The Shoemaker's Daughter (8 page)

She helped her mother back to the warmth of the kitchen and sat her in a chair. ‘Have a cup of tea or some nice bread and milk, warm you up, you’re shivering.’

‘I’m afraid, Hari,’ her mother looked up at her with large eyes, ‘I’m that afraid.’ Her lip trembled. ‘I tried to call you but you didn’t hear me.’

‘I’m sorry, mam.’ Hari felt guilt sear her, she should be more considerate of her mother and yet the work must be done or there would be no money.

‘Hold my hands,
cariad
.’ Her mother’s voice was fainter and, for the first time, Hari felt the fear communicate itself to her. She took her mother’s hands, they were cold and clammy.

‘I’ll fetch the doctor, mam,’ Hari said, an icy coldness gripping her.

‘No, girl, the doctor can do nothing, it’s my lungs, they are worn out, can’t draw breath no more. Don’t leave me, Angharad, I don’t want to die alone.’

‘Don’t talk soft, mam, you are not going to die!’ Hari said quickly. She looked down into her mother’s eyes and read the pain and fear in them.

She knelt on the floor, heedless of the cold stone beneath her knees. ‘Come on, mam, let me hold you tight, you’ll be all right, everything will be all right, you’ll see.’

After a moment, her mother spoke and it was quite clear that each word was an effort.

‘There’s money for my burial,’ her voice was thin and threadlike, ‘hidden in the bedroom it is, under the mattress. I want to go decent with a wooden cross above my head, promise me, Angharad.’

‘Don’t, mam,’ Hari said brokenly. As she held her mother, she noticed how thin she’d become and Hari blamed herself for not realizing sooner how sick mam was.

‘You’ll be all right, you’ll see, when you’ve had a warm and a bit of breakfast, you’ll feel better.’

Then her mother’s head was heavy against Hari’s shoulder, the hands that had clasped her fell away and the tortured breathing had died away to an ominous silence. Hari rocked her mother to and fro.

‘You are going to be all right, mam, you are, you’ll see. You can’t die, mam, you just can’t die like that so sudden without me being ready.’

She didn’t know how long she knelt on the cold floor with her mother still and silent in her arms. She didn’t hear the door open or feel the hands that eased her to her feet.

And then she was looking into the compassion-filled face of Craig Grenfell. ‘My mother . . . ?’ Her words trailed away as he nodded. She turned slowly and looked at the figure in the chair.

It was not mam, oh, it was her features and her wispy greying hair that fell about the thin face, but her mother no longer inhabited the thin frame, the light had been extinguished and all that was left was a shell.

The tears came then with the tearing sobs that racked Hari and set up a trembling within her as though she had the ague.

After a moment, Craig took her in his arms and held her close and, smoothing back her hair, whispered to her gently, the very same words she had used to her mother.

‘It’s going to be all right, you’ll see, it will be all right.’

They were useless words, meaningless now because it was not all right, mam was dead. And yet Craig meant only to be kind, reassuring, and gradually, Hari’s sobs subsided.

She moved from his arms and slowly untied her leather apron. ‘There are things to be done,’ she said, her voice heavy, ‘and I think it best if you are out of the way for a while.’

He nodded and, after a moment, moved to the door. ‘Are you sure you can manage?’

Hari drew a deep breath. ‘There’s no point in you being here. Please go.’ She wanted to thank him for his kindness, to tell him how grateful she was that he had offered to help, but the words would not come. After a moment, she turned away and she heard the door close quietly behind him.

Hari sighed and, pressing her eyes tightly shut, felt unequal to the task before her. There was old Ma Feeney to call for the laying out, the coffin maker to see, the burial to arrange.

She covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh mam,’ she whispered, ‘why did you have to die and leave me alone?’

The cemetery had emptied of people, the cold winds swept in from the sea and the still bare branches of the trees shivered like thin fingers against the dark sky.

Hari had remained in the cemetery long after the few neighbours who had attended Win Morgan’s funeral had gone. She stood staring down at the fresh earth of the new grave, at the wooden cross bearing her mother’s name and she could not believe that this nightmare was real. She would surely awake from the nightmare world where she was without her mother?

She felt a hand resting lightly on her shoulder and she turned to look at Craig, almost unrecognizable now with his beard grown and his moustache thick and dark above his mouth. He looked like a buccaneer of old except that he wore not the wide-sleeved shirts and breeches of the past but the rough working clothes that had been her father’s.

Craig had been wonderful to Hari during the past days, she didn’t think she could have got through it all without him. He had sat with her in the long dark evenings, had made sure she ate at mealtimes.

‘Come home,’ he said softly, ‘there’s little point in catching a chill, is there?’

Wordlessly, she allowed him to lead her on to the roadway and down the hill towards home.

‘You know I haven’t walked so much during my entire lifetime as I’ve walked these last few days,’ he said with an effort to divert her from her dark thoughts. ‘At least I’ve seen more of the town where I live than I ever saw from a carriage or on horseback.’

‘Hush now,’ Hari warned dully as they drew nearer to World’s End, ‘your posh voice will give you away if you’re overheard.’

Craig opened the door to the house and stood aside for her to enter. The kitchen seemed dark and cheerless and Hari wondered how she could go on living and working in a house that held so many memories.

She sank down into a chair and watched as Craig knelt before the fire, building it back into a glowing warmth.

‘I’ll make you some tea,’ he said swinging the big black kettle effortlessly on to the coals. ‘You look as if you could do with a cup.’

She stared up at him, touched to tears by his thoughtfulness, he had come into her life such a short time ago and yet he had been so good to her, so strong and kind.

She looked up at him, unable to keep the trembling from her voice. ‘Thank you, Craig.’ He knew she was grateful for much more than the gesture of making some tea and, instinctively, he held out his arms.

Hari moved into them, resting her head wearily against the roughness of his shirt. He held her close, smoothing back her hair, his big hands so gentle. She could hear the beating of his heart and she closed her eyes, thankful for his presence for she could not bear to be alone, not now, not yet.

He released her. ‘You must get back to your work as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘Work will ease the pain, in time, believe me.’

He meant well but how could Hari ever get over the shock of her mother’s sudden death?

He made her tea and sat holding her hand until the light faded and the lamps in the street were lit, shedding a faint light into the room.

‘I must go out,’ Craig said, ‘but I promise I won’t be long.’

Hari sat up straighter in her chair. ‘You must not worry about me,’ she said quickly, ‘you are not responsible for me, mind, and I will not be beholden.’

He smiled down at her and, in the light from the fire, he looked so handsome, so strong and safe that she wanted to cling to him.

‘I know,’ he said, shrugging into his coat. ‘But remember, far from you being beholden to me, it is the other way around, I should be grateful to you.’

He crouched before her, his big shoulders against the light from the window so that she could not see his expression. ‘You are harbouring a criminal and that is something that takes courage. You do have courage, Hari Morgan, and never are you going to need it as much as you do now.’

He let himself quietly out of the house and the silence closed in around Hari, smothering her. She rose quickly and lit the candles, all six of them which was wasteful, but she needed to be in the light for the shadows in the corners frightened her.

Tomorrow she would work, she would finish the shoes belonging to Emily Grenfell in the morning and then in the afternoon she would sole the heavy boots that Cleg the Coal so badly needed for his round.

It was about time she stopped feeling sorry for herself, the hurt and pain of losing mam would be with her for a long time, but Hari knew she could not let her grief incapacitate her, if she did not mend and make shoes she did not eat.

A sudden rapping startled her. Hari could just see a shape outlined against the uncovered glass, she had forgotten to put dad’s apron over the window.

‘
Duw
. Who is that then?’ she said, her mouth dry. ‘What do you think you’re doing frightening a girl half to death?’

She opened the door and peered out. ‘What do you want?’ She saw the man draw nearer.

‘I want to pay my respects, Angharad,’ Mr Fisher stood on the threshold, his hat in his hand. ‘There’s sorry I am about your mam, would have come to the funeral if I hadn’t had to work, mind.’

‘What are you doing here this time of night, Mr Fisher?’ she asked. She looked beyond him into the darkness afraid that at any moment Craig would return.

‘Your cousin at home, is he, Angharad?’ he asked mildly and Hari felt herself grow tense.

‘No, not right now. Thank you for coming, Mr Fisher,’ Hari felt the tears of weakness brim in her eyes. ‘But my mam was only buried today and I’m not fit company for anyone.’

‘Right, I understand, but if there’s anything you want, Angharad, any help you need, then don’t hesitate to ask.’ He moved away into the night and Hari watched until he had disappeared from sight, then she closed the door.

Mr Fisher’s visit had underlined the position she was in, she was now a woman alone.

She rubbed a hand over her eyes, she would have to talk to Craig when he returned, he could not stay with her now and, anyway, he would not wish to compromise her.

It was late when he returned, his brow was creased and there were circles of darkness under his eyes.

‘I’ve had bad news,’ he said, ‘Edward Morris has been taken into Swansea Prison, he is accused of fraud.’ He sank into a chair. ‘I never thought that Emily would warn my brother, how could she do it?’

The words she had been about to say died on Hari’s lips. ‘Your brother?’ she echoed. ‘You didn’t say anything about your brother so I never mentioned him to Emily Grenfell.
Duw!
It’s all my fault.’

‘No,’ Craig said softly, ‘it’s my fault for not warning you about Spencer. What a fool I’ve been.’

Hari looked down at Craig’s bowed shoulders, she couldn’t ask him to leave not now. ‘Sit down, Craig,’ she said softly, ‘let me fetch you some tea.’

6

Emily lifted her head and breathed in the sweet March air, it was good to stand in the garden of Summer Lodge looking out over a tranquil sea with timid waves reaching for the shore. Soon the fine weather would come, she would be able to take rides along the coast road, get away for a while from the interminable drawing-room meetings and card calling that wearied and bored her.

She wished she had been born into a different age, an age when women had been allowed to be more than a decorative possession. All that lay before a young lady of breeding was duty to parents and hopefully a good marriage.

Emily sighed, unless Craig’s name was cleared she would remain an old maid for ever, she would never accept second best whatever her father said.

‘Emily.’ A voice spoke close to her ear, ‘It’s good to see you looking so well.’ Spencer Grenfell stood a little behind her, looking down at her. She turned to him, her heart beating swiftly as he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘I’m sorry, you seem surprised to see me.’

She shook her head not willing to admit that for a moment she had thought he was Craig. The brothers were very much alike, the same strong shoulders and the fine head of hair, but physical appearances were deceptive and there was about Spencer a weakness that showed in the line of his mouth and the almost shifty look in his eyes.

‘Any news?’ she asked quickly. ‘I can’t wait to hear what you’ve found out.’

‘Patience, Emily, all in good time, what about inviting me in and offering me a drink, the grass here is quite damp you know, and in those silly slippers, you’ll catch your death.’

She warmed to him, he was concerned about her as a cousin should be. ‘Come inside we’ll have some cordial.’

The drawing-room was lit with the pale promise of spring, daffodils were everywhere, on the occasional tables, in the window, yellow trumpets strong and bright against the damask wall-covering.

When drinks had been served and the door closed after the bobbing maid, Emily leaned forward in her chair.

‘What of Edward Morris, is he guilty?’ she asked. ‘And when will Craig’s name be cleared?’

‘My brother will have to come forward before anything can be done,’ Spencer sipped the hot cordial slowly. ‘He must tell the judiciary that it was this accountant Morris who abused the trust the firm showed in him.’

Emily shook her head. ‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘Craig can’t risk it, what if he was arrested again?’

‘Why should he be?’ Spencer said smoothly, ‘If my brother is innocent he has nothing to fear.’

Emily rose to her feet in agitation. ‘That’s just not true,’ she protested, ‘his innocence didn’t prevent him from being wrongly accused in the first place, did it?’

Spencer put down his glass with a sigh. ‘Has it occurred to you that this Morris fellow and my brother were in this thing together?’ he said softly.

‘That’s absurd,’ Emily said hotly. ‘Why should Craig want to steal from his own company and what’s more share the proceeds with an accountant?’