The Wild Seed (6 page)

‘It will work.’ Hari spoke doggedly. ‘I can design again, I can make boots and shoes that will be sought after in the town and beyond, just as I did before. We’ll have a repair shop where we can tap working boots, that’s a service that’s always necessary.’

‘But love,’ Craig could scarcely conceal his exasperation, ‘that was before machinery became so sophisticated that anything in leather could be produced to perfection.’

‘Yes,
mass
-produced.’ Hari leaned forward, ‘There are still a great many people in Swansea who go to London for handmade footwear, made to measure on the customer’s own last. These shoes are a perfect fit which the machine-made shoes are not.’

‘Look,’ she spoke again when Craig shook his head. ‘Don’t dismiss my ideas out of hand. We have some stocks of leather left in the storeroom.’ She held up her hand. ‘I know the store warehouses will be sold off but we can shift the stock before the bailiffs move in.’ Even as she spoke, the word ‘bailiff’ brought a chill to her spine. She remembered her childhood spent in the slums of World’s End, when the visit of the bailiff to one of the houses was a time for fist fights and abuse, when poor sticks of furniture would be put out on the pavement for everyone to see and then carted off to be sold or dumped. It had seemed to Hari then that the poor were being punished because they
were
poor. If the people had money they would pay their debts. Well, she was in the same position now as the poor from World’s End and the thought was frightening.

She rose to her feet. ‘You see, Craig, I could bring in a milliner and a glove maker, there are many women with talent who are unemployed, women who will take a chance on me.’

Craig lifted his head, swayed against his better judgement by her enthusiasm.

‘The kitchens are huge and there are several unused storerooms, we shall have tearooms with
Bara brith
made to my own recipe and Welsh cakes and
Tiesen lap
. What the Clarks have done for Street in Somerset I can do for Swansea. I will make Summer Lodge into a new kind of emporium, you’ll see, Craig. We can do it, I know we can. What do you think, Craig?’

Craig looked at her with a glimmer of a smile in his eyes. ‘I can see you are fired with the old enthusiasm, Hari. I think you, if anybody, can make this mad scheme work.’

‘I’ll make it work, you can depend on it.’ Hari swept around the table and hugged him. ‘Have faith in me, my lovely.’ She sobered suddenly. ‘Convincing you was the easy part, now I have to convince the bank that it would be worth their while to give us a bit more time.’

Craig nodded, ‘Aye, that’s the first step and perhaps the most difficult but you have given me hope, you know. I believe in you, you have to make the people at the bank believe in you now.’

It was two days later when Mrs Hari Grenfell stepped out of the cab onto the pavement outside the Hammet Bank. She looked up at the elegant façade and bit her lip, feeling fear turn her blood to ice. It was a long time since she had needed to beg for anything but if necessary she would go down on her knees, even shed a few tears, if it would get her what she wanted.

Less than fifteen minutes later, she left the bank with nothing but a faint hope in her heart. The edict of the great man of banking had been that she had two weeks to get backing for her scheme from outside. The bank would hold off for a little while, but in no way could the bank advance Mrs Grenfell any further funds.

Hari breathed in the freshness of the air, the rain that had beaten down on the town for days had stopped and a pale sun shone from between the clouds. She moved along the street almost in a daze, searching her mind for a way out of her dilemma. If the banks would not lend her money, then who would? Who could? In her mind she compiled a list of people to whom she could appeal for financial backing. One by one she discarded them until it came down to just two names: Arian Smale, owner of the highly profitable
Swansea Times
and Boyo Jubilee Hopkins, a fellow dealer in the leather trade and by all accounts a very rich man.

With courage born of desperation, Hari Grenfell walked towards the offices of
The Swansea Times
. The clatter of typewriting machines hit her like a stone wall and she hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do next. She had expected to see Arian Smale in person but the room was full of men and just one or two girls tapping away at machines with the confidence of the young. An elderly man with fine eyes and a slightly sardonic twist to his mouth looked up at her.

‘I would like to see Miss Smale, if it is at all possible.’ Why was she so diffident? Why did she not act like the grand lady everyone thought her? But then, it had never been her way to feel superior to anyone.

The man inclined his head. ‘Mrs Grenfell, isn’t it?’ His mouth widened into a smile and she responded, liking him.

‘That’s right, how sharp of you to recognize me.’

‘Not really, I’ve been reporting on the doings of the gentry for so many years now that I know most of the town’s élite by sight if not by name.’

‘I am not one of the élite, I assure you,’ Hari said quickly. ‘I began life as a shoemaker’s daughter and I’m proud of it.’

‘I know. I’m Mac. Wait here, I’ll go and find Miss Smale.’

Hari tried to compose herself, she was very nervous, wondering how she was going to approach Arian Smale, how she was going to bring herself to ask for money. She thought of Craig waiting for her at home and lifted her chin high, knowing that she needed to summon all her resolve.

‘Hari Grenfell, how nice to see you!’ Arian was a beautiful woman, her hair was fine and silver in colour, swept up from a gracious, swan-like neck. Her smile was warm but would that warmth fade when she knew what Hari wanted?

In the office, Hari clasped her hands together as though the gesture could give her strength. ‘I might as well come straight to the point,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I am here to ask you to invest money in my new business venture.’

‘Sit down, Hari.’ Arian seated herself behind the desk but leaned forward on her elbows, smiling her encouragement. ‘I must say I’m intrigued. What scheme are you up to now, haven’t you proved yourself a success many times over?’

‘I thought so until the day before yesterday.’ Hari swallowed hard trying to find the right words.

‘Some disaster has occurred, of a financial kind, I suspect; am I right?’ Arian was a perceptive woman and Hari met her eyes knowing that there was no need to prevaricate, Arian was quick-witted enough to grasp the essentials without detailed explanations.

‘Everything has gone,’ she spoke with more confidence now, ‘I have no money at all. Worse, my company is in debt to the bank and to cap it all I’m in danger of losing Summer Lodge. However, I do have an idea that might just save the day if only I can get someone to back me.’

‘What can I do to help?’ Arian leaned back in her chair, ‘I am willing to put money into any scheme run personally by you, Hari.’

‘I want to turn the house into a new kind of emporium, I want to design new-style shoes, I want to make gloves and hats on the premises and serve teas, anything to promote the interest in handmade leather goods and footwear. I think it will work, I know there is a corner of the market that needs filling, people are growing tired of the machine-made shoes that are two a penny.’ Hari paused for breath and saw that Arian was nodding.

‘How much do you need?’

‘Whatever you can spare.’

‘You shall have my cheque for 1,000 guineas by tomorrow.’

Hari was overcome at the ease with which Arian had agreed to invest money in what was a risky concern at best and a total failure at worst.

‘Thank you, Arian, I won’t let you down.’ She had to swallow hard to prevent herself from shedding tears. Arian touched her shoulder.

‘I know you won’t.’ She accompanied Hari to the door of
The Swansea Times
and took her hand in a firm grip. ‘I have every confidence in you; I know your strengths and more importantly, so do you. Good luck to you, Hari Grenfell.’

Hari was trembling as she left the newspaper offices. For a time she walked without purpose, unable to believe her luck; Arian Smale had faith in her, she had said so. The thought gave Hari renewed courage as she turned into College Street towards Gower Place where Boyo Jubilee Hopkins kept a small office.

To Hari’s disappointment, Mr Hopkins was not there. ‘
Duw
, don’t get into town much do Mr Hopkins, no need, like, his business runs itself.’ The young woman seated at the desk had large blue eyes, before her was a typewriting machine but it was covered in dust, testifying to the truth of her words.

‘I see, well thank you.’ Hari left the office and stepped out into the sunshine. To her right was a farrier’s stable and the sound of hooves against cobbles rang out in the fresh morning air. She glanced around and saw, with a leap of her heart, that Boyo Hopkins was leading an animal towards the roadway.

‘Mr Hopkins, may I talk with you?’ She stepped forward and he smiled down at her, a tall young man with a shock of hair that jutted out from beneath his cap.

‘Mrs Grenfell, good day to you.’ He spoke in beautiful accents, he was reputed to be one of the richest men in Swansea and yet his origins were something of a mystery.

‘I need help with a business venture,’ she said quickly, ‘I know this is neither the time nor the place but I understand that you do not come in to work at your office very often, so please forgive me for accosting you in the street.’

‘Please, don’t worry about that, Mrs Grenfell. Tell me how I can help.’

‘Money, investment,’ Hari said quickly. ‘I have one backer, Miss Smale of
The Swansea Times
, but I need another.’

‘I see.’ Boyo Hopkins was clearly puzzled. ‘Why have you approached me?’ He smiled to soften his words. ‘Not that I am adverse to having a business flutter, mind you.’

‘This will be more than a flutter, I assure you. I am talking to you because you have been in the leather business since you were young, you know good leather, you know the best way to tan the hides and where to buy the best skins; I know how to make the skins into fine footwear. I believe we share a kinship for the leather we work. To come to the point, what I need first and foremost is at least 3,000 guineas.’

‘You are very direct,’ Boyo said. He glanced around him. ‘The street is not the best place to do business, however. Would you like to call on me at my home and discuss this further?’

Hari felt her spirits begin to fall. ‘It’s urgent, I need an answer now.’ She looked up at him earnestly: ‘I must be honest with you. I have no funds of my own, I am ruined; I need to take drastic measures if I am to survive but I promise you that I will make the business work, I have the skill, believe me.’

‘I know, your reputation is solid gold in the town.’ Boyo Hopkins seemed to reach a decision. ‘I’ll take a chance, it’s a long time since I acted on gut instinct alone. I’ll fund your venture to the tune of 2,000 guineas. Tell me the name of your bank and I will deposit the money as soon as I can.’

‘Within the next few days?’ Hari was appalled at her own daring but Boyo smiled.

‘Very well, will tomorrow do?’

Hari gave him the name of her bank and he nodded. ‘Right, Mrs Grenfell, if our business is concluded, I’ll wish you good day.’ Hari was jubilant as she turned towards home; she decided to walk up to Summer Lodge, it would do her good to walk, she would enjoy the fresh air, clear her mind and make her plans. She had at her disposal 3,000 guineas, far more money than she had dared to hope for. Fear clutched at her, cramping her stomach. Had she taken on too much responsibility? It could be that she would still lose and end up owing more money than she had to start with. She looked up at the sky and stood, for a moment, with the pale sun shining on her face. She felt a surge of strength, she would not lose, she had not lost her touch, she had been a success once and she would be again.

The morning sun illuminated the silk hangings on the walls of the dining-room. An appetizing smell of hot food rose from the plethora of silver dishes gracing the side-board but Bethan did not feel like eating. Catherine O’Conner had stayed only one night but her visit had caused ripples that had not yet died down.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ She had not been alone with Boyo these past few days, since the night of Catherine’s visit, and she’d had the absurd idea that her husband was avoiding her. Her throat was dry as she waited for his reply. He appeared absurdly young in his silk robe, carelessly thrown over his bare torso. Normally she would have chastized him with easy humour, admonishing him to dress properly before appearing at the table but this morning such matters seemed trivial.

‘What?’ He looked up at her across the expanse of table and she shook her head with rare impatience, ‘The girl, of course.’ Any moment now, Father would be joining them, there would be little opportunity to talk then.

‘What is there to say?’ He was prevaricating and they both knew it. He helped himself to coffee from the silver pot. ‘Catherine is an old friend, she needed help and she came to me, that’s all there is to it.’

‘An old friend you took to bed. Don’t treat me like a fool, Boyo. Are you in love with her?’ She looked at Boyo with clear eyes, daring him to tell her the truth whatever it was.

He did not answer, she saw the tightening of his lips but she was compelled to go on questioning him. ‘Have you got this girl into trouble, is that it?’

He shook his head almost wearily. ‘No, I haven’t, as you so quaintly put it, got the girl into trouble’.

The door opened and Bethan rose quickly to greet her father, she flashed Boyo a warning glance but he was looking down at his cup and did not see her.

‘
Bore da
.’ Dafydd came towards the table, his gaze sliding over his son-in-law’s state of undress, with nothing to show his disapproval except a slight tightening of his lips.

‘Daddy, what do you want, tea, coffee?’ Bethan took her father’s arm, leading him to the table. Almost immediately, Boyo rose and smiled apologetically.

‘I shall take my tea to my room and I won’t return until I am properly shaved and dressed. Please excuse me.’