A Bridge in Time

by A Bridge in Time (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  At five o’clock next morning, when it was still dark, the men in Major Bob’s shed were awake and dismantling their dwelling. From frequent practice they knew how to take it apart like a child’s model, for each bit, each plank and spar slotted into place. It was not long before the outer walls were loaded on to a long dray drawn by two horses which Black Ace had hired to carry them to their next stopping place. They were piling on the beds and chairs when their ganger paused and said bitterly, ‘I knew that toff Gentleman What’s-His-Name wouldn’t show up.’

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when they heard a voice calling out to them, ‘Good morning, good morning,’ and Sydney strolled up through the rising grey mist. He was wearing a long dark overcoat with huge pearl buttons that glittered in the half-light like carriage lamps. Over one shoulder was slung the strap of a battered leather satchel out of which his silver-topped cane jutted. His high hat was tipped forward on his head and he was grinning broadly as he stood looking at them.

  ‘You’re late,’ said Tim shortly.

  ‘I know. I slept in an hotel last night and the chambermaid didn’t awaken early enough to give me my morning call. Silly girl. And to think I kept her in my bed all night to make sure she wouldn’t oversleep,’ said the latecomer.

  The men stared at him for a second before the inference of what he’d said sunk in. Frying Pan gave a short barking laugh. They all joined in and even Tim permitted himself a smile as he worked. ‘All right, take an end of this if you’ve any strength left,’ he grunted, heaving away at the big iron stove which had stood in the middle of the hut. Its long pipe was already dismantled in sections and lay on the grass.

  When everything was at last aboard, the men clambered on top of the load. Dressed in their best and brightest clothes, with clay pipes in their mouths, they settled down to enjoy their trip through the countryside. Whenever they came to a village or hamlet they waved cheerfully to people gaping at them. It was like a triumphal progress.

  Major Bob travelled with them, seated in a wooden armchair at the end of the cart. When she climbed aboard, she said to Tim Maquire, ‘I’m not coming with you all the way this time. Drop me at the first railway station you come to. I’m retiring. My daughter, the one that’s married to the clergyman in Liverpool, wrote to me and invited me to stay with her. She’s very respectable, you know.’ This did not seem to make much impression on Black Ace, so every time she caught his eye, she’d say again, ‘Remember and take me to a station, I’m giving this up.’ Frustrated by his lack of response, she then started telling the other men, ‘Don’t let Black Ace forget about me. I want off at a station.’ To Sydney’s surprise none of them paid much attention to her either and eventually he whispered to Frying Pan, beside whom he was sitting, ‘I hope you’re going to do what the poor woman wants. It’s not a life for a woman of her age after all, trailing around from navvy camp to navvy camp.’

  Major Bob’s voice was growing louder. ‘I think I won’t go to Liverpool after all. I’d rather go to London to stay with my son. He’s a lawyer and very respectable.’ She leaned perilously down from her chair to look at Sydney over a pile of mattresses and said in a very ladylike voice, ‘Do you know London well, Mr Sydney?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes I do, madam. It will be very pleasant there now – flowers in the parks, all that sort of thing…’

  ‘That’s where I’ll go then,’ said Major Bob, and slipped off into a peaceful little doze.

  On the other side of Sydney from Frying Pan was a younger man with a thatch of bright yellow hair that stuck out all around his head like an overblown dandelion. He was laughing as he saw the expression on Sydney’s face. ‘Oh don’t listen to her,’ he said. ‘She’s always like that when we move, always leaving, always going to London or Liverpool, but if she does have any children, they’d run a mile if she turned up on their doorsteps. She never goes anywhere but with us.’

  Every now and again Major Bob would waken and ask loudly if they’d found a station yet. When they assured her that there was one around the next corner, she took a black bottle out of her capacious holdall, unscrewed its cap, took a long swig, then did it up and replaced it in its hiding place before going back to sleep. Sydney was afraid that eventually she’d topple off her chair altogether so he climbed up to sit beside her and hold on to her when that moment arrived. He then had the opportunity to take a good look at her. She was the ruin of what must once have been a striking-looking woman with black hair and arching dark eyebrows over large and imperious eyes. In spite of the ravages of time and debauchery, her features still showed traces of gentility, although the cheeks were mottled with broken veins. When she woke and saw him watching her she gave him a surprisingly sweet smile. ‘I’m going to London, you know,’ she told him. ‘It will be nice to be with ladies and gentlemen again, not with this riffraff. They don’t have any manners, you see, but you can’t really blame them because they’ve all come from rough homes. Now my dear husband, the late Major Bob, he was in Spain with Wellesley before they made him a Duke. My Major Bob was a gentleman. He would eat his heart out if he could see me now. That’s what having no money does to a woman, you see.’

  Tim, in the front of the cart, turned his head with a laugh and shouted back, ‘You mean that’s what having a drouth does to a woman. If you stopped drinking brandy you’d have plenty of money. You charge us enough for looking after you.’

  Major Bob bridled like an angry horse. ‘Brandy? What do you mean, brandy? I hardly touch a drop, just a little now and again for my nerves. And what was that about looking after me? I look after you. You’re an impudent Paddy, Black Ace. I don’t know why I stick with you and your gang of hooligans.’

  Tim didn’t take any offence at this but still laughed as he told her, ‘You stick with us because we look after you and we’re the best-behaved gang you’ve ever been with. Besides, we all pay our dues every Friday and don’t borrow any of it back from you on a Saturday, like most of the gangs.’

  ‘Then let’s see how you can get on without me from now on,’ she said stiffly. ‘Just drop me at a station and I’ll take a train to London – or is it Liverpool? I forget.’

  It took four hours for them to travel from Penicuik to Maddiston, and by the time they were nearly there, Major Bob had given up all pretence of leaving. Now and again she would waken, uncork her bottle and take a long draw. Sometimes she offered the bottle to Sydney, but never to any of the others. He always shook his head and said courteously, ‘No thank you, my dear lady, I’m not a brandy-drinker.’

  This seemed to astonish her. ‘Not a brandy-drinker and yet in a navvy gang? What do you drink?’

  He thought for a moment and told her, ‘I like claret and porter now and again. But what I really enjoy is champagne – or plain water.’

  She was shocked. ‘Oh, don’t let them hear you talking like that,’ she whispered.

  ‘Don’t you think they’d approve of champagne?’ he asked, equally quietly.

  ‘It’s not that. It’s the water they wouldn’t approve of.’ By this time her face was flushed and her speech less precise. When she next fell asleep, her bonnet slipped down over her eyes and she made loud snuffling sounds like a dozing dog. She was still sleeping when their cart rolled into the main street of Maddiston, so when they stopped Tim and Sydney lifted her out of the chair and laid her flat on top of the mattresses to sleep off the effects of her journey.

  As they stood looking at her recumbent figure, Tim said fondly, ‘Oh well, once again Major Bob’s staying.’

  Sydney grinned back and said, ‘She’s a bit of an old soak, isn’t she?’

  The answer was another laugh but not an unkind one. ‘She’s all right if you learn to close your ears to her. If you stay with us you’ll have to do the same as we do – pay her five shillings a week and she’ll cook for you, clean your corner and do your laundry.’

  Sydney looked taken aback. ‘I’ll send my shirts to a local laundry – I always do th
at. But I’ll be glad to pay my five shillings.’

  ‘That’s all right then,’ said Tim. ‘I’ll tell her you’re on the roll, but don’t try making up to her. She’s not like the other women – she’s not a whore.’

  Sydney visibly reeled. ‘I assure you, old boy, I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said fervently.

  * * *

  Maddiston was a long narrow town meandering along the bed of a river. Lades leading off the river’s main flow were diverted by stone-lined culverts into tall mill buildings which contained floor upon floor of looms, all clattering and rattling away at once. The town echoed with the noise and the air in the streets smelt oily from the raw wool that was shipped in by hundreds of cart-loads to keep the looms working. The navvies’ dray stopped in front of a long narrow inn on the outskirts of this busy place where the thirsty men jumped down and ran inside, eager for beer. Major Bob was left sleeping peacefully on top of the load.

  The inn was packed full of working men – some navvies and others more soberly clad. When the navvies saw Tim Maquire, they sent up a cry, ‘It’s Black Ace! Have a drink, Black Ace!’ Soon he was swallowed up in their midst while his companions stood together with their beer mugs in their hands. Gentleman Sydney watched him go and said to the young lad at his side, ‘He seems to know everybody in the navvying trade.’

  His companion, the young man with the thatch of yellow hair, nodded. ‘Aye, he does. He’s been working the lines since he was eight years old.’

  Sydney’s jaw dropped. ‘Eight! Good God – I was sent to school at eight and I thought I was being badly treated.’

  The lad looked at him sharply. ‘Where did you go to school?’

  Sydney only laughed. ‘No history, no history, old boy. What’s your name?’

  ‘They call me Jimmy-The-New-Man.’

  ‘Is that because you’re a newcomer too?’

  ‘Not really. I joined the gang a year and a half ago. They didn’t know what to call me and the name they used has just stuck. I came down from Inverness to work. I left home because my father beat me – and I’ll never go back, never, not if I live to be a hundred. I was lucky that Black Ace gave me a place. He’s a grand fellow.’ Hero worship shone out of his eyes as he spoke.

  Sydney nodded sympathetically. ‘I could tell from your accent you’re from the Highlands. All the others are Irish, aren’t they?’

  ‘All of them except me – but I’m a Roman too, so that’s all right,’ Jimmy told him. ‘Are you a Roman?’

  Sydney grinned. ‘I’m more of a Greek, I think. No, I’m not a Roman – I hope they won’t mind. Tell me their names. I’ve only met Frying Pan and you so far.’

  In turn Jimmy introduced him to the brothers Gold Tooth and Pea Head, to the massively muscled and confused-looking Brick Wall, to a long-faced man they called the Parson and finally to a sprightly-looking little leprechaun of a fellow who jumped forward with his hand extended and chirped, ‘Me name’s Naughten-The-Image-Taker.’

  ‘That’s a strange name,’ said Sydney.

  Naughten laughed. ‘They call me that because I make their images. For a florin I’ll draw your likeness and you can send it home to your family. I’d make a good job of those eyes of yours. Have you a florin? If you have I’ll do it now.’ As he spoke he fished a block of paper and a few stubby pencils out of his coat pocket.

  Sydney shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I’ve no wish to see my face on a sheet of paper, and I’m sure my people wouldn’t want to see it anyway.’

  ‘That’s a pity, that’s a pity,’ said Naughten, but he was undeterred and was soon pushing his way through the crowd offering to execute images for anyone who wanted to be preserved for posterity. He had several acceptances and the sitters sat self-conscious and stiff on a chair brought from the inn kitchen while the chattering Naughten drew away. Sydney stood at his shoulder watching him at work and saw that, while he had a certain naive facility with the pencil, he was no artist. What he could do, however, was to give his wooden-looking portraits the undeniable characteristic of the sitter – a squint, a large nose, a pendulous lip, even a treasured watch and chain, all were copied faithfully but with no aim to flatter except in the matter of the watch and chain. One man who commissioned his portrait looked at the finished product and cried out angrily, ‘By God, man, you’ve made me look as if I’m dead.’ He passed the paper back to his friends, who all burst out laughing. ‘True enough, you look like a corpse!’

  Naughten, swiftly pocketing his florin, acted outraged and said with professional pride, ‘The trouble with you is that you don’t recognise real art. Take a look at that picture: isn’t that your own long horse-face to the life there? Your mother, if she’s honest, won’t ever mistake that for anybody else.’

  A serious altercation was prevented by the return of Black Ace, accompanied by a shifty-looking stout man wearing a tight black jacket and a dusty bowler hat. ‘This is Jopp,’ said Tim to his men. ‘He’s overseer with the railway company that’s building the new line. He says if we go down to Rosewell, about four miles south, there’s a camp being set up and we’ll get work there.’

  ‘Who’s the contractor?’ asked Frying Pan suspiciously, because there were some employers that knowledgeable navvies avoided at all costs.

  Jopp was reassuring. ‘There’s a good man hiring for a squad to build a big bridge. I’ve forgotten his name but he has a fine reputation. Men are going down there already because they’ve heard he’s got the contract. You’d better hurry if you want a place with him.’

  They rushed back to their cart and as they rode out of Maddiston they passed the place where the town’s new station was being built. Huge heaps of red sandstone blocks and piles of earth like pyramids scarred the field. The air rang with the sound of masons’ chisels and the steady thump, thump, thump of steam engines. The modern age was creeping into a part of the world that had changed little since Time began.

  The countryside became pretty and rural again soon and they left the station site behind. The road meandered slowly by a river that tumbled over stones as big and as white as roc’s eggs. On the banks, purple balsam and white meadowsweet bloomed beside huge stalks of hog-weed that towered as high as trees. Swifts dashed and swooped over the surface of the water, playing an eternal, joyous game.

  Rosewell, when they finally reached it, seemed to be dreaming, caught in a long-past era. Their first view of it showed the town spread out before them on a rising piece of ground overlooking a large meadow beside the confluence of the river from Maddiston with the Tweed. Between the meadow and the town stood the stark but lovely ruins of an ancient Abbey, half-roofless but with the delicate traceries of glassless windows still showing in high walls against a cloudless sky.

  The drayman steered his horses into the middle of the town, passing the Abbey gate and negotiating a narrow street lined with ancient houses until he reached a wide square surrounded by prosperous-looking shops with their proprietors’ homes on the upper floors. In the middle of the square was a tall red sandstone pillar topped by a lion couchant, and several old men were sitting at its foot. The driver leaned forward and called out to them: ‘Where’s the navvy camp?’

  ‘We’re not wanting any navvies in Rosewell,’ said one surly ancient.

  The driver was an Edinburgh man who scorned countrymen. ‘You might not be wanting them but you’re getting them. Where’s the camp?’ he snapped.

  Another man stood up and pointed along the street that headed westwards. ‘It’s out there. They’ve taken over a field on the side of the hill. They’d better stay there too or we’ll put the police on them.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear, a friendly welcome,’ called Sydney in his most gentlemanly voice as they trundled off.

  The camp was in a large field bordered by a low dry-stone wall and with a thick clump of trees in the top corner. Already the grass was marked by big patches of churned-up mud, especially at the watering place beside a little burn that came chattering down from the h
illside. By the gate, horses’ hooves had torn up the ground as they hauled in carts that were parked here and there over the field. There was a group of slatternly women standing gossiping by the gate while ragged children and skinny dogs cavorted around them. Men were busy building the huts and sheds in which they would live for the duration of the work in Rosewell.

  Once more people waved when they recognised Tim Maquire. ‘Hey, Black Ace, so you’re on this job too – that’s good!’ they called. He was obviously well-respected among them.

  Tim stood up in the front of the cart beside the driver and looked for a good stopping place. ‘Go up to the side of the hill near the trees,’ he instructed. ‘When it rains it won’t be so muddy there.’ As soon as the cart came to a stop, he vaulted to the ground and started giving more orders. Major Bob wakened too, miraculously sobered by her sleep. Without another word about London or Liverpool, she set to work with the men, hauling off bags and baskets and piling them up on the ground.

  They had been working for over an hour when there was a cry from the foot of the field and a man came walking towards them with his arm raised, calling out, ‘Tim Maquire! Tim Maquire! It’s a miracle that I’ve found you here. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

  Tim straightened from his task of hammering in posts and wiped his sweating brow as he stared at the approaching figure. ‘Hey, it’s Mr Wylie,’ he called. Then he dropped his hammer and ran down the field shouting, ‘It’s good to see you, sir.’ When they met the two men clasped hands with a beaming enthusiasm that Tim had not shown when greeting anyone else.

  Wylie was the first to speak. ‘I’ve been all over the place looking for you. Yesterday I went to Glasgow to that line that’s going north, and this morning I was at Penicuik – but they told me you’d left and no one knew where you were going.’