‘He had the consumption. He’d had it for a long time – had been coughing blood for about a year, but this last attack did for him. Poor Benjy. He didn’t think he was going to die, though. I wanted to send for a priest but he wouldn’t hear of it. He thought if a priest came, that would be the end for him,’ the kindly woman wept.
‘Yes, I’ll arrange the funeral,’ said Tim. It was customary among the navvies for a man’s colleagues to pay for his burial and to make a collection for his family if he had one.
‘I’ll look after the lassie. Poor soul, she’s distracted. She’s got no family, nobody except Benjy. They met about eight years ago when he was working on the same site as her father. She was just a young lassie then. Never been with a man or anything like that. Her father was killed by an earth-fall, so Benjy took her,’ said Mariotta’s friend. Tim nodded. He knew how women were passed from one kind of protection to another among the navvies. Some were luckier than others but Benjy was a good man so Mariotta had been lucky.
The woman beside him was still talking. ‘She’s a decent, God-fearing lassie, not like most of the trollops in this camp. Never drinks or swears or takes other men. It’s always the good folk that get the heaviest blows though, isn’t it? Poor lassie and those poor bairns. She’s brought them up like angels. What’s going to happen to them now, Black Ace?’
Tim shook his head. ‘We’ll raise some money to pay the fare for her and the bairns to go back to Ireland. She’s Irish, isn’t she? She must have family there. I’ll see what I can do.’ By now it was dark and he knew he’d missed the chance of meeting Hannah so he hurried back to Major Bob’s to tell his friends about Benjy’s death and to collect some money for the widow.
It was still raining next morning when they buried Benjy in an unmarked grave at the back of the Abbey burying-ground in Rosewell. The Kirk session would not give permission for a Roman Catholic navvy to be laid to rest among the townspeople, so Benjy had to be put into the section set aside for suicides and other outcasts. A party of strong navvies carried his plain, pine coffin down from the camp to the Abbey, and stood with their hats in their hands while a priest intoned the burial ceremony. Mariotta and her children were the chief mourners, accompanied by the women who had been with her when Benjy died.
At the conclusion of the short ceremony, Tim Maquire waited by the gate of the burying-ground for the widow to appear, and handed her a purse of money that he had collected from the dead man’s workmates. ‘It’s seven pounds and ten shillings,’ he said, ‘and Mr Wylie’s going to pay for you and the children to go back to Ireland.’
She raised bloodshot blue eyes to his face and whispered, ‘Why should I go there? I don’t know anybody in Ireland. I was born in London and I’ve lived all my life in navvy camps.’
She was thin and bird-boned with a peaky white face. Her huge trusting eyes gave her an air of fragile prettiness like a broken flower. Her hair was fair and parted in the middle, drawn down in two curves over her ears. As he looked at her, Tim wondered how old she could have been when she took up with Benjy, for she was little more than a girl now and yet her son was six years old. He estimated that she was probably no more than twenty-two or three – and a widow already.
‘There must be someone in Ireland you know,’ he persisted. ‘Your father was Irish, wasn’t he?’
She nodded. ‘And my mother too, but I’ve no idea where they came from. I’ve no birth or death certificates or anything like that, for they couldn’t read or write – neither can I.’
Tim looked hard at her. ‘Go back to Ireland,’ he said gently. ‘You can’t stay here.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Mr Jopp came this morning and said I must be off the camp by the end of the week. There’s no place there for women without men. He offered me five pounds for my house to save me shipping it away.’ Her voice was despondent, and it was obvious that she had no idea what she was going to do. Her children clung to her skirts, looking up at her with fear in their eyes.
‘I’ll speak to the priest about you,’ said Tim, who was filled with a terrible pity for the three of them. ‘I’ll send him round to your house tonight – he’s sure to have some ideas. And if you need more money, I’ll make sure you get it. Just let me know how much you want.’
‘Aw, sure you’re a good man, Black Ace,’ she whispered.
That night he was sleeping in his cot when he felt a hand shake his shoulder. He opened his eyes and in the light of the moon shining through the window, he saw Major Bob bending over him. ‘Wake up, Black Ace! I’ve a proposition to put to you,’ she hissed in his ear. He could tell from the smell of her breath that she was drunk.
‘Go away, it’s the middle of the night,’ he groaned, and turned over to avoid her.
She pulled at his shoulder again. ‘Get up, Black Ace, and come with me. Mariotta sent me to fetch you.’
‘You want to lay off the liquor,’ he said sternly, but rose from bed, pulled on his trousers and jacket, reached under the bed for his boots and stuck his feet in them. While he was doing this she stood swaying at the open door of the hut, gesturing to him to hurry up. To his relief, when he reached Benjy’s hut, Mariotta was not drunk, but she was the only one of the gathering of women who was sober. ‘What’s all this about?’ he asked as he stood in the doorway, looking at them sitting round the stove with empty bottles littered at their feet. Mariotta occupied a chair beneath the window. She had been crying again.
‘We’ve just been telling this lass what she ought to do,’ said a tall blonde woman with raging eyes who rose from her seat when Tim appeared. He glared at her and she went on hurriedly, ‘We’ve told her she ought to look for a new man.’
‘Aw, never!’ he exploded. ‘She only buried her last one this morning.’
Behind him Mariotta gave a gulping sob and stammered, ‘The priest says I’ll never be able to keep my bairns. He says I should go to the nuns, and the bairns to an orphanage. He doesn’t approve of me and won’t help me because they’re bastards. I wasn’t really married to Benjy. We just joined up together – you know how it is.’
He nodded. The blonde woman by his side gave him a jab in the ribs with her fist and said, ‘So she’s looking for another man. If she finds one in this camp, she won’t have to leave here. He’d just move in with her and her bairns.’
Then he knew why they’d sent for him. They were all watching him, eager-eyed, and Mariotta’s eyes were the most pleading of all. He backed away. ‘I can’t. I’m not marrying anybody. I’m saving up to go back to Ireland and buy a farm.’ As he spoke he realised how little he’d thought about his dream recently. He’d spent more time thinking about the girl with the red-gold hair. She was the reason why he couldn’t take on Mariotta and her children, no matter how much sympathy he had for them.
‘I told you I’d get you more money if you needed it,’ he said, turning to the forlorn girl who only shook her head and said sadly, ‘I told them you wouldn’t take me on but they wanted to send for you. It wasn’t my idea…’
Major Bob turned on him like an angry terrier. ‘Don’t be a miserable rat, Black Ace! You’ve no other woman, you’ve plenty of money and this is a poor lassie who’ll have to prostitute herself if someone doesn’t take her on. What else is there for her? When a navvy dies, his woman’s left to fend for herself as best as she can – and we all know how that is! She either goes whoring or she finds another husband.’
Raddled-looking Squint Mary groaned and said, ‘That’s what happened to me.’ She looked after a shed containing ten men and slept with them all and as she got older, she was forced to take in the least desirable men, the brutes and basest drunks no one else would accept.
Tim groaned just as loudly and said, ‘I know. I’m sorry but I can’t take Mariotta.’ He turned to her and urged, ‘Go to Ireland. You can get a job in a big house or something and keep your bairns with you. People are kinder there.’
Major Bob gave a cracked little laugh. ‘Don’t you believe it. Not for w
omen they’re not.’
Mariotta was weeping silently and in desperation she stood up to hold out her arms in a wide gesture. ‘I’m not old. I’m not sick. I’m very clean and I keep a decent house. I can have more bairns, plenty of bairns. And I’ve never had any other man but Benjy!’
He was shocked for her. ‘Stop it, stop it,’ he shouted. He couldn’t bear to hear her pleading like that. Repelled, he stepped back into the open air and tried to explain. ‘I’m not looking for a wife. I don’t want the responsibility. It’s not you, Mariotta – I’d say the same about any woman.’ That was a lie and he knew it. If Hannah asked him, he’d be mad with joy.
She sat down on her chair again and her face was set so that she looked as she would if she lived to be an old woman. ‘Then I’ll have to find someone else,’ she said.
‘Think about it, don’t do anything in a hurry and take care who you pick,’ he told her, but she only smiled sadly.
‘It doesn’t matter really, does it?’ she said dully. ‘I’ve a feeling my life’s finished anyway. If it wasn’t for my bairns I’d go down to the river and drown myself.’
* * *
The rain continued to fall and the river to rise for another forty-eight hours. A concerned Wylie arrived in his hired carriage from Camptounfoot and hurried up through the camp to find Tim Maquire. ‘We’ve got to go over to the south side of the bridge and look at the foundation holes. I’m sure they’ll be washed away by now,’ he said.
Half an hour later, after having driven through pools of water that rose about the hubs of the carriage-wheels, they stood at the top of the field and gazed at a scene of desolation. Part of the river bank where it had been intended that the first pier on the south side should go, had been swept away completely, and the freshly dug foundation holes had caved in because of water running down from piles of earth higher up. All the work would have to be done again.
Wylie groaned and knuckled his brow. ‘Oh my God, this is going to set us back for more than a week – and that’s only if it stops raining now.’
Tim looked up at the pewter sky that still gave no sign of brightening. ‘We’ll make it up, Mr Wylie, don’t you worry. My men and I’ll make it up,’ he promised.
When he reached the camp again he was drenched to the skin and walked wearily up the path to Major Bob’s hut. Standing at the door waiting for him was Marietta, holding a child by each hand.
She smiled sadly at him and said, ‘You’re very wet. I’ll wait out here till you dry yourself a bit. I’ve something to tell you.’
Inside the hut he grabbed a rough linen towel, wiped his face with it, stripped off his soaking coat and walked quickly back to the door to hear what she had to say. He wanted her to go away as soon as possible, for the sight of her made him feel guilty as if he had committed some sort of sin by not taking her when she offered herself to him.
She was still standing at the door, sheltering the children from the rain under her outspread cape. When he stepped out beside her, she looked up and asked, ‘Would you like to buy my little house, Black Ace?’
Relief shone out of his face. ‘Ah, you’re going away then after all, Mariotta. That’s good – I’m glad. But I thought you said Jopp had offered to buy your house?’
She shook her head. ‘He did – he offered five pounds, but when I went to him today to say I’d accept, he backed down, said he couldn’t pay more than three. That’s because he knows my week’s up the day after tomorrow. I’ve to be out of the camp by then.’
Tim hissed under his breath, ‘That’s Jopp for you!’
Mariotta was looking anxiously at him. ‘The house is worth more than five pounds. It’s watertight and very snug. It’s a lovely wee house. I’ll leave the furniture in it. All I’ll take are our clothes.’
‘Goddammit, I’ll pay you ten for it. Wait here and I’ll go and get the money.’ He ran inside and hauled his bedding off his cot. His savings were in the mattress. Major Bob was watching as he took the money out but he didn’t care because he guessed she’d always known where he hid it and had never touched it.
When he thrust ten golden guineas into Mariotta’s hand her fingers closed over them and she said softly, ‘God bless you. This’ll pay for the care of my bairns for a long time. It’ll keep them for a year.’
He was taken aback. ‘Why, where are they going?’
‘There’s a woman in Rosewell called Mrs Rush who says she’ll take them in. She’ll be good to them and I can see them every day while I’m here.’
Something in her tone chilled him. ‘While you’re here? Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know. Where does any navvy camp go? I’ll have to move on eventually but I’ll worry about that when it happens.’
He put out a hand and laid it on her shoulder. ‘Who’s taken you, Mariotta?’ he asked.
She flushed. ‘Bullhead,’ she whispered.
‘Not him! Oh my God, not him! Don’t you know they say he killed his last wife because of the beatings he gave her?’
‘I heard that, but he came to my house last night and offered to take me. Because he wants me he won’t let any other man offer for me. It’s him or nobody – I haven’t much choice. But I don’t want him to have the children, that’s why I need the money for their keep in a decent house. I told him what I was going to do. He said it doesn’t matter. He’s promised to treat me well. His last wife drank, he said, that’s why he hit her…’
‘You didn’t believe him, did you?’
She stared at him with enormous, hopeless eyes. ‘I have to believe him, haven’t I?’
‘Listen,’ he almost said. ‘Don’t go to Bullhead, come to me,’ but he couldn’t. ‘Listen,’ he began again, ‘if Bullhead ever gives you any trouble, tell me and I’ll bring him back into line. He’s afraid of me. Don’t let him hit you. Don’t let him sell you to other men…’ She looked terrified but he knew that Bullhead had done that with his women before and felt he ought to warn her. Her life with Benjy could not have prepared her for the brutalities of a man like Bullhead. ‘If there’s any suggestion of that, come and tell me,’ he insisted and she nodded, looking like a child again.
‘I’ll tell you,’ she promised, and reached into her skirt pocket to draw out an iron key. ‘This is the key to my house. I hope you’re happy in it,’ she said as she handed it over to him.
Chapter Nine
By next morning, the rain had abated and Tim led the navvies who were sober enough to work, along the road to the bridge site. By the time he had assigned them all their daily tasks and seen that everything was going well, Christopher Wylie had still not turned up, and Tim knew something must be wrong, for by then it was past midday. In a great hurry Tim ran up the slope of the field and along the road to Camptounfoot, not even slackening his pace when he drew level with the alehouse. He was going to the Jessups’ and had no time for dalliance.
Mr and Miss Jessup were sitting at their table with solemn-looking faces when he knocked on the door. They were relieved to see him. ‘Poor Mr Wylie’s very unwell. I want to send for a doctor but he won’t let me. Perhaps you can persuade him that it would be a sensible thing to do. He’s fevered and has a terrible cough,’ said old Jessup anxiously.
They took Tim upstairs to the top-floor room where Christopher Wylie lay with a flushed face and closed eyes. His cheeks were sunken and he looked like an old man whose strength had left him. Tim put a hand on the wrinkled forehead and felt fever burning beneath the skin. Wylie opened his eyes at the touch and murmured, ‘Oh it’s you, lad. I’m glad you came. I’ve a bit of a chill and I won’t be at the site today…’
‘I’ll see to things,’ Tim told him reassuringly.
Wylie coughed rackingly and turned his head weakly on the pillow. Tim remembered Benjy and made a quick decision. ‘I’m going into Rosewell to fetch you a doctor,’ he said.
Wylie was so ill he didn’t even protest, just closed his eyes again. The Jessups were waiting on the landing outside the bedroom and
when he emerged Tim asked them, ‘How long has he been like this?’
‘Two days. He won’t eat and he coughs all night. I’m not much of a hand at nursing and my sister’s very shy. We haven’t been able to help him much,’ said the old man.
‘I’ll bring a doctor,’ said Tim, hurling himself down the narrow stairs. ‘I won’t be long.’
As luck would have it, when he ran into the street he almost collided with Hannah, who smiled and paused as if ready to speak but he could not spare any time. The memory of Wylie’s stricken face haunted him so he only paused long enough to touch his hat and ran on past her. She stared after him in surprise, wondering if she had offended him so much on their last meeting that he would not speak to her again. Then she shrugged and pulled her shawl tightly over her head. That was his loss, she told herself.
Dr Stewart, who practised in Rosewell, was a great snob and could only be persuaded to attend Wylie when he heard that the patient was the bridge contractor, and not a navvy. He rode to Camptounfoot in his gleaming carriage but did not offer Tim a lift, so when the navvy reached the Jessups’ again, the doctor was already preparing to leave. Pulling on his gloves he said to Mr Jessup, ‘He’ll need careful nursing. I’ve left a prescription for him – make sure he takes it, sir. He’s a very sick man.’
Tim came crashing through the door at that moment and asked, ‘What’s wrong with him? What can we do?’ The doctor looked at him icily. ‘He has severe congestion of the lungs. His heart’s rather feeble too. He must stay in bed until the cough goes away.’
‘How long will that be?’
‘As long as it takes – there’s no way of telling. Some people recover quite quickly, some never recover at all. If he’s to get better he’ll need careful nursing.’
When the doctor drove away, Tim and the Jessups stared at each other. ‘Do you want me to take him away?’ he asked them.
A Bridge in Time Page 19
