The Iron Road

by Jane Jackson

  ‘It’s all done. I haven’t left anything.’

  ‘I never said you did. I asked where you was going,’ Queenie’s voice was slurred, her tone belligerent.

  Veryan’s wary sidelong glance towards the men caught a blood-shot stare in which curiosity was stirring. She looked swiftly away. ‘To my hut.’

  ‘How am I supposed to deal with this lot on my own?’ Queenie whined. ‘I only got one pair of hands. No, you stay here. You needn’t look like that. Smile. Think of the money. I’ll see you right. You’d like a new dress, wouldn’t you? Or some new boots? Course you would. So you shall. All you got to do is be a bit more friendly. Have them eating out of your hand you will.’

  Shaking her head Veryan turned to the door but found her way blocked by a swaying figure. She moved to one side. He did the same. She took a step the other way and he followed. She saw the beer in his nearly full mug slop over one dirt-engrained hand. As she glanced up he grinned, revealing a mouthful of decaying teeth.

  ‘Here, look at Ned,’ Nipper shouted. ‘He’s dancing.’

  ‘He cannae dance,’ Mac scoffed, his accent broad Glaswegian. ‘Not wi’ two left feet.’

  Aware of men turning to look, Veryan felt heat flood her face. She swallowed then spoke with quiet firmness. ‘Let me pass.’

  He blinked, his face slackening in surprise. As he hesitated, one of the others said something she didn’t catch, causing a burst of laughter. Her tormentor grinned.

  ‘Hark at the madam ,’ he mocked. ‘Woss it worth, then?’ Leering, he reached for her. She reacted instinctively, pushing him hard in the chest. Eyes wide with surprise he stumbled backwards and crashed against the door. The mug flew from his hand, bounced on the earth floor, and rolled to a stop among the feet of the nearest men.

  ‘Hey! Tha’s my beer. I paid for that beer.’ As Veryan tried to slip past him he seized her arm, frowning. ‘You owe me for that. I reckon –’ He belched loudly and grinned. ‘I reckon you owe me a kiss.’ He pulled her towards him.

  Deafened by the chorus of whistles and catcalls, and the thud of benches overturning as the men scrambled for a better view, Veryan struggled desperately, warned by some sixth sense not to scream. Wrenching free she lunged for the door but he was surprisingly quick and snatched at her blouse. Weakened by age and too many washes, the faded material tore.

  At the sharp dry sound the men fell silent. Instantly the atmosphere changed. What had been merely a rough game became suddenly dangerous. Clutching the ripped material to her breast, Veryan looked round wildly at Queenie.

  Enthroned in her armchair, her expression an odd mix of shame and excitement, the old woman held out the mug, her hand weaving unsteadily. ‘Have a swallow, girl. You might as well get used to it.

  Veryan stared at her, not believing. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘You can’t let – I won’t – not –’

  ‘Look, it’s the way things are. Time you faced up to –’

  ‘No!’ Veryan’s scream held all the hurt and fury of ten lonely frightened years. The men froze. But only for a moment. No longer individuals they were now a pack.

  ‘Go on, Ned, she owes you for that beer.’

  ‘I reckon she owes me too.’

  ‘And me.’

  They edged towards her. She could hear them breathing. Holding her blouse together with one hand, she fumbled with the other among the folds of her skirt, found the pocket. ‘Stay away.’ Despite her trembling it was a warning, not a plea. Her fingers tightened round the knife’s handle.

  ‘Listen to her,’ one of them sniggered.

  ‘I like ’em with a bit of spark.’

  ‘Ach, she’ll nae be any fun. I’d rather go to Miz Treneery’s.’

  ‘There’s always a bleddy queue on pay days. An’ Ned id’n in the mood to wait.’

  ‘I reckon she needs tamin’.’

  ‘She’ll be a easier ride once she’ve been broke.’

  Her eyes fixed on the gypsy; Veryan tried to ignore the comments and suggestions that were becoming coarser by the second.

  Glassy-eyed, a half-smile on his slack mouth, Ned made a lunge. She jerked backwards, filled with a rage as bright and sharp as summer lightning.

  It smothered her terror and infused her with strength. Whipping out the knife she held it in front of her, the blade pointing upwards.

  ‘Stay away,’ she repeated. ‘Leave me alone.’

  There was a moment’s total stillness.

  ‘Ach, I warned ye,’ Mac spat in disgust. ‘I said she’d no’ be any fun. I want another drink.’

  The tension broke and the men turned away, grumbling, as they crowded around Queenie.

  Veryan felt behind her for the latch and slipped out quietly, pulling the door shut behind her. She stood for a moment, her heart thudding against her ribs, and sucked cool fresh air into her lungs. The rain had eased for a moment and a brassy moon played hide and seek behind dark rags of cloud. She started towards her hut, picking her way around silvered puddles. A door slammed, making her jump. As she glanced round a stocky figure stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘I been waiting for you,’ William Thomas growled, grabbing her arms. ‘Time somebody taught you a lesson. Who do you think you are? You got no business interfering.’

  Veryan wrenched free. ‘You have no business beating an eight-year-old child.’

  He grabbed her again. ‘Want a kid to look after, do you? How about I give you one of your own, eh? Like that, would you?’ His fetid breath made her gorge rise. Avoiding her flailing fists, he pulled her hard against him. He reeked of stale sweat and spirits.

  ‘Let go of me!’ Veryan fought furiously. She kicked out hard, and felt intense satisfaction at his grunt of pain.

  ‘Bitch,’ he spat. ‘You’ll pay for that.’

  The shanty door opened spilling light and noise into the evening.

  ‘Here, what’s going on?’ Ned, drunk and furious, hurled himself forward. ‘Gerroff,’ he snarled, taking wild swings at William. ‘She’s mine.’

  ‘You’ll just have to wait your turn,’ William panted, jabbing Ned viciously with his elbow then, fastening his arm so tightly around her she could hardly breathe, he began dragging her towards the narrow alley between two shanties.

  Gasping and struggling, she felt for the knife. Ned flung himself forward fists flying. One struck Veryan a glancing blow, knocking her sideways. She dropped the knife. William doubled up, retching and winded. Head swimming, Veryan tried to get up. But Ned pushed her down again, his wet mouth fastening like a leech on her throat, his fingers scrabbling at her skirts.

  Still fighting she was losing her strength. He had his forearm across her throat and was pressing down. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. Terror lent her strength and she gave a last desperate heave. Jack-knifing her legs she kicked wildly. Ned gave a grunt and collapsed, twitching. He gave a strange sighing groan and was still.

  ‘What the hell’s going on? What’s all the row about?’ Queenie waddled forward as Veryan crawled away from the inert body, coughing and gasping.

  ‘Dear life, girl. Woss the matter with you? Shaking like a bleddy leaf you are.’

  ‘Fight … Ned … William.’ The words emerged as a hoarse croak and were all Veryan could manage as Queenie helped her up. The men were carrying Ned back to the shanty. Veryan looked round for William Thomas. He was standing a few yards away. In the moonlight she saw his expression clearly, a gloating grin of pure evil. He moved, pulling Davy forward. The child’s face was a mask of fear. William turned away, half-dragging, half pushing the boy toward their own shanty.

  ‘C’mon,’ Queenie urged. ‘You come back with me. You need a drop of something to calm you down.’

  Veryan shook her head. ‘No.’ She swallowed painfully. ‘I’m all right. I just want to lie down.’

  Queenie shrugged, tugging her grubby shawl across her bolster-like bosom. ‘Please yourself.’

  Sliding the bolt across, Veryan lit the lamp then sat on the edge of he
r bed, hugging herself as she waited for the queasy faintness to pass.

  A sharp rap on the door sent shock tingling along her nerves and her heart gave a sickening lurch.

  ‘Open the door, girl. C’mon, hurry up.’

  Veryan didn’t move. ‘Won’t it wait, Queenie? I just –’

  ‘No, it won’t bleddy wait. Now you open this door, else I’ll fetch one of the men.’

  As Veryan slid back the wooden bolt, Queenie whirled in.

  ‘He’s only dead.’

  ‘Who is? What are you talking about.’

  ‘Who d’you think? Ned. He’s dead. Stabbed. With your knife.’

  Veryan stared at her. He couldn’t be dead. The blackness swirled across her eyes. Her head swam. She stumbled to the bed and dropped onto it. ‘I didn’t stab him.’

  ‘Well, it was your knife Paddy pulled out of him. We all seen you threaten him with it.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but –’

  ‘Look, I don’t care one way or t’other. He’s no great loss.’ Queenie tugged her shawl tighter. ‘But we don’t want no magistrates on the works. Not when all the men have been drinking, and spirits is banned. Wouldn’t do us no good at all, that wouldn’t. Getting rid of the body won’t be a problem. He’s stinking of drink so if he’s put on the line it will look like an accident.’ She patted Veryan’s face with dirty fingers. ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of it. I’ve looked out for you since your mother died, haven’t I?’ She put her hand on the latch.

  ‘Just one thing: I don’t want to hear no more about you leaving the works. Best forget that. You’d always be looking over your shoulder; always wondering if someone would find out what you done. Better you stay here with me and make the best of it.’

  Later that night driven by a vicious wind, the rippling curtain of rain beat down on the lifeless body of Gypsy Ned. It pounded fallen leaves to mush and flattened rust-brown bracken. It gouged channels down the embankment, softened poorly compacted soil, and pooled in the new excavations.

  In the darkness, further down the track where the massive pillars of an almost-completed viaduct spanned the tree-lined valley beneath, it trickled into badly mortared cracks. Dripping and dribbling through the rubble, silently, unseen, it washed grit and dust from between the stones. A large boulder shifted imperceptibly, altering the load on a supporting baulk of timber.

  Carrying the two brimming buckets, Veryan kept her eyes on the steep path and tried to avoid the muddiest patches. The dragging weight put even more strain on her aching shoulder, and her ankles were being rubbed raw by the wet slap of her skirt and petticoat hems. But these discomforts were nothing compared to her agony of mind. She had killed a man.

  Normally she was the first up. But that morning she had been roused from a state far deeper than mere sleep by an irate Queenie hammering on the door.

  ‘What’s going on? Why aren’t the fires lit? Why isn’t the porridge cooking?’

  Startled awake, still trapped in her nightmare, she had staggered blindly across the tiny hut and pulled back the wooden bolt. The door flying open had knocked her against the wall as Queenie barged in.

  ‘What time do you call this? Come on, will you? Bleddy day’ll be half over by the time you stir yourself.’ She stopped, her face changing. ‘Oh my Lord, girl. What have you done?’

  Pushing back her tangled hair, Veryan shook her head, her voice a dry rasp as she tried to explain. ‘I didn’t mean – But I couldn’t let him –’

  ‘No, I aren’t talking about that. What’s wrong with your arms?’

  Veryan looked down blankly. Then it all flooded back. Last night after Queenie had left her, she had stumbled into the lean-to wash house next to the shanty and scooped a bowl of water from the still warm copper. Back inside the little hut, built with her own hands from salvaged planks and panels, she had bolted the door.

  Then, ripping off the torn blouse she had screwed it into a tight bundle and thrown it into the furthest corner. She possessed few clothes and that had been a favourite. But though she might mend the tear and wash out the mud, nothing would remove the memories. She could not bear to look at it, much less wear it again. When she lit the fires in the morning she would burn it.

  Soaping a rough cloth she had scrubbed her face, arms and upper body: everywhere Ned’s hands or even his breath had touched. Her gasps had deepened to shuddering sobs and she had rubbed and rubbed until crimson droplets had begun to stipple and smear her sun-browned skin.

  Flinching from Queenie’s accusing stare she pulled the sleeves of her darned nightgown below her wrists, hugging her arms protectively against her body. She hadn’t meant – hadn’t intended – How could she have stabbed a man, taken a life, and not even remember? She cleared her throat. ‘Where –?’

  ‘It’s all been took care of. Don’t you think no more about it. Least said soonest mended. Now, move yourself. The men are waiting for their breakfast, and I don’t want no more trouble.’ She waddled to the door. ‘You can’t blame the men. It was your own fault. It would never have happened if you was spoken for. But oh no, none of ’em is good enough, not with you being a Polmear.’

  Veryan bit back the reminder that Queenie herself had also deterred any would-be suitors, not wanting to lose her skivvy.

  ‘All that nonsense about leaving the line and living among good folk.’ Queenie snorted. ‘Well, you can forget that.’ Triumph rang in her voice. ‘You won’t be going nowhere now, my girl.’

  Halfway up the path Veryan carefully set the buckets down for a moment. As she uncurled her fingers and painfully flexed her shoulders, her thoughts fluttered like frightened birds in a cage. She could not have let him – she shuddered. But in defending herself she had inadvertently played right into Queenie’s hands.

  Until last night she had stubbornly refused to accept the hand fate had dealt her. Her dreams of escaping to a different life had given her the strength to keep going. Without those dreams, without even the hope of something better … A yawning chasm of despair opened inside her. What was the point of fighting any more? She was so tired.

  Resistance flickered, a candle flame in the darkness. To bolster her courage, rekindle her determination, she reached for memories of her childhood. But they were so faint, so difficult to recall. It was like trying to grasp a handful of mist.

  The sound of a bugle, the warning signal for blasting, floated toward her on the breeze. Lifting the buckets she resumed her trudge up the path. A few moments later she heard a dull crump, and felt the ground shiver. Breathless, her lungs on fire, legs trembling from the climb, she reached the top of the path. Shouldering through the bushes onto the rutted muddy track which led to the shanty village she almost collided with a burly figure. Her violent start slopped water onto her skirt and shoes, making them even wetter.

  ‘Whoa!’ he grunted. His surprise equalled hers, but knowing that didn’t soften her fury. The grin spreading over his square, dark-stubbled face only made it worse. Though she had escaped violation the other night, this near collision had triggered a vivid flashback. She wanted to scream at him, to lash him with words for frightening her when she was already suffering more fear than she could handle. But, already gasping for breath, she had no strength to spare.

  ‘All right, then, maid? You gave me some start coming out like that.’

  Ignoring the greeting that proclaimed him a Cornishman, she turned away and started walking. She could still see him in her mind’s eye. The gaudy waistcoat and neckerchief, the velveteen square-tailed coat and sealskin cap, all marked him as a navvy.

  ‘Hold on a minute!’ He started running after her, cursing as his heavy boots slipped on the thick sticky mud. ‘How far to the railway works?’

  She was tempted to ignore him. But his rich Cornish accent hooked a fragment of memory buried deep inside. My pretty little maid. That’s what her father had called her. With hands like shovels he had gently towelled her hair dry in front of the fire, enthralling her with stories of his adventu
res in far-off lands as he combed out the tangles. Why had he abandoned her?

  ‘What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?’

  Working in the shanty and living so close to men, she recognized the stranger as one who would consider silence a challenge and who would not give up until he obtained a response.

  She stopped, glancing back. ‘How should I know where the works are?’

  ‘Of course you know. It’s where you’re from and where you’re going.’ He ambled forward, solid and muscular, looking her up and down with cheerful insolence. ‘There aren’t no houses for miles. Yet here’s you carrying water, so you must live handy by. If the shanties aren’t far, then the works can’t be more than a mile or two.’

  A variety of comments sprang to her lips, ranging from Aren’t you clever? to Just go away and let me be. But they remained unspoken. Instead she gave him a brief nod and continued on her way.

  With his long loose stride he easily overtook her. ‘My name’s Tom, Tom Reskilly.’

  Veryan stopped again, her impatience shaded with anxiety. ‘What do you want, Mr Reskilly?’

  Twin grooves appeared between his heavy brows and she knew he was confused by the contrast between her voice and her appearance.

  As a child she had been tutored in grammar and correct speech. She knew her father, though proud of his Cornish heritage, had wanted her to feel comfortable among her mother’s family, who had made no secret of their belief that their daughter had married beneath her. Though she could mimic the markedly different accents of west and north Cornwall, those lessons were too deeply engrained to be forgotten.

  That was another reason for saying little. For all her attempts to remain unnoticed, others in the shanty village knew she didn’t belong there. She might be with them, having no other place to go, but she wasn’t of them.

  Being able to read and write gave her a certain status. Her help was often sought, and willingly given, when letters needed to be read or written. But her only close friend was an eight-year-old boy. She knew why. She had not followed the accepted pattern. Most other girls of her age on the works were living with a navvy and had borne at least two children. Was her life better than theirs? Instead of cooking and washing for one man, she cooked and washed for ten. But at least her body was her own. For how much longer?