‘They get cleared away every eight hours,’ he said, walking away. ‘It’s hard work. Keep up.’

She walked briskly after him. They arrived at a little building with what appeared to be a pump with blue stain marking the inside.

‘This is the Blueing House,’ said Isaac, leaning his arm against the door frame as she peered into the darkness inside. ‘This is where the clay water passes through a mesh screen. It clears further debris.’

Grace watched the clay coloured water passing through. ‘And the blue stain?’

‘It’s dye to improve the appearance and get rid of the discolouration.’

Isaac was off and, once again, Grace hurried after him. She followed Isaac further down the hill until they arrived at another level. This area was larger, filled with greatchambers, set low into the ground.

‘These are the settling tanks. The clear water settles on the top and runs off.’

‘Where does it go?’

Isaac smiled. ‘It drains away.’

‘And sometimes into the river?’

‘You’ve seen the White River?’

Grace shook her head. ‘No, but I’ve heard of it.’

‘The clay slowly thickens. When it has the same thickness as pouring cream, it moves on to the tanks near the kiln.’

Grace was prepared for the man’s quick walking gait by now and this time confidently matched his steps. He seemed impressed as they arrived at several larger settling tanks.

‘The clay stays here until it settles to the consistence of clotted cream.’

Grace forced herself not to smile at his continual comparison to food. It served its purpose, so everyone on site knew what they were striving to achieve.

‘How long will that take?’

‘Two to three months in this part. Then it is taken to the pan kiln area to dry out.’

The pan kiln area was sited in a large warehouse. Lining one wall were numerous coal burning furnaces.

‘The heat spreads under the tiled floor by a network of pipes leading to the chimney at the far end.’ Grace’s eyes followed the sweep of his hand across the room. A thick layer of clay, in the process of drying from the underground heat, covered the tiled floor. ‘The clay near the furnaces will dry in one day. The clay at the far end will take three.’

The air shimmered with heat as the workers, sleek with sweat, constantly nursed the furnaces with coal. It was dirty, hot and back-breaking work. Grace didn’t know how they tolerated it.

‘What happens when it is dried?’ she asked as a furnace door opened and a blast of hot air warmed her face. She stepped back from the intense heat.

‘It’s scored, then cut into blocks and stored in the linhay until it’s taken to Charlestown.’

‘Everyone looks so busy.’

‘They get their breaks. Come with me.’ He led her to a ramshackle hut. ‘This is one of the crib huts.’ He opened the door.

Five men sat on wooden benches around the edge, eating food from metal plates and drinking cups of tea. Grace tentatively smiled, acutely aware that any one of them might take the news of her visit back to Talek. What would he say when he found out that she had been on his land, visiting his employers as if she was their employer?

‘That old bag of bones is Tommy.’ He indicated to an elderly man in the corner. ‘He’s been here longer than any of us.’ He jerked his head towards each man in turn. ‘That one’s Mark, he’s Martin and this ruffian is John.’ He gave the youngest a rough pat on the head. ‘This nipper is Billy.’ The young lad beamed back at her. ‘Billy is our kettle boy now. He brings us our tea and fetches and carries. That’s how I started out.’ He thumped the boy heartily on the back. ‘He’ll be a shift boss one day, won’t you, lad?’

‘Hope so, Mr Simmons,’ said Billy, making Isaac laugh. ‘This is Miss Danning’s live-in companion. Miss . . . ?’ Isaac had clearly forgotten.

‘Kellow. Grace Kellow.’ Grace nodded to each in turn, whilst inwardly questioning herself if telling them her name was the right thing to do. Now she would not be able to deny her visit should Talek confront her about it later. However, she thought, as she looked at the weather-beaten faces staring back at her, perhaps it was too late anyway. The other workers had seen her too. Someone was bound to mention it. I should have taken a walk into the village instead, she chided herself. ‘I’m pleased to meet you all,’ she greeted them, smiling. ‘Mr Simmons has been showing me around.’

‘And now I must show you out. This is a dangerous place and I don’t think Miss Danning will take kindly to losing her companion if you were to get hurt. Tommy, see the lady out.’

Tommy abandoned his tin and cup. He was short and balding, and from the deep grooves etched on his face, had worked out of doors for all of his adult life.

Where Isaac had been economical with his words, Tommy was not. He talked incessantly, barely pausing for a breath. In a short space of time, Grace learnt that he was the third generation of clay workers, his grandfather working in one of the first clay mines in Cornwall.

‘I know more about clay mining than most,’ he boasted as he walked beside her, the top of his peak cap barely reaching her shoulder. Yet, despite his short stature, his forearms were well muscled and his hands solid and thick fingered. Isaac’s reference to him as a bag of bones was, in reality, inaccurate, but a telling sign of their comradery. ‘The clay talks to me now. I can feel it in my bones when there are changes on the way. I felt it on the day we started flushing the new load. Could tell it was good quality before the captain looked at it. Don’t need no “special representative from the potteries” to know if it is any good.’

‘What is the clay used for?’ asked Grace as she watched Billy approaching, swinging his empty kettle.

‘Some are shipped to the ceramic potteries. Our clay is one of the best and is used for porcelain. My brother-in-law lives at Stenalees and works Stenna Pit. I’ve seen the clay out there. It’s not the same as ours. They ship it to America where it’s used to make paper. We ’ave the best clay. Ain’t that right, Billy?’

Billy caught up with them, smiling. ‘If you say so, Tommy.’

Tommy laughed. ‘You stick with me, my lad, and you’ll learn a thing or two. I’ll make a shift boss out of you yet.’ He ruffled the lad’s head and winked at Grace. ‘’E’s a good lad — ’ard worker. You can’t ask for more.’

‘And do you see much of Mr Danning?’

‘’Is sister’s accident ’as kept ’im off site for much of the year, but in recent months ’e’s been seen in ’is office in the sky.’ Grace followed his gaze to an old three-storey building. ‘Mr Danning and Mr Ward are too busy to mix with the likes of us. The day-to-day running of the site is down to the shift boss. The workers don’t ’ave much to do with them. They don’t know us as people. We are just the workers. This place is too dirty for the likes of them.’ His gaze fell to the hem of her dress. ‘Too dirty for the likes of you, miss.’

‘If it’s not too dirty for you, then it’s not too dirty for me,’ Grace said, smiling. Tommy and Billy appeared relieved to hear it.

A commotion broke out by the linhay. On instinct, Tommy, Billy and Grace ran towards the frantic shouting. A terrified horse, tethered to a wagon, bucked against its harness in the midst of a small gathering of men. The men were shouting commands in the hope of controlling the horse, but in reality little was being done. The cause of the horse’s distress became evident as they drew nearer. The heavily-laden wagon lay at a precarious slant as one wheel had broken under the strain. Its heavy load had spilled onto the ground and the small vocal crowd were desperately trying to save the precious clay before it was trampled on by the terrified horse.

The horse reversed into the wagon, grazing its hocks against the immovable load. It kicked at the barrier behind him in retaliation causing the crowd to momentarily retreat.

‘The captain won’t be ’appy the clay is being spoilt,’ said Billy, a worried frown creasing his brow.

‘It ain’t just the clay that could be damaged,’ warned Tommy as the crowd jostled forward again in their rush to save the load.

On instinct, Grace ran forward, only to be brought to an abrupt halt by Tommy’s grasp on her arm.

‘Stay back, miss. The ’orse is too mazed. They need someone who knows ’ow to ’andle ’im.’

‘The horse isn’t angry, it’s frightened. I know about horses . . .’ Grace pulled her arm away from his ‘. . . which is why I’m going to help.’

Before Billy or Tommy could stop her, she ran towards the terrified horse. She had held her father’s horses while their wagons’ were loaded and saw no reason not to help now. As she approached, her steps gradually slowed. She cautiously reached for its head collar. ‘Hush now,’ she soothed, with the aim of calming the gelding and encouraging him to step forward. The horse, wide eyed and nostrils flaring, jerked its head out of her reach at her first attempt, but on the second she managed to snatch at its bridle. Her fingers slipped beneath the leather band.

Despite her calming words, the horse remained terrified, his eyes rolling, eventually focusing downwards onto her. He wrenched his head away from her, yanking Grace forward. She fell heavily against its sweaty shoulder. A strong odour of damp animal hair laced with dung filled her nostrils. She braced her arms against the solid, moving muscle and pushed herself upright. The horse attempted to retreat, but felt the edge of the wagon against its hocks again. Instinctively it kicked behind him. Splintered wagon wood flew through the air like arrows. The terrified animal stumbled in panic, heavily jolting into Grace and almost knocking her off her feet. The crowd cried out in unison at the sudden danger.

‘Come away, miss!’ shouted Billy. ‘’E’ll kill you!’