The Oyster Catchers (27 page)

Emily and John Miller seemed the perfect couple,
there was an unspoken regard for each other’s opinions and the love that flowed between them when they touched was almost tangible.

It was Mrs Miller who had sent Sarah to live in Oystermouth, Eline reflected with some irony. Perhaps if Eline hadn’t complained about Sarah she might still be living at the emporium and probably Eline and William would have been lovers by now.

And yet, wasn’t it better to know now about Will’s past than to find out later that he had a child?

Why was it that the men in her life seemed to have found some other woman to give them an heir? Perhaps it was just as well, Eline thought dismally, she was barren, unable to bear a child. In any case, it hardly mattered now, she had made up her mind to abide by her marriage vows come what may.

‘You are very quiet, Eline,’ Mrs Miller said, ‘not homesick already, are you?’

Was she? Eline considered for a moment and then shook her head. ‘No, I’m enjoying the change. I want to see and do new things, I want to learn all I can about, about everything.’

Mrs Miller smiled. ‘I remember well when I was like that myself, now I’m inclined to settle for some peace in my life, I could do without disruptions like the appearance of my step-daughter.’

Eline was surprised, it wasn’t like Mrs Miller to speak of personal matters. She bit her lip, she didn’t think it polite to agree with Mrs Miller and yet she couldn’t in all honesty speak in Sarah’s defence, Sarah
was
disruptive if not to say dangerous.

Mrs Miller looked directly at Eline. ‘You know about the baby, don’t you?’

Eline nodded slowly. ‘Yes, Will Davies’s child, I believe.’

‘What?’ Mrs Miller said in surprise. ‘No, the baby wasn’t Will’s, would that she were, at least I’d know she
came from honest stock. No, it was not Will but Sam Payton who was Pammy’s father.’

Eline looked up and met Emily Miller’s direct gaze realizing she saw more and was far wiser than she allowed anyone to know.

‘But, Sarah told me that Will was the father of her baby and when I asked him point blank if it was true, he didn’t know what to say.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Mrs Miller said drily. ‘In the beginning, Sarah told so many lies, I seriously wonder if the girl would know the truth if it got up and bit her. In any case, she treated Will Davies most shabbily, I shouldn’t think he’d want any more to do with her.’ She looked out through the window, apparently having lost interest in the conversation but Eline knew that in her way, Emily wanted to set the record straight.

‘Ah, we’re here.’ Emily’s tone indicated in no uncertain terms that the subject was closed and then Mrs Miller was stepping down from the cab, treading gingerly across the muddy roadway.

It was Francis Clark who welcomed them into the building, a genial man with a pleasant smile on his face. He was smartly dressed and his beard and moustache were neatly clipped.

‘Mrs Miller, I’m sorry my brother isn’t here today, pressing business at Northover.’ He smiled and indicated that the ladies should take a seat.

‘You know we’ve moved our sheepskin side of the business over there under the management of John Morland. Here in Street we are concentrating more than ever on boots and shoes.’

He sat at the desk and smiled warmly at Eline, as though he sensed her shyness. ‘I’ve ordered some tea,’ he said, ‘and then perhaps you can tell me how I can be of service, Mrs Miller.’

‘I’ll be honest with you,’ Emily leaned forward. ‘I wish to know all that is the latest in the shoe business and
who better to consult than the famous Clark family of Street in Somerset?’

Francis Clark nodded. ‘Always willing to give advice to such a successful lady as yourself, Mrs Miller.’ His face broadened into a smile. ‘I’ve heard much about the time you came here and made a deal to have boots and shoes delivered to Swansea without a penny changing hands.’ His smile widened. ‘I think it was your spirit of independence that impressed everyone at Clark’s, my brother most of all.’

‘My cheek, you mean,’ Mrs Miller said quickly. She turned to Eline. ‘This young lady here is very talented, I would like her to see how your process works, I think with a bit of training she’ll have a great future as a designer, perhaps as great as that of Hari Grenfell.’

‘That is praise indeed,’ Francis acknowledged softly, ‘Hari Grenfell’s name is renowned for expertise, design and innovation. You must be very good indeed, madam.’

Eline was silent not knowing what to say. She was pleased when the door opened and a maid entered the room bearing a silver tray.

When the tea was served, Francis leaned back in his chair and regarded Eline steadily. ‘I wish you the very best of good fortune, with your work,’ he said. ‘May the good Lord go with you.’

‘Thank you,’ Eline replied feeling totally inadequate as she sipped her tea and breathed in the smell of leather.

‘We mean to introduce a new line later on,’ Francis mused, his gaze including both Eline and Emily. ‘We are calling the line Hygienic Boots and Shoes and we intend the footwear to be designed on anatomical principles following the shape of the foot more accurately than before.’

He placed his fingertips together and after a moment, continued speaking, ‘The actual formula is a secret at the moment, but I’m sure your Hari Grenfell has worked in this line along with her remedial footwear.’

‘I’m sure,’ Emily agreed. ‘This is all very interesting.’ Her eyes revealed what her voice did not that she really was fascinated by the idea of anatomically designed footwear. ‘I’m sure you will have great success with such an imaginative and worthy idea.’

Eline leaned forward. ‘I have done some work of that nature myself,’ she said in a quiet voice and Francis nodded thoughtfully.

‘You are indeed a talented lady and I congratulate you.’

After tea was finished, Eline followed Francis Clark and Mrs Miller in silence as they walked through the factory. The noise of the sewing machines was like the continuous humming of giant birds interspersed with the clacking sound of the cutting machine.

Eline was not interested in this side of the shoemaking process, she wanted only to draw and modify, correcting weaknesses in patterns and bringing the footwear to a more realistically designed shape. Indeed, from what she could see, she had begun to draw the anatomically practical shoe already.

The noise gave her a headache and Eline was glad when they left the factory behind and moved out into the roadway once more. The rain had ceased and there was a freshness to the air that soothed Eline’s throbbing head. She watched as Emily said her thanks and her goodbyes and was relieved to turn once more to the coach.

The drive back to the inn was silent except for the rolling of the wheels on cobbles and the creaking of the leather seats. It was only when Mrs Miller led the way to her rooms indicating that Eline should follow her that it became clear what the visit was really all about.

‘Francis is a kindly gentleman,’ Mrs Miller said thoughtfully, ‘but then the Clarks are Quakers, religious and so very nice.’ She changed the direction of her thinking so abruptly that Eline had difficulty in keeping up with her.

‘Did you take notice of the new designs that were being made in the factory?’ Mrs Miller asked, discarding her gloves. ‘See the broader shape of the heel and the way that more room was being allowed to accommodate the toes?’

Eline smiled. ‘I could have saved you the trip,’ she said with great daring, ‘I meant it when I said I’d been working on those lines myself for some time.’

Mrs Miller seemed for once at a loss for words. She sank down into a chair and drew off her hat, shaking the rain from it thoughtfully.

‘I see, then I should have been paying more attention to your work, shouldn’t I?’ She unlaced her boots. ‘Still it’s been an experience for you, Eline, has it not? And now I know what the Clarks are calling their new footwear, I can avoid using the same description.’

‘Of course,’ Eline pointed out, ‘the Clarks are not ready to go into production of their new line, not just yet. What they were making on some of the machines were simply prototypes. They manufacture boots and shoes in such great quantities that it will take months to build up enough stock to go on to the market.’

‘You are a bright girl,’ Mrs Miller praised softly. ‘Pack up your belongings, Eline, our work here is finished. We are going home.’

Nina Parks stared at her reflection in the spotted mirror hanging over the sink; she looked well, she decided, better than she’d done for some time.

She smiled to herself. Joe had come to her bed last night, the first time since she’d lost the baby. Nina had been worried by his abstinence, she knew that a man like Joe needed to satisfy his appetites and if not with her then he would find someone else.

But he had been as passionate as ever and much more loving; it seemed that the loss of their child had brought them closer together.

She moved to the kitchen and peered into the pot of stew simmering nicely on the edge of the fire; Joe would be hungry when he came home, he’d been working all day at the quarry and would be hungry, tired and dusty. Very soon the oyster season would begin again, and then Nina would be happier because a man like Joe needed the freedom of the open sea. There, he was at his best, doing the job he loved, bringing in the oysters.

A figure appeared suddenly in the open back door and, looking up, Nine smiled a welcome. ‘Gwyneth! What are you doing here? Mr Davies give you the day off, did he?’

Gwyneth sat down in one of the wooden kitchen chairs and brushed her hair back from her forehead. She looked distinctly ruffled and there was a downward tilt to her mouth that betrayed her ill-humour.

‘That cow! How I hate her,’ Gwyneth burst out, her eyes hot and angry.

Nina folded her arms. ‘Well, that’s a nice way to come into my kitchen, no greeting, no “how are you feeling, Mam”, nothing but a show of temper. Who has got on the wrong side of you today?’

‘It’s that Sarah Miller,’ Gwyneth said, rising and kissing her mother’s cheek in a perfunctory gesture of greeting. ‘Makes trouble wherever she goes, she does. Been in the shop this morning, cornering poor Will Davies and him not recovered from his fever yet.’

‘A nip of beetroot wine will make you feel better, girl,’ Nina said, sighing inwardly. Why Gwyneth made such a drama out of things she couldn’t imagine, she certainly didn’t follow her mother for moods; it must be poor Kev coming out in her.

‘Got some hold over him she has, I swear,’ Gwyneth continued, taking the mug of wine her mother handed her. ‘Don’t know what it is but it must be something big or he would send her away with a flea in her ear.’

‘What do you care?’ Nina asked, seating herself
opposite her daughter across the kitchen table. She rested her elbows on the scrubbed wood and stared at her daughter thoughtfully. ‘You are in love with Mr Davies, is that it?’ The words were spoken like an accusation and Nina recognized it as soon as they were uttered, but it was too late to take them back.

‘So?’ Gwyneth demanded. ‘Is that something to be ashamed of?’

‘No, love,’ Nina reached across the table and touched her daughter’s clenched fist in sympathy. ‘But it’s not wise, is it? I mean he’s not our kind, he’s a boss.’

‘Bosses are still men underneath their trews!’ Gwyneth said coarsely. ‘And that Sarah Miller is after him, it’s clear as daylight.’

‘What about Mr Davies?’ Nina asked. ‘Is he interested in this Sarah?’

Gwyneth shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, he never looks pleased to see her but she’s living in the same lodgings as him, she’s got every chance to get her claws into him.’

‘Men don’t like that,’ Nina volunteered, ‘they don’t like to be chased, or at least they like to think it was all their own idea. Cunning is better than brazenness any day.’

‘What do you mean?’ Gwyneth was all attention and Nina felt flattered, well, why shouldn’t she be proud? She’d got her man away from a much younger woman and a wife at that.

‘Be friends with Mr Davies, side with him, flatter him, tell him you’re feeling faint and you need him to walk you home. You have the cottage to yourself days, so use your brains, girl.’

‘Aye, perhaps you’re right,’ Gwyneth agreed softly. She sipped at the wine and then replaced the mug on the table where a ring of red etched itself around the bottom of the mug.

‘Our Tom is mad, too,’ Gwyneth said. ‘He brought
Sarah Miller back to Swansea from Port Eynon with him and now she seems to have forgotten all about him.’

Nina felt a dart of anger and pain that Tom should be thwarted in love. She felt a sudden virulent anger against Sarah Miller for using Tom and then apparently discarding him.

‘Well, she’s probably realized that Tom isn’t very well off and Mr Davies is,’ Nina countered bitterly. ‘Women like her are out for what they can get.’

Nina didn’t see that the sentiments she’d just expressed could be applied to herself. She knew she loved Joe but the gossips would say that she’d stolen him from his wife because he owned the cottage he was living in as well as owning two oyster boats.

‘I shan’t let her get Will,’ Gwyneth said sulkily, ‘I love him and not for his money and position but for himself.’

‘Aye, it’s easy to fall in love and it always pays to fall in love with the rich man rather than the poor one,’ Nina responded drily.

She poured more wine and changed the subject quite deliberately. ‘I haven’t seen hide nor hair of our Sal,’ she said, ‘not since I lost the baby. You’d think she’d have come to see me by now, wouldn’t you?’

Gwyneth nodded abstractedly. ‘Aye, but Sal is feathering her own nest, mind, wouldn’t be surprised if she married that fellow of hers before long.’

Gwyneth looked at her mother. ‘You’ve seen our Fon though, haven’t you? She’s fallen on her feet up there on Honey’s Farm, hasn’t she?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nina said, ‘it can’t be a bed of roses working for those people. From what Fon tells me, that poor woman is sick unto death and depending on Fon more than she does on her own husband. Mind, that shouldn’t surprise me, men are no good at all when it comes to sickness and it can’t be easy caring for a man and a child who are not your own.’