‘Yes, I kept that quiet,’ Tim grinned. ‘I didn’t want them flooding after me and taking all the work. Aw, don’t tell me this is your contract, Mr Wylie! I can’t be so lucky, can I?’
‘It is Tim, it is, and I’m lucky too because the man I want to run my labour force is you. Will you be my chief ganger? There’s not another man can match you.’
They shook hands again. ‘Of course I’ll work for you, Mr Wylie. You’ve always been a good boss for me and for my father…’ As he said this Tim’s face became more solemn and he added, ‘I was sorry to hear about Mr James. He was a good lad, a promising lad. He’d have carried on where you leave off.’
Wylie nodded, his eyes stricken. ‘It was a terrible thing to happen – an accident, God’s will. But you’ve had a loss too since we last met. I heard about your father and I’m sorry. He was a fine man.’
Tim’s face was grim. ‘That was an accident, too – in Preston. A falling block of stone caught him; he was too old to get out of the way. Thank God it was instant, though.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Wylie again. ‘I never knew a man I respected more than him. He had dignity as well as strength. I always felt he had a story to tell if he chose.’
Tim nodded. ‘Aye, and a sad story too. We once owned a farm in Ireland, but the English came and took it off us. Then they rented it back to my family again, but one day the landlord sent men to drive us off. It was the famine time. My mother died of starvation and my father and I came to England because he heard there was work on the railways. His dream was to make enough money to go back a rich man; one day I’ll do it for him.’
Wylie put an arm round the young man’s shoulders as they walked up the slope towards the half-built hut. ‘Stick with me, Tim, and I’ll see you make your pile,’ he said firmly. He always called Tim by his real name and never Black Ace, because he’d known him since he was a lad fetching and carrying for his father on various sites.
Tim grinned. ‘I’ll stick with you, Mr Wylie, and so will my men. Now tell me what you’re going to build here. It’s a bridge, isn’t it? You’re the bridge man.’
‘Tomorrow when you’ve finished your hut and got settled in, we’ll take a drive to see where the bridge is going. It’s a bad place, but we’ll do it. I’m sure of that now I’ve found you,’ said Wylie in an optimistic tone.
* * *
After he left the navvy camp, Christopher Wylie took rooms at the Abbey Hotel in Rosewell. It had once been the gatehouse of the old Abbey and its walls harboured thriving colonies of bugs that were ravenous for new blood. Amazingly, bug-bites, plus the sleep-disrupting tolling of the Abbey bell which was rung at eight o’clock in the evening, at midnight and at six in the morning, failed to depress Wylie’s spirits. He woke full of good cheer and when he arrived at the camp to collect Tim Maquire next morning, he looked years younger than he had done on the previous day.
‘We’re going on an expedition,’ he announced as they walked to the waiting hackney carriage he had hired.
‘Where to?’ asked Tim, who was not averse to the idea of an outing.
‘First of all we’ll look at the north bank of the river, and then we’ll go over to the other side where the main supports of the bridge will be built. I warned you it’ll be a difficult job: now I want you to see it for yourself.’
Tim smiled happily. ‘I like challenges.’
The first place they stopped was a mile downriver from Rosewell. They climbed out and stood looking over the edge of a sheer precipice to where the river sparkled far below. Tim glanced at Wylie and asked, ‘Must it be built here? Couldn’t it go on flatter land?’
‘No, apparently not. All the flat land belongs to the Duke of Allandale and he’s very anti-railway. He’s doing all he can to stop it, but two big landowners are holding out against him. The bridge has to be here because this is the only route that can cross their land. A man called Raeburn who’s on the railway company board owns this ground and that meadow on the other side of the river.’
‘I see, so the line goes here… But it’s a sheer drop of forty feet at least!’
‘Fifty, actually,’ said Wylie, ‘but I’ve taken that into account. I’m going to throw my bridge high across from here on tall pillars to that rising land behind the big meadow, which belongs to the second railway company man, Colonel Anstruther. Then the line will run along the back of that little village you can see on the top of the hill.’
Tim nodded and asked, ‘What do the villagers think about it?’
Wylie shrugged. ‘I don’t imagine anyone has asked them. Anstruther owns the land behind the village and we have to use that.’
Tim shaded his eyes with one hand and stared hard down into the valley. ‘It’s a difficult one, right enough. How many piers will you need to carry the bridge?’
‘Nineteen – all tall and narrow like slim tree trunks. That’ll be a good bit to build on. I’ve a vision of it in my mind.’
Tim looked into the older man’s face and said slowly, ‘This’ll make you famous, Mr Wylie. Even more famous than you are already.’
Wylie laughed, and the flash of white teeth and the way his eyes crinkled showed how handsome he had been as a young man. ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, Tim lad. I’m after fame: I want to build a bridge that’ll take people’s breath away. I’m glad it has to go on this site because although it’s difficult, it has tremendous possibilities. Not many men would attempt it. Look over there and picture it – piers as thin as wands with arches soaring to the sky. I saw an illustration in a book once, showing an aqueduct the Romans built in France: I’m taking that as my inspiration.’
Tim was solemn. ‘Thin as wands, eh? They’ll have to be strong, though. You don’t want to be remembered as the man whose bridge fell down, do you?’
‘There’s no danger of that. My piers will be built of stone and they’ll be as solid as rocks. Come on, let’s go to the other side and I’ll show you where they’ll be built.’
They walked back to the carriage which conveyed them again to Rosewell, where it turned south in the square and headed for an old stone bridge across the river. This bridge was only wide enough to admit one vehicle at a time and there were two little stone bays built into each side, jutting out like balconies over the fast-flowing river. In those bays, pedestrians could take shelter from the passing traffic.
The road-bridge was squat and very strong, built on two arches over the Tweed and supported on three stubby piers, all as solid as bastions. On each side of the bridge, facing outwards, were two carved shields in bas-relief showing vases with lilies spraying out of them. Wylie and Maquire were interested in the bridge’s construction from a professional point of view and leaned from the carriage to look back at it when they reached the other side. The driver saw their interest and said over his shoulder, ‘Did you notice the foundations? They only show when the river’s low. You’re lucky we’ve had a dry spell and they’re showing today.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Wylie, and the driver laughed. ‘Folk don’t notice ’em. I’ll show you.’ He drew on the reins and pointed with his whip. ‘Look down at the water level. What do you see?’
Tim screwed up his eyes. ‘Bags of cement. How old is this bridge?’
‘More than a hundred years. It was built when my father’s father was a wee laddie and he would’ve been a hundred and fifteen if he was still alive.’
Tim shook his head. ‘I didn’t know they were using cement like that then. It’s amazing it’s lasted so long in water.’
‘That’s because it’s no’ cement: it’s wool.’
The driver achieved his desired effect, for his listeners looked first at the bridge and then at him in disbelief. ‘Wool?’ asked Tim.
‘Aye, bags o’ wool. My grandfather used to say he lay them down in the river bed, and when they get wet they go as hard as stone – harder in fact. The piers are built on top. It’s an old trick and it worked a treat.’
Tim looked at Wylie and laughed. ‘Don’t try it,
Mr Wylie – don’t even think about it! Stick to the way you know.’
On their way to the southern side of the planned bridge, they drove through Camptounfoot which was looking its best under the sunshine, with early flowers blooming in the cottage gardens and fruit forming on the orchard trees. Its tranquillity gave no hint of the trouble behind the closed front doors, for dissension over the railway continued to divide the people.
The first house in the village was the mill, and its moss-covered wooden wheel was slowly creaking round as they passed. The miller and his family were traditionalists who did not want a railway. Two old men stood leaning against the mill’s whitewashed wall and looked bleakly at the carriage as it drove by. ‘They don’t seem to like strangers here,’ said Tim soberly.
The village street was cobbled so their wheels made a ringing sound as they rode around the corner where the little shop stood. Mamie’s face showed at the window and she smiled at the sight of them, as did the man sweeping the doorstep of a low-roofed alehouse, but women carrying buckets of water from the well stared bleakly in the direction of the strangers. Cottages clustered close to the road edge, with doors opening right into it, and the travellers caught sight of skirt-flounces and pinafore-ends as the women ran back inside, dragging children out of the way of the carriage. ‘It’s a pity it’s so unfriendly,’ said Mr Wylie, and the garrulous driver was a mine of information here too. ‘They’re canny folk here. They believe in keeping themselves to themselves. It’s certainly a queer place to drive through on a winter’s night, I can tell you. Funny things have been seen here.’
Tim was interested and asked, ‘What sort of things?’
‘Apparitions, but the locals don’t talk about them. They keep their secrets.’ By now they were at the top of the village and open country spread before them again. Only one house remained to be passed, a tall building that stood like a gatehouse at the end of the street. None of them noticed a strained white face staring down at them from a tiny bull’s-eye window on the gable wall.
The field where the bridge was to be commenced lay only a few hundred yards beyond the village boundary and the driver said cordially, ‘Take your time, gentlemen. I’ll put the carriage under those trees and wait for you there.’ He pointed to a beech copse at the top of the road where he intended to have a quiet doze.
The pair climbed down and headed for the river, where they stood with their boots in the shallows, picking up stones and examining the consistency of the ground. ‘I wonder what would happen if I floated my piers on woolsacks?’ mused Wylie, but Tim shook his head.
‘Stick to cement and stone. At least we know they won’t shift.’
‘But the wool didn’t either, did it? Maybe the old bridge-builders knew something we don’t.’
‘Their bridge wasn’t going to carry a train – yours is,’ Tim reminded him and Wylie laughed.
‘I’m surprised to find you being so conservative, Tim,’ he said.
They walked the ground carefully, pacing it out while Wylie consulted the plans in his hand. They took soil samples, they drove sticks into the earth to test the depth of the covering, they stared all around taking their bearings, estimating and discussing. They were so engrossed that they did not notice a figure slipping over the adjacent field and lying down behind a hedge that ran along its boundary. It was when Wylie was climbing the ridge to get a better view, that the spy jumped out at him. Tim was in the lower part of the valley and all he heard was a fearsome yell.
A man was screaming, ‘I’ll kill you, you bastard! You’re not going to take my field! You’re not going to build your bloody bridge here!’ Craigie Scott was standing up behind the hedge with a gun in his hand, his face distorted and his hair flying. The gun was pointing at Wylie, only a few feet away. ‘I’m going to kill you. That’ll stop them!’ he yelled again.
Wylie straightened his shoulders. Strangely, he was not afraid as he looked down the barrel of the old-fashioned gun, but he did not have time to say anything or fully realise how close he was to dying because Tim suddenly burst into view, running fast with his head down. He charged straight into Craigie’s back, threw him to the ground and fell on top of him. The gun was pointed to the sky as it went off, blasting shot into the empty air and making crows rise squawking out of the trees in alarm.
Tim was yelling too. ‘I’ll kill you first – I’ll snap your neck like a chicken bone.’ His hands were round Craigie’s thin throat and he was banging his head up and down on the hard ground. ‘Kill you, kill you, I’ll kill you,’ he was grunting, and did not stop until a concerned Wylie pulled him off.
‘Stop it! If you kill him, they’ll hang you, not him. Stop it, man, stop it. I’m all right – he didn’t shoot me.’
Tim was transported with fury. He rarely lost his temper but when he did he was uncontrollable. However, Wylie’s entreaties eventually succeeded in calming him and he let go of Scott, who crawled away sobbing, ‘You cannae tak’ my field. We’ve farmed it for a hundred and fifty years.’
‘You can still farm it,’ said Wylie, picking up the gun and carefully unloading it just in case. ‘When the bridge is finished, you can farm it again.’
Scott was sitting on the ground shaking his head. ‘No, not after it’s been dug up, not then. It’ll be spoilt. Everything’ll be spoilt. I should have shot you.’
Tim hauled him to his feet, shaking him like a stuffed doll. ‘Stop that! Where do you live?’ he demanded.
The carriage-driver, who had heard the shot, came running up and shook his head at the sight of the three of them. ‘Oh God, it’s Craigie Scott! Aren’t you going to take him to the police? Did he try to kill you?’ he asked Wylie, who shook his head. Navvies had as little to do with the police as they could. ‘No. Tell us where he lives and we’ll take him back. He’s drunk, I think,’ he told him.
‘He’s no’ drunk. He’s too damned mean to get drunk, but if that’s what you want we’ll drive him back to his house. His sisters’ll take care of him,’ said the driver.
As they headed for the farmhouse, with Craigie sitting between Tim and Wylie in the back, he began raving again. ‘You cannae tak’ my field. What’s going to happen to this village? It’s the work of the devil to bring a railway here…’ His voice, high and shrill, went echoing down the street and made people throw open their doors in alarm to see what was going on.
At the farmhouse, Tim hauled the distraught man out of the carriage and handed him over to a wispy-looking little woman who appeared in the doorway. ‘Here, take him in and keep him out of trouble. You’re lucky we didn’t hand him over to the police,’ he told her, and then ran back to the waiting carriage which set off at a good clip downhill.
As they were driving past the next cottage, its door opened and the most beautiful girl Tim had ever seen stepped out into the road. The sun made her red hair glitter like gold and the face she turned up to the passing carriage was oval and perfect, with enormous brown eyes that stared straight into his and turned his heart over in his chest. He gave a startled gasp because he had never seen such a lovely girl in his life before. He was sure she was a vision.
* * *
Because it was a fine day, Hannah had run the short distance home from Bella Vista to spend a few hours in the afternoon with her mother. They were chattering happily in the kitchen when their peace was disturbed by the sound of shouting coming from the street. Running to the front door, Hannah opened it and found herself staring into the eyes of a stranger who gazed back with a terrible intensity. When she looked up at the dark face, Hannah felt a curious leaping in her heart, a sort of recognition or precognition, but there was no time to think about it for in her ear her mother hissed, ‘What an evil-looking devil! Oh Hannah, I think he must be yin of thae navvies.’
The carriage passed and the two women ran out into the roadway to stare at Craigie, who was gesticulating and shouting at the top of his lungs: ‘I should have shot him! You’d all have thanked me if I’d shot him!’
H
is frantic sisters and his two female farmworkers, the bondagers Big Lily and Wee Lily, were hauling at him, attempting to force him into the house. Eventually they succeeded, and only his manic screams could be heard echoing over the orchard wall. ‘I should have shot the bastards! I should have shot them both and then there would be no railway here…’
When the noise finally died down, Hannah and her mother looked at each other with disquiet. ‘I told you Craigie would start shooting folk,’ whispered Tibbie.
‘But that’s not even his field where the bridge is going. He only rents it from Falconwood,’ said Hannah in bemusement. All this to-do about the railway was beginning to oppress her. She thought the villagers of Camptounfoot were being very stupid.
‘But they’ve rented it for years. His father had it before him so he thinks it’s his. Big Lily was telling me the other day that when Craigie got the letter saying that Falconwood was terminating their agreement, he went about mad. I think there’s something in that field he wants to keep for himself,’ Tibbie said.
Hannah asked, ‘What do you mean? What can there be? It’s just an ordinary field, isn’t it?’
Tibbie shook her head. ‘None of the fields round here are ordinary, you should ken that by now. Funny bits and pieces even turn up in our garden. If we find them here, what can Craigie find in the fields when he ploughs? You ken that cottage down by the burn, the one Jimmy Thomson bought and calls Fortune Cottage? How do you think he got the money to buy that?’
Hannah shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea. Maybe somebody left him a legacy.’
Tibbie snorted. ‘Jimmy dug his legacy up, that’s what. Folk in this village have been digging things up for generations. I mind my father telling me about a golden sword he once found; there’s even those bonny blue beads you came across in the hayfield when you were a bairn. I think Jimmy Thomson found a pot full of money when he was ploughing for Craigie, and they shared it between them. They’re maybe still finding stuff – that’d be a reason Craigie’s so keen to keep the railway off his land. If they start excavating the earth, there’s no telling what they’ll find – and you know how grippy Craigie is. He cannae stand the idea of anybody else getting something he thinks should be his.’
A Bridge in Time Page 10
