The Iron Road

by Jane Jackson

  A little further on, James caught his first glimpse of Trewan. A handsome country house built in the Georgian style, it had wide shallow steps leading up to a white-pillared porch. New tendrils of Virginia creeper had begun their annual pilgrimage across the stone frontage and around the side. Tidy lawns edged the gravel drive, and he could see the roofs of several outbuildings tucked away behind neatly boxed hedges.

  Dismounting, he handed the reins to a stableman with skin like seamed leather and legs so bowed he rocked from side to side as he led the animal away.

  Removing his hat and gloves, James tugged the bronze bell-pull. While he waited for someone to come he glanced around. Porches were usually a haven for spiders, cobwebs, and dead leaves. This one was spotless. Nor was there any trace of dried mud on the boot scraper beside the bottom step, and the wide sweep of granite chips in front of the house had been freshly raked. Sir Gerald Radclyff maintained high standards. Little wonder the directors preferred to delegate their excuse-making to someone else.

  The glossy black front door opened and a butler, portly in striped trousers and cutaway coat, raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Good afternoon. My name is James Santana. I’m the Railway Company’s newly appointed engineer. Would you ask Sir Gerald if he could spare me a few minutes?’

  The butler stepped back, both bow and expression a perfectly judged blend of civility and aloofness. James bit back a smile. ‘If you’ll step inside, sir, I’ll see if Sir Gerald is available.’

  The spacious hall smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender. On twin marble plinths, matching porcelain vases were filled with dried Rowers and grasses. A red lacquered cabinet inlaid with ivory stood between two panelled doors. And around the edges of a Chinese car-pet dark wood gleamed with the rich patina of age and polish.

  After showing him into a drawing-room the butler withdrew, closing the door quietly. Sunshine poured in through tall windows framed by moss-green drapes looped back by gold and green braided silk with tassels. James swiftly scanned the room. A man’s possessions frequently revealed more of his character than he might choose to volunteer. The paintings, the delicate statues, the glass-fronted cabinet containing exquisite porcelain, and the Louis XIV furniture reflected the tastes of a connoisseur.

  Wandering across to the nearest window James looked out. The earthworks scarring the landscape were clearly visible. Yet what had Sir Gerald expected? Building a railway meant altering geography.

  Hills had to be demolished, tunnelled under, or cut through; valleys bridged or filled in, swamps drained, inclines levelled. It was a colossal undertaking. As well as having received a very good price for his land, no doubt Sir Gerald would be only too pleased to adopt a mode of travel faster, more convenient, and certainly more comfortable than any horse-drawn carriage. Progress meant change. A certain loss of privacy and a restructured view were small prices to pay.

  Hearing the door open behind him, James turned, his mouth already stretching into the practiced smile that tempered confident professionalism with courtesy.

  ‘Mr Santana, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.’ She was young, no more than twenty, and her low-pitched voice reminded him of a cool bubbling spring. Pale-gold hair was drawn from a centre parting into an elaborate coil at the back of her neck. As she closed the door and came towards him, her crinoline swayed gracefully. The fitted bodice of lace-trimmed cornflower silk curved from her bosom to define a delightfully slender waist.

  She smiled, and he was suddenly reminded of Natalia. That made no sense. They shared no physical similarity. Natalia was several inches taller and her hair raven-black. Natalia had brown eyes, while this girl’s were as blue as her gown. So what was it? What had he recognized? Impatiently, he pushed the thought away. But having expected to meet Sir Gerald, this additional distraction left him momentarily confused.

  ‘My husband is engaged at the moment but will join you very shortly. In the meantime may I offer you some refreshment?’

  Husband? James’s confusion deepened. He had expected her to say father. From the directors’ attitude when they spoke of Sir Gerald he had assumed the baronet was an elderly man. Yet with such a young wife … James cleared his throat, relieved that with his back to the window she was unlikely to be able to read his expression.

  ‘Thank you, but no.’ He’d had no lunch, and would have given his right arm for a stiff drink. However, if Sir Gerald Radclyff was as astute as the company solicitor intimated it was wiser to decline. He needed all his wits about him. Lady Radclyff’s unexpected arrival plus his own reaction to her had already thrown him off-balance. ‘I must apologize for calling unannounced.’

  ‘Please, there’s no need.’ She sat down and indicated that he should do the same. ‘My husband said you would come.’

  ‘Oh?’ James said carefully.

  Her brief smile was impish. ‘What he actually said was that Ingram Coles would be certain to send you instead of coming himself.’

  Amusement battled with astonishment at her frankness. ‘You’ve met the directors?’

  She nodded. ‘They came to dinner. They listed all the benefits the railway would bring and insisted we should be tremendously proud to be part of the grand march of progress.’

  ‘As indeed we should.’ James wondered how much longer Sir Gerald would be. He had little appetite for small talk. He was hungry and tired and had a great pile of paperwork waiting at an office he’d barely set foot in. Then, glancing up, he saw the glint of irony in her wide blue eyes and gentle smile. Awareness stirred, and beneath it … Was he mad? This was Sir Gerald Radclyff’s wife, for God’s sake. Appalled at his own weakness he ruthlessly suppressed all feeling.

  She tilted her head. ‘Is this progress worth the cost, Mr Santana? I’m not referring to money. I’m talking about the hundreds of men who have been maimed or killed on Cornish lines alone.’

  He cleared his throat again. ‘Lady Radclyff, given the scale of the work involved –’

  She raised a hand. ‘Please, no cliches.’ Again, her smile robbed her words of any offence. ‘I’ve heard them all. Especially the one about it being impossible to make an omelette without breaking eggs. We are talking about people, Mr Santana. Men with wives and families.’

  ‘Your concern does you great credit, but I assure you –’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Santana, but I am involved with several charitable organizations and I’ve studied reports of the conditions in which these men live and work. I found them most disturbing.’

  James smothered a sigh. There was no doubting her sincerity. But why wouldn’t women confine themselves to those aspects of life to which they were best suited, the running of homes and raising of children? Their increasing determination to involve themselves in matters they did not understand was growing tiresome.

  ‘The work is dangerous,’ he agreed. ‘Which is why a navvy’s wage is correspondingly generous.’

  ‘Yes, the pay is good,’ she nodded, ‘while a man is able to work.’

  James could see that, despite a nervousness that revealed itself in her right index finger digging at the broken skin around her thumbnail, she was determined to make her point and against his will felt a twinge of admiration.

  ‘But if he’s injured or killed, what then? There is no compensation. His family is left destitute.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. And I’m sorry. But that’s the way things are. The rules are not mine.’ He had no reason to feel guilty. He didn’t like it any more than she did, but it was a hard economic fact of life. The work was dangerous; inevitably men got killed.

  ‘Imagine what would happen,’ he went on, ‘once a company or a contractor admitted the principle of liability. How many navvies would bother to work for their wages when they could stage an accident then claim compensation for their injuries? How many claims would it take before there was no money left to build the line? If that happened all over the country then where would the remaining navvies find work so they could feed th
eir families?’

  As the blush climbed her throat, staining her cheeks a deep rose, he saw her raise one hand to the lace trimming on her bodice. Its rise and fall was a visible sign of her agitation. She bit her lip then smiled. ‘You express yourself with admirable clarity, Mr Santana.’

  Realization washed over him in an icy wave. The whole purpose of this visit was to placate Sir Gerald. Tact and diplomacy were essential. Yet he was arguing with the baronet’s wife. What had possessed him?

  ‘I beg your pardon. I didn’t –’

  ‘Please,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m not offended. You paid me a rare compliment.’ Seeing his bewilderment she explained, ‘You responded honestly, as you would have to a man.’ Before he could comment she went on, ‘I take your point. But surely there must be some way to improve conditions for those living and working on the line?’

  Though intensely relieved, James didn’t know how to reply or what to say. As an engineer his brief was to plan and survey the route a line would follow, specify the bridges, viaducts, cuttings and embankments required, and oversee the construction of the permanent way. The hiring of the men was left to the gangers who were accountable to the contractor. The conditions under which the navvies lived and worked were nothing to do with him.

  ‘Well, I –’

  ‘Perhaps – if you have no objection, of course,’ – her mouth curved in a shy smile – ‘I could come and see for myself how we might best be able to help?’ She leaned forward slightly. ‘The committee on which I sit would truly appreciate such a humane gesture on your part. There are so many who will use the line when it is complete, yet have no care for the welfare of those involved in building it.’

  Such earnest enthusiasm was difficult to refuse. Besides, accommodating Lady Radclyff’s social conscience might improve his chances of appeasing Sir Gerald. That would certainly raise his stock with the directors. Yet while these were perfectly adequate reasons for agreeing to her request, they would not have been sufficient to persuade him. The truth was he wanted to see her again. There was something about her, something that puzzled him.

  It was not conscious on her part. He had been flirted with by enough spoilt, bored women to recognize every ploy. She was different: obviously intelligent yet strangely naive. There was no artifice or coquetry in her manner. He’d met other women of her station. Most viewed charity work as a necessary duty. She cared.

  ‘Mr Santana?’ Her colour had risen under his frowning scrutiny.

  ‘Forgive me, Lady Radclyff,’ he said quickly, furious with himself. ‘I would be delighted –’ The door opened and James received his second shock of the afternoon.

  Sir Gerald Radclyff, for with that bearing it could be no other, was at least thirty years older than his young wife. James’s surprise increased as Lady Radclyff rose, folding her hands in front of her. She remained standing, and James had to force his curiosity aside as he continued his swift appraisal of the man he had come to see. Now was not the time to speculate on this unusual pairing.

  Perhaps a hand’s span taller than his wife, which still left him several inches short of James’s six feet, the baronet was of slight build, with fluid graceful movements that belied his years. This was a man who took care of his body. His hair, flecked with grey at the temples, curled forward from a side parting to blend with bushy side-whiskers. He was otherwise clean-shaven. His aquiline features revealed nothing, but James sensed himself assessed. Watching the fastidious mouth thin into a smile, he was fleetingly reminded of a snake.

  Approaching her husband, Lady Radclyff laid one hand lightly on his arm. ‘Gerald, I’ve been telling Mr Santana about my charity committee and he has kindly agreed to let me visit the railway works to see what is needed and how best we may help.’

  ‘Indeed, my dear.’ The baronet covered his wife’s hand with his own. But to James it appeared to be not so much a gesture of affection as a confirmation of ownership. That is most obliging of him. You’ll take Polly with you, and one of the grooms.’ It was clearly an instruction.

  ‘Certainly.’ Her smile was fond. ‘I wish you wouldn’t worry so.’

  He raised her hand to his lips. ‘You’re very precious to me, my dear. I know how much your charity work means to you, but I will not countenance any risk to your safety.’ His gaze flicked briefly to James who recognized the warning and wondered if he might have been wiser to refuse Lady Radclyff’s plea. Of course it would. This job was turning out to be very much more complicated than he had envisaged.

  ‘Now, my dear, you must excuse us. I’m sure Mr Santana is anxious to explain the reasons for lack of progress on the line.’

  Chapter Three

  By seven that evening, rain was failing steadily onto already sodden earth. In the shanty, warm, humid air was thick with the smells of wet clothes, unwashed bodies, and boiled meat.

  Lifting the frayed hem of her apron Veryan wiped her damp forehead then turned to the stack of dirty plates and bowls. Cooking for nine men created interminable washing-up. Behind her, sprawled on benches around the table and cursing the weather, the navvies waited impatiently for the little engine that would take them, sitting on the flat-bed wagons, back into Penryn to spend their wages.

  They had started drinking as soon as they returned from the works. Once the meal was finished they had begun drinking again. Normally they were long gone by now. The engine was late. Let it come soon.

  Queenie’s round cheeks were crimson from the heat and her small eyes glittered with satisfaction at the money she was making. ‘Hark at that.’ She cocked her head. Even with the noise the men were making Veryan could still hear the rain drumming on the tarred felt roof. ‘Pissing down it is.’

  Queenie surveyed her lodgers. ‘Their wages is burning holes in their pockets. If that engine don’t come they can’t go nowhere to spend it. Oh well.’ With a sigh of satisfaction she folded her hands under her sagging bosom and settled more comfortably in the chair. ‘’Tis an ill wind as they say. Here, girl! Got mud in your ears have you?’

  As Veryan started, rising wearily to her feet, Queenie held out her tin mug. ‘Get me a drop more whisky – out of the keg,’ she added, lowering her voice. ‘No need for anyone to know about the bottle. Got to keep that for a rainy day. Ha! A rainy day.’ Her voice caught on a hiccup then she belched. Veryan took the mug without a word. ‘Have a drop yourself,’ Queenie urged. Do you good it will.’

  Veryan said nothing. Silence was safer on nights like this. It gave her a kind of invisibility. Handing back the mug with its measure of spirit she turned away. But Queenie grabbed her skirt.

  ‘Listen, it’s time you gave up these daft ideas about leaving the works. Staying in one place and having a cottage and a garden is for ordinary folks, not for the likes of us.’

  Blank-faced, wishing she had never clothed her dream in words, much less confided it to Queenie, Veryan silently screamed her denial. She would never accept that. She wasn’t us. Eyes lowered, she simply waited. Impatiently, Queenie pushed her away.

  ‘You’re some stubborn maid. No one can say I haven’t done my best. I’ve treated you like you was my own.’

  Veryan wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, and too tired for either. She was little more than a slave. Yet Queenie’s laziness had been her protection. For if Queenie had not taken her in after her mother’s death, her only means of survival at fourteen would have been living with one of the navvies.

  Ten men lived in the shanty: nine since Cider Joe had broken his leg four days ago and been carried off the works tied to a gate. Seven shillings a week bought each man three meals a day, his washing was done, and he had sole occupancy of one of the bunks which filled the far end of the shanty from floor to roof.

  But while Queenie took the money and ruled from her armchair, it was she, not Queenie, who hauled water from the stream to fill the two coppers, one in the wash-house, the other in here next to the hearth. It was her hands, not Queenie’s, that were constantly cracked and sore from scrubb
ing sweat-stained shirts and mud-caked breeches. It was she who cooked the often fly-blown meat and shrivelled vegetables Pascoe sold in his tally shop, the men’s only source of food unless they could catch a rabbit or poach game from a nearby estate.

  She walked to the works each day with bread, cheese and beer for their dinner. She carried coal from the tip, chopped wood for the fires, and tipped the ashes down the privy to deaden the stench. And over the last four years she had learned to be ever more wary of pay-days.

  Once they had paid Queenie – who always insisted on money in advance – the men invariably made for the nearest town. On this line it was Penryn. There they stayed, drinking, gambling and whoring until they ran out of money, or were released from jail.

  On other occasions when the engine had been late, or had broken down, they had walked. But this time the rain was too heavy. They would be soaked to the skin before they even reached the road.

  For Pascoe, as for Queenie, the men’s confinement was a blessing. Bringing whisky onto the works guaranteed he would recoup the money he had just paid them in wages. Drying the last of the plates and bowls, Veryan stacked them on the rickety dresser. Her bruised shoulder was stiff and aching. As the men bawled at one another – laughter punctuated by curses, shoving and scuffles more frequent – every instinct urged her to leave. Trouble was imminent and she wanted to get away before it erupted.

  Drying the crude cutlery she put in the drawer. All except her special knife, the one she used for cooking. Worn away to a thin curve half its original width, its short blade was razor sharp. She had seen both Paddy and Nipper eyeing it. If she left it in the drawer it would have gone by morning. Slipping it into her skirt pocket she hung the cloth over a line at one side of the fire. Then, trying to be inconspicuous, she edged between Queenie and the broad backs of the men at the table towards the door.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Queenie demanded.