escape. In Skye’s mind it was a ludicrous statement, and those young boys were no more the enemy than she was. They would have been mere striplings during the war. And even though she knew what long memories some folk had, couldn’t these people see that she had averted a far worse catastrophe?

  Skye hurried back through the town, suddenly nervous at the unspoken aggression she felt all around her, and as she passed the war memorial she saw that there were fresh flowers surrounding the base, as if to rebuke her for consorting with the enemy, even though those who had perished during and after the war had eventually included her own husband… But he had never been one of them, any more than she was, she thought bitterly, and certainly not now. In all her life, she had never felt so alienated. She was in the right… but nobody else seemed to believe it, or understand her motives.

  It was midday by the time she rushed back into the sanctuary of White Rivers, ashen-faced. She hardly noticed the other car outside as Lily stared at her aghast.

  ‘Skye, what’s happened? You look terrible. David’s here, and we were just having a bite to eat.’

  ‘David, thank God,’ Skye gasped. ‘You’ve got to do something. You’ve got to help us—’ She swayed alarmingly, and sat down heavily on one of the chairs they provided where customers could sit and browse. Those mythical customers who were shunning them totally now – and from what she had seen today, looked set to do so for the foreseeable future, unless they did something drastic.

  ‘That’s just what I’m here to suggest,’ David Kingsley said calmly. ‘Otherwise there could be a very uncivil war among the inhabitants of Cornwall.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Skye muttered. ‘For the last couple of hours I felt that at any minute I’d be stoned at best, and deported to America at worst.’

  She didn’t stop to consider what order she had put the choices in. She belonged here now, damn it, and she wanted to hold her head up high, the way her predecessors had done. Those proud Tremaynes and Killigrews, who had forged the dynasty that commanded respect and love from the community. Until Skye Norwood had introduced her own radical ideas and ruined everything. And it was so unfair. Theo had been the one to insist on keeping the boys here, and he was no doubt lording it about Truro, having washed his hands of her.

  ‘Listen to what David has to say,’ Lily urged her now.

  Skye looked up dully, but unable to miss the sudden vibrant look that passed between the other two. She wondered briefly if she was unwittingly providing some lonely hearts service… ironically so, since she was the one with the loneliest heart of all…

  ‘I’m afraid Theo Tremayne’s been quick to put his side of things wherever folk will listen, and if we waste time it will only get worse. So I suggest you get your article written today. I want it to be mainly your voice that’s heard, then I’ll print a special newsletter to be delivered to every house in the neighbourhood free of charge before the next regular issue of The Informer is due out. It’s the only way to stop him at his own game.’

  Her mouth dropped open. David was a shrewd businessman but she knew he believed in a cause. Even so, he couldn’t do this free of charge. As if he read her mind, he grasped her cold hand and squeezed it hard.

  ‘Call it my Christmas good deed, Skye, and take advantage of it – and it’s also good public relations,’ he added, in case she thought he was going soft.

  ‘I think it’s darling of you, but you must let me pay for it,’ she choked. ‘I insist.’

  He shrugged. ‘You can meet the costs halfway if you must, but don’t deprive me of my entire moment of glory!’

  ‘David really wants to do this for us, Skye,’ Lily said. ‘Isn’t he wonderful?’

  It was pretty obvious now that Lily was smitten. How curious, thought Skye, when she had never shown the slightest interest in men before, except for a passing fancy for Nick that had quickly fizzled out. What was even more amazing was that David, never short of female company, seemed so struck by Lily’s heightened colour and rapturous expression.

  ‘We’d better get on with it then,’ Skye said, reverting to business before she let her imagination run away with her. ‘I need to be at my desk, and I’ve no stomach for sitting here twiddling my thumbs today, anyway. Let’s shut up shop.’

  ‘No, we mustn’t do that,’ Lily shook her head, taking charge. ‘You go home and do your writing, and we’ll keep the place open. Ethan’s keen to practise his pottery, and I’m quite capable of dealing with any intruders.’

  She was too, Skye thought. Lily was n
o weakling, and David Kingsley dearly admired the handsome woman that she was, far more than the simpering females who fancied their chances with him.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure. Besides, we had another visitor while you were away and I shan’t be alone.’

  At that moment Vera came through from the workroom, smiling sheepishly at Skye. Her voice was defensive, but as determined as her sister’s.

  ‘Adam’s still on strike, and I told him I’m quite ready to go on strike in the kitchen as well unless I’m free to help you both. We have to make a stand sometime and follow Mrs Pankhurst’s lead, don’t we? Otherwise it was all for nothing.’

  As if unconsciously imitating the lady’s doctrine, the two sisters moved closer together, standing resolutely shoulder to shoulder, and Skye had never loved them more.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The news that the German youths had gone spread with the speed of a moorland fire, but instead of solving everything, it resulted in the clayworkers at Killigrew Clay becoming totally divided. Some were furious, believing they had been done out of their rightful scourging since Skye had helped the foreigners to flee under cover of darkness. Many of them bitterly blamed her for her female interference.

  Others were in a state of complete uncertainty, wanting to get back to work and nagged by their womenfolk for not doing so. Christmas was coming, and there were few enough treats for large families when the menfolk were idle and not bringing home their wage packets. But the pit captains were adamant that nothing was to move until they had thrashed things out to everyone’s satisfaction.

  Vera was able to throw more light on what was happening, and reported it to the other women. ‘Not that Adam was being disloyal to the rest of them in speaking up, you understand,’ she told them. ‘But when a man gets between the sheets with his wife, she can always turn pillow talk to her advantage.’