The town of Sweyn’s Eye smouldered beneath a blanket of freezing fog. The smoke from the plethora of works on the banks of the river Swan lay heavily beneath the clouds, smothering Green Hill and the cottages of Copperman’s Row in a green mist that stung the eyes and irritated the lungs. But at Spinners’ Wharf the air was clearer, though the river, moving swiftly past the low grey building, had turned the colour of copper which stained the banks and choked the rushes.
Rhian worked at the larger of the two looms, passing threads of wool through the eyes of the heddles which, when lifted, formed a triangular space through which the shuttle moved with lightning speed.
Deftly she reversed the movement of the heddles, locking the weft thread into place, but it was not the patterns of the wool she saw for in her mind’s eye was a sparklingly clear picture of Mansel Jack. It seemed his image was imprinted on her mind – the crisp hair, the eyes so shrewd and knowing. She had held him in awe at first, hardly daring to open her mouth when he was around, but slowly she had come to like and admire him. Her feeling might have gone deeper, but Mansel Jack was unattainable, a man about to be married to a rich and beautiful woman.
Heath Jenkins on the other hand was one of her own kind – young and vulnerable and very dear to her. Over the Christmas season he had been constantly with her, buying her small gifts and taking her out to the Mackworth Arms; in short, he was wooing her. And she was confused by her own mixed feelings – did she love Heath enough to marry him?
‘Well, Rhian, you haf worked hard today, now you must eat before you fall sick.’ Heinz had come into the mill without Rhian noticing; startled, she pulled at the thread so that it snapped between her fingers.
‘Duw, there’s careless of me.’ She halted the loom and stared at the broken ends of wool knowing she would have to work them together, a tricky and tiresome task.
‘Leave it for now,’ Heinz suggested. ‘You haf tired eyes and you be no good to me if you are not strong, so come and eat.’
Heinz wore an apron which was covered in stains from the wool dyes; he looked like a great gaudy, genial clown and Rhian smiled.
‘You’re right, I am tired.’ She straightened and rubbed at the small of her back with her hands, trying to ease the ache. As she followed Heinz from the mill and towards the house, the appetising smell of steak and kidney pie drifted towards her and she realised quite suddenly that she was hungry. Heinz saw her expression and smiled.
‘My Gina, she is a good cook, her pastry is so light.’ He pushed the door open, allowing Rhian to enter the welcome warmth of the kitchen where Gina was sitting near the fire suckling her son.
Rhian sat at the white scrubbed table and wondered if she would ever feel maternal the way Gina did. Her face was alight with love as she looked down at her child and Rhian felt a sudden sense of envy.
It seemed that all the normal womanly emotions had been left out of her character, for when she was a young girl she had never sought to lie with some boy beneath the stars on Ram’s Tor. Not even in the flush of her first love for Heath had she overtly desired him. And now, watching Gina, she could not imagine the ties that bound her to the small gurgling creature in her arms.
‘There’s pale you’re looking, Rhian,’ Gina said suddenly. ‘Now when you’ve had your dinner, you take the rest of the day off and get out for a bit. It looks as though the rain is going to clear.’
Before Rhian had time to reply, Heinz bellowed in mock rage, ‘Listen to this woman of mine giving the orders!’ His beard bristled. ‘I not the boss in mine own house no more.’
‘Shut up your nonsense!’ Gina said quickly, her entire body shaking with laughter so that the baby in her arms, deprived of her nipple, set up a loud wailing.
‘You haf made my son cry now.’ Heinz took Gina’s face between his hands and kissed her mouth. ‘Come on, woman, no more fooling about. Mine belly thinks my throat’s cut, so where is the pie I’ve been waiting for all morning?’
Gina rose from her chair and handed him his son. ‘I’ll get it for you now if you’ll stop nagging.’
Together, in the warmth of the kitchen, the three of them ate hungrily. Rhian was more than welcome in the Sinmans’ household, she knew that, but at times like this she couldn’t help feeling like an interloper.
By the afternoon, a watery winter sun was breaking through the clouds. Rhian took a deep breath, pleased to be leaving the mill and strolling along the street towards the town. She had no idea what she would do with her unexpected free time, but she was grateful to the Sinmans for seeing her restlessness and not asking any questions.
She moved along the Strand towards the docks and the pungent smell of fish lingered on the breeze, for the seafood market was open for business. She nodded to Bryn the Fish and he grinned at her from behind his stall, holding up a dead fish entreatingly.
‘Will you buy something, for pity’s sake? There’s no one wants even a nice bit of cod this morning.’
Rhian saw the scales of the flaccid fish gleam in the sunlight and shivered at the gaping mouth and dead eyes which seemed to pin her with an unnerving gaze.
Cockles, still encrusted with sand, lay in enamel bowls; they would need to be boiled quickly at the peak of freshness to bring out the full flavour.
Laver bread made from seaweed, thick and black, clung to the sides of a zinc bucket. Looking at it, no one would guess how delicious the food would taste when fried in oatmeal and with a few slices of bacon.
Suddenly there was the sound of shouting and the peace of the afternoon was abruptly shattered. Soldiers were running through the docks with bayonets fixed and Rhian crouched back against the stall, her heart beating rapidly in fear.
‘It’s the men of the 6th Welch,’ Bryn said excitedly. ‘Come in by here, Rhian. You’ll be out of harm’s way then.’
Hastily Rhian obeyed, scrambling over the boxes of fish, careless of her shawl catching on a nail. Soldiers continued to swarm over the dockside looking frighteningly businesslike – faces grim, gleaming blades flashing in the sun.
‘What’s happening?’ Rhian’s voice shook and the fact of war was suddenly a vivid reality. Bryn the Fish wound his scarf more tightly around his neck and pushed the cap to the back of his head.
‘There are two German ships in port – had to come in I suppose, because of the bad weather last night. The Serak and Brema, two fine ships and no one knowing what’s to be done about the crews until now. Iesu Grist! Here they come.’
Rhian shrank back as the pounding of soldiers’ feet against the cobbles echoed in her ears. The prisoners were a dispirited lot, faces long with worry and not at all the demons that Rhian believed the Huns to be. They were men, just ordinary men, and she could not help but feel sorry for them.
‘Where are you taking them, boyo?’ Bryn called loudly and one of the younger soldiers was surprised into replying.
‘To Rutland Street School. We’re locking them up there until we decide what’s to be done with them. Going to round up all the other Germans in the town too, while we’re at it.’
A kick from one of his fellows silenced the soldier and Rhian bit her lip, unable to believe that this was really happening in the normally peaceful streets of her home town.
The pleasantness of the afternoon was shattered for Rhian as she wandered aimlessly into Stryd Fawr, where the shops were open and people going about their business unaware of the drama unfolding near the docks.
‘Rhian, don’t walk past your old workmate then!’ The voice was familiar and Rhian turned to see Doris Williams hurrying towards her, clutching a woollen turnover around her shoulders, her bonnet falling over her eyes. Rhian smiled. The last time she had seen Doris was when she was black from the coal used to stoke the boilers at the Canal Street Laundry.
‘There’s lovely to see you, Doris, you haven’t changed a bit.’ The girls had never been good friends, but it was a relief to Rhian to be communicating with another human being instead of wandering around alone like a lost soul.
‘Isn’t it strange, then? I was only talking to your brother the other day,’ Doris said breathlessly. ‘Went up to see my sister in Carreg Fach, I did and your Billy is living next door to her. Lovely babba he has, too.’
‘Yes, Cerianne is beautiful. I haven’t seen her for some time; I suppose I should go to visit our Billy again soon,’ she said, feeling suddenly guilty.
‘There’s a favour I want to ask of you, Rhian Gray.’ Doris rubbed at her cheek with her finger. ‘Got to register at the Borough Treasurer’s office, I have, see? That’s if I wants to claim benefit from the Prince of Wales Fund.’
‘And you’d like me to come with you? Yes, of course I will,’ Rhian said quickly and Doris sighed in unmistakeable relief.
‘There’s good of you, scared I am. Can’t write my name proper-like and they frighten me to death, all them men sitting behind a counter frowning at me.’
Rhian allowed Doris to take her arm, guiding her away from the main street and into a small cobbled lane. ‘Had a job I did, cleaning for Mr Gregory Irons, but he gave me the order of the boot and got himself a pretty young girl now and she’ll do more than sweep his floors, I’ll bet a shilling.’
As soon as she entered the office at Doris’s side, Rhian knew the reason for the girl’s timidity. A row of men sat at a long table with lists of names on a pile of papers in front of them.
‘Duw, they look like a lot of St Peters on the day of judgement,’ Doris whispered. ‘Quick, get in this queue,’ she urged. ‘It’s shorter than the rest and the man at the desk don’t seem so bad – see, he’s got nice eyes, blue they are though his thick spectacles do hide them a bit.’
The wait was a long one and Rhian moved restlessly, staring around her, hearing the low hum of voices and wondering what had happened to her afternoon off.
‘Came in here once before,’ Doris whispered. ‘Sent me away they did, and me not knowing what for.’
Rhian smiled reassuringly. ‘We’ll see if we can get some sense out of them today.’ She was aware that her voice lacked conviction. Getting anything out of the awe-inspiring men seated at the long table was not going to be easy.
‘What’s the fund for, Doris?’ Rhian asked and Doris made a wry face. ‘It’s been set up for the poor and it’s been put into the hands of men who don’t know what it’s like to go short of a bit o’ bread to put into their bellies.’ The bedraggled queue of women moved forward. A child began to wail and one of the men behind the table raised his spectacles as though to question the sound.
‘Duw, who does that old goat think he is? I suppose he don’t even smell when he breaks wind!’
It was an hour later when Doris reached the head of the queue where she bobbed a curtsey to the old man in spectacles. He looked at her without a change in his expression, gruffly demanding to know her name.
‘Doris Williams, sir,’ she said slowly. ‘I got no job and ’as two children, if it please you, sir.’
He frowned, reading through the lists before him. After a moment, he removed his spectacles and looked at her coldly.
‘But you’ve been here before, haven’t you?’ The words were almost an accusation and the colour rose in Doris’s cheeks.
‘Yes, sir, but they didn’t give me no money, see? Got to feed my babbas, haven’t I?’
‘But you were refused aid because you are not legally married – it was all explained to you.’
Doris looked at him in surprise. ‘But I still got to have food to put in the bellies of my children; they feel hungry just like you do, sir.’
Rhian moved closer. ‘Is there any provision for orphans in the fund?’ she asked and the man glanced at her over the top of his glasses.
‘There is provision for children born in wedlock, but nothing written here says we have to support immorality.’
‘Have you never heard of charity?’ Rhian asked angrily and Doris, emboldened, spoke up quickly.
‘The good book tells us that there is faith, hope and charity and the greatest of these is charity,’ she said, nodding her head emphatically.
The man replaced his spectacles, quite unmoved by Doris’s outburst, and gave his full attention to Rhian.
‘The good book also tells us that marriage is an honourable estate.’ He sat back in his chair as though triumphant. ‘Now, if you are not here to make a claim, then I suggest you leave at once.’
‘So that you can browbeat people like Doris?’ Rhian said flatly. ‘You are a hypocrite, do you know that?’
‘If you don’t leave, I’ll send for a constable,’ the man said coldly and it was Doris who took Rhian’s arm and drew her out into the paleness of the afternoon sunshine.
‘The old bugger!’ Doris was near to tears, her lip trembled and she brushed at her eyes in embarrassment. ‘I could stick him like a pig, that I could.’ The defiance vanished and her shoulders slumped. ‘What am I going to do now?’
‘Look, I’ll lend you a few shillings,’ Rhian said quickly. ‘Now don’t refuse, I know you’ll give it back when you’ve got it.’
‘I’ll get myself another job, don’t you fret,’ Doris said, her spirits lightening. ‘There’s a munitions factory starting up soon; it’s supposed to be a secret, but I’ll be the first one in the place when it opens, don’t you worry.’
Rhian looked at her doubtfully. ‘But it will be dangerous work, won’t it?’
Doris shrugged. ‘Aye, it’ll be packing shells with TNT, but someone’s got to do it and I haven’t got much choice, have I?’ She placed her hand awkwardly on Rhian’s arm. ‘Well, thanks for trying to help, anyway.’
Rhian watched as Doris walked away, still burning at the injustice meted out to her, feeling hopeless and inadequate – a fat lot of help she’d been! At last she turned and retraced her steps back to the Stryd Fawr; the afternoon was nearly over and the clouds were forming again, racing across the sky and blotting out the sun. A spot of rain fell on to Rhian’s face, running like a tear down her cheek. It would be good, she thought, to get back to the comparative peace of the mill where she could weave her patterns and operate the looms and lose herself in her work.
The days seemed to run into each other as Rhian found herself increasingly busy at the mill. She worked long hours at the loom, repeating the patterns she had invented herself while she was in Yorkshire. Biscuit-shaded wool, a traditional colour for the base, she blended with browns and pinks and hues of blue as the mood took her.
She spent some of her evenings carrying hanks of good Welsh wool in a basket, selling to housewives on the doorstep. She tried all the harder for knowing that Heinz had become very quiet of late, scarcely venturing outside the mill, and that his big-hearted smile had disappeared.
Rhian burned with anger at the ignorance of the few townspeople who in their panic branded the genial Austrian a traitor.
One day as Rhian threaded the heddles, Heinz entered the long room with his arms full of deep blue wool ready for carding. He wore a woebegone expression and Rhian sighed, knowing she must not show him pity even though she wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him.
‘Come on, Heinz, stop being so long-faced. No one is going to bother you now. The search parties have all given up and surely all of Sweyn’s Eye know you as a friend.’
Heinz shook his big head. ‘It not so, Rhian Gray, what about those women who stoned my Gina and her big with child? I worry sometimes in the night that they will come for me, take me away to the camps like they did with the sailors off the Brema and the Serak.’
Rhian suppressed a shudder. ‘That’ll not happen here, Heinz, don’t you worry.’ She pushed the lever and the belt running the loom moved from the loose wheel to the fast wheel, setting the shuttles into movement. Over the clatter she was aware of Heinz working at the carding machine, his big shoulders stooped; in spite of her optimistic words, she too feared that the hotheads of the town might turn violent and come for the Sinmans one dark night.
By the time Rhian left her loom, her back was aching from bending and her eyes felt full of dust. The evening air was crisp and cold and frost hardened the ground, crunching underfoot. It would be good to sit in the warmth of the kitchen and rest, she thought wearily.
Gina was placing shawls over a series of wooden rails behind the house; they had come off the loom and were freshly washed.
‘I’m hoping they might dry a bit,’ she said to Rhian. ‘I can hang them on the rack in the kitchen later on.’
She fell into step beside Rhian. ‘Got rabbit stew for supper,’ she said brightly. ‘Put it on hours ago, so it should be simmered nicely by now.’ She sighed as a piercing wail came from the kitchen. ‘Our little Dewi wants his supper too, by the sound of it!’ She touched her breast, wincing a little. ‘The milk comes flowing in the minute he cries,’ she said in wonder.
The warmth of the house seemed to envelop her as Rhian stepped inside. The oil lamps cast shadows over the scrubbed white table and the fire glowed warmly behind the brass fender as she sank into a chair with a sigh of relief.
‘Got something to tell you.’ Heinz Sinman entered the room and stood rubbing his hand against his apron. ‘Got to let you go, Rhian.’ His voice was low, his eyes avoiding hers and Rhian felt the shock of his words as though someone had poured a bucket of cold water over her head.
‘Duw, there’s a clod you are sometimes, Heinz!’ Gina said angrily. ‘Why didn’t you let the girl eat her supper before you broke the news?’ She sat down and stared at Rhian worriedly. ‘I know you’ve got no home and you can stay here just as long as you like; while I’m alive there’ll always be a roof over your head. But what Heinz is trying to say is that we’ve got no money left to run the mill.’ She shrugged and sank back in her chair, then as the baby’s wails grew more vociferous she manoeuvred him against her breast.
‘If it wasn’t for you, Rhian, we’d never have kept our lovely boy; but there’s no money, see, not even enough for food let alone for buying more wool.’
Rhian felt as though the ground had been moved from beneath her feet. She heard the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece as though the sound was magnified. A coal shifted in the grate and she stared round the small kitchen which had become like home to her.
‘You mustn’t think of leaving, mind.’ Gina stressed the words. ‘You are to live with us for as long as you like – you’re one of the family.’
But how could she stay, Rhian thought sadly – she would just be a liability, another mouth to feed.
‘Let’s have our supper,’ she said brightly. ‘That rabbit stew smells too good to waste.’ She glanced through the window; it was dark outside and she shuddered. She would not dare venture through the streets with only the gaslights for company, but tomorrow at first light she would look for a job and then she would see Mary Sutton again – plead with her if necessary to buy wool from Heinz.
She went to bed early, lying wide-eyed and staring at the low ceiling which in the moonlight was full of cracks like a crazy paving. She tried to suppress the waves of panic that swept through her. What would become of her if she left the mill, she wondered fearfully. And yet she could not stay and be a burden to the Sinmans. At last she fell asleep, but her dreams were haunted by visions of Mansel Jack laughing at her, holding out his arms and commanding her to come back to Yorkshire and to be with him.
The streets of Sweyn’s Eye were silent next morning as Rhian walked in the cold winter air towards Mary Sutton’s emporium. It was so quiet that a tram rolling past seemed like thunder and she shivered, drawing her shawl more closely round her shoulders.
Rhian was aware of curious glances following her progress as she crossed the red-carpeted floor of the store and made her way up the darkly varnished stairs towards Mary’s office. Glancing down at her plain flannel skirt and heavy boots Rhian smiled grimly, aware that ladies in soft satin pumps and good woollen coats were more the kind of person to be visiting Mary Sutton.
‘Rhian!’ Mary rose from her seat behind the imposing desk and held out her hand. ‘Sit down, cariad, there’s strange you should come to see me today. I’ve had a letter from Mansel Jack in Yorkshire. You’re quite right, he does recognise the scraps of patterns I sent him as his own.’ She sighed. ‘Though quite what I can do about it, I’m not sure.’
Rhian’s hands were suddenly trembling and she looked longingly at the letter in Mary’s hand, resisting the desire to snatch it and devour the words Mansel Jack had written.
‘Well, you can buy wool from Heinz Sinman for a start.’ She spoke decisively. ‘Poor man is worried to death wondering where the next penny is coming from.’ Rhian shrugged. ‘The people are against him because he’s a foreigner but he can’t help that, can he?’
Mary shook her head. ‘I know how you feel, Rhian, but folks can’t help being afraid either. Just this morning I’ve heard there’s a German destroyer lying off Lundy Island – don’t know if it’s true, mind.’
Rhian stared at Mary with a lump in her throat. ‘You’re not backing out, Mary?’ she asked in a small voice. ‘You said you’d buy wool from Spinners’ Wharf.’
Mary shook her head.
‘Duw, when have I ever cared a jot about what folks thought of me?’ she asked. ‘I’ll buy Mr Sinman’s wool all right, but will the people of Sweyn’s Eye?’ She brushed a hair neatly into place. ‘But I’ll tell you this much, Rhian, I’m not the rich woman I was,’ she said softly. ‘So many people owe me money that if things don’t change soon, I’ll have to stop giving goods out on tick.’ She sighed heavily, adding, ‘And Brandon is feeling the strain of making allowances to the families of his men who have gone to war. Times are bad for everyone, Rhian.’
Rhian bit her lip, feeling defeated, and Mary reached out to touch her hand gently. ‘Now don’t look so downcast. I’ve told you I’ll buy wool from your Mr Sinman and I will, just this once, but then I can’t help any more. I must go where the wool is cheapest and right now that means trading with Mr Mansel Jack in Yorkshire – offered me a cut in price he has.’ She paused. ‘I’m a businesswoman, Rhian, and I need to make some profit if I’m to survive – you must see that?’
‘I’m sorry to be a trouble to you, Mary, but the Sinmans are important to me.’ As Rhian thought of Heinz, his multicoloured apron stained with dyes and the trusting smile on his big honest face, she felt near to tears.
As she left the store and stepped out into the cold of the day, she shivered. Her great hope that Mary Sutton’s order would save the Sinmans from ruin had been dashed and there seemed nothing more she could do. She was defeated.
She wandered past the line of the shore and stared at the sea merging into the pearly sky so that there was no visible horizon. Were there German ships out there in the Channel just waiting to attack Sweyn’s Eye, Rhian wondered?
She returned to the mill almost reluctantly, for she knew that Gina and her husband would be eagerly waiting for her return. And she would have to tell them that Mary Sutton would take the stock already in hand, but then there would be no further need for production.
In the cosy kitchen where the brasses gleamed brightly and the table shone white in the flickering flames, Gina Sinman was nursing her baby son. She looked up at Rhian and her face was shadowed. ‘There’s sad you look – does that mean bad news?’ she asked softly.
Rhian sank into a chair and stared into the flames. ‘Mary Sutton will buy our existing stock, but after that she must deal with the Yorkshire mills, for they can sell their goods more cheaply than us.’
Gina stared at Rhian, her eyes steady. ‘And the folks of Sweyn’s Eye don’t want to put shawls on their backs which were made in the mill of a foreigner, is that right?’
Rhian looked down at her hands. ‘I suppose that’s about the size of it and in a way you can’t blame the people. They don’t understand Heinz; they are panicked by all the war stories we’re forever hearing.’
She closed her eyes and leaned back wearily in her chair. ‘They are afraid, Gina – wanting to strike out at something and Heinz is a convenient scapegoat, so…’ Rhian never finished the sentence, for there was a loud crash at the front door and the mad calling of angry voices like the baying of an animal.
‘Iesu Grist!’ Gina rose to her feet, clutching her son close to her breast, and Rhian moved in front of her protectively as the door of the kitchen burst open.
‘Where is the bradwr?’ a voice demanded. ‘Find that traitor, men, even if you have to take the place apart.’
‘There is no need of that.’ Heinz moved into the room, his round face sombre, rubbing his injured hand against his apron in a familiar gesture. In the surprised silence, Rhian took Heinz’s bandaged hand and held it high.
‘Look at this!’ she said loudly. ‘Heinz Sinman cut off his own fingers so that he would not have to go to war against the people he has lived among most of his life. You, Dai-End-House, what are you doing here with this gang of hooligans? Get off home, the lot of you!’
There was an uneasy stirring among the men like the sound of the sea rippling over the stones and Dai-End-House threw down the pick-handle he was carrying.
Rhian’s eyes searched the room in the hope of seeing another familiar face, but most of the crowd were strangers, come in from the valleys no doubt.
‘Are you men or not?’ A harsh voice shattered the silence. ‘We know that the soldiers of the 6th are rounding up all the damned foreigners in town and we must do our bit to help. This Sinman fellow might be sending out messages to the Huns. There were two German ships in our own docks and how did they come here? Ask yourselves that!’
‘Stop!’ Rhian commanded. ‘Mr Sinman is no traitor and if you boys are so eager to help, why aren’t you in uniform yourselves?’
The leader of the men moved forward; he was a tall man with curling hair and the look of the gypsy about him.
‘Are you this man’s wife?’ he demanded. ‘For we will take you too, mind.’
Heinz spoke up quickly. ‘I haf no wife,’ he said thickly. ‘I will come with you, but leave the women alone, they haf nothing to do with me.’ His eyes met Gina’s, begging her to be silent. In her arms the baby cried out as though in protest.
Aware that attention had been drawn to his son, Heinz lunged forward, throwing himself heavily against the leader. His huge weight bore the man to the ground and for a moment Rhian watched helplessly as they struggled together. And then, like the slow silent pictures that haunt a nightmare, Rhian saw clubs raised, blows being rained down on Heinz’s unprotected head and body and in the background Gina’s voice rising to a scream.
It was all over in seconds, though it seemed like an eternity, then Heinz was being dragged, half-conscious, out into the street.
‘I must go with him,’ Gina said brokenly, but Rhian grasped her tightly around the waist, holding her back.
‘Not now, cariad, wait until morning and then we’ll find out where they are being taken. Think of Dewi and what that crowd of animals might do to him if they find out he’s a foreigner’s child.’
Gina sank into a chair and covered her face with her fingers, trying to stem the tears. On her lap the baby cried too, as though his mother’s unhappiness had communicated itself to him.
Rhian walked cautiously along the passageway and found that the front door had been completely torn from its hinges. She tried to lift it, but it was too heavy and with a sigh she gave up the struggle. The street was empty and silent now, the gaslights from the road shimmering over the waters of the river that ran dark red, like blood. Rhian shivered and went back into the house.