Copper Kingdom (23 page)

‘I expect you're right,' Mali said miserably, ‘but I've got to see him, just this once more.' She stared along Copperman's Row and wondered if Dad would be home. He had been on early shift and should have been finished an hour since but there was no smoke rising from the chimney.

‘Will I see you later, Katie?' Mali asked. ‘I'd like to talk to you after I've seen him.'

Katie squeezed her arm. ‘Sure an' I'll be there, just knock my door and we'll get together any time you say.'

The house was cold and empty and there was no sign of Davie. Mali went to the dead fire and set a light to it and soon the flames were curling upwards, sending a warm glow throughout the kitchen, but somehow she felt very alone.

She pulled the curtains across the windows and lit the gas lamp, and shivered as she stared round her at the emptiness. If only her Mam was here to confide in, Mali thought as she moved towards the yard with the huge black kettle ready for filling in her hand.

The water drummed against the bottom of the kettle, splashing up against Mali's blouse, but she didn't notice. What would her mother have said about Sterling Richardson? She would speak to her just as Katie had done, Mali decided, warn her no doubt of the dangers of such an association. No good could come of it, for men like Sterling Richardson did not marry the Mali Llewelyns of this world, they simply used them and then discarded them. But he was not like that, her mind cried out desperately.

She made herself a meal of fried bacon and eggs and had just sat down at the table when the door opened.

‘There's a smell to warm a man's guts.' Davie came into the room and Mali's smile of welcome faded as she saw that behind him was Rosa, her dingy hat falling over one eye, and it was clear that the pair of them had been drinking. Suddenly Mali's appetite vanished. She rose to her feet and faced her father but he held up his hands, a stern look on his face.

‘No quarrels, now,' he said flatly. ‘Rosa is coming to supper and that's that and I won't hear nothing said against her.' He moved to the back door and stood for a moment, his hand on the knob.

‘I'm going to wash up, get some of this grime off me, the copper stings like a hundred wasps. Boil up the kettle, Mali, and Rosa will bring the hot water out the back for me, won't you lovie?' He smiled fatuously and Rosa blew him a kiss.

‘'Course I will, Davie my fine boyo, an' I'll scrub yer back for you.' She laughed uproariously. ‘And yer front too if you lets me.'

Mali pushed her plate away, her stomach churning with anger as her father went outside. Rosa stood swaying slightly, a silly grin on her face.

‘And don't you look down your nose at me, my girl,' she said, her words slurring into each other. ‘'Cos we all knows what you gets up to when you goes to the recreation ground with your betters. I seed you down on the beach, lying in the sand with 'im, that Mr Richardson, up to no good you was but I haven't told on you to your dad, he thinks you were at the fairground all the time.'

Mali opened her mouth to protest but closed it again. What was the use? Whatever she said now, Rosa would be determined to believe the worst.

‘Here, the kettle's boiling, you'd better take Dad the water.' She lifted the huge kettle from the flames. ‘I'm going out.' She drew on her coat and Rosa stood staring at her curiously.

‘Going to meet your man, is it? Have a bit of lovin' on the side, well who can blame you? Have fun then and give him a big smacker for me.' Her laughter followed Mali as she hurried away from Copperman's Row.

The cemetery looked eerie and unfamiliar in the darkness and Mali stood on the path beneath the gas lamp staring round her fearfully. To her left, high up against the wall that guarded the grounds from the loose boulders running down the hillside, was her mother's grave. Below her in the well-kept lawns with marble headstones rising like jagged teeth was buried Arthur Richardson, Sterling's father.

‘Mali.' His voice came soft from the darkness and she turned quickly, her heart beating so swiftly she could hardly draw breath. He was standing before her then, the shadows falling across his face and his hair glinting like a halo.

She was tonguetied, not knowing what to say, but speak she must or she would throw herself into his arms like a wanton. ‘I'm going to my mother's grave.' There was a hint of defiance in her tone, as though warning him that she was not here for his sake alone.

She turned and moved slowly up the hill, aware that he was following her in silence.

‘I've been promoted.' She said brightly and yet the triumph she expected to feel was absent. ‘Office girl to Mr Waddington, that's my job now.'

‘I'm sure you deserve it, Mali,' Sterling said softly.

‘Not bad is it?' Mali attempted to smile. ‘From blackfaced boiler stoker to office worker in a few short weeks.'

‘You are a remarkable girl, in many ways,' he said and his tone sounded abrupt. Hurt, Mali turned from him, tossing back her long hair.

‘Sorry if my talking upsets you,' she said huffily.

‘Sweet foolish Mali.' He caught her arm and turned her to face him. ‘I shouldn't have asked you to come here tonight.' His hand dropped away from her slowly.

He turned and walked on ahead, coming to a stop under the trees that shimmered and swayed, making a soft sound like many people whispering.

Mali stared down at the soft grassy earth, wondering what Mam would say to her if she were alive now. Sterling seemed to sense something of her thoughts.

He drew her even closer. ‘You're shivering.' He almost whispered the words. Slowly, his mouth claimed hers and she was drowning in sensations that threatened to overwhelm her.

It was she who drew away. Her entire being felt alive, awakened to responses that were unfamiliar and yet achingly desirable. Her nerve ends tingled and her heart beats sounded loudly in her ears. Her breathing was ragged and her body cried out for fulfilment.

This then was what love was like, this torment, this clamouring between what was desired and what was right.

His hand touched her breast and Mali closed her eyes against the exquisite pain of knowing she must end the sweetness of their passion before it was too late.

‘No!' She moved right away from him, clasping her hands together to stop them from trembling.

He spoke distantly as though he had gone far away from her. ‘I'll take you home.'

Mali felt tears burn her eyes; she wished for a moment that she could return to the girl she had been but that was impossible. She was a woman now, with a woman's needs.

Without touching him she spoke. ‘I love you, Sterling.' The words had to be said and what response she had expected she did not know but it hurt her deeply when he merely stepped away from her and looked up into the hills as though she did not exist.

‘Come along, we'd better go,' he said and he might have been talking to a stranger for all the emotion that was in his voice. Mali stared at him, trying to gain some crumb of comfort, but they were walking beneath the trees now and it was too dark to see his face.

‘Just as far as the Mexico Fountain will do,' she said stiffly and he remained silent as he strode along a little in front of her now.

They crossed the bridge over the river and a shadowy moon threw patterns onto the water. Mali looked down into its depths and wondered how she was going to live the rest of her life knowing she could never be with the man she loved.

When Sterling left Mali, he walked rapidly towards the Mackworth Arms. As bitter rain had begun to fall and he cursed himself for his foolishness in not bringing the Ascot. And yet he knew it was not the inclement weather that made him restless and moody, it was the feeling deep within himself that he had somehow betrayed Mali.

‘Don't be absurd,' he told himself harshly. Even Mali herself recognised there was no future for them together.

He cared not a fig for convention nor even for the fact that Davie Llewelyn had warned him against pursuing Mali, but common sense told him it would not be fair to take her from her natural surroundings. She was not the sort of girl who could indulge in an illicit affair and he had no intention of forcing her against her better judgment.

As he entered the foyer of the hotel, the night porter touched his cap in salute.

‘Nasty night, Mr Richardson. You look wet through, shall I bring you something hot, sir?'

Sterling shook his head. ‘No, but you can bring me a bottle of whisky.'

In his room, he threw his coat savagely over a chair, listening to the rain tapping miserably against the window. He supposed he should be grateful that matters had not got out of hand, at least there had been no lasting harm done and the sooner he forgot Mali Llewelyn the better.

He undressed and drew on a warm robe and, returning to the window, peered out into the darkness of the night. For the first time in his life he knew what loneliness meant and it wasn't a feeling he liked.

Perhaps he had better settle down as soon as possible with a good and suitable wife. He immediately thought of Bea; she was a warm and passionate woman, they had always been friends and lately they had become so much more. And yet there was no joy in the thought of asking Bea to marry him. His blood cried out for Mali Llewelyn and in his mind's eye he could see her features warmed by the happiness they had shared that day on the beach. He heard the gentle lilt of her voice like a song, and the touch of her lips beneath his own had stirred his blood.

But desire was something that soon faded, he told himself, and Mali Llewelyn had been an experience that would soon be nothing more than a memory.

Bea Cardigan sat often in the privacy of her own room. She refused invitations to afternoon teas and even the occasional grand ball in favour of quiet evenings spent at home. She allowed no one to share with her the terrible grief that had clouded her entire life, changing her from a sociable woman into a recluse.

But she had come at last to the only possible solution to her problem and now, in her room, she dressed slowly, trying to prepare herself to face the coming ordeal with courage.

Her hands fumbled over the buttons of the richly embroidered voile dress as though reluctant to see the task finished. She sighed softly and at last she placed a large, heavily decorated hat upon her glossy hair and stood staring at her reflection for a moment, hardly recognising the pale drawn face that looked back at her.

She left the house silently as a shadow for she did not wish to see or speak with anyone, not even Bertha. The young maid had been the only person in the world in whom Bea could confide her trouble and it had been Bertha who had found a clean and trustworthy midwife.

Out in the lane leading from the house to the roadway, the sun fell in patches through the trees. Bea felt disembodied, not quite real, and she was glad when she reached the hubbub of the busy main street.

Why did this have to happen to me? Bea asked herself for the hundredth time. It was like a nightmare to know that she carried within her the child of her half brother. Her being revolted against the idea and yet, God help her, the love for Sterling remained.

She had avoided him of late and she was quite certain that he had not even noticed that she no longer swept joyously into his new house to help with the decoration. But how could she be near him and not fling herself desperately into his arms?

She walked slowly down the hill and away from the elegant buildings of the western slope of the town and gradually she left the main streets behind her. She was on unfamiliar territory now, walking alongside the canal, turgid and slow with brown fronds of grass waving like dead fingers just below the surface of the water.

She shivered, she must not be fanciful and yet her stomach turned over as she thought of the ordeal to come. She told herself that she must imagine going back home to tea, sitting in the familiar warmth of the drawing room, looking out of the long windows at the bay far below. And yet the hands clasping her bag were trembling.

The exterior of the house in Canal Street was respectable enough, lace curtains hung in the windows and the doorknob was brightly polished but the stone walls were begrimed by the copper smoke that hung like a pall all over this part of the town. Bea tapped on the door and waited in trepidation, half hoping Mrs Benson would not answer her knock. She glanced around her, fearful of being observed, realising that it had been a mistake to put on her new hat, for the women who passed her in the street either wore shawls over their heads or the tall Welsh hats that were falling from fashion now.

‘Ah, come inside there's a good girl.' Mrs Benson was a large reassuring woman with a greying bun fastened up at the back of her head. She was, Bea noticed, immaculately dressed with a spotless apron covering her skirt and blouse. She was nothing like the dragon Bea had expected, her cheeks were pink and fresh and her eyes clear and direct.

‘Come inside,' Mrs Benson repeated, ‘don't give the neighbours a free show, is it?'

Bea hovered uncertainly in the sudden dimness of the small kitchen. A good coal fire glowed behind gleaming brass fenders and a large chest of drawers, smelling of polish, stood alongside her.

‘Come on through to the other room girlie, and don't be afraid, there's nothing to worry about, I've done this job so many times, it's second nature to me now. Don't like it, mind,' she said honestly, ‘but I feel there's always a good reason for a girl to come to me and I don't ask no questions.'

Bea followed Mrs Benson into the small room which probably served as a parlour, for a white sheet covered what appeared to be an upright piano and on the wall hung pictures, presumably of Mrs Benson's family.