Arian
Authors: Iris Gower
Arian – named in Welsh for the colour of her silver hair – was both spirited and unconventional, often shocking the residents of World’s End with her wild behaviour. As she began to make a name for herself in the leather and shoe-making trade, she won the backing of the intriguing and charismatic Calvin Temple, a backing that was to prove disastrous when her venture with a French company failed and it looked as though all their money would be lost. In desperation, Arian set out for France in hope of salvaging their investment.
Falling foul of the law in France, Arian was given a grim alternative to prison – a loveless marriage with a man she despised. Would she ever be able to find fulfilment with the man she loved, or was she forced to face a life sentence of unhappiness?
Arian continues Iris Gower’s compelling Cordwainers series, begun in
The Shoemaker’s Daughter
,
The Oyster Catchers
and
Honey’s Farm
.
ARIAN
Iris Gower
CHAPTER ONE
The farmhouse was dark and filled with menace. The walls were closing in on her. In the pale light from the window the outline of the man was silhouetted, he was drawing nearer to the bed where she lay. His hands were rough upon her, pressing her backwards. She was trying to scream but she had no voice. He was on her, hurting her, taking her in an act of violence that should have been an act of love. She must find her voice and then the pain would stop.
The scream pierced the night air and the silence was shattered. She woke to stare up at the stars through the jagged roof of the shed. They were sharp and clear above her in the soft spring air. Around her was the smell of night, the dampness of the grass outside, the pine scents of the wooden walls of the mean shelter that was her home.
Arian Smale sat up, gasping, trying to shake off the nightmare that still seemed so real. She was shivering and yet perspiration beaded her face like tears. But she was safe. They were gone now, the ghosts of her past, all gone. Even the farmhouse was no more.
Arian pushed aside the rough covering of blankets and edged towards the open door, still kneeling. She poised on the hillside, stared down at the town below her, her home town, Swansea.
To the west, the waters of the bay washed the silver shore, calm and peaceful in the chill of the night. In the folds of the surrounding hills, elegant houses stood bathed clean by moonlight, grand structures where the rich of the town lived.
To the east was the familiar surging power of the copper works sprawled along the banks of the river Tawe. Fierce sparks flew towards the heavens, dousing the moonlight. The furnaces were being tapped at the White Rock copper works.
She remained on her knees for a long time, thinking about the past, about the sorrow caused by the men who had been, who had passed through her life. A fine collection of specimens they were, between them they had brought her enough grief to turn her against men for ever.
Her father was Robert Smale, owner of a run-down newspaper, a man who had fancied himself as a gentleman farmer. In drink he had been violent, she’d felt the weight of his hand more than once. His only gift to her, her only inheritance was his love of words.
Her uncle Mike had been no better. Known locally as Mike the Spud, he was a coward who had sold her out to Price Davies, the man who was the source of all her nightmares.
But Price Davies was dead now, like the others, all three men gone from her life but leaving it marked like a soiled footstep in crisp clean snow.
She sighed heavily. She needed company. She was becoming maudlin and fanciful. It was the life she led, living rough, roaming the hillside like a dispossessed spirit trying to find rest. And she was hungry, her empty stomach aching for food.
It was almost dawn. A rosiness was creeping over the land, warming the earth to life, and the folk at Honey’s Farm would be up and about by now, smoke would be pouring from the chimneys and the everyday sounds of the cattle moaning softly in the byres would be heralding the morning.
Irfonwy O’Conner, the farmer’s young wife, would be fresh faced and beautiful in her contentment with her lot, she would welcome Arian,
had
welcomed her when no-one else had wanted to know her. Fon was a true friend, a woman who deserved all the happiness life handed her so generously.
Arian rose and stretched her arms towards the heavens, she flung back her head and her long hair streamed silver gold down to the waist of her thick flannel skirt. Her shawl slipped to the ground, resting there, a splash of colour on the early morning greyness of the landscape. She felt like some pagan goddess, part of the contours of the hills, part of nature. Such fancies for a woman with nothing.
The trees were springing into life now, down there, below in the valley. Soon the blossoms would appear, the spring would come fully into its own and the world would seem a more kindly place.
She began to walk from the land that had been her father’s once, before he had thrown it all away, towards where the smoke rose as she had known it would, from the chimneys above the rooftop of Honey’s Farm.
The farm door stood open and from inside came the heady smell of bacon. Arian lusted after food. It was a long time since she’d eaten.
Fon O’Conner was plump with approaching motherhood, her spotless apron emphasizing rather than concealing her condition. She took Arian’s arm, concern written all over her honest face. ‘Morning, Arian, come in and sit by the fire, have a bit of breakfast with me, I’ll be glad of another woman’s company, mind.’
Arian moved silently into the welcoming kitchen and watched as Fon deftly lifted bacon from the pan and transferred it to a plate. She looked happy, there were no lines around her young eyes, no bruises on her mind or body. Why should there be? Fon was a happily married woman joyfully awaiting the birth of her second child.
They were about the same age, Arian realized, she and Fon O’Conner, though Arian was so much older in experience. But then Fon had been loved and courted and given a roof over her head by a strong man, she had been cosseted from childhood, she had not experienced the pain of rejection.
‘We are so different,’ Arian spoke her thoughts out loud, her voice cracking with lack of use. ‘You are a good woman and I … well I am a whore, I have known men carnally, I am of little worth.’
‘Rubbish!’ Fon put down the pan and sat at the table, but her hand shook as she poured tea from the brown earthenware pot. ‘You have had a difficult time of it, you were … were …’ Her voice trailed away.
Arian shuddered as the nightmare drew nearer again, taking shape and reality. She felt pain and the stirring of anger.
‘You couldn’t help what that vile man did to you,’ Fon said reasonably. ‘Price Davies was sick in his mind, you must know that.’
Arian didn’t speak and Fon leaned forward and took her hand. ‘I owe you a great deal. If it wasn’t for your courage …’ Her words trailed away.
Arian smiled and her face was illuminated, beautiful in it’s fine-boned thinness.
‘What you have here you’ve won by your own hard work.’
‘Huh!’ Fon twisted her lips into a wry smile. ‘Hard work is right. I have a stepson eating me out of house and home, a real handful is Patrick, and April, growing up she is, and me not knowing enough to talk to her like a mother should.’
Arian nodded gravely. ‘You see, all this is part of your warmth, you take in the children of other women and make them your own.’
Fon didn’t reply, she sipped her tea and watched in silence as Arian ate her breakfast, her manners dainty in spite of her hunger.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Arian asked at last and then, almost immediately she frowned. ‘You’re not going to tell me to pull myself together, are you?’
‘Right then, I won’t tell you, but you know what I think. That it’s about time you stopped living like a gypsy and found yourself an aim in life.’
‘An aim in life?’ Arian felt the stirring of anger again deep within her. ‘What do you suggest I do?’ Her meekness didn’t fool Fon for one moment. ‘Perhaps I could become a shilling stand-up selling myself in Swansea public bars. That’s all I’m good for, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t talk like that!’ Fon’s voice was sharp. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Arian.’ Fon rose to her feet. ‘I’ve offered you work and a home here, more than once, but do you take the chance to make a fresh start?’ It was Fon who was angry now.
‘Oh, no, you’ve lost all your courage, you’d rather wallow in self-pity, rather live rough in a run-down hut on the hillside. Forget the past, it’s over and done with. Look to the future now while you have your youth and strength and yes, your beauty.’
Arian rose and clutched her hands together. ‘It was a mistake to come here.’ Her voice shook a little. ‘I thought you would understand, just a little.’
Fon was at her side, holding her close in an embrace, rocking Arian gently as though she was a child. ‘There, there,’ she smoothed back Arian’s tangled hair, ‘I
do
understand, I understand you’ve been through so much, you’ve suffered, no-one is denying that but you can’t go on brooding over it for ever.’
Arian extricated herself, she felt uncomfortable being close to any human being, even Fon.
‘Thanks for the breakfast.’ Arian straightened her shoulders and stood quite still for a moment, not knowing what to do or where she would go next. She was tired of the open countryside, tired of sleeping rough in the shed or beneath hedgerows, but what else was there?
‘At least let me give you some fresh clothes, yours are soaked with dew. You’ll catch your death if you don’t take care.’ Fon smiled. ‘Go on, you might as well have them, none of my skirts and bodices fit me now.’
‘I’m all right as I am,’ Arian said, ‘you’ve given me enough. I don’t want to live for ever on your charity.’
‘Oh, what am I going to do with you?’ Fon’s voice was filled with exasperation. ‘I’m so sad seeing you like this, your spirit gone, your intelligence wasted. Are you going to allow a pig like Price Davies was to ruin your life for ever?’
The very name of the man who had once been her lover had the power to freeze the blood in Arian’s veins. She shuddered as though the winter winds were upon her and suddenly she felt unutterably weary. ‘Don’t worry, I’m a survivor. Hasn’t your fine handsome husband told you that more than once?’
‘Aye, Jamie has told me that,’ Fon agreed, ‘but he’s a man, a darling man but a man none the less. He doesn’t understand, not really.’ Fon rubbed at her brow, ‘I understand only too well, that it could so easily have been me that man attacked.’
Arian moved to the door. ‘I feel better now, a little food and a little indulgence in self-pity has cleared my mind. I’m going, I’ll leave you to get on with your chores in peace.’
Arian looked round the warm, welcoming kitchen which reflected Fon’s life, where everything was clean and cheerful, and she envied her. But then, not too much. Arian waved her hand to encompass the neat room, the blazing fire, the spotless cloth on the table. ‘I can’t ever see me conforming to what other women feel is a normal way of life.’