A Bridge in Time

by A Bridge in Time (retail) (epub)

  A Bridge in Time

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Next in Series

  Copyright

  To my granddaughter

  QKIKI-ADI

  Prologue

  The ancient village of Camptounfoot nestles on the sunny lower slopes of a trio of hills called the Three Sisters which rise, stark and high, out of a wide spread of woods and pastures bordering the river that runs southwards to become the boundary between England and Scotland. The hills look like watchful women, standing close together for comfort and reassurance, staring out in all directions, eternally vigilant on behalf of the people who have lived at their feet for centuries. Travellers approaching from many miles away use the hills as a guiding point for, in a mystical way, the Sisters draw the surrounding world into themselves, gathering up roads and paths like tangled skeins. Those skeins end in Camptounfoot, which claims to be the oldest village in Scotland. It is there that this story begins…

  * * *

  One bright spring morning long ago, when Christ’s followers were still alive and travelling the world with stories about their Master, a Roman general rode over the saddle between two of the Sister hills and stared down at the lush river valley below. As he gazed, he realised he had found the perfect site for a camp, and cantered down the slope to begin his great project. Ditches were dug; long rows of barrack-houses and stables were built and were soon followed by villas for the officers and temples for the gods. For a hard-fought century the Romans held on to their camp, which they named Trimontium after the trio of towering hills above them, but local tribes finally drove them out and the place they had built returned to its old wildness – grass grew between huge paving stones, brick walls crumbled, gods and goddesses tumbled from their marble plinths.

  Over the following centuries the Roman soldiers were forgotten, but they left behind them a legacy in the form of a community of craftsmen and artisans which huddled at the camp’s gate. These people had learned many things from their foreign masters, and when the army marched away, they stayed on in the place called Camptounfoot – a proud and independent brotherhood who handed down their skills from father to son. Unlike most of their neighbours, the people of Camptounfoot acknowledged no overlord and looked to no great man for protection. Because they had skills to sell, they were democratic and independent, not bonded to anyone but capable of earning their bread as weavers, sculptors, stonemasons or builders. Unusually in a district where most of the land belonged to a great man, they owned their own properties in perpetuity. Out of natural good manners they curtsied or touched their caps to the local aristocrat, the Duke of Allandale, but he didn’t own them in the same way as he owned people and property in the other villages round about.

  When the Romans left, the villagers of Camptounfoot did not move into the deserted camp, for they feared the grandiose gods who ruled over the tumbledown buildings there, but being practical people, they systematically plundered the campsite in order to build their own village. By the nineteenth century, it was a well-established place of eighty stone-built cottages with steeply pitched thatched roofs. The floors of the rooms and the pathways running from house to house were laid with hard-baked red tiles or huge Roman paving stones. In the structure of the walls were incorporated old altar stones, grave markers, carved pillars and arched pediments – relics of the forgotten past. From their flowerbeds and vegetable plots village people often dug up bronze statuettes, rusted weapons, bright blue melon beads or broken bangles. They rubbed the dirt off their finds and took them inside to decorate the sooty mantelshelves of their kitchens, or gave them to their children to use as toys.

  This community created out of relics clung together, both materially and psychologically, as tightly and close-knit as the cells in a honeycomb. Their homes clustered together like an intricate and convoluted puzzle, one behind the other, each in its neighbour’s shade as if frightened to stand alone. Every house had a garden and often an orchard as well, surrounded by tall walls, some rising to above ten feet in height. These walls were symbols of the village’s attitude to the outside world, for they showed a determination to stay apart and enclosed.

  The villagers kept secrets. They hid any real treasures they found in their fields or gardens, and they did not talk about the ghosts which haunted their narrow alleys that ran between their high walls. On windless evenings when grey wreaths of mist drifted over the surface of the ground, groups of men in strange clothes, glittering with shining armour, were sometimes to be met, marching soundlessly along the paths between the houses, still talking about events that had occupied their minds so many centuries ago. These marching men were Camptounfoot’s secret, and they were not feared for they menaced no one, and even the most timid child who caught a glimpse of them knew not to be afraid.

  Camptounfoot was secure. The people who lived there did not want anything to change, and little had done so since Roman times. The cycle of life seemed unchanging – villagers were born, grew up, married, had children and died in a never-ending sequence within the clustering cottages. Generation after generation talked about the same topics – the weather, the crops, who was sick, who had died, who had hit bad times or been blessed with unexpected good fortune. The inhabitants peered through their shuttered windows as strangers rode along their main street; they heard about the death of kings and the defeat of armies, but they stayed apart from conflicts. They knew that was the way to survive.

  Essentially nothing changed until 1853, when rumours spread from house to house that a railway was going to be built through Camptounfoot. This caused consternation for a while, but most of the villagers secretly felt sure that such a thing would never happen…

  Chapter One

  Halfway up the steep and twisting village street sat a low-roofed alehouse, that was not only a woman-free meeting place for the men of Camptounfoot, but also served as the official centre of gossip. William Strang the village blacksmith, his neighbour Tommy Rutherford, a weaver, and Black Jo the undertaker and carpenter, were sitting by the fire with mugs in their hands one cold spring night when Hughie the alehouse-keeper looked up and asked them, ‘Where’ll they build the station, do ye think?’

  They had been discussing the railway rumours a few minutes before and knew what he was talking about. The blacksmith shrugged and laughed. ‘In Rosewell, I dare say. They’ll no’ build it here. What for would they build a railway through Camptounfoot?’

  Hughie shook his head. ‘That’s no’ what I heard. Rosewell might be getting a station but we’re getting a junction… and a great big bridge over the river down there by Craigie’s last field.’

  His customers laughed. ‘Away you go! The railway’ll go to Rosewell because it’s four times as big as Camptounfoot. And the river bank’s lower there; they’ll cross it at Rosewell, beside the road-bridge. What for would they be coming along here, where the river banks are high to cross the river?’

  There was a solemn air about Hughie as he cautioned them, ‘You wait. A customer was in here today saying that some rail
way man from Edinburgh’s been down to speak to the Duke about laying the line across his land at Rosewell, but the Duke saw him off apparently. And you ken as well as me that he owns most of the fields around Rosewell. They’ll not get to cross the river there. They’ll be lucky if they even get a station. It’s causing a terrible rumpus.’

  There was a little window in the back wall of the alehouse that looked across the river to the lights of the town of Rosewell glittering a mile away, and Tommy Rutherford, the grey-haired weaver, stared out at those lights which sparkled like diamonds in the frosty night as he asked, ‘What sort of a rumpus?’

  Hughie told him. ‘Half the Rosewell folk are mad that the railway’s no’ coming, and the other half are mad that it might… The Duke and his friends are whipping up opposition to it. They don’t want anything to change, but the shopkeepers and the mill men are angry because a railway would have brought them business. Now it’s going to run down through Maddiston apparently, and they’re feared all the trade’ll go there.’

  William Strang took a swig of his ale and said in a joking tone, ‘They’ve managed all right in Rosewell till now, haven’t they? They’re just greedy.’

  The weaver looked sharply at him and asked, ‘Are you not for the railway, then?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve nothing against it, providing it doesn’t run past my door but I don’t think it will so I’m not bothered.’

  ‘But it’d bring work and it’d bring money. Look what’s happened to other places where they’ve built railways. Camptounfoot would benefit. There’d be more houses and more jobs for folk, visitors would ride in on the trains, somebody could open a hotel…’ Hughie’s eyes were sparkling at the idea.

  William stood up to his impressive, well-muscled height of six feet two inches and said, ‘This village is fine the way it is. We’re not needing more houses or hotels. My folk have been here for as far back as anybody can remember, and it’s aye been a great place to live and die in. I don’t want anything to change.’ His tone was vehement and he was no longer joking. Laying his empty mug on the table top he said, ‘I’m off home now. I just hope all this talk comes to nothing. There’ll be a rumpus here too if they try to bring a railway through this village.’

  His friends were silent as they watched him go but once the door had closed behind him they began to talk again. ‘William’s old-fashioned, but then the Strangs have aye lived here,’ stated Jo the undertaker.

  ‘So have the Rutherfords,’ the weaver reminded him. ‘We’ve been in our cottage for seven generations that I know of, but I can’t make up my mind if I’m for the railway or not.’ His brow was furrowed as he pondered the problem.

  Jo said, ‘It might not be good for you. It would mean the mills in Maddiston get an edge on you. If they take over any more of the weaving trade you’ll be frozen out.’

  Tommy Rutherford nodded sadly. ‘That’s true, but maybe our days’re finished anyway. When I was a laddie there were ten families of weavers in this village but now we’re the only ones left.’

  The others nodded in agreement. They had watched as, one by one, the weaving families of Camptounfoot sold their homes and moved away to the mill-towns that were starting to spring up along the banks of local rivers. Sometimes these displaced villagers came back on visits, and then it was clear to see how they yearned for their old free way of life – but they had condemned themselves to labour like ants in an ant hill for an exacting employer who was never satisfied with the amount of work they put in. Tommy Rutherford alone remained independent, working at a loom set up in his downstairs room. His wife worked along with him and they hoped their children would soon start weaving as well. They had managed to survive because their webs were exceptionally fine, so good that a middleman was prepared to make a special journey every month to Camptounfoot to collect the lengths of woollen cloth they weaved. But for how long would that go on? Even if no railway came, the mills of Maddiston would probably take away the Rutherfords’ customers eventually. Tommy shook his head sadly and Jo said in sympathy, ‘I ken. It’s a bad time, isn’t it? Everything’s changing.’

  Hughie was gathering up dirty mugs and he snorted. ‘It’s all right for you, Jo. Folk’ll aye keep on dying – you’ll never be out of a job. But I think a railway would be a good thing. It would open up the world for the folk of Camptounfoot.’

  Tommy stood up, for it was his turn now to go home. ‘Do we want the world opened up for us, though? We’ve managed fine till now.’

  Jo glanced at him and said, ‘Don’t worry, Tommy. It might never happen. It’s probably all talk.’

  * * *

  In the street outside, the oil lamp set high on the wall at the corner of St James’ Wynd was casting a pool of light on to the gleaming cobbles when the weaver stepped out of the alehouse door. He looked up and down the steep street, noting the candles gleaming in his neighbours’ windows. There was one behind the glittering panes of Mr Jessup’s sitting room overlooking the street, and Widow Blackie’s window shone too. He was glad to see her light, for when she had been ill recently, her house had been in darkness every evening. She must be feeling better if she was still up, he thought.

  On the other side of the road, the window of the schoolhouse was glowing as brightly as a beacon, and the weaver knew that Mr Anderson the schoolmaster would be entertaining his friends, for he was a hospitable man who liked nothing better than to spend an evening in conversation with his neighbours. On impulse, Rutherford turned back to knock on Anderson’s door and find out if he knew anything about this railway business.

  Mrs Anderson opened the door and invited him in. As he’d expected, there were four or five people already sitting around the fire. Among them he recognised his neighbour Tibbie Mather, William Strang’s widowed sister, and her bonny daughter Hannah. They moved aside to make a space for him on the wooden settle facing the blaze and he sighed as he sat down. ‘I’ve just seen your brother in the alehouse and he was talking about this railway business,’ he told Tibbie.

  She turned her pink-cheeked, chubby face towards him and asked, ‘What was he saying?’

  ‘He’d heard they might be going to build a railway through this village and a bridge over the river as well. There’s talk of it in Rosewell apparently.’

  The others stared back at him apprehensively and Mr Anderson nodded. ‘We’ve just been talking about the same thing. Hannah here heard something at her work. She’s been telling us about it.’

  They all looked at Tibbie’s eighteen-year-old daughter who seemed to glow and glitter in the firelight like a goddess, for her mass of red-gold hair caught the light like a golden crown. She leaned forward and said, ‘They were gossiping about it in the kitchen today at Bella Vista. The Colonel’s all for it, they say. He’s investing money in the railway company that’s going to build it.’

  Six months ago, Hannah had taken her first place as a kitchen-maid in the recently finished mansion Bella Vista, which was owned by her employer, Colonel Augustus Anstruther, late of the East India Company army, who had come home with a vast fortune and built himself a fine house overlooking the village from farther up the nearest of the Three Sisters. The village took pride in the fact that one of their girls was working for this magnate, and Hannah brought a great deal of fascinating gossip home with her when she came to visit her mother, which she did almost every day.

  Now Tibbie snorted, ‘The Colonel would be all for it! He’s just an incomer, isn’t he? He doesn’t know how local folk think.’

  Mr Anderson shook his head. ‘Oh Tibbie, maybe a railway’d be a good thing for us.’

  She was shocked. ‘How can you say that! Maybe in Rosewell or Maddiston, but not here. We’re not needing a railway in Camptounfoot.’

  Old Jock the village postman, who was in the party, nodded sagely. ‘That’s right, Tib. We’re not needing a railway. All that noise and carry on, and what about the building of it? That’ll be some turn-up.’

  Everyone looked at him in alarm, for this was some
thing they had not considered. Mrs Anderson, who was a great reader of newspapers, chipped in, ‘You’re right, Jock. If they build a railway here, they’ll have to bring in navvies and they’re awful men, real savages. The papers are aye full of terrible things they do.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ asked Tibbie.

  Mrs Anderson rolled her eyes. ‘Fighting and drinking, sometimes even murder. Terrible things. Attacking women too. There won’t be a woman safe in the district if the navvies come.’

  Tibbie looked at her lovely daughter in alarm and half-rose from her seat. ‘Oh my God!’ Hannah was in the habit of running back and forth from the village to Bella Vista even in darkness. She was going back there that very evening.

  Hannah guessed what her mother was thinking, but she was not worried; she laughed as she put a hand on Tibbie’s arm and said, ‘Sit down, Mam. They’re not here yet and they’ll probably never come. It’s just one of those rumours. Even if they do build a railway down here, it probably won’t come near Camptounfoot.’

  As they talked on, it soon became obvious that there were two schools of thought about the coming of a railway. Older residents like Tibbie, Mrs Anderson and Postman Jock were totally against the idea but the schoolmaster and Hannah were more receptive. Mr Anderson, whose imagination had always been sparked by tales of travel and distant lands, welcomed the opportunity that a railway would give to his pupils, and Hannah, young and high-spirited, was in favour of anything modern and new, though she took care to hide her eagerness from her worried mother. For Tibbie was of the old school. She had been born in Camptounfoot; married a man also from the village and spent her subsequent life in a cottage that had been owned by his family for hundreds of years. She had no wish to live anywhere else, for she was sure that there was not another place on earth more beautiful or peaceful than her native home. Like her brother William the blacksmith, she did not want anything to change – and even the suggestion of upheaval frightened her.