Clay Country

by Clay Country (retail) (epub)

To his credit, Sam didn’t give a flicker of a smile.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am, and this ’ere’s known as the porcelain earth, since one reverend gennulman once gave it the name. O’ course, thing have changed a mite since his time—’

  When it was time for the guests to alight, they walked enthusiastically over the mercifully dry ground towards Clay One. The afternoon shift was in full production, the clayworkers having been warned in no uncertain terms by Hal Tremayne that their wages would be docked if they dared to make cat-calls or disgraced themselves in any way.

  They knew better than to disobey. Besides, they were only too glad that all this railway nonsense had been settled. There wasn’t a man there who wished to return to the old method of transporting the clay blocks by heavy waggon down the steep and hazardous streets of St Austell, when the rail trucks did it all so effortlessly.

  By the time the shift was over, and the clayworkers’ wives were tugging the long heavy clay boots from their menfolks’ feet, the guests were safely back at Killigrew House, enjoying the hospitality of the house and the successful young Killigrews, and feeling pleased with themselves that they had been the first to risk the rail tracks again, which would all be reported in the Truro newspaper.

  ‘Who’d ever have thought young Morwen Tremayne ’ould be such a fitting wife for the boss?’ more than one shiftworker commented. ‘A fine lady she be now, and ’tis to her credit that she don’t turn up her nose at we because on it.’

  They were all in an expansive mood today, because the resumption of the railway meant prosperity for Killigrew Clay, and that meant prosperity for all of them. Even if it had an entirely different meaning for the poorest clayworker to that of Ben Killigrew.

  They had had enough of strikes, and lay-offs and arguments. They wanted full bellies for their children and sound roofs over their heads, and that was what the rail tracks meant to them. Let the fine Killigrews enjoy their own style of life, just so long as the clayworkers had their own humbler needs satisfied.

  And at Killigrew House that afternoon, the fine folk thought enviously that Ben Killigrew was indeed fortunate to have such a vivacious and beautiful wife, who dispensed hospitality as though she had been born to it. As Morwen caught her Mammie’s approving glance, she smiled inwardly.

  Why, it was easy after all to act the lady, she thought in some surprise. In the right clothes and the right setting, and with the support of a good man, anyone could do it…

  But it was more than that, and most there were aware of it. Morwen had a natural grace and charm, and once, when she almost swore she caught a little wink from Jane Askhew, she realised how much she was enjoying herself. Killigrew’s lady had truly arrived.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Killigrew Clay was at its busiest at despatching times, in the spring and autumn of the year. The clay blocks, dried and scraped in the sun, were loaded into the little rail trucks, now stripped of their finery used for the excursion rides, and ready for service once more. Hal Tremayne watched the last of them leave Clay One with a feeling of immense relief and satisfaction.

  For a while it had seemed inevitable that the old clay waggons would have to be brought back into use, and not since the disaster four years ago had the waggons careered through the town, scattering clay dust and angering the good townsfolk.

  To revive the old method of clay transporting would also revive all the memories of that horrific day when poor baker Nott had been crushed, along with the foolhardy clayworkers who went blacklegging in order to feed their families during the strike.

  They were bad times, Hal thought. He wanted to see no more of them. But now the last of the autumn clay had been sent to Charlestown port, and the clayworkers had watched it go with rousing cheers. And Ben Killigrew sent word that there would be a few extra pennies in each wage packet that week in celebration of the fact.

  ‘A few extra pennies!’ Dora Tremayne echoed, when Sam reported as much at the cottage. ‘What good will that do for the likes o’ we, when Killigrew and his kind are feasting on red meat every day, and we’m still trapping rabbits when we can—’

  Sam gave an impatient sigh. Dora seemed to take delight in finding arguments where there were none. She was not like the true Tremayne women, who dug their heels in grimly when troubles came, and did all they could to help their menfolk survive. Sam was very much afraid that Dora would simply lie down and weep if their lives were ever in any real danger. She was not like his mother, or Morwen…

  ‘I suppose you’m including our Morwen in the Killigrews,’ he snorted. ‘She were allus good to ’ee, Dora, for all that ’ee never really got on—’

  Dora sniffed. ‘She allus thought herself too high and mighty for we, and you know it, Sam Tremayne. Your Morwen’s a Killigrew now all right. You only had to see her in her new clobber on the train to know that. And then to be entertaining all they posh folks! Your Mammie told me how fine it all were!’

  ‘Well, how do you expect our Morwen to behave, now she’s Ben’s wife?’ Sam was angry at the need to defend his sister to her. His needs were simple. As long as his men did their work, and his children were fed, he wanted his family to get along well together. All too often he’d had to listen to Dora criticising Morwen, and he’d had enough of it.

  ‘Ben Killigrew’s wife! She don’t know the half of what ’tis like to fend for a parcel o’ babbies—’

  ‘That’s enough, Dora!’ Sam thundered. ‘I’ll not hear another word about our Morwen in this house. You know she’d give her right arm to have one healthy babby like ours, let alone three—’

  ‘From the looks o’ Walter, there’s one on ’em who’s not too healthy.’ Dora’s anger evaporated. ‘He’s looking poorly, and if ’tis the measles, then pray to God that we’ll have enough pennies to pay for his doctoring.’

  Instantly, Sam was all concern.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before, instead of babbling on so? As to doctoring – there’s plenty I ’ouldn’t ask Ben for, but I’d beg for a doctor for my children, if need be.’

  The children had been put to bed long ago, but one look at Walter, flushed and muttering irritably in his sleep, told its own story.

  ‘I’ll go to Penwithick for Doctor Growse. ’Tis the nearest, and I’m taking no chances if ’tis the measles—’

  ‘Sam – if ’tis, there’s nothing he can do. He’ll only tell us to keep un warm and comfortable and give un plenty to drink – ’twill wait till morning. Sam, don’t go tonight—’

  He looked at her keenly. Poor pretty Dora, looking as harassed as a fishwife already with the strain of worrying over Walter. Heaven help her in a real catastrophe, Sam thought fleetingly. But he knew she was right.

  He’d heard other folks tell of how the measles had to run its course. There was no treatment. They could only offer up prayers that Walter would get better.

  ‘All right, lamb,’ he touched her soft tangle of hair. ‘Anyway, it might not be the measles that ails un at all. It might be no more’n a chill. We’m in for a spell of wet weather by the looks, an’ ’twill do no harm to keep un indoors for a while. If he looks any worse tomorrow, then I’ll get the doctor.’

  For once Dora didn’t bother to ask who was going to pay for it. She was weary. Her sister-in-law could have no idea about caring for three children, and Dora thought enviously of Morwen in her big posh house with her servants…

  Not that she’d want Ben Killigrew for a husband. She had only ever wanted Sam. Only somehow the wanting and the loving had got pushed to the back of everyday living lately. She looked at the large frame of him, almost filling the small cottage. He looked at her at the same moment, and a spark of the old awareness passed between them.

  The children were asleep, and she and Sam were here, cosy and warm… he held out his arms to her, and she went into them, fitting there as snugly as a clayworker’s boot on a cobbler’s last. For a little while she would forget everything but being Sam’s wife…

  * * *

  For
the next week it rained heavily, and little Walter Tremayne grew progressively more miserable as he was confined to the cottage with the measles. Doctor Growse had confirmed the disease, and Morwen had sent word to say that the doctor should attend her brother’s children as often as needed, and that the medical bills would be dealt with by her husband.

  ‘I understand that ever since a visiting child was ill at her home, your sister was anxious that your young ones shouldn’t take ill,’ the doctor said. ‘Walter is a very mild case, fortunately. On no account must he leave the cottage though, and risk others catching it. If the others show any symptoms, keep them in bed for a few days, then in the house for three weeks.’

  Walter howled with rage when he learned he had to stay indoors. The outing to the sea for the clayworkers’ children was planned for next week, and he was going to miss it. Dora answered him crossly.

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to miss it an’ that’s that,’ she snapped. ‘Albert and Primmy can’t go neither. I’ll have to stay home with ’ee all too. Your Daddy must go, because he’s to be the rear guard on the train, but he won’t enjoy it without us!’

  ‘I wanted to go!’ Walter wept. ‘I couldn’t go last time ’cos o’ Primmy making you feel bad inside. ’Tain’t fair!’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about it, Walter, so you’d best be quiet or I shall slap ’ee! Just play wi’ your puppets or summat while I see what’s making Primmy so fretful.’

  But she guessed before she lifted the baby’s little nightshirt. Primmy had the tell-tale red spots, and it soon became certain that Albert’s show of temper when he heard that none of them was going on the outing, was due to the onset of his measles too. Thank God that none of them ailed too badly, Dora thought fervently, and thank God for the hardy Tremayne stock.

  Sam informed his family of the children’s illness, and although it was thought wiser for none of them to visit the cottage, Morwen sent up a huge basket of fruit, and some sweets and delicacies to keep them cheerful.

  ‘She means well, I daresay,’ Dora said grudgingly. ‘It still feels like charity, though.’

  ‘You know Mammie don’t like to hear you talk about our Morwen that way,’ Sam said edgily.

  ‘Then I shan’t say it when she can hear me,’ Dora rounded on him. ‘But I can’t help how I feel, Sam, and your Morwen’s grown away from the rest on us.’

  * * *

  It continued to rain. Low grey clouds scudded across the sky, and a cold wind whipped into faces and tugged at skirts and jackets. Dora was almost glad they didn’t need to venture out in it, although the enforced isolation was making everyone in the cottage irritable.

  Once Walter began to recover and to become scratchy with everyone around him, he spent hours at the thick window-glass, bemoaning the fact that the outing was coming nearer, and praying that the rain would continue so that they might postpone it until he could attend.

  ‘’Tis wicked to wish for the day to be spoiled for the other children,’ Dora said with rough sympathy. ‘Besides, the little uns couldn’t go now, with the measles, and it ’ouldn’t be fair for you to go neither—’

  He howled with fury, but the matter was resolved by the weather brightening, and the rain ceasing. It was oozing mud underfoot for a few days, but the wind did much to dry it out, and the day was fair for the children’s outing, and the little Tremayne children had no choice but to remain indoors with their mother, while Sam took the packed train to the sea.

  ‘I promise to bring ’ee back some shells to string and some pebbles to paint,’ Sam said, as Walter beseeched him to take him along.

  He hated to deny his son anything, but the doctor had been adamant. The risk was too great, both to Walter himself and all the other clayworkers’ children on the outing. Sam himself had had the measles when very young, and had survived it, so it was considered no risk for him to be with the other families.

  Looking at Dora’s flushed pretty face, harassed with the children, he prayed that she wouldn’t succumb to it too. Three sick children and a sick wife were trouble indeed.

  Before he left the cottage, he hugged all his family, one by one, lingering with his arms around Dora, feeling her softness against him, loving her more each day, despite the caustic tongue she had developed of late.

  ‘Be gentle with ’em, dar,’ he said softly. ‘They’m only little uns, and they’m fair sick wi’ disappointment. We’ll make it up to ’em. We’ll take ’em to the sea ourselves when they’m all well again.’

  Dora bit back the retort that such outings hadn’t come their way much before, with the long journey down to the sea and no means of getting there excepting their own good feet! This wasn’t the time to gripe, when Sam was clearly upset at his family’s snivellings. She hugged him back, whispering that she’d have a good hot meal ready for his return, and that they’d all be eager to hear how the day went.

  ‘Don’t forget the pebbles and shells,’ Walter said miserably. Sam spoke gravely.

  ‘I promise I won’t forget. I’ll bring back the finest collection ’ee ever saw. Now I must go, or they’ll leave without me. Be good for your Mammie.’

  He waved to the little group of them, framed in the doorway of the stone cottage, told Dora to take them inside, and turned away quickly. He couldn’t bear to see the sad young faces of his sons one second longer.

  * * *

  Killigrew Clay was in a high old state of excitement. Work at the pit continued with a skeleton shift, consisting of those clayworkers who had no children or were too old to care for travelling to the sea, or who downright mistrusted the new-fangled rail tracks, pronounced safe or not.

  For the vast majority, today was a holiday. Whole families poured down the hillside towards the proud little railway, spruced up and gleaming. The bal maidens wore their brightest garb, their long hair swinging beneath their bonnets; the young men smirked and preened themselves as they caught any pretty girl’s eye; the small children chattered like bees, clinging to their parents’ hands and jumping up and down for sheer pleasure.

  Ostensibly this was an outing for the children, but it had rapidly developed into a day out for anyone who cared to join in. Ben Killigrew had been expansive in his instructions.

  All who worked for Killigrew Clay were included in this special day, and long before the engine groaned into life, the train was packed to capacity; ribald tales were being bandied about; the baskets of food the women had packed were in danger of being squashed or eaten long before they ever reached the sea.

  Ben and Morwen had decided that they would not take part in the works outing. This was for the families as a gesture of thanks for their long hours of hard work, and the presence of the bosses might well inhibit their enjoyment.

  It had been strange for Morwen to think of herself in those terms, but she saw the sense in Ben’s words. So too, did Bess and Hal, who had also declined the invitation, thinking this was best left to the younger clayworkers to enjoy themselves. Hal would take charge of the day shift at Clay One, and Bess was meeting Morwen in the town.

  * * *

  Morwen imagined the day with an odd little tug of nostalgia, all the same. Ben’s rail tracks had once been no more than a distant dream. When she and Celia had been bal maidens for Killigrew Clay, that dream had never seemed remotely possible. How they too would have enjoyed this day, giggling and flirting with all the young men, togged up in their Sunday clothes…

  Her breath caught in her throat. Such dreams… Ben was one of the lucky ones. He had his rail tracks. While Celia… Morwen forced herself to think the words that were still so horrific to her… Celia had drowned herself in the clay pool. And Morwen herself… living as Ben’s wife was a dream that had seemed even more of an impossibility, which only went to prove to Morwen’s logical mind that dreams sometimes did come true. If you wanted them badly enough…

  She finished tidying herself and smiled at her mirrored reflection. How fine she looked. Quite the lady now. She should be grateful. She had e
verything she ever wanted – almost. And today, while the clay folk enjoyed the benefits of Ben Killigrew’s fortunes, she and her Mammie were spending their hour at Fielding’s Tea Rooms, rubbing shoulders with the refined matrons of St Austell.

  And if one secret part of her was away up on the moors, careering down the hillside in the little train that was surely alive with the screams of excitement by now, then she was not going to acknowledge it for one moment.

  * * *

  The hillside was crowded with onlookers and well-wishers giving the clayworkers’ outing a good send-off. Sam Tremayne stood outside the last truck, waving his arms like windmills to the front of the train, where any hope of whistling or shouting to the driver was completely drowned by the din.

  But at last there was a movement from the engine, and Sam leapt on board the last truck, where he managed to squeeze in between the assortment of baskets and bodies, and reminded himself that he was enjoying it all.

  Truth to tell, it wasn’t the same without Dora and the children. He wouldn’t have admitted it to her, to make her even more depressed, but being among all these other families in an official capacity made him miss his own even more.

  They were as close-knit as his own parents’ family had been, Sam thought with great satisfaction. It was right and proper, but he thanked God for it all the same. Such closeness wasn’t given to all.

  The train lurched and rattled, and the children screeched with pretended fear every time they went over a bump. The bal maidens screamed too, clutching on to the young clayworkers when there was no real need, knowing that the swaying train was excuse enough to be held tight in a young man’s embrace for a few clandestine moments. Together with the echoing cheers of the crowds left behind on the hilltop, the noise was deafening.

  ‘Why don’t we all sing a sea shanty?’ Sam tried to make himself heard. ‘Seems right, since we’m going to the seal’