There were few houses in the village, some of them meandering up the slope of the wooded hillside like white mushrooms grown at random. A sprinkling of public houses had been strategically built along the main thoroughfare for the convenience of the local colliers and, towards the perimeter of the village where the road led to Pontardawe stood the beginnings of what was to be a new nickel works, the dream of Ludwig Mond and Carl Langer. Near the centre of the village was a small shop, the windows and entrance hung with boots and shoes. The sign above the door, newly painted, read: Davies and Son, boot and shoe repairers and manufacturers. Eline Temple was seated at a desk at the corner of a workroom. She had a pencil in her hand and there was an unfinished drawing on the sheet of paper before her. She looked up suddenly and smiled. ‘Good girl, Arian. You’ve finished those boots for Jono the Mond, I see.’ She leaned on her elbows and chewed the end of her pencil. At the long workbench sat Arian Smale, her small mouth sprouting the nails she’d been using on the heavy sole of the boot on her last.
