The Shoemaker's Daughter (2 page)

Much as Hari felt for her mother, she could think of no words of comfort for her own grief was almost too much to bear. Fear of the future added to her sense of panic and Hari had bit her lip so hard that she’d drawn blood.

As she had led her mother back to the borrowed pony and trap, she was seized by a trembling that had nothing to do with the coldness of the wind blowing across the desolate cemetery.

But she could remember her father with pride, Dewi Morgan had been a strong man all his life, a big, genial man with a ready smile and a kind heart. Many a time he would tap the shoes of an out-of-work miner in exchange for a chicken or a rabbit ignoring the fact that the prize would have been come by illegally.

‘
Duw
,’ he would say, ‘if a man can’t take from the land that which is rightfully his, then things have come to a sorry pass.’

And now, Hari mused as she impatiently rubbed the back of her hand against her eyes, it was she and her mother who had come to a sorry pass for tomorrow the rent was due and there was only enough in the china teapot to pay for one more week.

The worst of it was that her mother had no idea of the difficulties that had beset Hari these past weeks, when the work had been slow to come in. Win Morgan had taken to her bed on the day of the funeral and seldom rose from it.

The renewed tapping on the ceiling roused Hari and she moved from the depths of her chair with a swiftness born of guilt; her mother was an invalid, she needed to be cared for and here was Hari mooning about feeling sorry for herself.

The soup was simmering nicely, exuding an aroma of mutton and herbs that made Hari’s mouth water. She spooned out some of the liquid and it tasted like manna from heaven.

She moved to the larder and looked in the wooden bread basket and saw that there was only one thick crust left. Well, that would do for mam, especially if it was cut up into small pieces and arranged nicely on a china plate.

In spite of everything, mam had a hearty appetite and sometimes Hari felt she was dealing with a baby chick with its mouth constantly open waiting for sustenance which she was expected to provide.

She lifted the heavy wooden tray and placed the plate of bread upon it. The banging on the ceiling became more furious and Hari bit her lip in frustration.

‘I’m coming, mam.’ She deliberately kept her voice light; at any sign of irritation, mam would usually develop a fit of anger or worse, dissolve into tears. Hari recognized that the moods were the only outlet for Win Morgan’s grief and tried to make allowances but sometimes it was very difficult.

Looking longingly at the generous helping of soup in the earthenware bowl, she felt like falling upon the meal and devouring it all but there was mam to see to first.

‘About time too, Angharad, have you been growing the vegetables then?’

‘No, mam,’ Hari answered absent-mindedly, more concerned with settling the tray carefully over her mother’s bad legs than listening to her grumbles. ‘Come on now, eat up and I’ll bring you a nice cup of hot milk after you’ve finished.’

Before her mother could say any more, Hari hurried from the room and clattered down the stairs anxious to have her own meal.

Her stomach ached with hunger and Hari sighed softly as she bent over the soup and began to eat. The mutton was a little tough but the vegetables were cooked perfectly, the flavour enhanced by the bay leaf and basil she had added to the stew.

She ate quickly and all too soon, the bowl was empty. Hari was tempted to have more of the rich-smelling soup, but she cautioned herself. ‘Watch now, there’s dinner tomorrow and nothing in the larder.’

She left the table and sank wearily into the hard-backed chair that stood beneath the window. She stared moodily out into the cobbled street, silent now but soon all that would change.

Once the night-time crowds flocked from their homes, World’s End would be a different place, it would become a hub of activity, lights from the public bars would spill warmly on to the cobbles, voices would be raised in song and the street women would cajole the men into tasting the joys of the flesh.

While her father was alive, Hari was never allowed to look out into the night-time squalor of World’s End, Dewi would hang his big apron over the window and all Hari could do was to imagine the scenes taking place in the street.

But now she saw it all, the drunken sailors greedily taking the first woman who came along and the men who had supped too long of the ale raising their fists to each other. The pickpockets would be having a fine old time, slipping expert fingers into coats and trousers extracting anything from money to a watch from some toff’s waistcoat.

Hari had been surprised at first to see any of the rich patronizing the dangerous streets of World’s End at night, but now she was used to the sight of a fine carriage bowling along the cobbles spilling out men, sometimes one alone but mostly groups of revellers, before rolling noisily away.

She moved from the chair and drew back from the window as two men paused outside the house, one of them carelessly unbuttoning his trousers swearing loudly as he urinated in the street. Some men, it seemed, were well drunk with ale before the night was half over.

The fire was dying low in the grate and, with a sigh, Hari thrust the poker into the embers riddling the ashes that fell like tiny stars of light to fade into the ash pan. She should have brought in a bowl of water and washed long before now, while the fire was full and threw out some light and warmth.

She fetched the chipped enamel basin from the scullery and took it into the kitchen. Tonight she would have what mam called a cow’s lick, a quick wash over with a damp flannel rubbed on the cake of coarse soap that clung hard and cracked to the dish.

Hari placed the bowl on the floor before the spent fire and then quickly crossing the room, hung her father’s apron over the window shutting out the night. She was a woman alone with no man to protect her, she must be careful.

She was so tired and it was with a sense of dismay that she saw the hem of her petticoat was muddied and slightly torn. When she had washed, she rubbed at the petticoat and then hung it over the warmth of the oven door.

It was time she locked up and went to bed. Hari moved to the door to slip home the bolt chiding herself for not doing it sooner.

Her hand was on the latch when suddenly the door was flung open. Startled and off balance, Hari stumbled back into the room crying out in fear. The candle flickered in the sudden draft and went out.

A tall figure stood over her, huge shoulders outlined against the flickering light from the street lamp.

Too frightened to speak, Hari tried to run but a hand grasped her shoulder, forcing her back against the wall and even in her terror, Hari noticed that the intruder was breathing heavily, as though he had been running for a long time.

The door was slammed shut and, in the darkness, the bolt shot home with a thud of finality and then Hari was aware of the huge shape moving about the room. The candle flickered into life once more and Hari stood blinking, forcing her eyes to focus on the man standing before her.

Her first impression was that he was a vagrant; he was wearing a torn coat and his hair was curling untidily about his forehead. His beard hung over his collarless shirt and yet direct, dark eyes looked into hers without fear.

‘What do you want?’ She tried to force some strength in to her tone but she was only too aware of the trembling thinness of her voice.

‘I need somewhere to hide.’ He spoke out strong and clear and his voice was the voice of a toff. ‘I mean you no harm but please be quiet, I don’t want to use force.’

He smiled, showing strong even teeth, ‘And you are far too pretty for me to want to hurt you.’

Hari became aware that she was wearing only her under garments. ‘Will you at least allow me to get dressed?’ Hari felt the colour sweep into her face as he gave a mock bow and turned away.

Quickly, she slipped into her discarded clothes, her hands clumsy and slow as she struggled with the hooks and eyes of her damp petticoat. When she was dressed, she felt more composed and she turned to face the intruder more boldly.

‘I need food,’ he said before she could speak, ‘will you fetch me something?’

Taken aback by his demand, she nodded. ‘There’s only a bit of soup in the pot but I suppose you can have that.’ Warily she skirted round him and went over to the hob, ladling out what was left of the mutton soup and placing it on the table.

‘It’s cold, mind, and there’s no bread.’ She felt her fear ebbing away to be replaced by resentment. Why was she giving this stranger the last of her food? There was no sense in it.

As she retreated from the table, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the unkempt stranger, she almost laughed at her own foolish reasoning, she was in fear for her life and she was carping about giving a man a bit of soup.

He ate ravenously but his manners were impeccable. She watched him, hoping he would leave the house once he was finished but her hope was a vain one.

‘I’ll need to sleep here for tonight, are you alone in the house?’ he asked. She glanced up to the ceiling and catching the look, he was on his feet in a moment, grasping her arm. ‘Who lives here with you, you’d better tell me.’

She was tempted to lie and tell him she had a husband in bed but she didn’t think he would believe her, from the sound of his voice he was an educated man.

‘Only my mother and she’s sick,’ Hari said defensively. ‘But who are you hiding from, what have you done?’

‘Nothing,’ he said quietly, ‘but I am accused of taking money and the law in its wisdom, or lack of it, decided I was to go to prison.’

‘The prison?’ Hari said quickly. ‘You’ve escaped from Swansea prison?’

‘Quick witted as well as pretty.’ She heard the laughter in his voice and she felt her colour rise.

‘There’s no need to make fun.’ She drew away from him. ‘All right, sleep down here in the kitchen but you’d better be gone by the morning, mind.’

He moved towards the hearth without answering and began to mend the fire. Hari watched him, partly in fear but more in anger. There was no denying that he was a finely built man, his broad shoulders tapered into a slimness of hip that spoke of strength. His hair was thick and curly, hanging untidily round a narrow face, but clean and shaved, he would probably be quite presentable.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘You’ll know me next time,’ he said easily. Quickly Hari moved to the door aware that she had been staring at him.

‘Go easy with the coal now,’ she said, ‘we haven’t got any to waste, coal costs money don’t forget. And put the candle out before you go to sleep, we don’t want the place burning down.’

Hari had just climbed fully dressed into bed when a sudden sound of running footsteps sounded on the cobbles outside. She peered through the window and saw a group of men armed with truncheons going from house to house.

She was hurrying downstairs before she knew it. ‘The constables,’ she said, ‘they’re searching the houses.’ The stranger nodded before moving swiftly through the scullery to disappear into the darkness.

Hari heard a hammering and for a moment she didn’t know if it was in her head, because suddenly she felt dizzy. She forced herself to be calm and went back to the kitchen.

‘What’s that noise, who’s disturbing decent people at this time of night?’ she called and the door was banged again.

‘Open up misses, there’s a criminal about, let me in for to search the house, this man could be dangerous.’

Cautiously, Hari opened the door and saw the shining buttons of the police constable gleaming against the dark uniform.

‘Well, there’s no-one here but me and my mam,’ Hari said quickly. ‘Don’t you think I’d be screaming my head off if there was?’ Why was she shielding the stranger, was she out of her mind?

‘Well, I’ll just take a look anyway, misses, righto?’ The constable peered round the room and then moved to the scullery. Hari held her breath as he opened the back door.

‘Do you think he might be hiding under the bed?’ she asked quickly. ‘I thought I heard a noise in the back bedroom a little while ago.’

‘We’ll have a look now, misses, don’t you worry.’ He hurried upstairs and sighing with relief, Hari followed him.

In the bedroom, Win Morgan was fast asleep, her pains eased by the gin, not even the flickering of the candle in the policeman’s hand roused her.

Hari put her finger to her lips. ‘Mam sleeps heavy, mind,’ she said, ‘if we don’t make too much noise we won’t wake her.’

She watched as the constable crouched on the floor peering beneath the sagging springs of the old bed. He straightened and shook his head without speaking.

As he moved to the backroom, Hari waited as he searched and then led the way downstairs to the kitchen. It was with a sense of relief she saw the constable shrug and move to the street door.

‘Keep a sharp look out, mind,’ the man said as he handed her the candle, ‘the escaped criminal may be desperate.’

As Hari secured the door, she wondered why she wanted to protect the stranger from the law, but there was something about him she trusted.

She moved swiftly to the scullery and quietly opening the rear door, whispered into the darkness.

‘You can come in, now.’ She waited breathlessly but there was no reply from the shadows in the yard. With a mixture of disappointment and relief, Hari closed the back door and bolted it.

After a moment, she sighed heavily, her brief adventure was over and the intriguing stranger had gone from her life as abruptly as he had entered it.

2

Emily Grenfell clasped her hands together, sitting on the edge of her seat gazing through the small window of the coach as it rumbled along Mumbles Road in the fashionable area of Swansea. The journey from her home to the Assembly Rooms was a short one, but she was filled with excitement for she was at last being introduced into the social life of the town in a manner that befitted the daughter of one of Wales’s leading leather lords.