by Jane Jackson
James didn ’t reply. Two oil lamps supplemented the sunshine that filtered through cracks in the shutters. The small room was packed from floor to rafters with wooden crates and boxes. There was barely room for the paper-strewn table Pascoe used as a desk, or the battered captain’s chair in front of it. In one corner, its door tightly closed, stood a large steel safe.
Pascoe set the chair back against a stack of crates. Gesturing for James to sit, he rested one fleshy haunch on a corner of the table, his body masking those papers he hadn’t had time to turn face down. His weasel gaze slid over his guest and his mouth widened in an avuncular smile. James knew the contractor had made the usual mistake of confusing youth with inexperience. He was about to be thoroughly patronized.
‘I suppose the directors sent you.’ Pascoe shook his head more in sorrow than anger. ‘When things are going well I never clap eyes on them. But the moment there’s a problem or a delay they’re looking for someone to blame. Who do they pick on? The contractor; who else? I tell you, lad, a direct line might look good on paper, but what with all the cuttings, embankments and bridge works, not to mention the bloody viaduct, things would have been damn sight cheaper and given us far less trouble if they had made a few more allowances for geology and the lie of the land. How do they expect me to meet completion dates after the rain we’ve had?’
James said nothing. Mistaking the silence for sympathy Pascoe warmed to his theme. ‘I was willing to take on more labour, but the directors wouldn’t supply extra money to pay for it. As for the men …’ He gave another martyred sigh. ‘Call themselves navvies? They’re nothing but drunken savages. Maybe not all of them,’ he grudged as James raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve got a couple of good gangers. And a handful of the men are worth their pay. As for the rest, you can’t get them off the drink.’ He spread his hands, helpless in the face of such incorrigible behaviour. ‘And fight?’ He clicked his tongue. ‘I’ve never had so much trouble.’
Leaning back, James casually crossed one leg over the other. Pascoe was crafty. Every one of his complaints contained an element of truth. But James was familiar with contractors’ tricks and excuses.
‘Mr Pascoe, I’ve worked on a number of lines, and conditions here are some of the worst I’ve seen.’
The contractor nodded. ‘Isn’t that what I’ve just been telling you?’
James silenced him with a gesture. ‘You and I both know that men in drink will tolerate food and lodgings a sober man would reject outright. I accept that heavy rain does indeed prevent the men from working. But when they don’t work you don’t pay them.’
The contractor’s foot had stopped swinging and the ingratiating smile was fading fast.
‘Mr Pascoe, would you agree that the purpose of being in business is to make a profit?’ James waited until the contractor gave a wary nod, clearly uneasy about where the question was leading.
‘I understand one of the ways contractors increase their profits is by selling beer on the works. So, as you are providing the means of the men getting drunk, it’s hardly reasonable for you to complain when they do. Another profit-making venture I’m familiar with is a tally shop. Of course, as there’s no competition quality doesn’t matter. A man will eat anything if the alternative is starvation. And if buying from the tally shop is a condition of keeping his job then that’s what he’ll do. But he won’t be allowed to use cash. He has to take tickets from the ganger. With the ganger and the contractor each taking a percentage of the ticket’s value, it’s not unusual for a navvy to find that after paying off his tickets all he has left from his week’s wages is a couple of shillings.’
‘I provide a service,’ Pascoe blustered. ‘Penryn’s miles away. There’s delivery costs, and my overheads –’
‘Mr Pascoe,’ James interrupted, rising to his feet. ‘I intend to see this line built, and built properly. My reputation is at stake and I will not permit greed or carelessness by anyone to endanger it, or to damage my future prospects. If you cannot fulfil your obligations I will have you replaced.’
Pascoe shot up off the table, fists clenched, head thrust forward. ‘You can’t sack me.’
James moved towards the door, forcing him to stand aside. ‘No?’
‘No! The directors would never allow it. Besides, it would cost too much.’
‘There is far more at stake here than money,’ James reminded him. ‘The directors are also deeply concerned with power, status and future dividends. Think about it, Mr Pascoe. Having replaced the engineer, a man of considerable reputation, do you really think they’ll hesitate over replacing a mere contractor?’
Pascoe swallowed, then bared his teeth in a grovelling smile. ‘Look, there’s no need to be hasty. It isn’t easy trying to please everyone. You can’t blame me for the weather.’ He rubbed his palms down the sides of his coat. ‘I had to bid low to get this contract. As for the beer and the shop – how else am I supposed to make up the losses? Every contractor does it. Anyway,’ – a note of truculence crept into his tone – ‘the men would starve if it wasn’t for me. Local tradesmen won’t allow navvies to buy on tick.’
James slid back the bolt and pulled the door wide. Sunlight flooded in. ‘What’s your deal with the breweries? Flat rate? Or an increased percentage if you sell more than a specific number of barrels?’
As Pascoe stood in the doorway spluttering incoherently, James untied his horse and swung himself into the saddle. He would have to watch his back from now on, but that was nothing new. It still rankled that he had been forced to leave Galicia and abandon a contract through no fault of his own. Completing this line was important.
As he joined the muddy rutted track through the village James heard approaching hooves. He looked up. Then felt as if he’d been kicked in the ribs. He had hoped, but had certainly not expected to see her so soon, nor so early. Accompanied by her maid and a groom, Chloe Radclyff rode side-saddle on a toffee-coloured hunter whose coat gleamed like satin. The toes of her polished boots were just visible beneath the graceful folds of her forest-green riding habit. Their eyes met briefly.
Colouring, she dipped her head, deliberately obscuring the upper part of her face with the brim of her top hat. But the lower half, now deep rose, betrayed her.
‘Lady Radclyff.’ He tipped his hat, pretending mere courtesy, for all the laws of decency forbade him doing anything that might cause her embarrassment. ‘Your arrival could not be more timely.’
She recovered quickly, relief in her smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Santana.’
As James brought his horse alongside, the maid and groom dropped back. Women were emerging, curious but wary. Some carried children on their hips. They exchanged whispers as they watched the riders.
‘You got business here, or are you just passing the time?’ a fat woman shouted. Wearing several layers of filthy clothes she stood with folded arms in the doorway of one of the bigger shanties. James glimpsed Veryan behind her.
‘You tell ’em, Queenie,’ someone yelled, and the women peered around to see who it was. Sensing the uncertainty Chloe was trying so hard not to show, James realized that, while there was no doubting her genuine concern for the lower classes, her experience of them was probably limited to the staff at Trewan. ‘Lady Radclyff represents a charitable organization, he explained, raising his voice so they could all hear.
‘She has come to offer help.’
‘Well now, that’s very kind of her,’ Queenie said above the laughs and mutters. ‘What kind of help would that be then?’
James glanced at Chloe, smiling encouragement. ‘I think you should tell them.’
Chloe moistened her lips. ‘Clothing.’ She cleared her throat. ‘And baby garments.’ Her voice gathered strength as her confidence grew. ‘Also shoes. We have adult and children’s sizes. Plus linen and blankets.’
The women edged forward, listening now. ‘Can you get medicine?’ one asked. ‘My baby got some awful chesty cough.’
‘Shouldn’t you see a doctor?’ Chloe was
cut short by the barrage of derision.
‘Doctors don’t want to see us.’
‘D’you know how much they charge?’
‘Where’re we supposed to get that kind of money?’
‘All right.’ James raised a hand. ‘You’ve made your point.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Chloe promised. ‘Just give me a few days.’
‘That’s all right, my handsome,’ someone shouted. ‘We aren’t going nowhere.’
‘Now, now,’ Queenie reproved. ‘That’s no way to talk to her Ladyship, not when she’s being so kind and all.’
‘Is there anything else I can bring you?’
As Chloe looked round the upturned faces, James saw Veryan watching with a half-angry, half-yearning expression. She started to raise her hand but dropped it again, and turned away.
‘Over there,’ James murmured to Chloe. ‘The big shanty.’
‘You there,’ Chloe called, ‘the girl in the doorway. Did you want something?’
Flushing crimson as all the women craned round to stare, Veryan drew back, hugging her arms across her stomach.
‘Don’t be nervous,’ James smiled encouragement. ‘What were you going to ask for?’
‘Books,’ she blurted.
Several of the women raised their eyes heavenward and shook their heads.
Startled, Chloe rallied magnificently. ‘Certainly. Would you like writing materials as well?’
It was like watching the sun come up, James thought as Veryan’s pale face flushed with pleasure.
She nodded quickly. ‘Yes please.’
As the women moved away to resume the morning’s work, Chloe urged her horse forward.
‘Do you run a school for the children?’
‘Beg pardon, Your Ladyship,’ Queenie positioned herself like a rampart between Chloe and Veryan. ‘But she got too much work to do to be running a school. Anyhow, who would she teach? The girls help their mothers, and look after younger brothers and sisters. Once the boys reach eight they join the line, fetching and carrying for the navvies, or working as tip boys.’
Seeing Chloe’s bewilderment, James quickly explained. ‘Leading the horses that pull the wagons to the tip head.’
‘They don’t get paid much, them being just kids,’ Queenie sighed. ‘But their wages means more food on the table.’
‘Or more beer for their fathers,’ James murmured, raising a cynical brow as he met Chloe’s startled glance.
She turned back to Queenie. ‘Might not the children’s lives be much improved if they learned to read and write?’
‘Bless you, My Lady.’ Queenie’s wolfish smile revealed broken and blackened teeth. ‘You got a good heart, and I wish I could say you was right. But it isn’t like that. See, if you go filling children’s heads with such notions, well, it makes them want what they can’t have.’ James saw her small eyes flicker towards Veryan. ‘Then they get ideas above their station. It only leads to unhappiness. So best leave well alone. But as for the clothes and suchlike, now they’ll be very welcome. To save Your Ladyship any trouble, why don’t you have them brung here to my place, and I’ll make sure they all get given out fair and square.’
Escorting Chloe out of the village James saw her glance at him.
‘That girl.’ A furrow appeared between her brows and he wanted, more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, to smooth it away with the ball of his thumb. ‘Is there anything we could do for her do you think?’
‘We?’ he repeated gently.
She looked away, blushing deeply. ‘Th – the ladies on my committee – I’m sure we might be able –’
‘Your kindness does you great credit,’ he broke in. ‘I agree, she does indeed seem very different from the others. But she is no child. Perhaps she has good reason for remaining here. After all, had she wanted to leave surely she would have done so?’
She hesitated, then smiled briefly. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ They began to talk lightly, distantly, of other things. Only as he took his leave on the outskirts of the park did she meet his gaze. It was fleeting, but it was enough. As he rode away his heartbeat echoed the drumming of his horse’s hooves.
Three days later, after another night of heavy rain, Veryan set out for the works with the men’s dinner. A blustery wind chased puffs of cloud across a gauzy sky and piled them into a thick rumpled blanket. Teams of ploughing horses were followed by hordes of screaming gulls that whirled and swooped above the furrows of rich soil. Black and white cattle grazed the high hillside, picking their way between clumps of gorse and outcrops of rock. Lower down, fat sheep like blobs of cream nibbled in the patchwork of small fields divided by stone walls.
Everywhere the sepia tones of winter were being replaced by the fresh green growth of spring. She inhaled deeply. The air tasted sweet after the heat and fug of the shanty. Though the trek to the works took longer each day, it was a relief to get away from Queenie’s constant needling.
Paddy’s gang was working at the front of the line. To avoid running the gauntlet of the other gangs she had cut across country and angled her approach so she arrived just beyond the well-advanced cutting. Now, standing above the workings, she looked down onto the temporary track that had been laid from the cutting to the edge of the new embankment.
The end of the track had a large baulk of wood roped across it. But instead of being straight and level, the rails looked as if they were askew and sloping. Her eyes must be tired. She’d had little sleep since that dreadful night. She kept the lamp lit, partly in case Davy came, but also because the darkness was too full of memories and suffocating fear.
Where was Davy? She had last seen him standing alongside his father, his little face a mask of terror. Had he been threatened? Or worse still, beaten again? Did he think she had killed Ned? He had looked so frightened. She wanted to seek him out, but so far she had resisted, afraid she might make things even worse.
Blinking hard, she looked down into the works. A train of wagons waited a little way back, loaded with muck excavated from the cutting. Her gaze skimmed over the men: looking for Paddy, she told herself. Spotting him quickly, she should have started down. Yet she hesitated, growing angry with herself as she sought the brawny figure of Tom Reskilly.
He had obeyed her plea to leave her alone, and not approached her since. His capacity for work made him popular. Easy-going, he accepted the ragging and joined in the banter. Then, a couple of evenings ago, Nipper had made a crude remark about her.
Pretending it didn’t hurt, that nothing they said was important enough to matter, she had caught her lower lip between her teeth, trying to stop the stupid tears that now came all too easily, and carried on dishing up the meal.
Then, aware of an unnatural silence, she had looked up to see Tom leaning across the table, one huge fist around Nipper’s throat. He had spoken too softly for her to catch what he said. But Nipper had been only too eager to agree: slumping back onto the bench as he was released. Tom had not looked at her, just carried on as if nothing unusual had happened.
Tempted, just for a moment, to thank him, she had resisted. She hadn’t asked him to intervene and he might get the wrong idea. Besides, she didn’t want any of them thinking she couldn’t look out for herself. She’d managed all right before he came. She had learned very young never to depend on anyone else.
There had been no more jibes or taunts. Except from Queenie, whose piggy gaze, as she teased Veryan about her protector burned with curiosity and resentment.
Veryan watched one of the men detach a wagon from the train and harness a horse to it. Towing the wagon, the horse was urged into a trot then a gallop by the man running alongside. As they approached the edge of the embankment the driver unclipped the harness. Signalling the horse with a yell and a slap on the flanks, man and animal jumped clear. The wagon hurtled on, slammed into the baulk of wood, and tipped forward. But the wet earth and rock had been jarred into a sticky mass. Instead of being flung over the edge, it clung to the inside o
f the wagon. Struggling to keep their footing on the steep slope below, the navvies began to shovel it out. Their curses and grunts of effort were clear in the still air.
A dark line appeared, snaking under the rails. Even as she wondered what it was, the crack spread, opening wider. With a tortured groan the rails twisted and the wagon lurched forward, tilting to one side. Horror stopped her breath. Hoarse shouts of warning turned to screams of fear as a twenty-foot chunk of the embankment subsided. With slow sickening inevitability the wagon tumbled over the edge and out of sight.
Dropping both basket and keg, Veryan plunged down the steep slope. She saw Paddy shouting for someone to go back down the line for help, and to tell Pascoe. Staggering across the mud and debris to what remained of the embankment Veryan peered over.
The wagon lay halfway down the long slope, upturned and aslant, in the debris. Her heart gave a painful lurch as she saw Tom Reskilly, digging with his bare hands to free a groaning man buried up to his neck in the muck. All around him others worked just as frantically, only too aware that the unstable slope might shift again at any moment and swallow everyone on it. Shutting her ears to the screams and groans, Veryan scrambled across to Tom.
‘Have you seen Davy Thomas?’ His head flew up. Shock whitened his nostrils and darkened his violet eyes. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing? You shouldn’t be –’
‘Was Davy working with you?’ she insisted. Then, looking anxiously around she spotted a man carrying a small limp body. With a choking cry she started forward. Tom grabbed her arm.
‘Get back up to the top. It isn’t safe here.’
Wrenching free she stumbled across to intercept the man and his bloodstained burden. Please don’t let it be Davy. It wasn’t. Relief, and nausea at the child’s terrible injuries, made her dizzy. She crouched for a moment, taking slow deep breaths, willing herself not to faint.
Then she began picking her way across the earth and rubble, blocking out gut-churning sights and sounds as she approached the upturned wagon lying half-embedded, metal wheels in the air. She paused every few moments to shout his name.
