Firebird (6 page)

He sank back against the cushions, his face ashen. ‘Gwenie, what have you done to me?' He looked as if he might burst into tears. ‘Gwen, I thought you loved me, is this any way to treat your husband?'

‘Look, Bert, we can still make this work.' Gwen sat beside her husband and took his hands in hers. ‘Come on, Bert, we love each other, we will be happy, you'll see.'

Llinos moved to the door and as she left the room she caught sight of Mr Cimla's eyes and the hate in them made her shiver. She would have to be careful; if Mr Cimla found a way to be rid of her he would not hesitate to use it.

‘I need Binnie back here, Mother.' Llinos was placing the unglazed pottery in the biscuit kiln, careful to put the lighter pots above the heavier jugs and basins. ‘I need the temperature to be nine hundred degrees centigrade. Ben is fetching the coal for the oven. We can only afford to have one kiln working now but it needs stoking to keep the temperature constant. I can't make pots and look after the fires as well.'

She looked down at Watt, who was pulling at a tuft of his hair. ‘You are doing your best aren't you, but we must have Binnie back to help you out.'

‘Go and get him then, love.' Gwen smiled and Llinos realized it was the first time she had seen her smiling in some weeks. ‘Mr Cimla is behaving himself so go while the going is good.'

Ben came into the yard, a bag of coal on his shoulders. ‘I'll just see to the oven now, Llinos.'

He tipped the coal onto the yard and began to circle the kiln, replenishing the fires.

‘I'm going to get Binnie back,' Llinos said and Ben nodded slowly.

‘That's a good idea, we need a boy like him around, knows the business of potting inside out, Binnie does. The apprentices do their best but no-one can work like Binnie Dundee.'

‘Do you know where he lives, Ben?'

‘Aye, over in Greenhill with folk his own kind. Ask the vicar, he'll know everyone around the area.'

Llinos frowned. Binnie was a Scot, why would he be living in the Irish community of Greenhill?

Ben met her eyes and smiled. ‘High church, see, they like to stick together. Good people, mind, took the boy in when he had nowhere else to go.'

‘How about driving over to Greenhill now, Llinos,' Gwen broke in. ‘I can keep an eye on the apprentices, I've got some spare time before I need to help Nora with the supper.'

Llinos looked at her mother. Gwen was a woman who had been born to be a lady, to be waited on by servants. She was showing a great deal of courage right now and Llinos was proud of her.

‘I'll just fetch my cloak from behind the back door. I'll be as quick as I can, Mother.'

Mr Cimla moved swiftly as Llinos entered the kitchen. He slid a bottle inside his coat pocket but the smell of whisky permeated the air. She hesitated, looking at the man in disgust; he was a strong, ablebodied man but he chose to sit around the house doing nothing but drink the meagre profits. She longed to tell him what she thought of him. His eyes slid away as she looked at him. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders and left the house.

It was good to be out in the late afternoon sunshine. Llinos drove along the ribbon of roadway flanking the river, lulled by the rhythmic beat of hooves against the dusty ground.

She'd had the dream again the night before. The man, tall, with long black hair and the bluest of eyes, had been with her, taking her hand, leading her away from the poverty of her life into a wonderful shining world.

Well, it was only a dream but it always left her with a sensation of warmth and well-being. So different from the greyness her life had become.

Still, she should be grateful, things seemed to be improving a little. Mr Cimla had become much more manageable since Gwen had taken a shotgun to him. He still indulged in drinking whenever it suited him but he was at least trying to be discreet whenever Gwen was around.

Splashes of sunlight on the grass of Greenhill gave Llinos the impression that the place lived up to its name. Small houses had been built at random around the church; gardens sported washing lines billowing with freshly laundered sheets.

Ben had suggested speaking to the vicar and though it was a good idea, Llinos felt diffident about approaching a man of the cloth. She dismounted from the horse and walked around the church, wondering if anyone was inside.

Suddenly the vicar was standing in front of her, his long robes brushing the dust of the pathway.

‘Excuse me, vicar.' Llinos hesitated and the man smiled encouragingly.

‘Speak up, child, I will not bite you.'

‘I'm looking for Binnie Dundee.'

‘Ah, the young Scot, I think you will find him in Waterford Place. Aren't you Llinos Savage from Pottery Row?'

‘That's right.' She looked at him in surprise. He smiled.

‘I'm Father Duncan and I am no mystic, child. Your friend Binnie has talked of you so much I feel I know you.'

He dug within the folds of his cassock and brought out a pipe. ‘It broke his young heart leaving the job he loved. An unfortunate disagreement with your stepfather, wasn't it?'

Llinos nodded. ‘All that has been resolved. I want Binnie to come back with me.'

The cleric stroked his beard. ‘Ah well, I don't know about that, he seems fine where he is.'

Llinos bit her lip. She had imagined that Binnie would jump at the idea of returning to the pottery.

‘Go yourself and find the lad,' the vicar said. ‘Let him speak for himself. You see that newly whitewashed house at the end of the road there, that's where you will find him. God bless you, child.'

Binnie himself answered her knock on the door. ‘Llinos! It's good to see you.' He took her hands. ‘There's nothing wrong, is there?'

‘No, no, there's nothing wrong.'

Behind Binnie stood a young girl with green eyes set wide apart and hair a glorious red. She looked at Llinos with an air of hostility.

‘Llinos, this is Maura. I lodge with her and her mother.'

Llinos felt at a disadvantage as she followed Binnie into a spotless kitchen.

‘I want you to come back to the pottery,' she blurted out, cursing herself inwardly for her clumsiness. Binnie raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘Things are different now,' she said quickly. ‘My mother has put that awful man in his place for good, I hope. Please Binnie, say you'll come back, I can't manage without you.' The words seemed to hang in silence for a long time and then Binnie rubbed his hand through his hair, making it stand on end.

‘I don't know what to say.' He looked at Maura and she stared back in angry silence.

‘Give me time, will you?' Binnie was apologetic as he followed Llinos to the door. ‘I'll come up and see you at the pottery tomorrow, all right?'

‘Right, yes, see you tomorrow.' As Llinos mounted her horse and made her way back along the river bank towards the pottery, she was fighting back the tears. She had thought it would be so easy, just ask and Binnie would come with her. Well, it seemed that Binnie had other ideas. He had a new life, a life that included a beautiful Irish girl.

When she reached home, Llinos found her mother in the kitchen. There was no sign of Mr Cimla.

‘You should have offered him a rise,' Gwen said when Llinos told her of Binnie's reaction. ‘Where is Binnie working now and how much is he getting?'

‘I don't know, I was so taken aback that I didn't ask him.'

‘Ah, well, we can always apply to the union workhouse for a boy, I suppose. That's where Binnie came from and he proved reliable, didn't he?' Her voice was muffled. ‘I know it's partly my fault Binnie left us; I'm sorry, Llinos, but perhaps it's for the best.'

Llinos was silent for a moment. ‘No, Mother, it won't do, I must get Binnie back. A boy from the workhouse would be inexperienced. I need help now.'

Gwen turned to face her then and Llinos took a deep breath. ‘Mother! Oh, Mother! Your poor eye is all swollen and bruised. That man has hit you, he's nothing but a cowardly monster!'

Gwen began to cry. She closed the kitchen door and sat down at the table. ‘I don't want Nora to hear but it's over, I've sent him packing,' Gwen said. ‘I hope and pray he never comes back.'

‘Good for you, Mam! Now we can start to live a normal life again,' Llinos said.

‘It's not quite as simple as that.' Gwen bit her lip, struggling for composure. ‘I have something to tell you.'

Llinos felt a sense of foreboding as she looked across the table at her mother.

‘I'm expecting his child.' Gwen's voice faltered. ‘A month ago I would have been beside myself with happiness. Now I don't know what I feel.'

Llinos closed her eyes trying to imagine her mother nursing a baby, Mr Cimla's baby. ‘Does he know?'

Gwen shook her head. ‘No, not yet.'

‘What can we do?' Llinos felt panic begin to weave a knot inside her. How could she hope to deal with the work of the pottery and look after her mother?

‘There's not a lot we can do, not about the child. But Mr Cimla is a different kettle of fish. If he returns, you must send him away. This is your house and if you don't want him here, he has no right to stay.'

‘All right, I'll tell him, don't worry.' Even as she spoke she heard the sound of the front door slamming. She rose to her feet, suddenly tense. Mr Cimla, it seemed, had decided to come home.

CHAPTER FOUR

Joe watched the older man as he bent over the card table in the tent. The scratch of the quill over the paper as Savage wrote seemed extraordinarily loud in the silence of the early morning. Joe felt a moment of sadness. The captain wrote home almost every day. His letters were taken away from the battle lines by the rider but there was never any reply.

Perhaps Mrs Savage did not know if her husband was alive or dead. It was more than a possibility. If a soldier, even a captain, was missing for more than a few days, someone in command would assume the worst. Letters of condolence would be written, families devastated. But that was war.

Joe left the tent silently and crouched over the fire. He was boiling gruel for breakfast, it was nourishing but thin, and to thicken it Joe stirred in the milk he had stolen during the night.

It had been quiet in the cowshed, the farm animals docile, soothed by Joe's gentle tones. He had closed his eyes, leaning against the warm flank, drawing down the milk, enjoying a moment of peace.

Briefly he had seen a candle flicker in an upstairs window of the French farmhouse. As he watched, ready for flight, he heard the sound of an infant crying. Shortly afterwards, the light was extinguished, there was silence and the inhabitants of the farmhouse slept once more.

The captain came out of the tent and stared down into the pot. ‘That looks like a hearty breakfast.'

Joe smiled up at him. ‘We're having eggs too, a little feast before we march to battle.'

He heard Savage sigh and knew the reason for the heaviness reflected in the captain's eyes.

‘Your letters are not getting through.' Joe spoke with finality. ‘I saw the rider dead beneath his horse.'

Savage crouched down beside him. ‘Do you mean literally, Joe, or in one of your . . . your dreams?'

Joe looked up briefly. ‘Does it matter?'

‘No, I suppose not. You are probably right. You always are. But I'll keep writing, you never know, one or two of them might reach my wife.'

Joe ladled the gruel into the tin vessels and handed one to the captain.

‘Eat while it is hot. It will put heart into you.'

‘How old are you, Joe?'

Joe smiled. ‘As old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth. Why do you ask?'

‘Clever sod.' Savage scraped the bottom of the tin. ‘I ask because you seem wise beyond your years.'

Joe finished the gruel and began cleaning his tin and the cooking pot with the sandy earth. He wiped the utensils with fresh dewy grass and poured a small amount of the precious supply of water into them, swirling it around before tipping it onto the ground. Joe was always sparing with the water, conscious that the next spring might be miles away.

He cracked four eggs into the pot and added some of the milk. ‘You'll enjoy this, Captain.'

‘My mouth is watering already.'

Joe was silent, intent on the task in hand. He watched the egg solidify. When the meal was ready, the two men ate silently for a time and then Joe looked up. ‘What time are we to leave camp, Captain?' he asked.

He watched quietly as Savage considered the question, knowing the answer already.

‘Directly after sundown. You and I will set out ahead of the rest.' He waved the letter he had just written.

‘This is the last letter I might ever write home, Joe. I have made my prayers to my God. Have you made supplication to your God for our safety? We are going to need all the help we can get.'

‘We will be safe, Captain.' Joe finished his meal in silence. ‘I'll pack up the kit and then I shall walk out for a while.' He allowed himself a small smile. ‘I shall commune with the spirits of my ancestors. That is unless you need me for anything?'

Savage shook his head. ‘I have a briefing to attend. The orders will be duly given that we search out the location of the French armies and as usual, you and I will interpret those orders freely.'

Joe inclined his head. What did these generals know? They sat on their fat backsides and directed operations, sending hapless men to their deaths with a few dashes of ink on parchment. Always, the generals kept well to the rear of any attack. Cowards ran the armies of England and heroes fought in them.