The Iron Road

by Jane Jackson

  ‘Lady Radclyff?’

  She looked back. ‘Yes?’

  You mentioned two reasons? For wanting to see me?’

  ‘Ah, yes. We, that is –’ She gestured, as if momentarily lost for words. ‘When I heard about the fire … But I see my worries were unfounded.’ She indicated the hut. It would appear you have other kind friends besides Mr Santana.’ Her lips twitched in what seemed to Veryan a small, rather sad smile.

  As she walked to the carriage, Chloe fought to maintain her composure. She had come because James had asked her. While she had been indulging in foolish reverie, imagining his request indicated an increasing interest in her concerns: in her: his real interest and concern were for Miss Polmear. Why not? He was unattached. So, presumably, was the young woman. She, on the other hand, was not. She should remember that, and be grateful for all the benefits of her comfortable lifestyle.

  Her head felt strangely light. Blackness hovered at the edge of her vision. She raised a hand to her throat. There wasn’t enough air.

  ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am.’ The senior coachman took her arm. She watched his lips moving and wondered why his voice sounded so far away. ‘Are you all right? Gone white, you have.’

  She touched her gloved fingertips lightly to her lips, swallowed the nausea, and nodded. On no account could she make an exhibition of herself. Gerald would be furious. In his opinion such behaviour, regardless of the circumstances, was a betrayal of one’s class, and the height of bad manners. Her breath reversed sharply on a sob of laughter. Control was all. And she was losing it. Shock sobered her. She felt as fragile as an eggshell. She had thought, had really believed –

  ‘My dear Chloe! You’re as pale as a ghost.’

  ‘Really, Loveday,’ Diana Price-Ellis drawled. ‘What do you expect? All this filth and poverty. Chloe is far too soft hearted for her own good. Anyway, go on, what about Sarah Tremelling?’

  Immeasurably relieved at being offered a ready-made excuse, and from the least likely source, Chloe sank back against the padded cream leather.

  ‘My dear, I have it on the best authority. She’s –’ Suddenly remembering the coachman whose solid back was less than a yard away, Loveday leaned forward, her china-blue eyes alight with scandalized pleasure, and hissed, in an interesting condition.’

  ‘Such carelessness will cost her dear.’ With an irritated sigh, Diana adjusted deep folds of emerald satin trimmed with black velvet. Chloe was startled, even though she had sensed in Loveday’s manner connotations beyond those normally associated with such news.

  ‘I don’t understand. Why –’

  Absently, as if Chloe were slow-witted, Diana patted her hand. ‘The child is not her husband’s.’

  ‘How do you know?’ She shouldn’t have asked. No doubt it only confirmed her ignorance of matters that appeared to be common knowledge among their circle. But it was out now. Besides, in truth, she was curious.

  Diana rolled her eyes in amused impatience. ‘George and Sarah haven’t lived as husband and wife for years. His passion is food, which probably accounts for his gout and all that weight. So once she’d done her duty and provided him with an heir and spare, it was understood that he would turn a blind eye, provided she was discreet.’

  Loveday sucked in her breath, her eyes widening as a thought struck her. ‘You don’t think – surely she wouldn’t have wanted – I mean, I know she’s besotted with him, but –’

  ‘No.’ Diana was firm. ‘Sarah always considered maternity tiresome, necessary to secure the title, but not an experience to be willingly repeated. I remember her saying she could not have borne being one of those middle-class wives.’

  ‘What did she mean?’ Chloe asked.

  ‘They are nothing more than brood mares, my dear,’ Loveday confided. ‘Producing child after child and quite likely dying in the process. All because they are too stupid and their husbands too selfish.’

  Bewildered, Chloe stared at her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t …’ She saw them exchange a look. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘A romantic liaison,’ Loveday whispered, a gloved hand to her bosom, ‘is about passion and excitement.’

  ‘In such circumstances,’ Diana took over, ‘pregnancy would be at best a severe embarrassment, and at worst a disaster. Therefore one is careful to avoid it.’

  Curious to know more about an aspect of life of which she was totally ignorant, Chloe swallowed. ‘How?’

  Diana waved a languid hand. ‘Vinegar.’

  ‘What?’ Not sure if she was being teased, Chloe looked from one to the other.

  ‘Truly,’ Loveday nodded. ‘On a piece of soft sponge.’

  As Chloe tried desperately not to let them see her bafflement, Loveday glanced round and lowered her voice still further. ‘Cut into the shape of a small ball with a narrow ribbon attached, it is very effective. If more women employed such a simple remedy, there would be fewer children deprived of a mother’s loving care and fewer men left to bring up their large families by themselves.’

  Diana’s gaze was speculative. ‘You didn’t know?’ Realizing instantly that to lie was not only pointless, it might even be dangerous – one could never be quite sure about Diana – Chloe shook her head. But some instinct of self-preservation made her add, ‘Not about that particular method.’ She thought of the navvy women in the shanty village, sullen-faced and old before their time; and of the crying babies and whining toddlers. ‘Why aren’t women being told?’

  ‘Given power over their own bodies?’ Diana’s throaty laugh made her jump. ‘You are preaching sedition, my dear. Sexual pleasure is a man’s prerogative. Both the Church and the medical profession are appalled by the idea of women deriving similar enjoyment. Still,’ – her smile left her eyes quite cold – ‘it appears that you, like us, are among the fortunate.’

  Loveday’s gaze sharpened. Chloe sensed, with an intuition honed over four years, the direction the conversation was about to take.

  Calmly, Chloe returned her smile. ‘I am blessed with a most considerate husband.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Diana drawled. ‘Married four years and still childless: that is consideration indeed.’

  Loveday’s intake of breath was almost silent, but Chloe heard it and lifted one shoulder in an elaborately casual shrug.

  ‘I am only twenty.’ She forced out words she prayed were true. ‘There will be plenty of time for children.’

  Chapter Eleven

  James cantered past the ballast tip. He expected to see vast undulating mounds of crushed granite and men shovelling more from the long train of wagons hauled up that morning from the quarry at Penryn. But there were no wagons. Instead the men were scraping together what remained of the depleted heap. It contained barely enough ballast for two more days’ work. Where were the wagons?

  He passed carts returning to the tip for fresh loads of ballast, and gangs of men fixing rails to newly laid sleepers. Further on, a team of two horses dragged a wide metal and wood scraper heavily weighted with boulders to flatten the stone bed on which the rails would lie. Ordinarily, more rails and sleepers were delivered to the railhead each morning along track laid the previous day. A gang should be unloading and stacking them now. Where were they? James’s irritation increased. This was Pascoe’s responsibility, not his. Where was the contractor?

  Up ahead he could see Paddy Maginn’s gang working on the embankment. Reining in his sweat-darkened horse, he hailed the ganger in charge of the ballast crew.

  ‘Has Mr Pascoe been by this morning?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him. Wagons coming, are they?’

  After an instant’s hesitation James called, ‘They’re probably on their way.’

  ‘They better be,’ the ganger bellowed, and the men leaned on their long iron bars and shovels, grunting agreement. ‘Bleddy ridic’lous, it is. First bit of dry weather we’ve had for weeks, and if they wagons don’t come soon we’re going to be sat here with bugger-all to do.’

  ‘Keep going as long as you can. I�
��ll find out what’s happening.’ Wheeling his horse, James headed back the way he’d come, irritation darkening into anxiety and suspicion.

  Back at the shanty village the tally shop was still closed and shuttered. The number of women waiting had increased, and they were angry. Ignoring their shouts and demands to know what was happening, and why Pascoe hadn’t come to open up, James examined the door then turned to the watching women.

  ‘Has anyone got a crowbar?’ Awe and excitement rippled through the crowd. One woman offered a small chopper obviously used for cutting firewood. Another, mocking that as a toy fit only for a child, dragged over an axe with a handle three feet long and as thick as a man’s wrist. Warning them all to stand back, James took a swing, smashing the lock and splintering the wood. Leaning the axe against the wall, he pushed the door wide.

  Light spilled in, illuminating the safe. For a moment James hoped, but as he took a step forward, he realized it wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even shut, opening easily as he grasped the handle. The cash tins lay upside down on the top shelf: empty. His stomach roiled queasily. Then, like a terrier shaking a rat, cold rage gripped him. He had warned them, but they’d refused to listen. Now they would expect, no demand he sort out the mess.

  Taking a deep breath he deliberately set aside his seething anger. If the contractor had absconded, and it certainly looked that way, he would need a clear head and iron nerves, not to mention the devil’s own luck, if he was to prevent a riot and keep the men working. When he reappeared in the doorway, the women besieged him with questions.

  ‘Where’s Pascoe?’

  ‘How long have we got to wait here?’

  ‘When’s he coming to open the shop?’

  James raised his arms to silence the clamour. Lies might be pointless, but the unvarnished truth would only cause panic.

  ‘I can’t tell you.’ He didn’t add, because I don’t know.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Some bleddy help you are.’

  ‘We got no food.’

  ‘What do we give our kids?’

  ‘And the men?’

  Uproar broke out again, and once more James raised his arms. Waiting for the shouting to diminish to resentful mutters, he looked for the woman who’d given him the axe. About forty, and strongly built, she stood at the front with folded arms. He had a feeling she’d already guessed what had happened, but was waiting to see what he intended to do about it before reacting. She looked cleaner than many. But it was the frayed apron she wore over her faded blouse and dark skirt that decided him. Like Veryan Polmear, she had standards.

  He beckoned her forward. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Mary Tallack. Why? What’s it to you?’

  ‘You’ll see. Stand beside me.’ As she did so, James addressed the restless crowd, ‘As Mr Pascoe hasn’t turned up yet, and you need food, I’m authorizing Mary Tallack to take his place. She will distribute whatever is in the shop according to need. Women with young children take priority.’

  ‘Not here, they don’t,’ one woman yelled. ‘Men can’t work on empty bellies, and they’re the ones earning the money.’

  ‘You shut your yap, Liza Mitchell,’ another voice screeched back. ‘Just ’cos you haven’t got no kids.’ A buzz of argument broke out.

  James turned to Mary. ‘You’ll probably need some help. Just be wary –’

  ‘Don’t you fret, my handsome.’ She smiled grimly. ‘I’ve raised four sons. I don’t put up with no nonsense.’

  Unexpectedly, James felt himself grin. ‘No, I’m sure you don’t. Right, as soon as you’ve chosen your assistants come round to the front.’

  The women hooted and clapped as he knocked the padlocks off the shutters and the shop door.

  ‘Here, mister,’ a voice shouted, ‘what about tickets?’

  ‘No tickets today. To compensate for the inconvenience caused by Mr Pascoe’s absence, your provisions will be free.’ He paused, waiting for the whoops of approval and relief to die down. Then he added, ‘Just remember, if there’s any trouble I’ll close the shop. It’s a long walk to Penryn.’

  His final glance at Mary answered by a reassuring nod, he swung himself into the saddle, masking a smile as he glimpsed Queenie, furious that she might be missing something, hurrying as fast as her bulk would allow towards the shuffling queue.

  Handing his panting, sweat-lathered mount over to the ostler at the Royal Hotel, James walked quickly along Church Street to the Cornish Bank building.

  ‘I trust this is important, Mr Santana.’ Gilbert Mabey’s normally good-natured face betrayed irrigation as he took out his watch. ‘I am expecting a very important client.’

  James caught his elbow, drawing him aside. ‘Have you seen Pascoe in the past few days?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact he was in here yesterday.’

  ‘In here?’ The sudden heaviness in James’s stomach was reflected in his voice.

  ‘Yes. He came in to draw the wages. Why?’

  ‘The end of the month is next week.’

  ‘I didn’t see him myself, I had someone with me, but all the paperwork was in order so I really don’t see what –’

  ‘I think Pascoe’s done a bunk,’ James said flatly.

  ‘What?’ Gilbert stared at him. ‘No, he can’t have. He wouldn’t.’ He glanced round, drew closer, his voice low, full of doubt, wanting not to believe. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘No one has seen him this morning. The safe in his office is open and the cash tins are empty. But what’s even more worrying, the ballast train hasn’t arrived, nor have the rails and sleepers. Have any of you been checking the monthly accounts?’

  Gilbert was ashen. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ James controlled himself with an effort. ‘Pascoe hasn’t been paying the suppliers.’

  Gilbert stared at him in horror, then swallowed audibly. ‘We-ah-we must –’

  ‘An emergency meeting?’ James suggested.

  Yes, yes. Good idea.’ The bank manager’s face was the colour of wet clay. ‘I’ll send a message to the others. At once.’ He patted his pockets vaguely. ‘I can’t believe –’

  Why not? The signs were clear enough. James bit back his frustration. ‘Can I have Pascoe’s address?’

  Gilbert blinked. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He snapped his fingers at a clerk. ‘Maybe he’s ill, maybe –’ At James’s look he seemed to deflate. ‘No. You warned us, but we didn’t listen.’

  Hiring a fresh horse, James wove through carriages, carts, and pedestrians, riding as fast as conditions permitted to Pascoe’s lodgings in Penwerris Terrace.

  ‘He went out last night and didn’t come back,’ James reported to the directors. After returning to the bank, a clerk had directed him to Harold Vane’s offices. Once again he was sitting at the long table in the panelled conference room. Only this time, instead of bland dismissal or mild irritation, the directors’ faces were etched with stunned disbelief.

  ‘Does his landlady have any idea where he might have gone?’ Ingram Coles pressed a spotless white handkerchief to his forehead and upper lip.

  James shrugged. ‘She said he mentioned Plymouth. But she had no idea if he was going by train, or boat. He could be in London by now, or on his way abroad. He’s gone, gentlemen.’

  ‘I do hope you’re not going to gloat, Mr Santana,’ Victor Tyzack said quietly. Catching the deputy chairman’s eye James glimpsed the man’s realization that he would be perfectly entitled.

  ‘No, no, I’m sure Mr Santana is far too much of a gentleman –’ Ingram Coles waved his handkerchief.

  ‘No one could have foreseen –’ Gilbert Mabey began.

  ‘Well, we certainly can’t be held responsible.’ Harold Vane’s statement dared anyone to contradict.

  ‘Spoken like a true solicitor,’ James murmured, winning himself a murderous glare.

  ‘Yes, but what are we going to do?’ Clinton Warne’s white collar was so stiff and high he appeared in real
danger of cutting his own throat.

  ‘Sir Gerald … the penalty clauses …’ Ingram Coles mopped his face again, shaking his head.

  ‘Gentlemen, the steel company, the quarry, and the lumber mill must be paid,’ James stated quietly. ‘Without rails, sleepers, and ballast the line cannot be completed. Also the men are owed a month’s wages.’

  ‘Fortunately they aren’t due to be paid until next week.’ Relief softened the lines of worry furrowing the chairman’s face.

  James glanced across the table and felt a twist of sympathy as Gilbert caught his eye.

  Taking a deep breath, Gilbert announced, ‘I’m afraid Pascoe drew that money out yesterday.’ There was an instant’s shocked silence, then pandemonium as accusations and counter-charges flew back and forth.

  ‘Please, gentlemen, please.’ Ingram Coles flapped ineffectually. ‘This is getting us nowhere.’ As the noise gradually subsided, he turned in mute appeal to his deputy.

  ‘The suppliers’ accounts must be settled with all possible speed,’ Victor Tyzack was firm. ‘I suggest we accompany payment with an explanatory letter and an apology on behalf of the company.’

  ‘It wasn’t our fault,’ Clinton Warne grumbled.

  ‘No,’ Victor agreed. ‘But we need their goodwill.’

  ‘And a resumption of deliveries to the line by tomorrow,’ James added.

  ‘Well, all right, if we must, we’ll pay the suppliers.’ Harold Vane slapped one hand on the polished table. ‘But that’s all.’

  ‘What do you mean, that’s all?’ Gilbert demanded. ‘What about the men?’

  ‘Legally, wages are the contractor’s responsibility.’

  ‘Yes, but Pascoe has –’

  ‘I know what he’s done, dammit.’ Vane was testy. ‘But if we stand fast, what can they do? Nothing.’

  ‘You’ll have a mutiny on your hands,’ James warned.

  ‘No, we won’t. Oh, they’ll complain, but they do that anyway. The difference is that this time they have something to complain about. But they won’t leave. There’s nowhere for them to go and no other work available. They’ll get paid next month.’