Clay Country

by Clay Country (retail) (epub)

  In the middle of the week following his granddaughter’s baptising, Hal stood squarely in the large open area of clay one, near the clay pool, and faced the huge numbers of clayworkers jostling for space. For a minute or two it reminded him of the ugly scenes leading to the never-forgotten strike, but it had been Charles Killigrew then who had stubbornly refused to pay the extra pennies and twopences to make a man’s wage-packet worth taking home.

  Hal had to make them see that this new trouble was none of Ben’s doing. He had a loyalty to both sides, and he had never been afraid to speak his mind.

  He glanced at Sam and his fellow pit captains in their hard hats and dark jackets, symbols of their status, and felt a sharp pride that Sam had followed so stalwartly in his footsteps. He cleared his throat and called for order. The muttering voices died away as they looked towards Hal’s tall, commanding figure for direction. The Tremaynes were a handsome family.

  In the background there was still the hum of the beam engine, and the trundling of the little trucks to the sky-tips for those who must keep working and would have the words of the meeting related to them later. There was still the roar from the fire-hole, and the cursing from kiln workers, sweating profusely as they pushed and levered the wet clay for drying with their long-handled shovels.

  There was no cause for work to stop completely, and Hal was glad to see his instructions had been carried out.

  ‘We all know why we’m here,’ Hal stated. ‘And we all know that Ben Killigrew’s as keen as the rest of us to get this thing settled.’

  ‘He’d better be! My old woman’s wanting to be rid o’ the babbies for their annual trip to the sea. ’Tis her only day off in the year, and I be the one getting the stick, Hal Tremayne!’

  Raucous laughter followed the plaintive shout from the back of the crowd, and Hal grinned as he waved his hands for quiet. At least the mood of the men was temporarily lifted.

  ‘These engineer fellows say they’ll be poking about for some while yet—’ He had to pause until the angry shouting died down. ‘I’ve also had words wi’ Ben Killigrew, and he’s agreed to make a token paying-out to those who’d normally be takin’ the train on excursion trips and are deprived of it for the time being. He can’t be fairer than that, can he?’

  The few cheers were drowned in the demands to know how big the token payment would be. Hal glowered around at those who stirred up the rest of them, and guessed that Gilbert Dark, pit captain from Clay Two, would be amongst them. Gil Dark had a habit of opposing everything.

  ‘It won’t be much,’ he snapped at them. ‘But ’twill be payment for doing nothing, if you daft buggers will only think on it! What other clay boss pays out for bein’ idle? Not Bultimore and Vine’s, you can take it from me!’

  The growling lessened. Payment for doing nothing was not to be sneezed at.

  ‘So how long afore the rail tracks be called safe again, Hal Tremayne? ’Tis a lot of stuff and nonsense, all this inspecting ’em. No little train be going to fall through these moors, if the clay waggons ain’t done so all these years. You tell Ben Killigrew that from we—’

  ‘’Tis they daft buggers sitting behind their desks in their fancy offices who’m to blame for all this, not young Killigrew. Ain’t they got nothing else to do but interfere wi’ other folk’s business?’

  Hal shouted for quiet again as the men argued among themselves.

  ‘The fact is, Ben don’t own these moors! He has to pay rent to the county for using the land where he’s built the rail tracks. If ’tis proved that the land’s unsafe, he’ll have no choice. The tracks will have to change course.’

  ‘Why didn’t the stupid bugger find out how the land lay afore he built ’em then?’

  Sam stepped in, adding his roars to his father’s to keep the crowd under control.

  ‘He did that! There was no evidence to show there was tin-mining under this part of the moors. But that ain’t good enough for these official buggers. They mean to search out every little crack in the surface, and study every ancient map they can to make certain sure. And ’tis safety we want, when all’s said an’ done. We don’t want the likes of the Honourable Mrs Stanforth falling down an old mine-shaft, do us?’

  He provoked them, knowing it would bring on a string of bawdy comments as to where the Honourable Mrs Stanforth could go with the rest of the stuck-up townsfolk. The anger began to subside again. The pit captains of Clay Three and Four drew closer to Hal, giving him silent support.

  ‘So now ’ee all know as much as me,’ Hal bellowed to make his voice heard. ‘Ben Killigrew’s coming here this week to see what’s to do, and I’m told he’ll visit Truro and Bodmin to see some old county records. If nothing’s found, then there’s nobody to say the rail tracks ain’t safe.’

  More cheers followed at that, and as Hal moved away, the crowd began to disperse. For a few minutes he’d wondered if the men would get as obstinate as they’d been before the strike four years ago, and he heard Gil Dark mutter grudgingly that Ben’s offer to make the token payment whether they worked the excursion train or not was a stroke of genius.

  Hal smiled faintly, knowing he had been the one to put the idea in the boss’s head on Sunday afternoon. It was sometimes useful to have the boss as one of the family.

  * * *

  Ben was irritated at the thought of visiting Truro and Bodmin on what he considered a fool’s errand. He had made endless searches into records before he even started work on the rail tracks. He was convinced there was no danger, and he cursed the finicky matron who had imagined she heard creaking and movement beneath the surface of the hillside.

  The ancients of the area would probably attribute the noises to the spirits of the mines, the so-called knockers, tapping away underground to frighten the miners and demand that there were tid-bits of food left out for them… Ben dismissed the idea, annoyed that it had even entered his head, and thought viciously that he wished they’d go and frighten the Honourable Mrs Stanforth instead.

  Now he was forced to make numerous visits to the site while surveyors and engineers inspected and argued, bored holes and took away samples, and his frustration at getting no positive results made him irritable with everyone. At Killigrew House the staff avoided him whenever possible, knowing they’d get a flea in their ears as soon as he looked at them.

  As the frustrating days went by Morwen began to wonder where the closeness between them had gone. It seemed as elusive as stardust. Ben was too preoccupied to think of anything but the problems facing him. Rightly so, of course. In her saner moments Morwen would not have him any other way. But there were other times when she was capricious enough to wish the whole damn clay works to kingdom come.

  She assumed he had forgotten the matter of the piano tutor. She almost hoped he had. It was of so little importance compared with the outcry about the railway safety. The Truro newspaper article had stirred up strong feeling in the town, and several impromptu town meetings had already taken place in the market square.

  St Austell’s roads had suffered badly from the lumbering clay waggons in the past, and still did so from some clay works. The townsfolk clearly feared that with Killigrew railway being put out of action, there would be a recurrence of the bad times. The times that had resulted in the terrible accident four years ago…

  Ben had had too much on his mind to think about engaging a pianoforte tutor for his wife on the day after her heated reaction, but her unexpected request lingered in his head. A week later he held her in his arms, preparatory to riding into Bodmin for yet another meeting with the land surveyors. He kissed her good-bye, and murmured the words that made her jerk back with sudden fright.

  Her eyes were large and round and intensely blue.

  ‘A tutor will be coming here today?’ She heard herself stammering. ‘You should have warned me, Ben! I’ll not know what to say to un! I’ll be all fingers and thumbs—’

  She felt the rumble of his laughter against her body as he gave her an impatient little shak
e.

  ‘Morwen, it’s the tutor’s job to teach you! I thought it was what you wanted. You’re like a leaf in the wind at times, sweetheart. There’s no pleasing you—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ben,’ she muttered, angry with herself for behaving like a failure before she had even set her fingers to the keys of the pianoforte.

  It wasn’t just that, though. It was the thought of some superior genius of a man thinking her a complete idiot, and getting above herself… the clayworkers’ daughters she knew weren’t refined enough for piano-playing… she felt Ben’s hands holding her reassuringly, and reminded herself that she was Morwen Killigrew, wife of the china clay works owner… any tutor should be honoured to come to this lovely house and give her lessons. She managed a weak smile.

  ‘You took me by surprise, that’s all. I thought you’d forgotten. You’ve been so busy—’

  ‘Not too busy to notice that my wife sometimes gets bored with playing the lady,’ he retorted. She felt her cheeks start to burn with embarrassment.

  ‘Do I appear so ungrateful?’

  He let her go, annoyance on his face. ‘I didn’t marry you for your gratitude, Morwen, but I don’t forget that until you came here, you led a very different life. I don’t mean to look down on it. God knows the clay business is an essential part of my life too, but for all its privations, I’m aware that you had a freedom then that you don’t have now.’

  He was perceptive enough to know it. The life of a lady, however genteel and seemingly carefree, still couldn’t compare with the wild freedom of the moorland creatures. And part of Morwen Tremayne’s charm had always been that empathy with such creatures. She was a dancing nymph, fey as the morning mist, an enchanting wood sprite…

  The clay folk had a peculiar rapport with each other too, a feeling that went beyond family ties. They nearly all had large families, and they were as close-knit as a weaver’s mesh. In times of trouble they were one huge family that stood firm against all odds. In a strange way Ben envied them. He had everything, but there was still something intangible that was missing, and he hadn’t yet discovered what it was. Or if he had he wouldn’t admit it, even to himself.

  ‘What do I want with freedom, Ben?’ Morwen said huskily. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do with it! All right. I’ll put on my best prim face and sit like a lady for when this old gentleman comes. Will that do for ’ee?’

  She gave a mischievous smile. He suddenly laughed and kissed the end of her nose.

  ‘You couldn’t look prim if you tried, and I don’t think you’ll find Mr David Glass too overpowering. He’ll be here at about three o’clock.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Does that not fit in with your plans for the day?’

  She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’d thought of visiting Dora, but I can do it just as well tomorrow. I feel I should take more of an interest in them. Even if Dora and I don’t always agree, I love to see the children.’

  Even as she spoke she felt guilty, because visiting Dora was only an excuse to go deeper on to the moors, and pay her intended visit to old Zillah. Morwen was determined on it now.

  ‘Then visit Dora tomorrow,’ Ben agreed. ‘And I had best be on my way. I may be late for dinner this evening, so don’t wait for me. I’ve seen Father this morning. He’d like you to read the London newspaper to him, Morwen, so that will occupy you for an hour or so.’

  ‘Must I? ’Tis always so gloomy and depressing. It can hardly cheer him!’

  ‘News of war is always depressing, my love, but it’s what he wants, so please humour him. I shall look forward to hearing you dazzle me with your piano-playing later!’

  Another quick kiss, and he was gone, the set look returning to his face again, at the thought of the forthcoming meeting. Morwen sighed. If she had matured and changed in four years, how much more so had Ben. Sometimes she wondered if she would ever see the old Ben again, or if he still existed.

  It wasn’t that she loved him less. In fact it awed her to know how much she loved him, and that she was capable of such love. In a big family like the Tremaynes the love was spread wide. To concentrate it all on one person in married bliss was both spectacular and a little frightening. With that strange ripple of presentiment she sometimes felt, Morwen crossed her fingers at the thought, as though too much happiness still had to be accounted for in the future.

  She took the London newspaper up to Charles Killigrew’s room. At least reading about other folk would take her mind away from the fright of meeting Mr David Glass that afternoon.

  How absurd she was being! He was just a man, for heaven’s sake! Ben would have chosen a proper and respectable tutor for her. He wanted to please her, and she’d just show him she could do as well as Miss Finelady… she’d prove herself worthy of his admiration, just as Ben had admired Jane Carrick’s trilling music so long ago in this very house.

  Like the echo of that night, she seemed to hear Jane’s polite voice remarking that she’d never met a bal maiden before, and Morwen’s own snapping that they didn’t have two heads… how gauche she had been then.

  If she were to meet Jane Carrick now, she was serenely sure of her own poise and graciousness. It was easy to be serene, when the likelihood of such a meeting was remote.

  * * *

  Charles wanted to hear every bit of news about the Crimean war. The local rag, as he called The Informer, was filled with gossip these days, apart from the pompous ‘News Despatches from Abroad’. Since much of these reports were gleaned from the returning wounded embarking at Falmouth, it was necessarily highly coloured, and not entirely reliable, as each hero put his own interpretation on events.

  The London newspapers, now sending their own war correspondents to the battle areas, may not be as graphic, but were probably nearer the truth.

  Even the ambience of wars had changed, with reports reaching distant shores almost as soon as incidents occurred. The electric telegraph had seen to that, as well as the steam-powered ships that brought the wounded home before they had forgotten the horrors they had seen.

  ‘You don’t really want me to go on reading about the cholera outbreaks and the terrible winter in the Crimea, do you, Father?’ Morwen said at last. ‘Winter’s over now—’

  ‘Mebbe it is here, but not for those poor devils,’ Charles said painfully. ‘They suffered some terrible losses, m’ dear, from disease as well as in the fighting, and ships lost in heavy seas. We do well to remember it.’

  ‘I don’t want to remember it,’ she said, suddenly angry. ‘What does this war have to do with us here in Cornwall? It turns folk into fanatics. We know nothing of such places as Balaclava and Sevastopol, that I’ve been reading about to you. They’re just names to us—’

  ‘We still celebrate any victory—’ he said smugly, and Morwen snorted inelegantly.

  ‘You call it celebrating, when any bit o’ news turns folk into dancing idiots, lighting bonfires on the moors and chanting round ’em? Even to making effigies of the Russian Tsar like heathens? I’m surprised you think well o’ such goings on!’

  The victory bonfires had started in London, lit partly to celebrate, and partly to revive flagging spirits. The idea of them had quickly spread until it seemed that for even the smallest triumph a trail of fires was lit from the capital to Cornwall. Townsfolk and countryfolk alike went wild, with any excuse for prancing like lunatics in city parks and open moors.

  Charles’s smile was lop-sided as a trail of spittle ran down the side of his chin, and Morwen quickly wiped it away.

  ‘Any such goings on brightens my day, love.’ As he spoke, sadness distorted his voice.

  Morwen felt a swift shame, realising immediately that to Charles newspaper reports, however gory, were like a window on the outside world that he would never really know again.

  She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, knowing that he was tiring. He tired with alarming suddenness, and Morwen knew she would soon be free to do anything she wished. She could walk in the sun, ride her mare along
the sandy beach, visit her mother… she was free, as Charles would never again be free.

  But she wanted to read no more war news. The new edition of the Truro paper, The Informer, had arrived that morning, and she picked it up, hoping to interest Charles in more local affairs. The ‘Domestic Intelligence’ column usually had some humorous bits in it, and some of the correspondence columns were ponderous and heavily anonymous…

  ‘Has Ben read any of this to you?’ she said quickly.

  His head moved slowly from side to side. He liked to drop off to sleep with the sound of her soft voice still in his ears, so she picked up the paper and began to read, hoping the tremor in her voice wouldn’t betray the unease she felt.

  ‘It’s a report by Lew Tregian, the editor who came here to interview Ben recently.’ She began to read the printed words.

  ‘It is announced that Mr Tom Askhew, former chief editor of The Informer here in Truro, and now of The Northern Informer in Yorkshire, is to become the official War Correspondent for both newspapers while the crisis in the Crimea continues. Mr Askhew left for the Crimea several weeks ago, and will be sending reports back with all speed. Mr Askhew’s journalistic accomplishments have been widely praised in Cornwall and the North of England, and the owner of the Northern paper, Sir Garside Sefton, has called him his right-hand man. Mr Askhew leaves behind his young wife, formerly Miss Jane Carrick of Truro, and their baby daughter, Cathy. It is to be hoped the parting will not be too prolonged, but we at The Informer feel privileged in our re-aquaintance with a fine master of the written word.’