The autumn sun shone brightly as though reluctant to accept that summer was past. A drowsing heat hung over Sweyn’s Eye, turning the parks and gardens of the western slopes into a blaze of colour. Late roses rioted in lush grass and the fruits of autumn grew in abundance. Blackberries bursting with juice stood proud on prickly thorn and wild white bryony lingered among leaves that spread upwards like open palms. An air of peace hung over the hot streets where tar turned to acrid liquid and war was a distant threat, an unreality except for the continued announcements in the pages of the Daily Post.
Rhian was seated in the low grey building of the mill on Spinners’ Wharf, unaware of the haze of heat outside the high round windows. Deftly she placed bobbins on the twister, bringing two threads together to make double ply for knitting. But her thoughts were not on the wool that slipped easily between her fingers. She sighed softly, stretching her arms upwards and easing the ache in her back. And she wondered with a trace of impatience why Mansel Jack’s dark features still haunted her.
She allowed memories to revolve in her mind, a multicoloured kaleidoscope of emotions falling into a pattern as sure as the wool beneath her fingers. She had chosen to leave Yorkshire without a word, unable to face the strain of saying goodbye. They had become close in an inexplicable way. She had listened to him talk with enthusiasm about the mill, witnessed the ambition in his eyes and marvelled that he even saw her, so high were his sights set.
But she had worked hard at Mansel Jack’s mill and it was not long before he began to notice her. He had been amused by her flair for making patterns and had eventually given her a free hand, much to the chagrin of the other women.
On more than a few occasions he had called her into his office – the little room standing in the corner of the mill where the clatter of the carding engines receded to a distant hum. There Mansel Jack had talked to her about her background, his dark eyes appraising and with such an air of authority that she had felt compelled to answer him.
She had described the humdrum parts of her life in Sweyn’s Eye, had even mentioned Heath Jenkins and that as a young girl she had fancied herself in love with him. But she did not speak of the secret that lay dark and coiled snake-like in her being, though his shrewd eyes missed nothing.
When, as he sometimes did, he paused at the loom to talk to her, the other women winked at each other, mouthing words over the noise of the machinery. Rhian knew exactly what they thought of her.
Once Mansel Jack had arrived unannounced at her mean lodgings; she had just washed her hair and it hung curtain-like, dark chestnut over her shoulders. He filled her room with his presence, touching the damp strands of her hair with the gesture of a lover. And she had felt her face burning.
‘I’ve admired you for some time now, lass.’ He leaned closer, his mouth curving in a smile, the strong line of his jaw emphasised by the dark hair that curled around his face. ‘You’ve a fine mind and nimble fingers and I like that.’
There was no time for false modesty. ‘I know.’ She had smiled up at him and he had leaned back in his chair, laughing.
‘There, you see, you don’t dissemble or giggle behind your hand, you come straight out and say what you think. You’re a perfect woman, Rhian Gray.’
Rhian had sighed inwardly, for she was far from perfect. A great fear gnawed at her in her nightmare: the dread of a man’s hand touching her intimately. This was the legacy left her when Gerwin Price had torn and plundered, leaving her for ever scarred. Slowly she shook her head. ‘No, I’m not perfect, not by a long chalk.’
Mansel Jack had not tried to pursue the conversation, for he had a fine sensitivity and realised there were matters which must be secret. He had simply smiled down at Rhian, his eyes soft, his mouth turning up at the corners, treating her with warmth and friendship. Now she could not erase the image of him from her mind.
The sound of the door opening startled Rhian. Once more she was at Spinners’ Wharf, working the small loom, and she felt like a sleepwalker waking in a strange place. She looked up to see Heinz framed in the doorway. His mutilated hand was bound in a swathe of cloth and his hair stood on end. Rhian hid a smile, he was so like a big innocent baby sometimes.
‘What’s wrong, Mr. Sinman?’ she asked, setting the twister into movement. The bobbins turned in unison on thin spindles, winding wool more quickly than the eye could see.
‘We haf lost another order.’ He came towards her, rubbing his uninjured hand against his apron. ‘The shops up in the High Street say they want no more blankets from us.’
Rhian felt anger run like wine through her veins. ‘There’s daft of them! But don’t worry,’ she said stoutly, ‘I’ll find us some new markets. I’ll go further afield if necessary.’
‘Good honest words, Rhian, but you know the bad feelings the people haf for me now.’ He shook his head. ‘I think I must give up the mill and go away like the townspeople tell me to.’
Rhian shook her head. ‘No, don’t give in, we’re not beaten yet.’ She drew off her apron. ‘I know just where we can get a good order for our wool – you depend on me, Mr Sinman.’
She washed her hands free of the grease from the wool at the deep sink in the Sinmans’ kitchen, rubbing angrily at her fingers while Gina Sinman poured her a cup of tea.
‘Duw, if my belly grows any heavier I swear I’ll go pop – and me got to go down to the market for potatoes and I don’t think I’ll make it back up the hill.’ Gina eased herself into a rocking chair and brushed back a damp curl from her forehead. Rhian stared down at the swollen figure with compassion; Gina still bore the bruises from the stoning, though they were fading a little now.
‘You can’t have long to go and the baby will come when it’s ready, you’ll see.’
Gina smiled dreamily. ‘It’s going to be a boy, a fine son for Heinz, I can tell by the lazy way he sleeps all the time. Used to kick me to pieces he did, but now he’s saving his strength to come into the world.’
‘Yes, and you need to save your strength too,’ Rhian said firmly. ‘Look, if you want potatoes I can fetch them. I’ve got to go out anyway.’ Neither of them mentioned the incident of the stoning, but both recognised the need for Gina to stay out of harm’s way.
‘There’s kind of you, Rhian. Get me a piece of boiling bacon as well – if you don’t mind, that is.’
‘I’ve said I don’t mind, haven’t I? Now why don’t you go and lie down on the bed for an hour, you look all in.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. There’s lazy it seems to be, lying down in the middle of the day.’
‘You do as you’re told,’ Rhian insisted. ‘Go and tell that husband of yours that you mean to rest and I’ll see you later. Don’t worry about supper, I’ll put the bacon on to boil if you’re not up when I come back.’
The streets shimmered in the heat of the sun and Rhian felt breathless, her skin was beaded with perspiration in a matter of minutes. But as she strolled downhill towards the town, her spirits rose. It was good to be alive on a day like this, when even the bees hung lazily over the hedgerows, cells overfilled with honey.
The birds sang in the high leafy branches of the trees and as she neared the sea a fragrant breeze drifted towards her, caressing her face, lifting her hair from her neck, and she felt as though the gods were smiling on her.
She paused for a time on the edge of the golden bay, staring out at the clear horizon where a sailing ship was outlined against the backdrop of the Devonshire hills. Such clarity of sky and sea and mountains was a sure sign of the soft rain of summer.
At last she turned towards the town, the streets seeming hard beneath her feet. A milk cart rattled past, the horse between the shafts moving reluctantly, head drooping. The milk churns clanked, spilling frothy liquid along the metal sides like pearly tears.
Outside Mary Jenkins’ store, Rhian paused, staring at the display of fine gowns in the windows. She sighed heavily; in such fine weather it was difficult to sell heavy woollen shawls, yet she was bound to try her best. That’s why she was here, to ask her old friend for help.
The inside of the store was large and impressive and Rhian had to summon up all her courage, putting confidence in her voice as she asked to see Mary Jenkins. But she need not have worried, for her welcome was warm.
‘There’s a nice surprise, Rhian! I’ve hardly seen you since you came home, where have you been hiding?’ Mary was genuine in her delight and Rhian smiled in response.
‘Mary, I should have come to see you before this, but I do have an excuse. I’ve been working at Spinners’ Wharf.’ She shrugged. ‘Times are hard, Mary, and I won’t deny that Heinz being a foreigner doesn’t help. That’s the reason I’m here, I might as well be honest.’
‘Right then, what can I do for you?’ Mary led the way across the store and Rhian, following her, felt dwarfed into insignificance by her stature.
‘I want you to give us an order for woollen goods, Mary.’ Rhian spoke appealingly and Mary turned to look at her, shaking her head.
‘Duw, there’s nothing I can do for you and there’s sorry I am. Come with me, I’ll show you what I mean.’
Mary led Rhian along a passageway to the back of the store. ‘Look, merchi, there’s my stock of wool blankets and shawls – not moving in this heat, see?’
Rhian stared at the shelves full of woollen goods, her heart sinking. She moved closer, lifting the edge of a shawl and staring at it in bewilderment.
‘How is it you buy your wool from Yorkshire then, Mary?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Should be supporting local trade, for shame on you!’
Mary stared at Rhian, her eyebrows raised. ‘What do you mean? I don’t buy wool from Yorkshire at all, but from Alfred Phillpot who is an official of Sweyn’s Eye Cooperative.’
Rhian fingered the blanket, shaking her head in determination. ‘I don’t know what this Alfred Phillpot is telling you, Mary, but I know the Yorkshire patterns when I see them – didn’t I make up most of these myself? This man is buying his wool from the mills belonging to Mansel Jack – the same mills where I used to work.’
Mary turned over one end of the blanket and studied the label. ‘Well, look, this says “Welsh wool” clear enough. Are you sure you’re not mistaken, Rhian?’
‘As sure as I’m standing here.’ Rhian spoke so positively that after a moment Mary nodded.
‘Right then, that man is cheating me yet again. He’s always been a thorn in my flesh and now he’s taking me for a fool into the bargain.’
Rhian frowned. ‘But Mary, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with Yorkshire wool and I don’t see that you can lose anything by this strange carry-on.’
‘Well, I can!’ Mary said angrily. ‘The Yorkshire mills produce goods in such large quantities that the prices are lower than for Welsh wool and it’s Welsh wool I’ve been paying for, do you see?’
Rhian nodded slowly. ‘I suppose the trick is to prove all this,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I know my own patterns sure enough, but it’s only my word against that of Alfred Phillpot.’
Mary smiled suddenly. ‘Not if Mansel Jack can confirm what you say, merchi. You must give me his address; come on up to the office with me, this is too good a chance to miss. I’ve been wanting to give Alfred Phillpot his comeuppance for a long time.’
Rhian felt her heart beat faster; she didn’t want Mansel Jack to be involved, but how could she explain that to Mary?
‘Well, I’ll give you his address, but keep my name out of it, mind,’ she said quickly.
Mary stared at her with a puzzled expression on her face. ‘Why, Rhian, don’t look so frightened – you won’t be called upon to face Alfred Phillpot, I’m capable of doing that alone.’
Rhian bit her lip. It must seem to Mary as if she was a coward without the courage of her convictions, yet there was nothing she could say to excuse her attitude without going into complicated explanations.
‘Don’t look so worried, Rhian. I promise I’ll not even mention your name if it bothers you.’
Rhian held her head high. ‘I’m sorry, Mary, but I have my reasons, believe me.’
Mary rested her hand on Rhian’s shoulder. ‘There’s soft you are, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Now I’ll say this: if what you claim is proved to be true, Alfred Phillpot can have all his woollens back and then I’ll deal with your Mr Sinman. There, does that please you?’
‘That’s very good of you, Mary.’ Rhian felt at a disadvantage, reading something like pity in Mary’s eyes and wondering what she must be thinking. But she had no need to justify her actions, she told herself firmly.
‘I must get back,’ she said quickly. ‘Mrs Sinman isn’t well and there’s such a lot of work to be done at the mill.’
Mary walked to the door with her and paused for a moment. ‘I’ve had an idea, Rhian – why don’t you come to my house and have Sunday dinner with me? I feel that I haven’t really seen a great deal of you since you came back to town, and it really is too bad of me to neglect you so.’
‘If you’re sure it will be all right, then I’d love to come – but what will your husband say?’
‘He’ll welcome you as warmly as I do. Brandon isn’t a snob, I’ll say that for him.’
‘Then that settles it.’ Rhian smiled. ‘It’ll be a treat for me.’ Her thoughts flew unbidden to the last time she had eaten dinner with Mary. It had been a Christmas time and Rhian had been as numb as the ice that settled on the pond in the cottage garden. Still in a state of shock, unable to shake loose the memory of the horrors inflicted on her by Gerwin Price, she had wanted nothing more than to drown herself in the glassy waters of the pool, for the scars of her ordeal went deep.
‘Are those bad memories I see in your eyes, Rhian?’ Mary asked gently, ‘If so, forget the past. You’re a young and lovely woman and you have your whole life in front of you.’
‘Too clear-sighted for comfort you are, Mary,’ Rhian said, forcing herself to speak lightly. ‘I’ll see you Sunday then and thanks for everything.’
She moved away briskly down the street that shimmered with heat. It would be good to leave the humid air of the town behind and make her way back along the beach road and up the hill towards Spinners’ Wharf. There the stream would be gurgling past the long low building and the birds singing their tribute to the sun while sheltering in the shadows beneath the eaves.
She had almost forgotten her promise to do some shopping for Gina, and with a sigh she turned towards the market. The square was quite deserted, the air was hot and dust lay thick between the stalls. The mingling odours of meat and huge chunks of country butter gone rancid were almost too much to bear.
Rhian declined to take any ham, for flies crawled over the stained wooden chopping block where the butcher set up his meat ready for cutting. Instead she bought fresh vegetables and a smooth round cheese covered in mutton cloth, kept cool in an old wooden barrel filled with water.
She was pleased when she was able to leave the market square behind. Ruefully, she noticed that her dress of soft cotton trimmed with hand-sewn rosebuds had become crumpled and grimy at the hem. Her hair was escaping from the confining pins and she felt she could do with a good scrub.
In the Sinmans’ household there were few amenities. Heinz allowed the women the privacy of the kitchen sink in the morning and conducted his own ablutions in the yard, working the pump with gusto and singing out loud in his own tongue that was strange to Welsh ears. But now even a splash of cold water from the kitchen tap would refresh her, Rhian thought wistfully.
It was good to see the low building with twin windows like a pair of eyes beneath the gables and she sighed with relief. The kitchen was dim and empty and she wondered if Heinz was working at the mill which was separated from the house by a stretch of rough ground. She put her purchases away in the cool of the pantry and rubbed her hand wearily over her eyes. Gina must still be asleep up in her room – the best place for her in such heat, Rhian thought absently.
She was about to put coal on to the dying fire when a sound from upstairs attracted her attention. It was soft, almost indistinguishable and Rhian straightened with the shovel in her hand, her neck arched as she strained to hear if the noise was repeated. It was. Low guttural moans were coming from the direction of the bedroom and Rhian felt cold with fear.
‘Gina!’ She hurried up the stairs, her heart beating fast, her mouth dry. ‘Gina, is everything all right?’
The question was absurd, as Rhian realised when she entered the room where Gina was crouched on the bed, knees drawn upwards, mouth shaped into a silent call for help.
‘Is the baby coming?’ Rhian felt panic rise within her. She must get help, but she couldn’t bear to leave Gina alone.
‘Where’s Mr Sinman?’ Rhian was astounded by the apparent calmness in her voice. Gina bent her head, overcome with pain once more. ‘In the mill, is he? Well, don’t worry, cariad – I’ll call him right now.’
Rhian was not familiar with the process of childbirth, yet she felt in her bones that all was not well with Gina Sinman’s confinement. She leaned as far out of the window as she dared. ‘Mr Sinman! Come here quickly!’ she shouted.
After what seemed an eternity Heinz appeared from the coolness of the mill. Strands of wool fluttered in his sideburns and he was open-mouthed in astonishment.
‘Is the baby coming?’ he asked. ‘But it is not due until the day after tomorrow.’
Rhian smiled at him encouragingly. ‘You’d better tell your son that. Go on with you now, Gina needs a midwife,’ she urged as Heinz stood in bewilderment, fleeting expressions of joy and fear passing like shadows over his face.
‘You’d better fetch Mrs Benson and I shall see to my Gina.’
Rhian paused for a moment to watch him stride stolidly towards the house, his big back straight, his thick legs set down firmly with each step as though walking the deck of a ship in high seas.
He was right, the midwife might not come if Heinz showed his face on her doorstep. In spite of the heat, Rhian found herself running along the road that led uphill from the mill, wishing fruitlessly that she had not dallied so long near the beach.
Canal Street lay along the line of the brackish strip of water that gave the cobbled roadway its name. A barge moved silently through the waving fronds of the brown rushes with an old mare pulling at the rope, head nodding, ears forward as though seeking shelter from the sun.
The animal paused on the towpath to stare at Rhian with rolling eyes and the bent figure of the old man holding the reins seemed to merge into the muddy colour of the water.
‘Bore da to you, miss.’ He raised his cap and Rhian saw that his white hair was streaked with green, the verdigris from the cargo of copper ore in the barge. ‘If it’s the midwife you’re looking for, I saw her not ten minutes ago, rushing to a birthing – didn’t even have time to talk to old Will the Copper.’ He moved away and ghostlike the barge slid silently through the murky water behind him. Rhian stood for a moment, wondering what to do. In panic she knocked on the door of the Bensons’ neat house in the faint hope that she might find someone in.
The lace curtains of the neighbouring houses twitched and Rhian felt as though many eyes were boring into her back. She held herself straight, rapping on the door once more, and to her relief it swung open.
‘What do you want here, Rhian Gray?’ Sally Benson stood with hands on hips, her pebble-dark eyes hostile. ‘Don’t want no foreigner’s skivvy at our door, so go away, right?’
‘I want to see your mother, where is she?’ Anxiety lent Rhian’s voice a sharp edge. ‘Move, Sally Benson, before you feel the back of my hand.’
‘Well, she’s not here.’ Sally’s voice was less belligerent as she stepped back into the safety of her doorway. ‘So that’s just hard cheese on you, isn’t it, ’cos I don’t know where my mam is gone.’
Rhian bit her lip in panic. ‘You must know where I can find her?’ she said and Sally half closed the door, peering insolently round it.
‘Fish and find out!’ she said nastily.
‘Look Sally, Gina Sinman is sick, she needs a midwife. Stop being so childish and tell me where your mother’s gone.’
‘There’s a cheek, talking to me like that!’ Sally’s face, already flushed with the heat, grew even redder. ‘I don’t know where my mam is, see, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you. That Gina Sinman is living with a bradwr, a traitor, don’t you understand that much? He’s probably sending messages to the Huns, telling them all about us.’
Defeated, Rhian turned away just as Sally slammed the door. She hurried back the way she had come, knowing that she must help Gina herself. She was so ignorant of what needed to be done, she thought desperately, but she would do all that she could.
As she neared the mill, Heinz leaned out of the bedroom window and gestured to her frantically. ‘Come, Rhian Gray, we need you at once!’
Rhian hurried up the stairs, her heart beating swiftly. Heinz had the bedroom door open for her and his face was filled with apprehension as he ushered her into the room. ‘You will haf to deliver the child; it is coming, you can see the head.’
She felt a moment of blind panic as she stood staring at Gina, who with her knees drawn up was toiling in an effort to give birth to her child. Her face was crumpled in pain, sweat running down her forehead and into the creases around her mouth. She opened her eyes and stared imploringly at Rhian. ‘Help me, please help me!’ she gasped.
Rhian rolled up her sleeves and, taking a deep breath, approached the bed.
‘You must try to pull him free of me,’ Gina said in a voice ragged with pain. ‘Grasp his head and ease him out.’ Rhian obeyed, knowing instinctively that Gina could stand no more of the pain that was sweeping over her in waves.
The head of the baby was moist, the dark hair flattened to the skull. Rhian felt a sudden surge of power and her hands moved with a skill she didn’t know she possessed, grasping firmly and drawing the tiny head towards her. Then the face of the child was clear, the eyes closed, the small features without animation. The baby was like a doll, Rhian thought, still and lifeless.
‘You must turn the shoulders,’ Gina said breathlessly. ‘Go on, I’m depending on you.’
Rhian became totally immersed in her task. She forgot Heinz standing anxiously behind her, even shut her mind to Gina’s groans. This was a battle between herself and nature and it was one she meant to win.
The shoulders emerged at last with a swift smoothness. One more thrust and the child was born. The umbilical cord lay across the small body, twisted snake-like around the infant’s neck.
‘Tie the cord in two places and cut it,’ Gina said, her head falling back weakly against the pillow.
Rhian obeyed instinctively and felt tears sting her eyes as she held the baby close. ‘It’s a boy,’ she said softly. ‘You’ve got your son, Gina.’
He was big of head, with a broadness of body inherited from his father. His eyes were still closed, the mouth and cheeks tinged with blue. Rhian held the baby away from her, slapping him hard, but there was no response.
‘My babba, is he all right?’ Gina was straining to sit up, her eyes meeting Rhian’s imploringly.
‘Fetch me some cold water!’ Rhian spoke sharply to Heinz who was standing wide-eyed, staring at her. Knowledge came from somewhere deep in the recesses of Rhian’s mind, a wisdom that was as old as time.
Heinz hurried to do her bidding and Rhian opened the child’s mouth, clearing it of mucus. When he returned she doused the child in the cold water, but it seemed as if nothing was going to revive the baby. He lay inert, his perfect features waxen.
In desperation Rhian began to press the tiny boy’s chest, softly, rhythmically. ‘Please breathe, please breathe.’ She said the words over and over again like a chant, unaware that her back was aching and her eyes brimming with tears.
‘My boy is dead.’ Gina’s voice was flat, as though all her strength was spent, and Heinz awkwardly took her in his arms, his eyes turning to Rhian in desperate hope.
As Rhian continued to press the small ribcage she saw a fleeting movement, so small that she thought she had imagined it. Like a butterfly opening its wings, a finger stirred on the tiny hand. She continued to massage the boy’s chest and with a shock saw that his eyes were open and he seemed to be staring up at her.
He cried, short and sharp, then the sound of the infant’s voice soared into the rafters, filling the room like a triumphant song.
‘Praise be to God!’ Gina said hoarsely. ‘My baby is alive.’
‘Praise be to Rhian Gray!’ Heinz laughed out loud, watching as Rhian wrapped the boy in a piece of clean linen. She felt light, lifted out of herself, knowing a deep joy that her stubborn refusal to accept defeat had saved the baby’s life.
‘Is anyone up there?’ The voice floated upwards, to be followed by hurried footsteps on the stairs as Mrs Benson panted into the room, her round face flushed.
‘Duw, you’ve managed without me then?’ She smiled a little sheepishly. ‘There’s sorry I am that I wasn’t here sooner – been delivering Dai-End-House’s first grandchild, I have. Now let’s see this baby and then, mother, I’ll attend to you.’
She gave Rhian a quick look. ‘Seems like you’d make a fine midwife, Rhian Gray! Strange how a woman knows what to do in times like this.’
‘Saved my son’s life, she did,’ Heinz said warmly. ‘If we didn’t haf Rhian Gray with us, my son would now be dead.’
‘The cord twisted around his little neck,’ Gina added weakly, lying back against the pillows. ‘Wouldn’t breathe until Rhian got to work on him, wonderful she is and I’ll never be able to repay her.’ She began to cry, large silent tears that she brushed away quickly as though ashamed of them.
‘Well, then, it’s good you were on the spot, Rhian. But now get out of here, all of you, this little mother is in shock and I have business to do with her. And you, Rhian Gray, look as if you could do with a cup of tea.’ Thankfully Rhian left the room and hurried downstairs, running her hands under the tap in the kitchen. Heinz lumbered into the room behind her and stood looking at her, gratitude in the wideness of his eyes.
‘If ever you haf need of me, Rhian Gray, then I am willing to lay down my life for you.’
Rhian touched his arm lightly. ‘There’s no need to say anything.’ She smiled at him wryly. ‘But do you think you could manage to make a cup of tea with that one good hand of yours? I’m parched!’
She sank down in the rocking chair and leaned back against the smoothness of the wood, closing her eyes, but the tears of relief forced themselves from behind her closed lids and poured unchecked down her cheeks.