Clay Country

by Clay Country (retail) (epub)

  ‘We must do as your sister says, Freddie, but you can point out the places to me. Perhaps if we meet again, you can explain more about your Cornish customs. We don’t have magical stones in London, I’m afraid.’

  Morwen wasn’t sure if he was mocking them or not, but he spoke sincerely enough. And Freddie was quite mollified.

  ‘’Tis only a tale, but I can tell ’ee of plenty more, Captain. Cornwall’s riddled with ’em.’

  ‘Good. Then I see that we shall have some delightful hours together,’ Neville said smilingly.

  Morwen sat back, feeling oddly now as if she was the third person in this expedition. She barely needed to say a word as Freddie pointed out Zillah’s grey hovel, smoke still curling from its chimney regardless of the summer weather, and later, the gaunt solidity of the Larnie Stone.

  The stone where she and Celia had taken their potions and circled it at midnight, hoping to see the face of their true loves through the hole in the stone. Celia had seen Jude Pascoe’s leering face, and she had seen Ben Killigrew…

  ‘We really had best be going, Neville,’ she said quickly, and he nodded at once.

  ‘Can I come to Killigrew House with ’ee?’ Freddie asked.

  ‘No. Jane Askhew’s coming over from Truro one day, and she’ll want to talk with Captain Peterson. You’re not to come until you’re given an invitation, you hear?’

  No matter how he sulked, she was adamant. Neville told him breezily that there would be plenty of other occasions, and he gave in.

  ‘Freddie’s quite taken to you,’ Morwen commented when they left her brother at the Tremayne house. ‘Normally he argues far more vehemently!’

  Neville laughed. ‘He’s a fine boy. I liked him.’

  * * *

  ‘He said what?’ Ben almost exploded when Morwen related all that had happened that day. Neville had gone into the town on his own for the evening, as he had done on several other occasions, and they were having dinner alone. Morwen was alarmed at the sudden blaze of fury in her husband’s eyes. It was a fury that was totally inexplicable to her.

  ‘Neville said that if Freddie goes to London, he’ll give him his address and he can visit him at his mews house. He also said he’d show him something of London,’ she repeated. ‘I don’t know why you’re getting so hot and bothered about it, Ben. I think it’s very kind of Neville to take so much trouble—’

  ‘Oh, it’ll be no trouble, I assure you, my darling!’

  ‘Don’t call me your darling in that patronising way. If you want to have an argument, then at least will you tell me what I’ve done wrong, for I haven’t the least idea how I’ve displeased ’ee yet again!’

  She jumped up from the table, pushing her plate away and having no more appetite for food. She meant to rush out of the dining-room, when Ben’s voice stopped her.

  ‘Morwen, come back here at once!’

  She whipped round, bright spots of angry colour staining her cheeks.

  ‘Do ’ee talk to me as if I’m one o’ your bal maidens again then? Am I doin’ summat wrong that has to be accounted for to my lord and master?’

  She bit her mouth, feeling it tremble as the old dialect tripped off her tongue. For some reason, the remark she had made to Captain Peterson earlier that day flashed into her mind. We are what we are.

  And right now Morwen felt as lowly as the imperious young Killigrew boy had ever made her feel in the days when he’d come lording about the clay works fresh from college, and the sniggers had followed him around Clay One… even the day he and his cousin Jude had been sent to do an honest day’s work, and Ben had boiled and sweated in the kiln… he had still been a cut above the rest, and they all knew it. Hal Tremayne had wisely insisted to Charles Killigrew that a boss’s place was not working beside the men. There were bosses and workers, and the two should be kept strictly in their places for harmony between them.

  Right now, with Ben on his feet and towering above the dinner table, his face dark with anger, Morwen felt exactly as she had done in those far-off days.

  She felt as her Daddy had felt. She had no place here, in this fine house, with this fine gentleman…

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t speak such rubbish!’

  ‘I’m sorry if ’ee don’t like my words now. ’Tis hard to act the lady every minute of the day.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I was rude to you. It wasn’t my intention, but you can be so almighty stubborn at times, Morwen. You just don’t listen—’

  ‘Listen to what? You’re talking in riddles, Ben! We were having a normal conversation, and I was telling you how sweet Neville was to Freddie this morning—’

  ‘Neville Peterson was never sweet to anyone except for his own gratification,’ Ben stated flatly.

  Morwen said nothing for a moment.

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘I didn’t want you to understand me. I had hoped this disastrous visit would end without the need for it. But now I see that there are things that must be told, so you’ll please follow me to my study and close the door behind you.’

  It was more than a request. It was an order. And Ben’s set face told her more than words that it was no time for further arguing. She followed him, still perplexed, and sat on the chair on the opposite side of the desk from him. Ben didn’t sit. He prowled about the room, conscious of her unwavering eyes on him.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you I was angry when Neville Peterson arrived here, and discovered you had invited him to stay for as long as he likes, do I?’

  ‘You do not. I couldn’t think why! You invite Jane Finelady here often enough—’ She was furious to hear the old name on her lips before she could stop it.

  It was a measure of the seriousness of this discussion that he made no comment on it. He spoke tersely.

  ‘Neville Peterson was in a class above me at college. He and his cronies formed an elite kind of group. They were all the sons of rich fathers and thought the world was their playground. They specialised in making new boys welcome. Any young, vulnerable boy was in danger of coming under their control—’

  ‘I still don’t understand what you’re saying. It sounds no more than horseplay—’

  ‘Perhaps I should make it plainer, then. Perhaps you’d prefer me to say outright that Neville Peterson and his gang tried to get every young frightened boy into their evil clutches. I know exactly what I’m talking about—’

  ‘Dear God, Ben—’ Her voice was hoarse with shock.

  ‘No, not me, love! I was one of the lucky ones who was warned beforehand. But they tried. Believe me, they tried! Have you noticed the scar on Peterson’s throat?’

  She nodded dumbly, her eyes wide with horror. Only that morning Neville had told Freddie glibly that it was caused in battle by some black fellow or other…

  ‘It was caused by my belt buckle. I still have it. I can show it to you. I consider it a worthy trophy.’

  ‘I can’t believe what you’re saying, Ben.’ Her thoughts were spinning, her heart thudding sickly. ‘Neither can I believe it of Neville—’

  ‘You think a cultured voice and good manners and a fine masculine uniform changes the habits of a lifetime?’

  She was suddenly angry. All she knew of Captain Peterson was the image he’d presented to her, but she had no reason to doubt that he was anything but a charming, entertaining if rather frothy young man.

  ‘How do you know such habits remain? Perhaps it was all harmless college games. I know nothing of such things, but—’

  ‘No, you don’t. But your championship of Peterson could be the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done, Morwen.’

  ‘How can it be?’

  ‘Will you still think of harmless college games when Freddie goes away to London and Peterson invites him to his home? I’ve no doubt there’s still an elite group who’ll be only too delighted to have a young buck to sport between them. How will you feel about your favourite then?’

  Morwen jumped to her feet.

  ‘I t
hink you’re evil to even suggest such a thing! I refuse to listen to any more of it.’ She put her hands over her ears, and Ben pulled them roughly away.

  ‘You must, Morwen. It’s Freddie I’m concerned about.’

  Tears blinded her eyes. Was Freddie’s lovely dream to be tarnished as well?

  ‘He may not even get a place at the school,’ she said chokingly. ‘It may not even happen—’

  ‘If it does, then we must think seriously about telling him, Morwen, and I’ll call on Peterson in London myself to warn him off.’

  ‘I still won’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. I wish he’d never come here, but I can’t ask him to go with no reason.’ Her voice rose hysterically, and she tried to think calmly. ‘Anyway, I think he’s already tiring of the country life. I’m sure he’ll want to go back to London soon.’

  ‘The sooner the better.’

  ‘Well, I can’t condemn the man without proof!’ she said, still incensed and upset. She made an attempt to be flippant. ‘Anyway, he’s the only war hero we’ve got! Surely that must count in his favour. I won’t ruin his visit, Ben—’

  Ben didn’t respond to her flippancy. ‘Just as long as it’s not Freddie who’s ruined.’

  Morwen felt like weeping. Such ugliness hadn’t entered her life before, and she hated Ben for telling her, even though he’d felt it had to be told. However pleasant Captain Peterson was now, the knowledge was going to colour their relationship.

  She was thankful he had found some acquaintances in St Austell town and was not seeking her company quite so often. But for the time being he still remained in the house, and she was conscious of an awkwardness that hadn’t been there before.

  * * *

  It was an unexpected relief when Jane Askhew came calling with her daughter a week or so later, and brought with her an uninvited visitor. Morwen was sitting upstairs with Charles Killigrew, and Ben was making grudging conversation with Neville in the garden. Jane smiled a little diffidently.

  ‘Ben, I’m sorry to come unannounced like this, but you know Mr Tregian of The Informer, don’t you?’

  The two men nodded to one another. Jane rushed on.

  ‘Mr Tregian was in Falmouth recently, hoping to glean first-hand news for the paper from returning soldiers, and he heard that an officer was asking for directions for Killigrew House, saying he was an old friend of yours. I hope you don’t think it a liberty, Ben, but Lew would very much like an interview, if the Captain is agreeable.’

  ‘I think it’s Captain Peterson you should be asking about that,’ Ben said non-committally.

  ‘I’ve got no objections,’ Neville answered at once. ‘But may I be introduced to this charming young lady?’

  Ben was crisp. ‘Mrs Jane Askhew and her daughter Cathy – Captain Neville Peterson, late of the Crimea. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have some refreshment sent out to you. It’s pleasant enough in the garden for your purposes, isn’t it, Tregian?’

  ‘Oh, admirably, Mr Killigrew,’ the man said hastily. ‘Mrs Askhew wishes to listen to the Captain’s reports. Does that meet with your approval, Sir?’

  ‘I can think of nothing I’d like better.’ Neville’s smiles were dazzling. ‘Every soldier likes to bend the ear of a pretty woman and gain her admiration for his courage!’

  ‘Jane’s husband is a war correspondent for the newspaper,’ Ben heard himself say sourly. ‘You may have come across him. Tom Askhew.’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’ Neville’s smile didn’t waver. He turned to Lew Tregian, becoming businesslike. ‘Now then, dear fellow, where shall we begin?’

  ‘Please tell us of the true conditions in the Crimea, Captain,’ Jane’s soft voice said at once. ‘Was it very bad?’

  Neville looked at her troubled face and began to speak earnestly, while Lew Tregian scribbled furiously, jubilant that he had a real scoop for his paper at last.

  He knew the basics, of course. The French were unwilling allies of the British against the Russian forces, and both armies were scathing of each other. The last assault on Sevastopol in June that year had failed, and each of the allied armies blamed the other for the fact that the town was partly in ruins but still unconquered from the enemy.

  ‘So the hospitals are overcrowded and rife with disease as well as being totally unable to cope with all the wounded?’ Lew prompted when Neville had exhausted the battle details and gone on to more human stories. ‘What of the indomitable Miss Nightingale and her nurses?’

  ‘An excellent lady if one can stomach the hearty type!’

  ‘I hardly think the poor soldiers would care about that, as long as their needs are catered for,’ Jane said, visibly upset at hearing of the dysentery and cholera and the last terrible winter that had finished off many of the weakened men, when morale was at its lowest.

  Tom hadn’t gone to the Crimea until the spring, but he had said little of the squalor and disease that Captain Peterson was reporting now, keeping his despatches strictly impersonal and factual so as not to unduly alarm people at home.

  ‘Oh, of course, of course! And a firm approach is probably better than trying to be too soft with dying men. It does them no good to be wept over, does it?’

  ‘Darling, run along indoors and find Aunt Morwen,’ Jane said quickly to Cathy, as the child’s eyes widened. Cathy had been quite occupied with picking daisies until moments ago, but now she was listening too intently for Jane’s comfort.

  ‘I think I have plenty of interesting information here for a lead article, Captain Peterson,’ Lew Tregian said at last. ‘I’d be honoured to use your name as told to our reporter.’

  ‘By all means,’ Neville said.

  The editor turned to Jane. ‘I won’t wait for refreshment, Mrs Askhew, if you’ll make my farewells to Mr Killigrew. I’m anxious to get back to Truro and set up this article.’

  Jane smiled at Neville when the man had gone.

  ‘You must forgive him his enthusiasm, Captain. He has printer’s ink in his veins, the same as my husband.’

  ‘Please don’t apologise, dear lady. I like a man with enthusiasm. There are enough milksops in the world.’

  Jane looked at him with approval. He had spoken so bravely of that terrible war and the appalling conditions of the hospital at Scutari on the Turkish mainland, where the poor soldiers had to be taken by boat from the Crimea, encountering even more discomfort on the rough sea journey.

  She prayed that her Tom was safe. She prayed that there were more brave heroes like Captain Peterson. In her innocence, Jane thought humbly that milksop was certainly not a name to be applied to this man!

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hal Tremayne arrived on the day shift at Clay One to find an angry impromptu meeting among the clayworkers. Sam was already there. He pushed his way through the mob to reach his father.

  ‘We might have expected summat of the sort when Ben announced the bonuses,’ Sam stormed. ‘Them that normally take the excursion passengers on the rail tracks are grumbling that the bonus is no more than a pittance, and cussing even louder that the rest on ’em shouldn’t get what’s normally theirs, for doin’ no extra work at all.’

  ‘What of the rest? What’s their argument, for God’s sake?’

  ‘They’m all up on their high horses, saying they’ve as much right to bonuses as the excursion men, since they’m all Clay One workers. And there’s summat else too. They want to know what’s to happen wi’ the autumn clay despatches. If the rail tracks be still silent, and we have to use the old clay waggons again, they’ll need repairing after four years of disuse, and the horses be unused to the narrow town streets after all this time.’

  Hal’s reply was swallowed up as the men closed round. ‘Now then, Hal Tremayne, you be works manager and spokesman, so you’m just the man to settle this!’

  ‘And we don’t want no fobbing off with tales to Ben Killigrew that don’t get no results—’

  ‘When did that ever happen?’ Hal shouted above the din. ‘Ben’s alwa
ys stuck out for fair dues for the lot of ’ee—’

  ‘You’ve got bloody short memories if ’ee don’t know ’tis true enough,’ Sam yelled. ‘What of the march to St Austell town to demand wage rises some years back? Didn’t Ben Killigrew march wi’ us?’

  ‘Oh ah! If ’ee call it marching when he’s sat on his arse on his fancy horse and riding alongside us—’

  ‘Shut your bloody noise, the lot of ’ee!’ Hal roared with enough gusto to do credit to old Charles Killigrew. ‘If there’s a complaint to be made, then I’ll hear it, and ’twill be forwarded to the boss in the usual way. I’ll have no trouble at my pit, and the first one that whispers strike will have my boot up his arse quicker than blinking. Is it clear to ’ee?’

  The clayworkers shuffled, their long leather boots that were so necessary in the damper conditions of the pit scuffing up dirt and dust now. The catcalls died away to angry mutterings. There wasn’t one there who didn’t know Hal Tremayne for a fair man, nor one who doubted that he’d make good his threat.

  But there were still the few who wanted to make sure Hal knew his place, and remind him that he didn’t wear boss’s gaiters yet. In the scale of things, Hal had more status than they, but he was still answerable to the Killigrews.

  ‘Do ’ee scratch the boss’s arse for un now then, Hal Tremayne?’ a young clayworker near to him sneered daringly.

  Hal was quicker to anger than of old, and his answer was to haul the boy close by the scruff of his neck, and twist the neckcloth he wore until the other’s eyes bulged.

  ‘Would ’ee like me to scratch yours, Davey Lee? If there’s a clay scraper handy, somebody can soon hold ’ee down for me, if ’ee fancy a branding—’

  ‘You’m a real boss’s man now, ain’t ’ee, Hal Tremayne?’ the boy choked out. ‘You and your family, what’s left of ’em—’

  ‘Leave our family out on it,’ Sam snapped.