At this moment Sydney appeared behind him, for he had seen the madly-driven cart going up the path to Benjy’s and knew who was at the reins. Putting a hand on Tim’s back he said, ‘I’ll help you put them into the coffin. I’m sorry, Black Ace. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t say anything, nothing, don’t talk about it,’ snapped Tim gruffly but he accepted the help.
When everything was done, Syndey said, ‘You’ll have to bury them in the cholera pit. They won’t let them be put anywhere else.’
‘I know that, but I’m not going to put them in like paupers when it’s dark – not like the others. I’m burying my Hannah in daylight, and if anyone tries to stop me, I’ll break their necks.’
They carried the coffin out to the cart and loaded it aboard. Tibbie walked behind with her black shawl draped over her head, and the three of them climbed on to the cart which Tim drove, more slowly this time, back to the camp entrance. Again the guards recognised him and, intimidated by his raging appearance and wild behaviour, stood back to let the cart through.
In Rosewell Square, people stared at the coffin on the cart without at first realising it had come from the camp. One or two of them recognised Tibbie and nudged each other, saying, ‘That’s Tibbie Mather sitting up there. What’s she doing?’ Then, when realisation dawned, they drew back in horror, and rushed into their houses or shop-doors with hands over their mouths. ‘It’s the fever, they shouldn’t be allowed here,’ they gasped to each other, for few of them could bring themselves to say the dread word ‘cholera’. The town was still pretending to itself that the plague had not come upon the people living in its shadow.
The grim trio on the cart looked neither to right nor left as Tim urged the pony on through the traffic, which made way for it to enter the narrow lane that led to the Abbey. At its gate he and Sydney jumped down and gently lifted off the coffin, bearing it between them over the grass to the pit that waited beneath a covering of tarpaulin for its next occupants. There were some people there already, waiting with their hats in their hands. Tibbie looked up and saw her brother William with Effie by his side and Jo behind them. She rushed across and William hugged her close. ‘We came because we knew you’d be burying her this morning. We didn’t want you to have to do it without your family to help you,’ William told her softly. Then he turned to Tim and asked, ‘Have you a clergyman to bury them?’
‘No. The priest’s been blessing the other people that died but I didn’t ask him. Hannah wasn’t a Roman Catholic.’
‘That’s all right. I asked her own minister to come across,’ said William. ‘I’ll go and fetch him now.’
The manse backed on to the burying-ground from the other side of the ruins of the Abbey, and he strode off across the grass with a purposeful air. The minister, when William had called on him earlier, had been reluctant to come but the blacksmith was an elder of the church and had stood his ground, ‘My niece was a member of your church and I want her buried properly,’ he said. It was a request that could not be denied to a highly-respected parishioner, but the minister was determined to conduct a short service from as far away as possible from any source of contagion.
Looking like a raven, he arrived in his black cassock and stood on a bit of rising ground twenty feet away from the open gravepit while he read from his prayer book. The words rang out with terrible solemnity and the wind ruffled his purple bands so that they waved around him like despairing hands, but what he said satisfied William and Tibbie. They were glad to know that Hannah was being sent on her last journey with the sanction of the church.
Tim, however, did not hear a word of the service. His mind was totally concentrated on the rough wooden box lying in the pit at his feet. He could not believe that it contained the bodies of the people he loved best in the world, the only people he had ever loved apart from his parents. He could not come to grips with the realisation that Hannah had gone and he would never see her again. When the minister raised his hands and proclaimed, ‘I am the resurrection, and the life. Whoever believeth in me will live forever,’ Tim gave a strangled sob and put his hands up to his face – for it was then that the full horror of the tragedy hit him.
The violence of his grief was terrifying. When Sydney put a hand on his arm - to try to control him, Tim shook it off and turned to run headlong out of the burial-ground and along the riverbank. He did not know where he was going or what he was going to do, but ran as if he were being chased. The other mourners stood and watched him go in silence before William turned to his sister and took her arm. ‘Come on home, Tibbie,’ he said. The minister intervened, ‘But Mrs Mather’s been in the navvy camp. She shouldn’t go back to Camptounfoot. What about contagion?’
William glared at him. ‘Mrs Mather’s going home. She’s not going back to that camp that killed her lassie. If anyone tries to stop me taking her home, I’ll not be answerable for what I do, Reverend.’
There was no answer to that. Anyway, the attempts at isolating the camp were already obviously futile. Every night, navvies and their families who were still well enough to travel were stealing away across country, running from the contagion. No one tried to stop them for fear of the consequences, and secretly, Rosewell was glad to see them go.
Stunned and silent, Tibbie hung on to her brother’s arm. Sydney shook her hand and murmured something but she only nodded, for her mind was so confused that she was hardly able to understand him. Then he walked back to the camp. It did not seem to occur to him that he too could leave.
It was a just over a mile to Camptounfoot by the riverside path from the Abbey and Tibbie did not speak until the roofs of the village came into view, all huddled together in their comforting way in the fold at the bottom of the hill. She paused to look down on them and suddenly said in a stricken voice, ‘The lassie’s in my house.’
Effie thought she was talking about Hannah and patted her shoulder. ‘Oh no, Tib, no she’s not.’
‘Where’s she gone then? To the Jessups’?’
William and Effie looked at each other in surprise, but Jo chipped in with, ‘Don’t you remember? The Wylie lassie’s in Tibbie’s hoose.’
‘Oh dear goodness, she canna stay there. I’ll ask her to go away,’ cried Effie, hurrying on in front but Tibbie called after her, ‘Leave her be! I said I’d take her. I’ll tell her myself.’
William gestured to his wife to come back and whispered, ‘It’ll be company for her. She’ll need somebody in the house.’
‘Another lassie?’ questioned Effie.
He shook his head, warning his wife to say no more. Tibbie would do what she wanted about Miss Wylie, he reckoned.
As it turned out, Emma Jane was not in the cottage when they reached it but everything was neat and tidy; the fire was banked up in the grate and the cat alseep in its chair, though there was no visible sign that anyone else was living there. Tibbie looked around and told her companions, ‘Just go away now and leave me, please.’
‘Will you be all right?’ asked Effie anxiously.
Tibbie did not answer but only shook her head. She felt that she would never be all right again. Her life was finished. Everything had happened so quickly that she was in a state of shock. ‘Just go away, Effie. I ken where to find you. You’ve all been very kind, thank you very much, but I want to be on my own now.’
When they left she lifted the cat and sat in the warm cushion on the chair. Then she leant her head on her hand and let the deep, slow tears of heartfelt grief run unchecked down her cheeks. She did not sob, she did not cry out, nor did she shake or shudder; she cried as if the tears were coming from a bottomless well. It was afternoon when she saw a face at the window looking in from the garden. Rubbing her eyes to restore the blurred vision, she tried to make out who it was. The visitor rapped on the glass with bent knuckles and she beckoned to tell whoever it was to come in.
‘Aw Tibbie, we heard about Hannah and we had to come and say how sorry we are,’ said a voice, and Big Lily stepped through the back door
, followed by her awkward-looking daughter. The sight of the pair of them, mother and daughter, grabbed at Tibbie’s heart but she was too good a soul to envy Big Lily her child.
‘It was brave of you to come, Lil,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve been in the camp, you know.’
Big Lily nodded. ‘Oh aye, we ken about the cholera but we’re no’ feared. Is there anything we can do for you, Tibbie? Look, Wee Lily’s brought you some eggs from Craigie’s hens. He’ll never miss them ’cos they’ve been laying in oor hedge.’
Tibbie rose and took the three brown eggs from Wee Lily’s outheld hands. ‘That’s a kind thought,’ she said brokenly.
Big Lily clamped a man-sized hand on her shoulder and said with genuine emotion in her voice, ‘We’re your neighbours, Tibbie. What else can neighbours do but try to help each other at a time like this?’
Camptounfoot proved its integrity to Tibbie Mather that day. When the two bondagers left, it was as if they’d made a breach in the wall of grief around her, and one by one the neighbours knocked at her door, some to give her their respects in lowered voices and others with offerings of scones or home-baked bread, a wee bunch of autumnal roses or a jar of home-made jam. Not one person acted as it they were afraid to be near her; not one said that she should not have come home in case she brought cholera to their village. They genuinely grieved for her tragedy and wept for Hannah Mather, whom they’d watched grow up.
The Rutherfords came, so did Bob from the shop with three slices of bacon wrapped in paper. Mr Jessup came and shook his head as he clasped her hand. He couldn’t find words to express what he felt for her. The master mason who had employed Hannah’s father came, still wearing his leather work-apron and with stone-dust in his hair. ‘I’ve just heard about your Hannah. Oh my God, I wish it wasn’t true, but don’t you worry, Tibbie, I’ll keep on sending your money at New Year. Alex was my best workman and I owe that to him,’ he told her.
She always invited her callers into the house, and one or two came but most did not want to intrude on her grief. The last to arrive was the schoolmaster Mr Anderson, who had had to wait till the day’s teaching ended and the bairns were turned loose to run up the street. Normally their letting-out time was marked by loud shrieks and shouts, but that afternoon the noise was subdued because he’d told them about Hannah’s tragedy and asked them to be quiet for fear of upsetting her mother. Now he stood on her doorstep and said, ‘I’ve come to say how sorry I am, Tibbie. Hannah was a lovely, happy lassie – one of the nicest I’ve ever had in my care.’
Tibbie was proud to hear her daughter being complimented, and nodded in agreement. ‘Aye, she was a happy girl, wasn’t she? Right to the end she was happy.’
Mr Anderson nodded sadly. ‘A short and happy life – but that can’t be much of a consolation to you now.’ Wordlessly Tibbie nodded. Nothing would ever console her for the loss of Hannah, that she knew.
It was dusk and the callers had stopped knocking on the door when she heard light steps on the cobbles outside and a tentative turn at the handle. A voice asked, ‘Can I come in, Mrs Mather? I’ve only come to say that I’ve reserved rooms in the Abbey Hotel and I’ll take my bag away with me now.’
Emma Jane Wylie stood in the kitchen doorway. She looked utterly exhausted and bedraggled. Her black skirt was dirt-stained and her fine leather boots covered with dried mud. Incongruously she still wore her unbecoming black straw bonnet.
‘Oh heavens above, lassie, what have you been doing?’
Tibbie’s surprise made her disregard for a moment her sorrow.
‘I’ve been down at the bridge.’ Emma Jane’s voice was shaking and she was so tired she could hardly stand. All day she had walked around the site, sat in the hut, pored over her plans, asked questions, tried to understand the answers, ignored the curious stares and sometimes the derisive laughter of the navvies… The day had passed so quickly that it was nightfall before she realised it, and then she felt terrible exhaustion overwhelm her. It took the last of her energy to climb the hill to Camptounfoot. Tibbie’s kitchen glowed with warmth and comfort and she longed to sit down by the fire but she knew she could not stay, she could not impose herself on the sorrowing mother. She’d get to the Abbey Hotel somehow. It was a lie about reserving rooms but she was sure some would be available. The men at the site had told her Rosewell was empty because of the cholera in the camp.
‘I’ve just come to fetch my bag,’ she repeated, stumbling towards the stairs.
Tibbie’s voice was sharp as she called after her, ‘Are you feared I’ll give you the fever?’ Inwardly she was thinking, if it had not been for the railway coming here, her Hannah would be alive still, and she associated Emma Jane with the railway.
The girl turned in the hall and her face showed shock. ‘Oh no, please don’t think that! I’m not afraid of that at all. I just don’t want to intrude on you. I’m so sorry about what’s happened. It’s a tragedy and I wouldn’t blame you if you thought the building of the railway here was to blame for it.’
Tibbie stood up. ‘If I thought that I’d be wrong, wouldn’t I? This is God’s will. For some reason He’s taken Hannah and poor wee Kate and we can’t do anything about it.’
Emma Jane nodded. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought about my father, and about James. Your daughter had a whole life in front of her. And to lose the baby, too – that seems so cruel.’
Tibbie waved a helpless hand as if to say, ‘Don’t talk about it. Don’t say the things that I’m thinking inside my head.’ When the villagers had come to console her, she’d kept her composure, she hadn’t wept, but now, alone with this girl, the dammed-up tears began to flow again. ‘I can’t help it,’ she sobbed. ‘It hurts so much. I can’t believe it.’
Emma Jane turned back and took the weeping woman into her arms. ‘Oh, don’t cry like that, don’t cry. Let me make you some tea and then I’ll go away. You haven’t eaten anything, have you?’
She could tell from the room that nothing had been disturbed or moved since she’d left in the morning. Three brown eggs and an assortment of other food lay piled on the table. Most of it was wrapped in the paper that had covered it when it was handed over.
‘Sit down,’ she said, leading Tibbie to her chair. ‘I’ll boil you an egg and butter some bread for you.’ She wasn’t much of a cook because she had always been looked after by servants, but when she was small she used to watch Mrs Haggerty in the kitchen at home and knew how to boil an egg and make tea. At least she thought she did.
She pushed a pan of water on to the grate and let it boil, then was about to drop two eggs into the bubbling water when Tibbie remonstrated, ‘They’ll crack that way! Take the water off the heat and lower them in gently.’
Emma Jane looked over her shoulder. ‘Oh, I’m sorry – I didn’t know. I’ve a lot to learn, I’m afraid.’
‘You’ll never need to know, I don’t suppose,’ said Tibbie, but the girl turned to reply very seriously: ‘Oh, I’m afraid I will. My father died in very poor circumstances, Mrs Mather. I’m trying to do all I can to salvage our fortunes but I’m beginning to think I’ll not manage it.’ The day she’d just spent had shown her the enormity of the task she’d undertaken, and her tiredness warned her that she might not succeed. In the firelight her face was white and drawn. Huge dark circles surrounded her eyes and there were lines of tension around her wide mouth.
Tibbie stood up. ‘You’re tired out, lassie. Here – let me make the tea. It doesn’t look as if you’ve eaten much either.’
‘Oh, I have. I don’t need anything,’ lied Emma Jane.
‘You’ll eat an egg with me. I don’t want two,’ said Tibbie, pushing her plate towards the girl who had loaded two eggs on to it. The egg did look inviting and so did the bread and butter. Emma Jane ate up without further protest. Then she went out to the little lean-to at the back door and washed the dishes in a tub of water that was kept there, dried them with a cloth and carried them in again to put them in their usual places on the shelf beside the
fireplace.
Tibbie watched silently and then said, ‘You’re very noticing, aren’t you? You know where everything goes.’
Emma Jane nodded. ‘I took note before I used the things so’s I could put them back in the right place. But now I’ll have to leave, Mrs Mather. Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?’
Tibbie shook her head. ‘It’s awful late, isn’t it? How are you going to get to the hotel?’
Emma Jane wore a little watch hanging from a bar-pin on her blouse. She pulled it forward and looking down at it. ‘It’s only nine o’clock. I’ll be able to walk to the hotel in half an hour,’ she said, trying to keep the dismay out of her voice but Tibbie noticed.
‘You’re not walking around on your own at this time of night. Stay up in your room tonight and we’ll work out what’s going to happen tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Oh, I can’t stay. You must want to be alone,’ protested the girl, but Tibbie shook her head and repeated, ‘Please stay. I don’t think I want to be on my own tonight.’ It was true. Emma Jane’s concern and tactful attention had showed her how much she would value company to get her through this terrible time.
It was a relief to them both that Emma Jane did not refuse the request. Though she was glad that she did not have to go out into the night in search of a bed, she was also deeply riven with pity for Tibbie Mather. She sat down by the fire facing her hostess and without artifice words began to flow between them. First Tibbie talked of her anger and disbelief at Hannah’s death. She told Emma Jane how her daughter was buried with the baby in her arms, and wept again, but this time with less bitterness. Emma Jane listened and spoke when it was necessary, but made no attempt to stop the flow, for she could see that it was helping Tibbie to talk about what had happened.
When it was well after eleven o’clock, Tibbie sighed and told the young woman at the other side of the fire, ‘I’m fair worn out with all this. I’ll go to bed. I thought Hannah’s man might have come tonight, but it’s too late now. Oh the poor soul, you’ve never seen anyone so stricken as he was when they buried her and the bairn. I thought he’d gone mad. He ran off as if all the devils in hell were after him. I wonder where he went?’
A Bridge in Time Page 41
