Fields of Gold

  FIONA McINTOSH

  FIELDS OF GOLD

  MICHAEL JOSEPH

  an imprint of

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  PART TWO

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Author’s note

  Acknowledgements

  This book is dedicated with love to my parents,

  Fred and Monnica Richards, and to the big family, most

  of us now scattered throughout the world but all of us

  bound through blood to James and May Patton and

  Jack and Elizabeth Richards.

  PART ONE

  1

  Sunday, 19 October 1919

  Despite the biting wind of a Cornish late-autumn morning, Jack Bryant felt the grip of a much deeper chill. It had found its way beneath his heavy jacket, through his second-best shirt and was now crawling up his back as he was roughly shoved into the hut on the rise overlooking the small town of Newlyn.

  The hut, once used by Cornish fishermen, was now abandoned. Jack remembered how as a child he’d watched the men work from this same high point. After sighting the approaching shoals of fish they’d bellow through the five-foot-long speaking trumpets. Then the race would be on for the boats to encircle their catch; up to three million pilchards if it were a large shoal. Jack found their work fascinating but then he had always loved the sea. He’d regularly wished he’d been born a fisherman’s son – although that was an empty dream. Instead, he made his living off others trawling for tin, deep in the earth. But the tin mines were doomed; even though the Great War had kept its industry busy with supplying tungsten, peace time had delivered the deathblow.

  Cornwall had begun bleeding men, the young in particular, as they left their homeland in search of a new life. From Land’s End to the Lizard, the rugged coast had once swarmed with men, women and children, even the odd clergyman, who plundered ships in trouble for lucrative spoils. But now Cornwall would be remembered as a land of holes. Above ground reared the granite engine houses that protected the new machinery, which could lower a man to three thousand feet or haul the ore he’d mined back up to the surface with ease. Tall, elegant brick chimneystacks soared into the air, fingers of fire marking the spots where thousands of men worked below sea level, digging deep into the British earth that yielded a meagre livelihood while mine owners grew fat and wealthy on the profits.

  Young Jack Bryant didn’t suffer the same hardships as his fellow workers, however, for his family was considered wealthy by miners’ standards. Which was why it was ludicrous that he found himself here, standing between two thugs, with a debt hanging over his head that could have been so easily avoided.

  The sharp, lonely cry of the seagulls wheeling overhead pierced Jack’s rambling thoughts and brought him back to the peril of his immediate situation. He blinked to banish the shards of sunlight that were still dancing before his eyes. He was pushed further inside the murky hut by his burly minders, their expressions as unyielding as the granite the hut was built from. And they had grips around his arms to match. But it wasn’t their manhandling that frightened him, or their grim silence; he was accustomed to this when Walter Rally came looking for his money. No, the fear came after being pushed into Rally’s big black car, when he realised that he wasn’t being taken to the bookie’s office in Truro, but to this remote, derelict spot high on the hill, just a mile or two from Market Jew Street in Penzance, where he’d been snatched from.

  As Jack’s vision cleared, a fresh spike of fear gripped him, prompted by the sight of the shivering, near-naked man strapped to an old wooden chair in the middle of the shed. The prisoner’s head snapped up at the commotion of Jack’s arrival and he immediately began babbling. Jack recognised him but made out none of the words. In truth, all he could hear was his own blood pounding through his ears and a voice that sounded very much like his father’s baritone and filled with the same weary disappointment.

  ‘Ah, hello, Jack,’ it said, its owner emerging from the shadows.

  ‘Walter, I —’

  ‘Save it, lad,’ the man replied. ‘I have to tell you, I resent your arrogance. I don’t think you give me enough respect.’

  ‘Please, Wal—’

  Rally held his hand up in the air. Sir Wally, everyone called him – but not to his face.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Rally said. ‘You Cousin Jacks are a tough lot. I’m old enough to remember when your mob’s idea of entertainment was to have stoning matches between rival villages. I once watched a gang from South Crofty mine kill someone’s pet dog simply because they wanted to stain their flag with blood so the other village knew what they were in for.’

  He walked slowly towards Jack and now he was close enough to touch him. Jack stared at the bookie’s lustrous, grey hair, slicked neatly back off the high forehead. He could smell the pomade wafting from Rally’s head, its scent mixing with cologne. His father would call Rally a dandy, smelling like a woman. The single dimple in Rally’s cheek deepened when he smiled. But there was nothing friendly about Sir Wally when he reached up and lightly slapped Jack’s face, his eyes narrowing and lips thinning.

  ‘When verbal cautions don’t earn respect, young Jack Bryant, I feel I must appeal to your more basic instincts. You tin boys understand brutality.’

  Rally nodded at his men and they let Jack’s arms go. He resisted the urge to rub them and the even stronger urge to turn and run. Though he was a born optimist, Jack knew he’d only get as far as the door before someone brought him down.

  ‘I’ll get the money for you, Walter,’ he said, trying to sound calm.

  ‘Oh, I know you will. I just don’t want to have to wait much longer. You’re part of a new breed, Jack. You don’t understand responsibility – not like your father’s generation. They worked hard, paid their rents, took care of their families. Whatever debts they had, they always paid.’

  ‘Perhaps I can —’

  Sir Wally smacked Jack’s cheek again. Jack’s blood began to boil, but he fought it back. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking down.

  ‘I know you are, boy. And don’t get me wrong,’ Rally began expansively. ‘I like you. You remind me of myself when I was your age. But you’re unreliable. You’re too reckless with other people’s money. I’m sure your father has counselled you on this, eh?’

  Jack said nothing.

  Walter Rally seemed to appreciate his silence. ‘You’re being careless with what is not yours. Is it true you’
ve now got two girls up the duff? I hear old man Pearce is after your blood … or a wedding ring.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Hope she’s worth it, Jackie. She’s certainly a pretty one. Can’t say the same for Vivian Harris.’

  Jack’s mouth opened and shut again.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised. I make it my business to know everything I can about those who owe me money. Now, to be honest with you, I don’t mind who you screw … but screwing me, that I mind.’

  ‘Wally, I don’t have it right now but I’ll get —’

  The bookie ignored him. ‘In my experience nothing achieves quite the same clarity of mind and purpose as what I’m about to show you. In fact, I am quietly confident,’ Sir Wally said, leaning close, ‘that you will go home, take your mother’s pearls, or your father’s silver hip flask, or whatever you can lay your hands on that amounts to fourteen pounds in value, and you’ll pawn it as fast as your two feet will carry you. I suspect we may never do business again. But you will have paid your debt to me and I will have taught you a valuable lesson in life. You’ve got one week, my lad.’

  He turned to the near-naked man. ‘Now, sitting here patiently is George. He works the tuck baskets down on the shore. That would account for the terrible smell of pilchards in here.’ Wally wrinkled his nose. ‘His wife, Gladys, hawks fish around the countryside. And in order for Gladys to have a new black beaver hat and bright-red cloak like her companions, George here likes to have a flutter on the horses …’

  George began to weep.

  ‘Our Georgie has got himself into a very bad way with debt. Now I’m going to show you what we do to people who don’t pay me back.’

  George began to gabble again, a mixture of pleading and despair, while at some silent signal from Rally, Jack suddenly found himself back in the grip of one of the minders whose breath smelled of stale beer and tobacco. A mean-looking meat cleaver materialised in the other minder’s hands and this set off a fresh series of wails from the prisoner.

  Jack wished he could close his eyes but he knew this whole piece of theatre was for his benefit. Sir Wally was hardly going to allow him to miss the show. So Jack Bryant fled in his mind as far away from Cornwall as his imagination would permit. If only he were aboard a ship instead, bound for the goldmines of Africa or the Americas, or the copper districts of Australia, that great continent on the other side of the world. He tried to imagine the sea breeze tousling his hair, money in his pocket and a new life beckoning.

  Jack’s attention snapped back at George’s sudden, high-pitched shriek as the forefinger on his right hand was lopped off with a sickening dull thud of the cleaver. Everyone watched the finger fall uselessly to the damp earth floor. The bile rose in Jack’s throat and will alone forced it back down. George had no such control. The bleeding man, ashen-faced and trembling, retched and hot liquid gushed as the butcher neatly sidestepped the mess.

  ‘Ah, George,’ Wally said softly, like a close friend. ‘Just one more, eh?’

  George began to shake his head, crying, begging them to spare him.

  ‘One to teach you a lesson,’ Wally explained, ‘and another so Jack here fully understands what awaits him if he ignores me.’ He looked up at Jack and laughed. ‘You won’t be winding any miners without fingers on your hands, Bryant. You’ll be useless without them … not much more than a handsome cripple with just your father’s money for company.’ Wally turned to his companion. ‘Let’s get that other finger off – nice and neat at the last knuckle.’ George screamed.

  ‘You can go now, Jack. You know what you have to do. And don’t call my bluff, eh, lad, or I might have to pay a visit to your mother and her lovely embroidery will stop once and for all.’

  Jack burst out of the hut and ran down the hill, leaping over a stone wall and sucking in great gasps of air in a vain effort to calm his nausea. He lost the battle and at the bottom he gave up his morning oats into the bushes.

  Although he still trembled, he didn’t linger. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he pushed back his thick, dark hair and loped across the small boulder-strewn moor, desperate to hit the lowland farms that would lead him into the safety of Penzance town. Images of severed fingers, dying dogs and an angry mob wanting to stone him flashed through his mind as he ran.

  Down the pathway, he noticed a great crowd of people gathered on the causeway – Taroveor Road – where the cattle were normally herded before reaching the slaughterhouse. He hated Bread Street, where the abattoir was located, skipping over the gutters that would run with the blood of the dead and dying to reach the Savoy Cinema where he had met many a young woman. In his haste and fear Jack had forgotten that the October harvest festival celebrations were now in full swing.

  The fruits of land and sea, being of the earth and life in general, were celebrated now more than ever. People brimmed with happiness that world peace had finally been achieved, but their joy had a bitter aftertaste, because so many lives had been lost to the war.

  Jack stood self-consciously at the edge of the crowd, trying to compose himself. His overwhelming dread began to dissipate simply from being among others. People dressed in their holiday best were laughing and talking excitedly. Reassured by the general merriment, Jack felt himself beginning to calm. He cleared his throat of the thick lump that had threatened to choke him earlier and looked around. No one had even noticed his presence.

  As he finally entered the throng, grateful for the opportunity to lose himself in the crowd, he noticed that among the honest and hardworking were plenty of strangers – vagrants, as well as hawkers – taking advantage of the festivities. Pickpockets, gypsies, and even witches always seemed to do very well at these events.

  He could see that a fortune-teller had already set up a booth alongside a quack doctor, who promised to cure anything from gout to warts. A pair of colourfully dressed stilt-dancers strode down Queen’s Street, throwing toffee to the children running alongside them. Jack knew that within hours there would be pole-climbing, bull-baiting, equestrian displays, street walkers and sellers, as well as pigeon-shooting in the fields, and no doubt the usual exhibition of animal freaks – perhaps even a human freak or two.

  As the day wore on and the liquor flowed, the conduct of the revellers would likely grow crude and among them would appear the traditional dark stranger, wearing a voluminous black cape, pointed hat, and a leering mask with huge snapping jaws. This curious figure would prance down the streets urged on by a man in woman’s clothing, and followed by equally whimsically attired men playing enthusiastically on an assortment of musical instruments. It was an old fertility ritual and most onlookers loved the fearsome dancing figure, but Jack had hated him since childhood. To him, the figure spoke of ill-fate and bad omen rather than fecundity and blessings.

  He decided on a drink in town to steady his jangled nerves and made his way to The Turk’s Head in Chapel Street, reputedly named in 1233 after the Turks invaded Penzance. Jack had heard the story often enough from Landlord Johns. In its time it had also been a favourite drinking hole for smugglers because of its secret tunnel leading directly to the harbour.

  He stepped over the threshold, bending his head as he pushed through the small black door, and felt relief at the comfort of the fuggy warmth of the coal fire and the smell of beer hanging in the air.

  ‘You’re early, Bryant,’ the landlord commented, wiping a tankard. ‘Pint of bitter?’

  ‘Better make it half of mild,’ Jack replied, sighing.

  The landlord grinned. ‘Sounds like you need to keep a clear head.’

  ‘No, just tired of your watered ales and high prices.’ Since the start of the Great War, the landlord had been forced by the government to dilute the beers he offered to be almost non-intoxicating.

  ‘That’ll be threepence,’ the man said, drawing the beer. ‘I’m surprised you of all people aren’t taking your pleasures.’

  Jack didn’t take the bait; instead he reached for his mug and retreated towards a table in the corner. It was ironic that
The Turk’s Head was the quietest spot today. The usual patrons were out enjoying the celebrations. It suited him. He nodded at a pair of old men nearby and slid behind his table.

  His mind turned to the pregnancy accusations against him. He couldn’t say if they were real – the girls Rally referred to were far from shrinking violets, and as his old granny said often enough, it takes two hands to clap. These were willing partners, one of whom had been chasing Jack for many moons. And while Jack couldn’t deny that he had taken a drunken tumble with Helen Pearce, he could reel off the names of several men who’d done the same in the past few weeks.

  No, old man Pearce or Harris weren’t the problem; Jack’s gambling debt was. He swallowed almost half of the contents of his mug in his anger at himself. How could he have allowed this to happen? He thought of poor George’s ruined hands, and pain aside, how the crippling would affect his ability to work. Times were tough enough. He hated Rally.

  But most of all he hated his father and the relentless look of disappointment he reserved for his only son. Now Jack had given him another excuse to criticise, another reason for an argument, another evening for his mother to spend alone weeping in her room.

  Jack slipped out of the pub, only to collide with the local grocery shop owner from St Just, the civil parish to which his village of Pendeen belonged.

  ‘Hello, young Bryant,’ the old man exclaimed.

  Jack nodded. ‘Mr Granger, my apologies.’

  ‘In a hurry, are you?’

  Jack sighed, thinking of the long trek ahead. ‘Yes, eight miles to walk. Sorry.’

  ‘No harm done, lad, I can give you a lift, if you’d like?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I could use the company.’

  ‘Here, let me carry that for you,’ Jack offered, reaching for the big box in the older man’s arms.

  ‘Oh, good lad. This is a birthday gift for Mrs Granger. She hasn’t had anything new for so long. I thought I might spoil her this year.’

  ‘A hat?’ Jack inquired, happy to keep him talking.

  ‘She’s been pining over it.’ Granger hurried ahead to his car. He was one of the few dozen men who owned one of the new and much admired Morris Cowley motor-cars produced out of Oxford.