Copper Kingdom (25 page)

‘Yes, I am,' she looked away from his golden beauty for she longed to put her hands on his cheeks and draw his sensuous mouth down upon her own. ‘And I don't want to marry you Sterling, I'm sorry.' She rose and moved away from him and her legs were trembling.

‘You see I have given it all a great deal of thought ever since that first time we made love at the hotel. Incidentally, you shouldn't blame yourself for our affair or for the fact that I don't love you in the way a wife should love her husband.'

‘That's a very harsh and abrupt conclusion, Bea.' Sterling rose from the seat and Bea saw him glancing towards the house. ‘Damn, there's Mother. Bea, is that your final answer?' He was close behind her and Bea fought for control as she moved away from him.

‘I'm afraid it is, Sterling,' she said softly, keeping her back turned lest he see the torment in her face. She knew she was hurting him but a clean break and a final one was the only course she could take.

‘Aunt Victoria, how lovely to see you.' She greeted Victoria Richardson as she had always done with a kiss on the round smooth cheek, and yet within her was a raging tide of emotion and bitterness. Why oh why had Victoria chosen James Cardigan as her lover?

‘Bea, my dear, your father should have let me know you were unwell.' Victoria smiled, her unlined face revealing nothing of her passionate past. Bea was surprised at her own control as she was held at arm's length and studied from head to foot.

‘You are not eating properly, my dear,' Victoria said reprovingly. ‘You are far too thin and there is no colour in your cheeks.' She turned to James. ‘You must take this daugther of yours away for a rest, can't you see for yourself that she is far from well?'

The thought lodged in Bea's mind, to get away from Sweyn's Eye and from Sterling and the turmoil of emotion the sight of him evoked in her.

‘That's a very good idea,' she said decisively. Arms linked, she walked with Victoria back through the grasslands towards the house and her mind teased the prospect of leaving Sweyn's Eye. A rest taken somewhere far away might be exactly what was needed to erase from her mind her affair with Sterling and the nightmare of events that had followed.

‘I think, Aunt Victoria, you have found just the right cure for me,' she said, and yet deep within her was a well of unhappiness that nothing would ever alleviate.

Davie moved from furnace mouth to mould with the unerring accuracy born of long practice. His huge muscles bulged and his great shoulders ached from the strain but he prided himself on doing the job he was paid for and in doing it well.

Behind him, Will Owens was falling out of step again, the boyo was a damned nuisance, not cut from the same pattern as his father had been. What's more, Davie strongly suspected that Will Owens was working as a songbird, pouring tales into the boss's ear, sneaking behind the backs of his fellows and doubtless all for the price of a pint or two of ale.

Davie had watched Mr Richardson go up to the boyo on several occasions, talking to him on the quiet, and though he liked Mr Richardson well enough and didn't blame him for keeping his ears to the ground, Davie didn't approve of songbirds and neither did the rest of the men.

Will Owens had already felt the chill of disapproval but none of the other coppermen had come out with what was on their minds and confronted the young toerag with it, none except Davie himself. Will Owens had flatly denied it of course and as there was never any proof of that sort of backstabbing, the subject had been dropped. But Davie had left the boyo in no doubt that he would be closely watched.

‘Keep in step,' Davie growled as Owens came too near his back for comfort. ‘I can feel the damned heat from your ladle near my arse.' Owens fell back a pace or two and Davie concentrated on tipping his burden of copper into the mould.

‘Your turn for a break, Davie,' Sam Herbert shouted across to him, holding aloft the jug of ale that he'd been drinking from. Davie lowered his ladle to the ground carefully and left the ranks of men with a sigh of relief. He picked up his tea can and went to the stove in the corner of the room, lifting the big pot and making himself a brew. It was very rarely that Davie drank ale while at work; he preferred his tea, for alcohol clouded the mind and weakened the body – at any rate that's what he himself thought, what others did was their business.

‘Saw that bastard Owens outside the office earlier.' Sam Herbert swigged his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Can't stand the boyo, too upitty and cocky for my liking, though his dad was a good friend of mine and speak as you find, he was one of the best. Just as well he's not alive to see what sort of scum his son turned out to be.'

Davie drank his tea, swallowing deeply, and rubbed at his face with his sweat cloth. Sam was one of the older men in the sheds, past his prime and not able to ladle like he used to, but fit enough for bringing in the green trees for feeding into the furnaces.

‘You keep your mouth buttoned, Sam,' Davie cautioned. ‘Don't go getting yourself into something you can't handle. Toerag Will Owens may be but he'd not be above fisting you one if you offended him and you're too old and wise a ram for that sort of caper.'

Sam spat on the ground. ‘It's hard to keep your mouth shut when a boyo makes you sick to your guts,' he said, his eyes dark as they followed Will Owens' quick movements. ‘See how he tips copper as if it was soup, no care does he take with the stuff and it strong enough to burn off a man's both legs as quick as a wink. No respect for the copper and no fear and that is always dangerous.'

Davie swirled the last of the tea around the can and drank it down. Some of the tealeaves caught in his throat and he spat them out.

‘It's back to work for me then, Sam.' He rubbed his hands carefully against his trousers, damp fingers were slippery and a firm grip on the handle was the difference between work well done and disaster.

‘Saw your girl the other day,' Sam said conversationally. ‘If I'm not mistaken she was with the boss.' Sam took a deep gulp of his ale and his eyes were turned away from Davie who had stopped suddenly in his tracks.

‘Saw Mali? Where did you see her, at the fair was it?' Davie felt anger begin to burn in his gut, was he never going to be allowed to forget that his daughter had sat up there amongst the toffs like a common doxy?

‘No boyo, not at the fair, down at the cemetery it was. Gone to see to my little babba's grave, the youngest, the one that passed on ten years ago or more, always go down once a week I do, my only boy, see, talks to him I do, soft in the head I may be but it brings me ease and so why shouldn't I do what I feel is right?'

Davie shook his head in bewilderment, trying to sort through the muddle of words. ‘You saw my Mali with Mr Richardson down at Dan-y-Graig Cemetery, is that right?' He dabbed at his neck where the sweat was running in small rivulets down into the hair of his chest, waiting in growing impatience for Sam to reply.

‘That's right, saw them myself I did, mighty fond he seems of your girl, Davie and I don't mean any harm by telling you but for all that watch young Mali, you know as well as I do what rams these bosses are, don't want but one thing from our women and then leaves them in the lurch as soon as there's any trouble.'

Davie rubbed the sweat rag over his face, concealing his fury. Mali was still seeing the boss after all he'd said, well she would just have to learn to heed him, even if it meant him taking his belt to her.

He found it difficult to find his rhythm again and he was slower than usual filling his ladle and tipping the molten steaming copper into the top hats. He knew that when the moulds were emptied after the copper had cooled, the round slices of metal would be uneven and that irritated him, he liked his work to be perfect and though it would be impossible to tell which ladler had tipped which wheel of copper it was enough that he himself knew his ladling was not up to its usual standard.

He had lost his place in line and was now working behind Will Owens. Davie watched the youth's back and felt like hitting out at him as if by an act of violence he might cleanse away his anger and distress over Mali. He held his brimming ladle forward and deliberately sketted the boyo's leg and the next moment all hell broke loose as Will Owens hopped like a frog, tearing at his trousers, drawing the burning cloth away from his flesh.

‘You bastard.' He looked up at Davie from where he was crouched on the ground. ‘You did that on purpose and don't deny it.' He rubbed at the small livid mark at the back of his calf and from experience, Davie knew that though not serious, the burn would be stinging like a nettle patch.

‘There's sorry I am boyo,' Davie said evenly. ‘Careless of me that was but not done on purpose, mind.' He reached out to help Will Owens to his feet but his hand was brushed aside angrily.

‘
Duw
, don't take it so badly, there's bound to be accidents some times, look how you were nearly tripping over my heels earlier on. Anyway, that's not much of a burn and a dock leaf will take the stinging away.'

Will Owens rose to his feet and hopped over to the bench near the wall. The furnaceman looked over his shoulder at Davie.

‘Warming the songbird up a bit? That's something we'd all have liked to do.'

‘Aye, it clipped his wings a bit but he'll not stop his tune for there's money to line his pockets whenever he sings.'

The furnaceman pushed a sapling into the molten metal and it hissed and roared like a wounded beast.

‘God, it's like hell in this stinking shed.' Davie mopped his face. ‘I'll be glad to have my shift over and done with.'

Will Owens rejoined the crew, his face sullen, his eyes murderous as they studied Davie.

‘Go in front of me, David Llewelyn,' he said flatly. ‘I don't trust you at the back.' He fell into line and the endless round of dipping and pouring began once more. Davie worked easily now, having found his second wind. Soon the day's shift would be done and then he could go home and eat his grub, wash himself down ready to meet Rosa. His pulse quickened at the thought and somehow as he moved from furnace to mould, his step was lighter.

It was raining again when Davie finished work and he drew his coat around him, feeling cold after the heat of the sheds. As he passed the gatehouse, he glanced inside the office and saw Sterling Richardson bent over his desk. If there was any more talk about the boss and Mali then Davie would have to deal with the matter in his own way, Mr Richardson might take more notice of fists than he did of words.

Later that evening, Davie entered the smoky public bar of Maggie Dicks and stood for a moment looking around him. The piano in the corner was being played loudly and triumphantly by Dai End House, whose fingers, small for a man, roved over the yellowed keys with loving skill.

The stone floor of the bar was covered in sawdust and the cast iron tables, set about the room in haphazard fashion, were ornately decorated with images of Britannia, the oak table tops scarred by marks from beer mugs and pipe tobacco.

The small window looked outward upon a hill, long and steep, which during the heavy rains sent water pouring down to flood the small house. Even now, the landlord had taken the precaution of putting old worn-out matting against the front step.

There was no sign of Rosa and so Davie ordered himself a pint of ale and leaned against the bar, staring into the mirror behind the rows of bottles on the shelves. He looked young for his years, he thought with pride, his hair was still dark with no hint of grey and his face was comparatively unlined.

He felt that his association with Rosa had warmed him into life, for when his wife had died he had been empty and lost without her. He was not an articulate man but his emotions went deep and he had believed he would spend the rest of his days alone. Once Mali met with a fine young boyo, someone of her own sort, he had reasoned, a man who would offer her marriage and a home with fine children around the hearth, he would live out his life as a priest did with no women to give him comfort. But then he had reckoned without Rosa.

He had taken a fancy to her the first time they'd met; she had made up to him flattered him and though he'd seen through her wiles, it did not matter. He had taken her first in the lane behind the doors of the Mexico Fountain for she was offering a shilling stand-up and he had paid willingly. Soon, however, they began to meet more and more often and he found he was becoming increasingly jealous of her other clients.

‘I've got a proposition for you girl,' he'd said, taking the bull by the horns. ‘I'll court you proper like, you'll be my woman and no other man's, does that suit you? It's either that or we finish right here and now.' Rosa had melted against him, her eyes soft with tears, and for a moment she could not speak, she simply clung to his hand, trembling as though she was a young virgin.

‘Oh, Davie, I can't believe it, a decent man like you offering for me. I don't have to tell you surely that the answer is yes.'

And so from then on, Rosa had become respectable though occasionally a customer who had been away from the area for a time would approach her and offer her a few shillings and Rosa would be highly delighted to decline the money and be proud to say that she was no longer a girl of the streets.

Old Sam Herbert came up to Davie and leaned on the bar next to him. ‘That was a fine trick you played on our songbird.' He winked hugely. ‘Though I doubt if it will be enough to teach the boyo a lesson. Still, shifts over for today so I shouldn't be talking about work, how about a hand of cards?'

‘Sorry, Sam, meeting Rosa in a minute, she's late, busy dolling herself up I suppose.'