The Iron Road

by Jane Jackson

  ‘I do, Mr Santana.’ Gilbert Mabey’s heavy-lidded eyes gleamed with ironic amusement. ‘Perfectly.’

  The meeting continued, but James’s opinions were neither sought nor offered. When it ended he excused himself and left quickly. He had just reached the street door when someone called his name. He turned to see Gilbert Mabey giving the lie to the assertion that fat people were light on their feet.

  ‘Are you expected somewhere?’ he panted, thumping, flat-footed and clumsy, down the stairs.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Care for a drink?’

  In spite of his still-simmering anger, James suddenly grinned. ‘Does it show?’

  ‘You do realize,’ Gilbert puffed, following him out onto the street, now crowded as shops and businesses closed and people made their way home or into the ale-houses and taverns, ‘that you are ruffling a lot of feathers.’

  James raised an eyebrow. ‘What did they expect?’

  ‘I’m supposed to tell you to ease off.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘Ingram doesn’t like confrontations: Victor has another appointment: and you’ve already crossed swords with Clinton and Harold.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s only me left.’

  ‘My reputation is on this line.’

  ‘Ah, but it’s their company.’

  ‘Is that what this is all about?’ James stared at him. ‘Wounded pride?’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘No one likes being made to look foolish.’

  ‘It’s not me who’s done that; they managed it all by themselves. Can’t they see what risks they’re taking?’

  ‘Maybe when they’ve calmed down, had time to think.’

  ‘They don’t have time. If things don’t improve pretty damn quickly –’

  ‘My dear chap, you mustn’t take it all so personally. You said your piece – which came as something of a shock to my esteemed colleagues. I don’t imagine for one moment they were expecting quite such a drubbing.’

  ‘Is that how it sounded?’

  Gilbert nodded. ‘You’re young, you see.’

  ‘I’m right.’

  ‘Probably.’ Gilbert sighed, leading the way up the steps into the Royal Hotel. Over a glass of Madeira they began to talk about their respective backgrounds. James found Gilbert amusing and irreverent. One glass was followed by a second. Gilbert suggested dinner and James accepted. He had nothing to go back to, and knew he would only brood about Chloe. After a meal of spring lamb, followed by apple tart with clotted cream, and a bottle of St Emilion, Gilbert grew even more expansive.

  Seeing his chance, James refilled Gilbert’s glass. ‘Do you know Sir Gerald well?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone knows him well. He’s a strange cove. Certainly not one to cross.’

  ‘Oh.’ James raised his glass to his lips, feigning mild interest while every nerve tensed with a compelling desire to know more.

  Gilbert leaned forward. ‘One hears rumours,’ he confided. ‘Not that I believe them. It’s all just gossip, I’m sure.’ He bent to the water biscuits and Stilton on his plate.

  ‘What kind of rumours?’

  Glancing round to make sure they couldn’t be overheard, Gilbert whispered, ‘About his private life. Mind you, the man has known his share of tragedy.’

  ‘Oh?’ James prompted, forcing himself to relax.

  ‘Mmm,’ Gilbert nodded, chewing. ‘His first wife died, you know. Only been married a couple of years. Took her own life. No children.’ Knifing a crumbly lump of cheese onto a piece of biscuit, Gilbert crammed it into his mouth, spraying crumbs as he continued. ‘Of course, women love a tragic figure. Within months he was the target of every widow and match-making mother in the district. But he told everyone that after the shock of his bereavement he would not remarry. No one believed him. They thought it was just the grief talking. But the years went by. Eventually everyone assumed he would remain single. He had an excellent housekeeper and staff. He took care always to attend important social occasions with a different partner. Of course, by that time, we’d all heard the odd whisper. But there was never any proof. So we simply assumed they were just malicious stories put about by people he’d bested in business deals.’

  ‘What is his business?’ James asked, pouring a tiny amount of wine into his own glass before generously topping up Gilbert’s. ‘What does he do?’

  Gilbert shrugged. ‘He has a finger in any number of pies. He’s also a serious gambler. He rarely loses. The man has nerves of iron.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘You see, it wasn’t just the fact of his remarriage that raised eyebrows, it was how he got his wife.’ He leaned forward, his eyes bright with alcohol and enjoyment of the story. ‘On the turn of a card would you believe?’

  ‘What?’ It would have been impossible to hide his shock. Fortunately, his reaction delighted Gilbert.

  ‘You never heard this from me.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. Go on.’

  ‘Well, apparently Richard Polglase, Chloe’s father, lost his wife to pneumonia when the girl was very young. Anyway, Polglase was a close pal of Sir Gerald’s, and a gambler as well. But he didn’t have Radclyff’s luck, or his self discipline. Over the years he gambled away large chunks of his estate. One night, in a high-stakes game, he lost the rest. After scribbling a note entrusting care of his daughter – she was only fourteen – to Sir Gerald, he shot himself.’

  ‘But –’ James had to clear his throat. ‘Why him? Why Radclyff?’

  Gilbert shrugged. ‘Polglase’s gambling had caused a lot of bad feeling on both sides of the family. With no money for a dowry, none of his – or his late wife’s – relatives were willing to take her on.’

  Chloe. Incandescent with fury at her feckless father, James stared blindly at the inch of blood-red wine in his glass, twisting the stem round and round. He had never been closer to losing his self-control.

  ‘Everyone expected him to hire a companion for her. But as soon as she reached sixteen, damn me if he didn’t up and marry the girl. Caused quite a stir, I can tell you. Still, it did put a stop to the rumours.’

  What rumours? But James didn’t dare interrupt Gilbert’s wine-induced confidences to ask.

  ‘Of course, there were plenty ready to say he was asking for trouble: what with the age difference and her being such a pretty little thing. But there’s not been as much as a whisper. Not about her, at any rate.’ He shook his head. Amazement? Disbelief? Envy? James couldn’t tell.

  ‘Mind you, he’s extremely protective. She’s a superb horsewoman, but he won’t let her ride to hounds. Though when you hear what goes on during a hunt, who’s to blame him? She seems to think the world of him. It would be a foolhardy man who entertained any ideas in that direction. I certainly wouldn’t like to cross him. In fact, if you want the truth, I think he could be dangerous.’

  Back at his lodgings, James paced the floor, replaying Gilbert’s words over and over again, comparing them with his own impressions gleaned from conversations with Chloe. In the early hours, exhausted and still sleepless, he slumped into an armchair. There were only two positive aspects to the entire problem: his growing regard for Chloe was reciprocated, and as yet no one else was aware.

  This couldn’t last. The only sure way he could protect her would be to leave. But how could he abandon her? Especially when it was obvious to him – and possibly suspected by others – that the celebrated marital harmony was just a facade. He needed an acknowledgement her loyalty would not allow.

  Desperate for respite from a problem that appeared, for now at least, to have no solution, he picked up that day’s edition of the West Briton und Royal Cornwall Gazette. He scanned the pages, skimming over news stories that, a few weeks ago, would have had his undivided attention. He turned another page. After a few minutes, not having taken in a single word, he gave a grunt of disgust and started to close the paper.

  Something caught his eye. Angling the page to the lamplight he read the legal notice once more. His arms fell, crumpl
ing the paper in his lap. So that was why the name had seemed familiar. He had glimpsed the same notice in the previous week’s paper.

  Veryan held the wooden plank in place as Tom hammered it onto the partly repaired panel. The vibration jarred up through her arms to her teeth. It was mid-afternoon. They had both risen at first light.

  She hadn’t slept much. The men’s snoring and other, coarser, noises had kept her awake. At least, that was what she told herself. In her heart of hearts she knew the real reason sleep eluded her was the man lying in the bunk above. She had wanted to think about the engineer: the way he’d turned back on the path to ask if she was all right. And how, after the accident, he’d insisted she and Davy ride. She wanted to ponder possibilities, test her hopes. But he kept pushing into her thoughts.

  As she’d stared into the darkness her confusion had grown. Helping her build a new hut would cost him a day’s pay. Why would he do that? What would he expect in return? But she hadn’t asked for his help. He’d offered: insisted. So she didn’t owe him anything. She would make sure she did her share. Then she wouldn’t be beholden, and he wouldn’t get any ideas.

  So, as soon as she heard the slats creak as he swung himself quietly to the floor, she had wriggled into her old skirt and blouse. As she’d slept in her chemise and petticoats it hadn’t taken more than a few minutes. He had stoked up the fire while she went outside. When she returned, face and hands washed, hair combed and tied back, she quickly dismissed her reaction to his admiration as hunger and lack of sleep. While she prepared breakfast he went to the wood dump for the first load of planks.

  Queenie had been more than usually waspish. ‘What about the men’s dinner? Who’s going to get that ready and take it down the line? No good looking at me. It’s your job; I got more’n enough to do.’

  ‘Here, girl,’ Paddy had grunted. ‘You get it ready. I’ll take it.’ That had put Queenie in even more of a snit, and she had waddled between the fire, the dresser and the table, deliberately getting in the way. Biting her tongue, Veryan had got on as best she could. She had no idea why Queenie was being so difficult. But asking would only invite more trouble.

  Breakfast over, the men left. Tom had gone too, to fetch more wood. Working around Queenie, Veryan had cleared away the breakfast dishes, got the washing done as fast as possible, and hung it out. The veil of thin high cloud hazing the pale-blue sky promised a few days of warm, dry weather.

  ‘That should give it some strength,’ Tom said, straightening up and flexing his shoulders. ‘I’ll try and bring back a drop of creosote tomorrow. He’ll stink for a day or two, but he’ll keep out the wet and slow the rot.’ He shot her a sidelong glance. ‘Queenie give you any trouble this morning?’

  ‘No more than –’ Veryan began automatically, then stopped. ‘Well, as a matter of fact –’ She glanced up, suspicious. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘How come you and she don’t share a room?’

  Veryan wiped her forearm across her sweating forehead. ‘Have you seen Queenie’s room?’

  ‘Nope. Mind you, she did ask me.’ Bending, he picked up another plank. Veryan knew how heavy they were. She’d helped carry them. But in his big hands the wood looked weightless.

  ‘Asked you what?’

  He raised his eyes to hers. ‘If I wanted to go with her.’

  As she held the plank in place, Veryan felt an odd twist beneath her ribs.

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘Of course I bleddy didn’t. What do you take me for?’

  The flash of temper startled her, and she realized that though she’d seen him angry, it had never been directed at her.

  ‘I know you didn’t, or you’d have known what her room was like,’ she responded tartly. ‘So that was what had upset her. I wondered.’ She’d assumed it was Lady Radclyff’s maid arriving with a bundle of clothes.

  ‘I’ve never been that desperate,’ Tom growled. ‘Ugghh.’ He shuddered.

  ‘Yes, all right. You’ve made your point. Anyway, that’s why I don’t share with her. At least, it’s one of the reasons. I did, for a little while, after –’ She saw her mother, a human torch, and swiftly blocked the image. ‘But whenever Queenie … had company …’ Veryan looked away, furious with herself for blushing. Working in the shanty where such matters were talked of openly, and in much cruder terms, she couldn’t help knowing what went on behind the closed door. When the men baited her she had schooled herself not to react, taking refuge in silence. Now, speaking of it to Tom Reskilly made her feel ridiculously shy.

  ‘The men would … they made jokes. It was – I couldn’t –’ She shook her head. ‘So I hid a candle in the wash house. I’d go in there and read. That was another thing. She said my reading kept her awake. It didn’t. But her snoring stopped me from sleeping.’

  ‘Dear life, girl,’ Tom grinned. ‘Had some time of it, haven’t you?’ As she raised one shoulder, he said, ‘You don’t have to put up with it, you know. I heard her this morning, going on to you.’

  Veryan turned her head as guilt, pushed aside but ever present, dried her throat. Queenie’s taunting had been venomous, muttered behind her while she dished up the porridge. ‘Do you reckon ’Er Ladyship would be so generous if she knew the truth about you? Don’t you go getting too much above yourself, miss, else someone might have to put her wise.’

  ‘All that stuff about you owing her for the roof over your head?’ Tom reminded, ‘And the clothes on your back, the food in your mouth? That’s boll – that’s rubbish, that is,’ he corrected quickly with a delicacy as touching as it was unexpected.

  ‘You think a minute. The only clothes you got now is what Lady Radclyff sent. The roof’ – he gestured from the pile of charred remains to the new panels ready to be erected – ‘is what we’ve built between us. As for food … seeing as how you do all the cooking, ‘tis only right you eat your share. She got no hold over you.’

  Veryan gazed at him, hope battling with despair, and losing. ‘It’s not that simple.’

  Hauling one of the panels upright, Tom gestured for her to support it while he raised a second, fitting it against the corner post. ‘Hold her steady while I get a couple of nails in.’

  Within minutes three and a half panels were in place and Tom was fitting the door, using the old hinges salvaged from the ashes.

  Holding the door while he tightened the screws, Veryan found herself looking at his arms, fascinated by the play of muscle. She could feel the warmth emanating from him and smell the sweet muskiness of his sweat. As he forced the screws in tight, grunting softly with the effort, her gaze flicked, shy and curious, to his thick neck and strong jaw, black with a heavy growth of stubble. The navvies only shaved at the weekend, some didn’t even bother then. She had never been this close to a man, except – she shuddered, mentally recoiling.

  He glanced down.

  Quickly she turned her head away. ‘Can I let go now?’

  A slight frown deepened the twin creases between his heavy brows. ‘What’re you doing here, my lovely?’ he asked softly. ‘You don’t belong on the line.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Father worked on the lines. I was born in a shanty and started as a tip-boy with him when I was seven.’

  ‘Where are they now?’ Against her will, Veryan was curious. She had never met a navvy like Tom Reskilly.

  ‘Mother died when I was twelve, and father was killed six year ago when a tunnel collapsed on him. Here, pass me they screws.’

  She did as he asked. ‘You said – you said you had a son.’

  He eyed her. ‘I know what you’re doing, my lovely. It’s all right though, I don’t mind telling you,’ he said, as she opened her mouth. ‘But it works both ways. That’s fair, isn’t it? Yes, I had son.

  ‘I was working just outside London, a branch of the Great Northern Line. Doreen – that was her name – was in service in one of the big houses on the edge of the village. She didn’t have family, and said she wanted to travel. So when I
moved on she went with me. The boy came along about a year later. Dear little soul he was, fat as a dumpling, and always smiling.’ Tom’s expression softened as he murmured, ‘Thomas Henry.’

  Grief shadowed his broad strong face, dimming his smile. ‘Just toddling, he was.’ He fell silent, caught up in his memories.

  ‘What happened?’ Veryan asked softly.

  Inhaling deeply, Tom wedged the door open against his foot to check the latch. ‘The croup. She didn’t stay long after that. I believe she went back into service.’ He stood back, surveying his handiwork. ‘So, what brought you here?’

  ‘The men haven’t told you?’ Disbelief frosted her voice.

  ‘They’ve told me all sorts. But half of ’em don’t know which way is up. Anyhow, I’d sooner hear it from you.’

  ‘Why?’ she demanded, wary, unsettled by the sudden urge to tell him. He would listen and not judge her. She could trust him. Was she mad? How did she know that? ‘What difference does it make?’

  ‘None,’ he said simply.

  So, helping him fashion a roof for the hut out of more planks and scraps of heavy tarpaulin, she recounted, briefly and without emotion, her childhood and the events which had led to her working for Queenie.

  ‘You know what?’ He looked sideways at her. ‘You and me, we’re two of a kind.’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ she refuted immediately. ‘I wasn’t born to this life, nor did I choose it: I was forced here by circumstance. But one day I’ll get out. I want a better life.’ Her look dared him to mock. Instead he eyed her thoughtfully.

  ‘You go for it, girl,’ he urged. ‘You got spirit.’

  Having expected, and prepared herself for mockery, this encouragement threw her. Doubts seeped in. Where could she go? How would she support herself? Most frightening of all, if Queenie carried out her threats, would she spend the rest of her life living in fear of discovery, always looking over her shoulder? What kind of life would that be? Surely better than this.