Heritage of Shame

by Meg Hutchinson

  He had seen determination before, seen it in Matthew’s eyes when faced with a job a man twice his age would have balked at, seen it in Luke’s young face when told he could not yet be given the task of single handedly making a saddle; seen it on both of those beloved faces when they had said they were going to fight for their country! Now he was looking at it again on the face of a young woman.

  ‘Most of the lads working the Glebe be already gone into the army.’ Laban had set his work aside. ‘But that don’t go to say there be no metalworkers left in the town. There be men Clara Mather tossed out so as to take on kids straight from the schoolroom; they don’t be lads no more, in fact most of them be too old for conscription but given the chance they’ll come back to the foundry, they’ll teach the young and run the place for you, ar and keep it a deal safer than Clara Mather ever did. Get you along to King Street, ask for Aaron Butler and tell him it be Laban Hurley sent you. He’s the best hand ever worked in the Glebe and what he don’t know about puddling iron don’t be worth the knowing. Tell him what it be you holds in mind and he’ll steer you right… and mind—’ Laban’s glance had held the trace of a warning ‘—remember what you yourself said but a minute since, you have no knowledge of metal working, so you be guided by them that does!’

  She had followed that advice. Aaron Butler had listened, puffing all the while on a yellowed clay pipe. ‘Be you certain it don’t be no concern of Clara Mather no more? I’d sooner work for the devil hisself than I would that woman, but if I have your word…’ He had squinted at her through a haze of grey smoke. ‘Jacob Corby’s daughter, who’d have thought…’ He had puffed again then nodded. ‘I worked for your father and I’ll work for you, leave it to me and I’ll have your foundry smelting iron, an’ this time it won’t be the rubbish Clara Mather was turning out.’

  Good as his word, he had opened up the works her aunt had closed months before, setting the iron ore the foundry produced to the making of steel, while moving the making of lorinery to the further side of the yard, opening buildings long left empty.

  How had he managed it? Removing her clothes, slipping a cotton nightgown over her head, Anne thought over the events of the last two weeks. Aaron Butler had found a work force among the former workers laid off by her aunt, they were not young men any more but dedication made up for years, and experience was more valuable now than youth. But Aaron had not rested there, he had recruited from the schools lads in their final year, but where Clara had pushed boys in at the deep end Aaron kept them strictly from furnace and crucible, teaching them each skill slowly and with infinite care.

  But that had not meant she herself had been entirely free of responsibility. Time and again she had argued with men her father’s age, men who clearly saw her as a silly young woman playing at being a man. But she had soon shown those who prevaricated over deliveries of iron ore or said they could not supply her with coke to feed the furnaces that it was no game she was playing, that either they filled her orders willingly or the government would do it for them.

  Drawing a brush through her hair Anne smiled at the memory of raised eyebrows and stuttered replies. Like Unity’s, the world of those men had changed and the fact that they disliked the new mattered not at all; they had not deterred her and neither would the next task she must face.

  Laying the brush aside she began automatically to braid her hair, an earlier conversation with Unity and Laban repeating itself in her mind.

  ‘It be impossible!’ Unity had exclaimed on hearing what her husband told them. ‘There don’t be no way folk can make that number of saddles and equipment; I reckons you must have heard cock-eyed.’

  ‘There were nowt cock-eyed in what I heard nor in what that there War Office man said,’ Laban had answered. ‘He told it straight; it were foreseen that many, many thousands of military saddles, together with harness and infantry equipment, would be necessary to see this struggle to a conclusion and it were to the like of us and the men of Walsall they looked to supply them.’

  ‘It be one thing to look, it be another to do!’ Unity had been scathing. ‘Did that fancy London man tell you how that were to be managed or did he think you just have to wave your magic wand and there they be all finished and polished? They comes along of here, all lardy-da with their boots blacked and whiskers waxed, and not an idea in their heads as to what be entailed in saddlery; they think it be no more than ask and have! You should have told him… told him that even if you could produce more there was not the space to work in, you’ve already brought the Regency up to what it were afore—’

  She had broken off, not wanting to speak what remained in her mind, unwilling to remind her husband of the loss of their sons, but Anne had seen the quick flicker of Laban’s eyes and knew he needed no reminding, that memory was with him always as were her own, her fast-held memories of a baby boy she would love for ever. She had listened for a while, then when Laban could see no solution had voiced her own proposal.

  Fastening off each thick plait with ribbons, she rinsed her hands and face in water poured from a fat bellied jug into a blue and white china bowl. This time it had been Laban’s turn to look askance whilst Unity had supported the plan. Now it was settled.

  Turning back the bedclothes Anne climbed into the narrow, iron framed bed, drawing the covers up to her throat.

  Tomorrow she would set the whole thing in motion. The home her mother had willed to her at Fallings Heath had several large outbuildings, and using the money which came with it these could easily be fitted with workbenches for the marking out of patterns and the cutting of leather shapes, while others could be used for the setting up of machines which would replace much of the more straightforward hand stitching. Laban had gaped at that.

  ‘Machines… d’you know the cost of one of them?’

  She had known and she had her reply all ready. Thirty pounds was the cost of one machine but it would do the same work in a day a dozen stitchers could do in a week; besides, what better use could her mother’s legacy be put to? Half a million horses and mules held by the army, Laban had been told, and every one of them needing draught harness, riding harness or pack saddles. Put with these the thousands of belts, knapsacks, kit bags, courier bags and personal items carried by officers… the list was unending; if it was to be done then machines must be used.

  But Laban had not capitulated quite that quickly. Supposing she bought them there new fangled machines who would there be to work them? Where was the labour to be got from? Again she had been prepared for the question. The firm supplying the machines would give instruction to herself but it would be better if someone with a deeper knowledge of the demands of the leather trade could be taught first. That person would know if the claims made were in fact feasible.

  It had taken Unity no more than the blink of an eye to volunteer but Laban had still remained unconvinced, saying even so clever a machine needed folk to work it and where was they to be found!

  Aaron had shown her the answer to that and she repeated it. ‘We will go to the schools. There are girls in every one coming up to twelve years old. They will need employment and this way it can be given to them; and before you say factories be no place for wenches think of the sisters and mothers already working in the munition works, on buses and in the fields, women doing the jobs the war has taken men from; as for these girls there is no mother in Darlaston would not trust her daughter to work under the eye of Unity Hurley.’

  So it had been settled. Turning off the lamp she stared at the shadows rushing in around her. Her life was becoming fuller by the day… so why did it still feel so empty? As she closed her eyes her mind was filled with a vision of a strong handsome face, one in which a mouth lacked a smile, and beneath darkly winged eyebrows midnight blue eyes held doubt, doubt and a question. Abel Preston’s face. With her eyelids pressed harder down Anne tried to clear her mind but the face still watched. He had not smiled at her that morning on leaving his grandmother’s house, but she had seen the same unspoken ques
tion in his eyes. She too had had a question, but like Abel she would not voice it, would never ask could he love a girl who had given birth to a bastard.

  22

  … There will be no place for him at Butcroft House…

  Clara Mather swiped a hand at the Staffordshire figurine with an intensity which sent it tumbling from the mantel.

  How dare a strumpet – for that was what she was or else how would she have come back to Darlaston with her belly filled and her hand empty of a wedding ring – how dare she say who could and could not live in this house! But she had. Clara kicked savagely at the broken pieces of porcelain. She had papers, she said, papers proving her identity and confirming her right to everything. She had already taken the Glebe, got it up and running while in the town there was talk of a saddlery opened at Fallings Heath and proving a godsend to many women as well as girls just leaving school.

  Godsend! Fury surging hot in her throat Clara stamped her boot hard on the china fragments, grinding them into a spreading white powder on the red Turkish carpet. Anne Corby had proved no godsend to her. Charity, she had called it, charity Quenton had lived on! It was no charity had kept that works going when her father had swanned off to preach to the world, no charity had kept this house in good order, that had been the work of Clara Mather; without her there would be nothing but a heap of rusting metal and a house falling to pieces. And in payment of those years of dedication she was given a pension… a pension! And her son…?

  Clenching her fingers painfully into her palms Clara stared unseeingly into the heavily furnished sitting room.

  Quenton was to be robbed not only of an inheritance she had laboured for but also of a home. Oh, there had been that note the day after his return; briefly written, it had expressed the wish for a speedy recovery from his wound but contained no withdrawal of Anne Corby’s previous ultimatum; it had expressed no wish that Quenton continue to live at Butcroft House.

  But he had the right to a place here, more right than she despite her mother’s papers. Clara’s fingers bit deeply but she felt none of the pain. Viola Bedworth! She hadn’t been such a milk sop after all. She had guessed the plan in her sister-in-law’s mind, guessed it and countermeasured it. But the prize was not all claimed yet and when it was, Anne Corby would not be the victor!

  Calmed by the thought Clara cleaned away the evidence of her anger then preparing a supper tray carried it upstairs to her son’s bedroom.

  *

  She had not said where she was going. Relaxed against his pillows Quenton smiled as he heard the front door close behind his mother. Not that he had any interest in what she did or where. Pushing the tray aside he reached for a cigarette. This was another of his habits his mother frowned upon, but let the hag frown it would make no difference, this was his life and nobody was going to direct it for him. The army had thought they could. Pursing his lips he blew a series of smoke rings, watching them rise through the pool of light cast by the bedside lamp to lose themselves in the canopy of shadow spread over the ceiling.

  That lieutenant had taken a shine to him. He needed a batman who knew a good piece of cloth when he saw it, not some factory wallah who’d never seen a decent pair of trousers let alone a pair with a neatly pressed crease. But it had been no batman the lieutenant had wanted. Trickling smoke through his lips, Quenton let the memories ride. Just four weeks, that was all the time it had taken to get his batch of conscripts to France, just four weeks to take them all to hell.

  And that was what it was. Every step of the way to the front line had been a march through ankle high mud, rain lashing like knives against the face and at every stopping place had been the wounded; grown men moaning with pain, some no more than lads of seventeen and eighteen screaming with agony while others, half hidden by bandages red with blood, lay silent, already in the grip of death.

  That had been the fate awaiting all of them. Staring into semi-darkness which seemed to hold living pictures, he watched bedraggled figures drop wearily into trenches half filled with water. The tents, what there was of them, overflowed with men blown apart by bullets and shells, and the next day it would be his turn. But that moment fate had smiled on Quenton Mather. He had dragged himself from that trench, and finding a bucket of clean water had carried it to the rear of one of the tents and there he had stripped, using the water to wash his body free of mud and grime.

  Among the shadows he saw the bucket rise, its remaining contents catching the afternoon light, shimmering like a transparent veil as they fell over sand coloured hair to trickle in glistening rivulets over a strong body. Then with a shake of the head, whisking the pale hair back from the forehead, the eyes opened.

  Opened in more ways than one. Quenton smiled again. The officer had stood there watching, making no attempt to reprimand or order, clearly enjoying what he saw. And himself? He had seen opportunity. Turning full on to the lieutenant, whose gaze could not lift from that smaller thatch of sand coloured hair he had stared back. Wordless, with no movement other than the slow raising of a steadily thickening organ, he had made his offer. That same evening he had been appointed batman. Taking care of the officer’s equipment and needs by day and his very different equipment and needs at night had been the price paid to get himself freed of what would almost certainly be a painful death, nearly every man going over the top met a bullet and Quenton Mather would be likely to be among them.

  He had wondered if he would match up to requirements. Women, yes, he’d had plenty of them and enjoyed them all, willing or not; but a man, that was a new game entirely. But not an unsatisfactory one. Extinguishing the last of the cigarette in a thickly cut ashtray he lay back, the trace of a former smile hovering about his lips. That first night he had filled a tin hath with hot water, lathering perfumed soap into it until it boasted a thin covering of foam. Officers and other ranks… a world of difference lay between them but it was one he had crossed.

  The lieutenant had entered the tiny bedroom of his billet, his grey eyes smiling as he slipped elegantly from his clothes. Almost like a woman. Quenton remembered the thought which had struck him. Then with the same graceful, almost feminine movements he had stepped into the bath.

  ‘Why don’t you join with me?’

  Beneath the covering of sheets Quenton’s body stirred as the soft words whispered again in his head. At first he had hesitated but with the urging of his brain that it was this man or the trenches he had shed his own clothes. It had been so easy, and so damned pleasurable.

  Closing his eyes he let the memory wash over him. He had stepped close to the bath, the man sitting in it raising a soap lathered finger, tracing it slowly from navel to sand coloured bush.

  ‘You will like this…’

  The smile had parted well shaped lips, showing the tip of a tongue resting on the edge of teeth which might have been manicured; a tongue which had not remained long in its nest.

  ‘… and this…’

  He had leaned his head a little over the edge of the tin bath touching his tongue to the column of flesh standing erect among its pale soft shroud. The soft, kitten like lick had acted like a tornado on his senses. Quenton gave himself completely to the sensual reverie. Hands had cupped his testicles, squeezing lightly, stroking, caressing; then the lips had parted widely and he had been in the man’s mouth, the warm moistness having him gasp and thrust. It had been a pleasure that had grown to an addiction. In the weeks which followed they had lain together, each night given to making love, each day bringing thoughts of new delights. Why had he ever bothered with women when all they thought about was what they could get in return for their favours, why had it taken until then to find the perfect answer?

  At least, it had been perfect until word came that they were required at the front line. It would not affect them, the lieutenant had said, an officer had been wounded and he was ordered to stand in until a replacement could be sent from Blighty. But that had not calmed the fear which struck. One officer had been wounded, this one might be killed and w
hat would become of Quenton Mather then? The army was not going to use him as cannon fodder. That was when he had begun to make his plans. They had been less than a week in that hell hole which was the Somme. The officers had been given a billet, a half demolished house only yards from the trenches at Vlamertinghe. He remembered the sun, it rarely broke through the pall of gun smoke lying low over everything, but that day a few apologetic rays fingered their way to rest on thick, deep mud and glisten on rat infested trenches. He had carried the lieutenant’s midday meal into the billet when the sounds of distant shots were joined by shouts of ‘’Ere they come.’ Drawing his side arm the lieutenant had made for the door but a shell chose that moment to explode just beyond it and the man had died with a splinter through the brain.

  It had been as though it were a play on some theatre stage and himself an actor in it. Quenton watched the images move through his mind. For half a moment he had stared at the bloodied face turned sideways in the figure’s fall then he had grabbed the side arm from the dead hand and shot himself in the thigh. The sudden stab of pain had brought a scream to his lips but that had been lost among the madness outside, knowing he had to set the scene if what he had done was to be accepted as an accident he had replaced the revolver in the dead man’s hand then had lain in the wreckage a little in front of him. It had to work, it had to look as if in the sudden melee the lieutenant had fired, inadvertently wounding his own batman in the process. And it had! He had lain through the night and into the next day until reinforcements had broken through; from there it had been a field hospital then home to England for recuperation.

  It had been as if the fates had read his mind for he had planned and hoped for just such an opportunity. An accident, bad luck, old chap. Luck! His smile deepened. Quenton Mather could always make his own luck!