Chapter Twenty
High up on the moors a few nights later, the kiddleywink landlords were vainly trying to turn out some of their bawdiest clientele, even though there were still a few more hours’ drinking time left to them. But the kiddleywinks had become so rowdy of late, even the landlords were prepared to forgo the extra coppers from late-night drinking rather than risk their establishments being wrecked.
Few of the clayworkers from the Killigrew pits frequented them now, needing their strike dues for more basic necessities than drink. The men from other pits were more fortunate, and frequent battles broke out among those for and against Killigrew’s men. But the few who had already taken the enticement to work at Bultimore and Vine’s were the most reckless spenders of all. Much of the nightly talk was of the clay strike and Charles Killigrew’s affliction, and there were plenty who thought he’d got what he deserved for being such a skinflint.
‘Ah well, me boys, I ain’t troubling my head about un no more,’ declared Thomas Penry, slurring the words as smoothly as spreading warm honey on hot bread. ‘Me and my family gave un good service, and more than most men. We gave un our Celia besides. Don’t none on ’ee forget that. Killigrew’s Number One pool claimed our Celia, and left her choked wi’ slurry and muck, and no man has the right to expect such a sacrifice—’
His voice became thick and choked, and his son John growled at him to be quiet, because they’d heard it all before, and no amount of talk was going to bring Celia back.
‘Don’t ’ee be shutting your daddy up, young John,’ one of the older clayworkers reprimanded him. ‘We all know the cost o’ bringing clay from the earth, and you and your daddy paid more’n most—’
‘I don’t need to be told,’ John muttered. ‘Tis just that there’s no sense in blaming Charles Killigrew for what happened to our Celia, and talking about her all the time ain’t going to bring her back.’
‘I can’t be shutting her out neither, our John,’ Thomas became more and more belligerent. ‘Your memory seems a mite shorter than mine, and if I’ve got to blame somebody, then I blame Killigrew. ’Twas his pit, and if ’tweren’t there, my girl wouldn’t have been able to drown herself in it!’
Rumbles of agreement at his simple logic drowned out John Penry’s exasperated reply. His father had brooded too long over Celia, even to refusing to go to the works in sight of the still, milky pool of late, which was one reason he’d leaped at the offer to work at another pit. As though the pools at Bultimore and Vine’s were preferable to Killigrew’s… in all honesty John had to admit that to the Penry men they were.
Even he, not so given to fancifying as his father, had sometimes imagined he could see his sister floating to the surface in her strange milky green shroud… he shuddered at the very thought of it. The drink was getting him addle-brained tonight even though it was still only mid-evening, but thankfully the talk was changing direction again, and Charles Killigrew was getting the brunt of it once more.
‘The autumn loads be still stacked in the linhays,’ Thomas Penry grunted. ‘Killigrew has only himself to blame if he don’t get ’em to the port for shipping. His clay blocks may be the finest, but they’ll do no good to man nor beast lying idle up there—’
‘Mebbe we should see to shifting ’em ourselves,’ one of the others sniggered. ‘Pile ’em on one of the waggons and take ’em to the port. There’s allus a ship’s crew willing to pay for a load o’ clay blocks, whether ’tis sent by fair means or foul, and ’twouldn’t be the first load to arrive by moonlight—’
‘And ’twould just serve yon Killigrew right! What say we load up a waggon, me boys, and make a few shillin’ for ourselves?’
‘’Tain’t such a good idea—’ John began uneasily, to be shouted down by his father, who also hadn’t thought it such a good idea until his son put it into words. But Thomas was having no son of his playing the coward when all around him were liking the sound of the notion, and it would also be one in the eye for Mr high-and-mighty Killigrew!
‘Do ’ee know the lay-out o’ Killigrew’s Number One works, Thomas Penry?’ a swarthy clayworker from Bultimore and Vine’s asked baldly. ‘Be there waggon horses stabled there, or do we borrow landlord’s dray horses—?’
‘You take no horses o’ mine,’ the landlord bellowed at once. ‘And the sooner you get out of here, the better. Do your planning elsewhere, and let me hear none on it.’
‘’Tis no matter. There’s farmers’ nags to be found—’
‘There’s Killigrew stables at Number One works,’ Thomas said shortly. ‘We don’t need to go rustling. How many are game for it then? To load up a waggon and get it to Charlestown port for selling to the first bidder, and the shillings to be shared among they that do the work?’
There were half a dozen willing takers, belching noisily and ready for any excitement. They had the recklessness of an evening’s drinking inside them, and a sudden desire to avenge the lot of the striking clayworkers by taking Killigrew’s clay to the port, and do themselves a bit of good at the same time. They were all in agreement, and lurched out into the night on unsteady legs, red-faced and determined.
By the time they arrived at Killigrew Clay Number One pit, the moon was full above, the clay pool eerily still and beautiful, the sky-tips glinting in the moonlight with the mineral waste deposits. It was a different world at night, silent and strange, but the rip-roaring clayworkers had no time for pondering on its charms.
They relied on Thomas Penry to lead the way to the stables, where the stable-boys had gone home for the night, and where the horses moved restlessly at this disturbance. Thomas knew them all by name, and calmed them gently, while John pointed out the shed where the heavy waggons were housed. It took a short while to harness up the horses to one of the waggons, and lead them towards the linhay where the clay blocks were stacked.
‘Two horses will serve our purpose this night,’ Thomas declared. ‘We’ll take just enough blocks to make it worth our while, and we ain’t bothering to bring the waggon back!’
There was agreement all round at that.
‘None on us had best be afraid o’ doing women’s work. We’ll load up as fast as possible, and get back to our beds.’ Thomas took command. ‘There’s no bal maidens here to show a pretty leg in the lifting, so let’s get started, me boys.’
They were all clay men, and even if they didn’t do the lowly bal maidens’ work, they were used to handling the blocks. Stacking them on the waggon was done without care or thought for neatness, for the lure of some extra shillings for the night’s work was suddenly doubly exciting. They lumbered about the squelching ground, sometimes laughing as they bumped into each other; sometimes cursing as their feet stuck fast and sent them sprawling off balance.
‘Don’t waste time loading it too full,’ Thomas shouted again. ‘We want room for the six on us, unless any of ’ee want to run alongside!’
‘If you’m riding, then so be we, Thomas Penry!’ the swarthy man growled. ‘Half a load will bring some shillings, but a few more blocks won’t hurt, and we can all squash up.’
The load looked precarious. It needed the solidity of a full load to keep the blocks tight together, but the men were quickly tiring of the work. Their bellies were full of ale, their heads muzzed. They fumbled with ropes and then fell gladly onto the waggon as it was decided that they had done enough.
Thomas took the reins, ignoring his son’s offer to be lead driver. This was Thomas’s waggon. Despite the fact that he no longer worked for Killigrew Clay, he felt the swell of pride inside him that he’d always felt, driving his clay waggon through St Austell town.
He flexed his muscles. If the drink had made him feel weak as a kitten and more ready for sleep than hollering through the streets of St Austell, it was all forgotten now. Thomas had been given a less prestigious job than a waggoner at Bultimore and Vine’s, but here and now he was master of his team once more.
His voice suddenly hollered out into the night, startling clay me
n and horses alike. The horses leapt into action as Thomas jerked the reins and gave his commands; the men fell backwards in a tumbling heap on the hard wooden floor of the waggon.
‘Here we go, me buggers! The waggons are rolling, and nothin’ had best stop ’em until we reach Charlestown port! Hold on to your bellies!’
‘There’s only one waggon, Daddy!’ John yelled in his ear, alarmed as he saw his father standing with legs spread wide to keep his balance, and heard the note of elation in his voice. He had the look of a Roman charioteer, of which John had heard tell… or of a man possessed…
The horses had been too long idle in the stables. The welcome night air met their nostrils; they heard the familiar sound of Thomas Penry’s voice; they followed their well-trodden route with the weight of the clay-blocks behind them, and if Thomas had got the bit between his teeth with exhilaration, then so had the horses.
They galloped on through the mire, not giving the wheels time to sink fast. The waggon rocked from side to side, the clayworkers clung on fearfully as Thomas shouted at them to hold fast, and they’d get this load down to the port faster than any rail tracks.
The horses’ hooves began to slip as they reached the cobblestones of the town, and the waggon lurched as the animals seemed oblivious to Thomas’s commands. The men’s raucous comments changed to shouts of alarm as the few townsfolk on the streets at night screamed abuse at the frightening sight of a clay waggon thundering through.
With six men aboard, and one hollering like a demon, some thought fearfully that it must be a spectral waggon and not real at all… a thought that sent them scurrying indoors as fast as they could.
‘For Christ’s sake, man, you’ll have us all killed if you go through at this rate. Slow ’em down—’
Thomas wrestled with the reins, desperately trying to control the slavering horses. John fared no better than he did, and their combined weight could do little to stop the runaways. The usual pace through the narrow hilly streets was slow and careful, not this breakneck speed with the waggon almost touching the crowded buildings on either side…
‘I can’t slow ’em if they’ve no mind to be stopped!’ Thomas roared. ‘The bastards have a will of their own, and they’ve been cooped up too long in stables—’
The waggon gave a gigantic shudder as its back corner caught the side of a house, and the load of clay blocks shifted.
* * *
Morwen had never asked about the outcome of her father’s meeting with Ben in Charles Killigrew’s study. Her time was completely occupied from that moment, caring for Charles, who was pathetically attached to her, and wanted her near him as much as possible.
She and Ben met at meal-times, and occasionally across his father’s bed, but Morwen was aware of the strain between them. It was a few days later when it became apparent that Charles’s condition had improved a little, and Ben visibly relaxed. The doctor said it could be a long drawn-out recovery, or quite rapid – or not at all. But it seemed as though speech was returning slightly, and the stiffness in his face was less marked.
‘It means a great deal to my father to have you here, Morwen.’ Ben was mightily relieved at Charles’s improvement. He and Morwen still sat at either end of the long dining table after dinner that evening, and it seemed to her as though a chasm yawned between them. She felt the sting of tears on her lashes and tried not to show them.
‘Does it? I’m glad to be of use to you both. ’Tis little else I can do, since my place as housekeeper has been taken over, and there’s no use for bal maidens at present—’
Ben’s eyes were deep-hued as he looked at her.
‘Don’t talk of returning to such servile jobs, Morwen,’ he said roughly. ‘You know I want better for you.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ her voice was low and passionate. ‘One minute I’m a seamstress like my mother, because ’tis the only way we can earn a few pennies for the family. The next I’m a nurse. I don’t know who I am any more—’
He came swiftly around the table, his arm sliding around her taut shoulders.
‘You’re my love, and always will be, Morwen,’ Ben said in a husky voice. ‘You know it without my putting it in words.’
But what did it mean? She needed the words. She longed to hear him say he wanted her with him always, not as his father’s nurse, but as his wife… Ben Killigrew’s wife… her soft mouth trembled, both at the glory of the thought, and the unlikelihood of it ever happening. The Killigrews didn’t marry the daughters of pit captains, and it was folly to think otherwise. It was a thought Morwen constantly drummed into her head.
She looked away before she had the humiliation of seeing in his face that he would never want her as a wife, part of him. Only as his love… once, those words would have meant everything, but she had discovered she wanted more. Not just the trappings of Ben’s more elegant world, but his name, and the right to share his life.
Instead of her dream, she was left with the nightmare of being in this house and seeing him day after day. Avoiding too much close contact with him, because she could no longer bear to know it was leading nowhere. And she had the added nightmare of caring for Charles Killigrew, and had to constantly steel herself at the tasks she had to do for him, since he would have no one else.
Doctor Pender called her a born nurse… it was meant to flatter her, but to Morwen it put her even more severely in her place. She was born to serve, in one capacity or another, and the free spirit in her rebelled bitterly, even while she tended Charles with tenderness and pity.
As if to emphasise the difference in their status, Ben straightened abruptly as Mrs Tilley rushed into the room all afluster, with only the briefest of knocks. Her eyes darted from side to side, and Morwen knew without telling that she had some disaster to report.
‘What is it, Mrs Tilley?’ Ben said in annoyance, not so sensitive to the woman’s mien as Morwen.
‘Sir, there’s been a terrible accident in the town. A boy’s been sent to tell ’ee, but he’s so near to fainting that Cook’s making him sit with his head between his knees. It’s to do with a clay waggon—’
‘Oh, my God!’ Morwen leapt to her feet, every nerve-end on fire. Ben was already on his way to the kitchen to get the story out of the boy. Morwen raced after him, her heart hammering with fear.
‘Order my horse to be brought to the front of the house, Mrs Tilley,’ Ben shouted back at the woman.
‘Two horses, please,’ Morwen insisted. ‘I’m going too—’
She didn’t wait for any objection, but rushed into the kitchen behind Ben, where Cook was holding a glass of water to a young boy’s lips. He was the colour of the clay.
‘Tell me what happened, boy,’ Ben said harshly. ‘As quickly as you can.’
The pale lips seemed to move with agonising slowness, but when the boy began to speak the words poured out in a torrent. His terrified eyes rolled all the while.
‘Some clayworkers brought a waggon-load of clay through the town, and they say the horses bolted since they were bein’ driven too fast. When it got to the corner of Nott’s bakery, the waggon struck the wall, and the driver couldn’t straighten un. The horses went right through the front of the bakery, and they’m both needing to be slaughtered.’
He gulped, swallowing down the bile.
‘Did you see all this?’ Ben asked. He prayed it was just a tale, coloured in the telling. The boy nodded vigorously.
‘I were in bed, but I live nearby, and ’twere a noise like demons. Then there was the crash, and the squealing and yellin’, and when me Daddy called me to come and inform ’ee, sir, ’twas a terrible sight to see. Me Daddy said the horses be crushed, and so were some o’ the men, wi’ the waggon pushin’ em further into the bakery, and the clay flying everywhere—’
‘I think we’ve heard enough,’ Ben said quickly. ‘Let the boy stay as long as he wishes, Mrs Horn, then send him home in the trap. Miss Morwen had best stay here too—’
‘No! I’m coming with you,’ s
he said. ‘There are men there needing comfort, and the doctor will have enough on his hands.’
Ben didn’t argue. There was no time. His place was at the scene of the accident, however harrowing. God knew how it had happened, and why a clay waggon was being driven through St Austell town at such a time was something else that needing thrashing out. But not now. Not yet.
Mrs Tilley had brought their outdoor coats, and they shrugged into them quickly. Morwen had a great dread of what she would see, but she could never have stayed behind. Thank God Charles Killigrew would be sleeping by now, having had his nightly sleeping-draught. At least he was spared the immediate news of the disaster, she thought grimly.
They sped away on the waiting horses and tied them up at the nearest stabling yard, walking the rest of the way.
‘We Killigrews may not be too popular right now, Morwen,’ Ben said bitterly. ‘Anything could happen after this outrage, and at least we won’t get our horses stoned if they’re safely stabled.’
Morwen’s mouth was dry. Was he hinting that they themselves might be stoned? It was so unfair. This was none of their doing, nor of Charles Killigrew’s. But incensed townspeople would not consider any of that tonight…
They were aware of the accident long before they approached the scene. There were people running everywhere, and garbled tales were excitedly bandied about. A great pall of white-grey dust hung over the town, and the stench of burning was on the air. Burning wood, burning flesh…
‘Poor old Nott was at his ovens when it happened,’ a passer-by shouted at them. ‘They say he were crushed at once by the horses, and they toppled straight onto the ovens and set the place ablaze. The waggoners followed ’em, and the waggon’s already burning merrily. There’s naught but stinking black flesh down there now, and ’tis one lot o’ clay that Charles Killigrew won’t benefit from!’
Killigrew Clay Page 24
