‘Even so . . . I think it is Amelia who should have the final say.’
Grace knew, from the joy on Amelia’s face, what the answer would be.
‘You don’t have to come. I will be quite fine,’ Amelia said, barely concealing her excitement. ‘Have some time to yourself, without me holding you back.’
‘You never hold me back,’ said Grace.
Grace read Amelia’s pleading expression, which was as clear as if she had written it down for her. You are holding me back.
‘But if Amelia wants this,’ Grace added, ‘than I am happy for her.’
Henry wasted no time in organising their departure and within minutes Grace was waving them goodbye. She had a feeling that her companionship would be in less demand over the coming months. Henry had made it plain that he sought Amelia’s company and Grace could not have been happier for them both. Henry was handsome, a family friend and a trusted business partner. He knew, better than anyone, what he was taking on and Amelia saw a glimpse of a future she never thought she would have. The trip also helped dissolve some of the guilt Grace felt at not being able to take Amelia out as often as she hoped she could. Amelia’s wheelchair was heavy, unwieldy and difficult to transport. It did not fit inside a carriage and, if they took a trap, there was not enough room for both women, a driver and the cumbersome beast. It had been exhausting trying to make it work, but in the end they realised their limitations.
Grace turned away to look at Roseland Manor. If Amelia had the courage to leave the grounds, perhaps it was time she did too. No one would know her around here. A walk outside, just for an hour or two, would do her soul good and would be the first step on a journey back to normality — if such a thing was at all possible.
* * *
She should have walked toward the village, with its rows of clay workers’ cottages, small compact church and little shop, not here to this white, industrial site, with the hissing of a steam pump high on the hill, the distant rattle of tram skips and men, backs bent, as they worked around her. She stepped out of the path of two horses pulling a wagon laden with casks of clay, its wooden wheels straining and kicking up dust under the heavy load.
‘Can I help you, miss?’ asked a male voice. Grace turned and looked into the wrinkled eyes of a man in his late fifties. Grey hair peeped out from beneath a flat cap, as if trying to reach downwards towards the bushy moustache that framed his top lip. He wore a labourer’s waistcoat and trousers, dusted and stained with the obligatory white powder of clay. Aware she had no legitimate reason to be on the site, she blurted out the first words that came to mind.
‘I’m looking for Mr Danning.’
‘He’s not on site this afternoon. Gone to St Austell to pick up the wages.’ He tilted his weathered face to one side. ‘Who should I say called?’
Grace didn’t want Talek to know she was asking after him. He would worry that his sister was unwell. ‘There’s no need. I will speak to him later when he returns to Roseland.’
The man’s eyebrows rose. ‘You are already acquainted?’
‘I am Grace Kellow. Miss Danning’s live-in companion.’
The man slipped his cap from his head. ‘Begging your pardon, miss. I wasn’t aware that you knew the captain.’
Grace winced. The man was sure to mention her visit to Talek now.
‘I don’t know him that well. Does anyone?’ She realised that she was more interested in the answer than she cared to admit.
The man’s wrinkled face split into a smile. ‘My name is Isaac Simmons. I’m the shift boss. I’ve been working in clay since I was a fourteen-year-old kettle boy. You’re not from around these parts?’
‘No. My family run a dairy business near Trehale. We sell butter and cheese.’ She looked at the industrial alien landscape around her. ‘I am afraid I know little about clay mining.’
‘I have a moment free. Would you like me to show you around?’
Grace was taken aback by the kind offer, but this was Talek’s land and if he caught her looking around—
As if sensing her concern, the shift boss added, ‘I doubt if Mr Danning will return to the site today. They’ve an office in St Austell and he’ll be sorting the wages there.’
Grace heard the clickety-clack of wagon wheels in the distance. Somewhere in the depths of the scoured hill was a railway track and she felt the urge to see it.
‘Perhaps a quick tour. Nothing that will occupy your time for too long.’
‘Best start at the beginning of the process,’ said Isaac as he led the way. Grace followed him up the steep incline of the hill, passing numerous surprised workers at seeing an unfamiliar woman in their midst. Near the top, Grace paused for breath, aware that Isaac needed no such respite. He had walked up and down this hill, and similar ones like it, all of his working life and took the steep gradient in his stride. She made a last effort to join him at the top. He praised her effort and lifted his arm to show her what was on the other side of the hill. A large white crater opened up before her. Men, holding hoses, directed streams of water at the crater’s walls.
‘This is where it all begins.’ He jerked his head towards the men. ‘They’re washing the clay from the surface. The clay slurry runs to the bottom of the pit and is then pumped back up to the surface by the steam engine over there.’ He pointed to a brick tower amongst the trees, billowing clouds of steam into the air, its rhythmical pump and hiss a steady backdrop to the desecration in front of her. ‘You see those skips.’ Grace turned to the line of small wagons on a narrow track piled high with white spoil. ‘They carry the waste away.’ He indicated to the pyramid shaped hills reaching to the heavens. ‘It’s the waste that forms the sky tips.’ He turned away, confident in his explanation. ‘Come, on to the next stage of the process.’
Isaac led Grace down the hill towards a levelled out area, chatting about nothing of importance. Finally they arrived at rows of man-made channels cut into the ground, filled with the milky wash pumped from the crater. ‘These are the micra drags. The coarser particles settle faster than the finer ones. We want the finer ones, which stay near the top and flow onto the next part of the process.’
‘What happens to the larger particles?’ asked Grace.
‘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?’
