Copper Kingdom (2 page)

He drew her inside, his hand warm on her shoulder, his pale eyes probing her small breasts beneath the cotton of her high-necked blouse. He frowned and a jutting shelf of ginger brows drew together over his large nose.

‘Go on ahead into the kitchen with you,' Tom said amiably enough, but his tone changed as the crying of the baby echoed loudly throughout the building.

‘For love of the Blessed Virgin shut that infant up, woman, and leave the gin alone, for sure it does you no good.'

Mrs Murphy sat in a low rocking chair, the newest child held close in her arms. She fumbled in her bodice and the baby fell into a soft quiescence, sucking sleepily at the meagre breast.

‘Our Katie's not in, bless you.' She brushed back her tangled hair with thin fingers. ‘But sit down and have a drop o' gin and don't go listenin' to my Tom, he likes a drop of the hard stuff well enough himself.'

Tom Murphy shook his head at his wife as though in despair as, ignoring him, she poured a liberal measure of gin. The sweet sickly smell of it drifted towards where Mali stood in embarrassed silence.

‘She's not here to see Katie, not at a time like this. Have a bit of sense, woman. It's the cart she's come for.' As though reminding himself of his task, Tom left the kitchen and Mali could hear the tinkle of horse brasses as he gathered the tack together.

‘Sit down, Mali, Tom will not rush himself, you may as well be comfortable while you wait.'

Obediently, Mali seated herself on the shabby artificial leather chair, and glancing round saw that the two older Murphy babies were lying side by side in an old pram body that had no wheels but rested on a rag mat on the floor. There was little more than a year between the children and they slept alongside each other like two peas from the same pod.

‘Our Katie's out courtin',' Mrs Murphy volunteered. ‘Though to be sure my Tom does not know of it, nor likely to, not from my lips. Shake the very heavens he would with his anger if he knew his only girl was out with a man.'

Katie was the eldest of the Murphy family, the only surviving child of the first years of the marriage. For a time it had seemed as though many miscarriages had left Mrs Murphy barren, but quite suddenly and in quick succession she had brought forth three fine sons. Yet it was Katie who remained the apple of her father's eye and it was no wonder, for she was a beautiful girl and gifted with a fine sense of humour.

For as long as Mali could remember she and Katie had been friends. They had giggled together, confiding their hopes for the fine marriages they would one day make. It was no surprise to Mali that Katie, with her lovely red-gold hair and creamy skin, had been the first to realise her dreams.

William Owens was a copperman, young and dark and vital. His skin was bronzed, coloured by slow impregnation from the metal which he worked. He was handsome and intelligent and Mali had been tonguetied when she had first met him.

‘Katie's a very lucky girl.' It was as though Mrs Murphy was reading Mali's thoughts. ‘Will spends his fat wages on her, always buying her some frippery or other.' She sighed. ‘And sure doesn't she love him as though he was the only man in the world?' Her eyes clouded. ‘I fear for her sometimes, she's that trusting.'

Tom Murphy's return saved Mali from making any reply. He rested his hand on her shoulder, leaning too close for comfort.

‘Cart's out the back lane and I've hitched up Big Jim. Don't you be afeared of the creature, he's docile enough in spite of his size.'

Mali followed him outside, wishing he would take his hand away; it felt moist and warm against her neck and she moved uneasily. As the huge, liver-coloured horse turned as though to look at her, Mali breathed in the pungent odour of fish with distaste. She wondered if it was ungracious of her to wish for something finer than a fish cart to carry Mam's coffin. She felt Tom Murphy glance at her.

‘Goin' to do it up a mite, I expect.' He frowned. ‘Shall I not come wid ye then, give you an' your dad some help?'

‘No thank you, Mr Murphy, we can manage.' How could Mali explain that Dad was a private man who hugged his grief to himself, not even allowing his own daughter to share it with him?

Tom Murphy handed her the reins and clucked his tongue, urging the great horse into movement. Spurts of dust were raised by the animal's hooves but Mali did not notice. The residents of Copperman's Row fought a constant battle against the fine particles of copper, so abrasive that they scored the glass in the windows.

Mali heard the Irishman return to the cottage and close the door behind him and as though released, she leaned her head against the warmth of Big Jim's wiry mane, clucking to the creature softly, finding the animal's nearness comforting.

She tied the reins to the scratched woodwork of the gate leading into her own yard. There was dimness now, creeping over the cobbles and the heavy shape of the coffin crouched menacingly in the deep black shadows against the ground. For a moment Mali stood still, gathering her courage for the moment when she would enter the kitchen where Dad would be sitting lost and alone.

But there was work to be done, the cart must be scrubbed clean while some vestige of light remained.

‘There's a good boy,' she said as Big Jim nuzzled her hand with a soft mouth. ‘Wait by here, I won't be long.'

Davie was still leaning on the table. Now that his bout of activity was over, he seemed drained and empty. His head was sunk low onto his big chest, his hands lay, palms upwards, calloused fingers curled. Tears formed a lump in Mali's throat, she wanted to cry out her pain but the habits of a lifetime were hard to break and the Llewelyns had never been given to shows of emotion.

She reached beneath the stone sink and drew out a bag of soda and a scrubbing brush. Her father did not even look up as she poured water from the kettle into the zinc bucket. The flow drummed against the ridged bottom, sending steam into Mali's face, and the beads of moisture felt like the tears she could not cry.

The bucket was heavy but she managed to haul it out into the yard. She skirted the spot where the long box lay and pushed at the creaking gate. The wood of the cart was old and splintered and scales of fish gleamed silver in the dim light. A jagged splinter caught Mali's soft palm and she winced with pain, sucking at the blood before continuing with her efforts.

At last, she flung the remainder of the swiftly cooling water over the cart, satisfied that it was as clean and fresh as she could make it. She watched the rivulets stream from the boards, dropping into the dusty ground to be immediately soaked up. She hoped that the timber would dry quickly for she must set about making the cart look more presentable.

She remembered that in the old tin trunk under her Mam's bed there was a square of dark silk so old that the violet colour was almost black. It had once been intended to make a shawl with a silk fringing decorating the edges, but that had been before Mam's sickness had taken hold.

She returned to the kitchen, pushing aside thoughts of her mother. She washed the soda from the bucket and placed the cleaning materials behind the curtain beneath the sink.

‘It's done, Dad,' she said at last. He looked up at her as though just realising that she had returned, his eyes were green and luminous as though they had been washed in a mountain stream.

‘There's still the smell of fish,' she said desperately. ‘It's in the wood, nothing will shift it.'

Davie rose to his feet, like a man about to go to his doom. ‘Don't fret about that, girl.' His voice held bitterness. ‘There's no one to notice, 'cept us.'

The silence was heavy, a coal moved in the grate and the room was full of shadows. ‘I'll just be a minute, Dad,' Mali said. ‘I'm going to cover the cart with a piece of silk.'

In the room upstairs, the window stood open and a rush of cold January air swept over Mali, but it was not from coldness she shivered. She would not look towards the double bed but rummaged beneath it, dragging out the trunk, selecting the material from sense of touch rather than sight, for the room was almost dark.

She left the place quickly, closing the door with a sigh of relief. She knew that Mam would not hurt her while she was alive so why should she fear her in death? Yet she was glad to reach the warmth of the kitchen once more.

She paused to catch her breath before going towards the back door. ‘I won't be a minute, Dad.'

Outside, she heard Big Jim breathing gently as she covered the rough boards with the silk.

‘It's all right, boy, I won't keep you standing here much longer,' she said reassuringly.

‘Come on girl, time you were dressed.' Her father was calling to her from the doorway. ‘Go on, your job is finished, it's all up to me now.'

In her small room, Mali leaned against the windowsill, sighing deeply. She listened to the heavy tread of her father's footsteps as he entered the next bedroom and she closed her eyes, not wanting to imagine his task.

She pressed her hands to her face, wondering how her life could have changed so much in the space of a few short months. Now the very cottage in which she had been born was no longer hers. The copper boss owned it and would want it back, for yesterday Dad had been dismissed from his job.

Mali flung off her damp apron with the smell of soda still clinging to it. It was good to feel anger against someone and the owner of the Richardson Copper company would do very well indeed.

It had been wrong of him to give Davie his marching orders when he had worked all his life at the furnace mouth. It was so unjust that because Davie had been forced to spend time with his sick wife these last weeks, he was to be no longer employed by the richest family in Sweyn's Eye.

Her anger faded as panic began to beat within her. She could vividly imagine how it would feel to have their new possessions put out of the house into the dust of the lane, for she had seen such a thing happen when she was a child. Once the copper had done with you it was out into the streets and no going back.

She dressed quickly, the cold bringing goose bumps to her flesh. Her crisp blouse with its Peter Pan collar was quickly buttoned over her woollen chemise. She drew her one good flannel skirt up over her boots and stood for a moment, hands against her cheeks, summoning up the strength to face the coming ordeal.

Her father's voice rang out harshly in the stillness, calling to her that he was ready. She pulled on her shawl and hurried down the stairs, ignoring the trembling of her limbs.

Davie's only concession to the occasion was that he had slicked down his hair with water in a vain attempt to tame the unruly curls. His shirt sleeves were rolled up above the elbows and only his waistcoat offered any protection from the chill of the evening air.

‘You'll be cold, Dad,' Mali said, and her tongue felt thick in her mouth. He shook his head without replying and, silently, she followed him outside.

The cart drew Mali's eyes and she saw that the dark silk now covered the coffin. The horse had been standing in patient submission and jerked into movement at the clicking of Davie's tongue. Mali walked behind, head bent, staring down into the dust of the lane without really seeing it.

‘We'll go down past the pluck, girl,' her father's voice drifted back to her. ‘It's more private that way.'

Though Mali did not look left or right, she was aware of the silent neighbours standing in doorways, paying their last respects the only way they could. Mali's dark hair drifted across her face, blown by the cold wind, and she was thankful to be hidden from curious stares, however kindly.

The waters of the pluck nestled in the valley, a natural lake formed from many hillside streams and now they gleamed richly copper, illuminated by the flames that flew forth from the forest chimneys above the works. Mali glanced around her as though she was witnessing the spectacular display for the first time rather than being born and bred amid the copper.

Smoke trailed upwards, green and thick, pouring from the tall stacks to mingle with the sky's grey clouds. The sun was dying now and had small chance of competing with the rich cauldron of colour that lit the banks of the River Swan.

The cart shook precariously as it moved across the wooden struts of the bridge spanning the swollen waters. Mali seemed to be walking in a dream, not thinking or feeling but keeping her emotions tightly in check.

Above her loomed the twin slopes of Kilvey and the Town Hill, large and black against the sky. Mali stumbled a little and forced herself to concentrate on the pitted track that was leading her around the mountain side and away from the works. The dusty roadway curved gently, sloping down towards the graveyard. The effects of the copper dust did not reach this far and Mali wondered suddenly why the smoke should kill everything beautiful in its path.

‘There it is, Dan-y-Graig Cemetery.' Davie spoke softly. Mali saw him pause in mid stride and his shoulders stiffened as he lifted his hand to his eyes, straining to see into the distance.

‘It seems the Richardsons are burying their dead too, girl,' he said huffily, as though affronted. ‘See there are six fine horses and an elegant hearse and God knows how many carriages. There's no justice.'

The cemetery was divided into two parts by a low, thick hedge that formed a barrier. On the one side along the path which Davie took was a piece of ground bristling with wooden crosses while the other part of the graveyard was resplendent with gracious marble headstones.

Mali, watching the carriages roll by, saw that the one nearest her was occupied by a stately woman wearing a black fur cape and a hat that sat hugely on glossy dark hair. And then the cortege was past and Mali became aware that Davie was drawing Big Jim to a halt.