by Jane Jackson
‘Ah. Tell you what, how don’t I come and listen? I wouldn’t mind.’
‘No, that’s Davy’s special time. He gets little enough attention as it is. I don’t –’
‘Oh yes? What’s going on here, then?’ Queenie demanded, loud and sickeningly coy, as she collapsed with a grunt into her chair. Immediately the men looked round.
Veryan flushed. ‘Nothing.’
She glared at Tom who shrugged and returned to his seat amid muttered warnings.
‘Wasting your time there, boy.’
‘You mad? What do ’e want with a bitch like she?’
‘I wouldn’t touch it with yours.’
‘Better not turn your back on her.’
Flame-faced, Veryan kept her head down. As soon as she had finished, she headed for the door.
‘Told you, didn’t I?’ Queenie hissed with malevolent delight. ‘You don’t get nothing for free. When a man do you a favour, he want twice as much back.’
‘What a nasty suspicious mind you have.’
‘Think so? We’ll see.’ Smug and gloating, Queenie settled herself.
Veryan left the shanty without a backward glance.
An hour later as Davy’s head drooped and she felt him slump against her, she closed the book.
‘Come on, time you were in bed.’
He struggled up, bleary-eyed and blinking in the lamplight. ‘Can I have another one? I’m not tired, honest.’
Setting the heavy book beside her on the blanket, she cupped his small face between her hands and shook her head. ‘Davy Thomas, you need twigs to prop your eyes open.’
‘Go on. Just a short one? You read lovely.’
Laughing, she shook her head. ‘And you –’ have the charm of the devil. A knock on the door made them both jump. She realized that she had been half dreading, half expecting it.
‘Who’s that?’ Davy whispered, his eyes huge.
‘I can’t see through the door.’
Rolling his eyes, Davy pushed her arm. ‘Ask, then.’
‘Who is it?’ she called, knowing already.
‘Tom.’
She was about to say Tom who, just to make a point, but Davy had scrambled off the bed and was already pulling back the bolt.
‘You should’ve come sooner.’ He grabbed the big hand and pulled the man inside. Suddenly the hut felt much too small. ‘Veryan been reading me a story.’
‘She has? Like stories, do you?’ Torn ruffled the boy’s hair.
Davy nodded. ‘Ask her to read us another one. Go on. Please?’
She glanced from the child’s face, where eagerness battled with exhaustion – and lost – to the man’s. Tom’s brows lifted a fraction. He grinned wryly, and waited.
Reluctantly she shook her head. She would have liked to keep Davy with her, at least until Tom went. But her own selfishness disgusted her. How could she even contemplate using the child as a barrier? ‘Not tonight, Davy. You’re out on your feet. Shall I take you back?’
‘No!’ The boy hitched up his too-large trousers, glowering. ‘I aren’t a baby. Anyhow, you know what’d happen if me pa catch me with you.’
‘All right.’ She nodded. ‘I’ll leave the door open so you can see your way across. I don’t want you tripping over and hurting that ankle again.’
With a shrug intended to show he wasn’t scared of the dark, Davy snatched up his torn jacket and shoved his bare feet into the broken-down boots. ‘See you tomorrow, Tom.’
‘Mind you go straight to sleep now.’
Veryan watched him scamper across the open ground to his own shanty. Standing in the open doorway, she listened intently. But there was no roar of anger, no drunken demand to know where he’d been. Either William was already in a drunken stupor, or he hadn’t returned home yet.
With a sound like a sigh, rain began to fall, pattering onto the muddy ground. Aware of Tom close behind her she felt edgy and darted a sidelong glance at him.
‘’Tis only a shower.’ Hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, he peered past her. ‘There was another one earlier. Didn’t you hear it? Quite heavy it was.’
Just for an instant she wondered. Nervous? Tom Reskilly? A man who, the first time she’d met him on the path, had given the impression he didn’t just think – he knew – himself God’s gift to women? Her hand on the bolt, she turned to face him. But he didn’t give her the chance to speak.
‘Look, I know you said I shouldn’t come.’ He stood, strong and solid as a granite slab.
‘So why did you?’ He shrugged. ‘I thought, if you didn’t mind, like, I could have a look at the books you got from Lady Radclyff. I like a good story.’ His gaze wavered then dropped to the wrinkled canvas. ‘I’ll see if I can find a bit better piece. This don’t fit proper. But I wanted to get something down quick.’
Veryan looked at his bent head. His hair was wet and dishevelled. He must have been outside during the earlier shower. Near the crown a small tuft stuck up at an angle. It reminded her of Davy. She caught herself. This was no vulnerable child: Tom Reskilly was a grown man: a silver-tongued charmer. He knew what he was doing. Suspicion snaked through her.
‘Is this supposed to be a joke?’
He seemed thrown. ‘What?’
‘Was it your idea? Or did the men put you up to it?’ What was the bet? I suppose they’re drinking themselves silly while they wait for you to go back and –’
‘No!’ His anger shocked her. ‘It’s not – I wouldn’t –’ He snatched the book from the blanket and brandished it at her. She recoiled. ‘I want to learn to read, all right?’
Flushed, he dropped the book and turned away, rubbing one hand over his unshaven jaw with a dry rasping sound. She had never seen him lost for words. He swung round on her. ‘You think I’m just like the rest of them. All right, so I like a drink and a laugh. But that’s not all I am, no more than you’re just a slave for that old besom, Queenie Spargo.’
Closing the door on the blowing rain, Veryan leaned back against her hands. ‘So why did you –?’
‘Lie.’ He snorted impatiently. ‘Bleddy obvious, isn’t it? Because I thought you’d laugh at me.’ He gestured, shamefaced. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve swore.’
Still wary, she was also curious. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do you want to learn to read? I mean, why now?’
‘Last line I was on I didn’t get paid. Now that bastard Pascoe have run off with my money. I tell you straight, maid, I’m pi – I’m fed up tramping round the country for jobs like these. I know I can do better.’ He paused. ‘It’s like the engineer …’ He looked down, picking at a scab on one of his knuckles.
She tensed. ‘What about him?’
‘People respect a man like that. You do. I seen the way you look at him.’
She didn’t believe it. ‘You want to learn to read because of me? ’
‘Isn’t that a good enough reason, then?’ He grinned. ‘You’re right though; it isn’t the only one. Like I told you, my lovely, I want to better myself. But I got to be able to read, and sign my name proper.’
Bemused, Veryan spread her hands. ‘Look –’
‘But if you don’t want to teach me, I’ll find someone else.’
‘Not on the works, you won’t.’
He shrugged. ‘I could ask Lady Radclyff. She’s bound know someone.’
‘Fine. Ask her then.’
‘I would, only she isn’t here and I want to start now. Look, I see you every day. So don’t it make better sense for you to do it? Go on, maid,’ he urged.
She knew she owed him, not just for rebuilding the hut, but for all the extras like the bed and the canvas on the floor. And stopping the men’s insults? Saving her on the embankment? Beating William Thomas?
‘Come on, girl. I’m a quick learner, and I got a good memory. Tell you what’ – he pointed upward – ‘that tarpaulin isn’t going to last long. An easterly gale will rip ‘n right off the timbers. Tar and felt is what you
need. See if I can get some, shall I?’
How could she say no? Yet if she accepted, how could she refuse to teach him? ‘All right. Thank you.’
‘You don’t have to thank me. ‘’Tis a fair swap.’ Wiping his hand on his trousers, he held it out. Though scarred and calloused, it was clean. She could smell soap. ‘This is how the gentry do deals, isn’t it? On a handshake?’
‘Yes, but it’s not necessary,’ she blurted. He had gone to the trouble of washing before coming to see her. ‘I trust you to keep your word.’
‘So I shall. But I want to be certain you’ll keep yours.’
‘How dare you! Of course I will.’
He turned his palm and cocked an eyebrow.
It was only a handshake. Why did he stir up such confusion? Irritated, she took his hand intending the contact to be a fleeting formality, but as they touched, something leapt inside her. Her shock must have shown for his grin faded. Pulling free she brushed off the front of her dress. He wasn’t the only one with ambitions. She had plans too: plans that could not include him. He might be – was – different from the other navvies, but for all his grand ideas he would be on the line forever. That was a future she refused even to contemplate.
‘So –’ She cleared her throat. ‘When would you want to start?’
He shifted from one foot to the other then grinned. ‘Now?’
She glanced round the hut in dismay. About eight feet square, the blissful privacy made it seem almost spacious when she was alone. His presence made it feel like a cupboard. ‘You mean – here?’
‘You got a better idea?’ She chewed her lip. He was right. The shanty offered only noise, taunts and ridicule for both of them. ‘You’d better sit down. That end.’ She pointed to the foot of the bed.
As he lowered himself, legs akimbo, she crouched in front of the wooden box and took out paper, pen and a bottle of ink. ‘We’ll start with the alphabet. You have to be able to recognize letters before you can read words.’
Eighteen hours later Tom swung his pick, felt it bite into the stony soil, twisted it loose, and swung again. Between white-painted posts that marked the intended line, Nipper, Mac and he were excavating a gullet for the wagons that would carry the earth away. Behind them the rest of the gang shovelled the loose muck into carts.
The sun was high and hot. There was a breeze, but the steep sides of the little cutting prevented it from reaching them. Tom blinked as sweat stung his eyes. His shirt hung open at the front, and clung to his back. Wiping his forehead with the back of a grimy hand, he resettled his cap then swung the pick once more. Beside him, Nipper leaned on the haft and groaned.
‘I need a drink. ‘Tid’n right, expecting a man to work in this heat and pay for his own beer. So where was you last night then?’
‘Out.’ Tom resumed the easy efficient rhythm that kept the men behind him busy. Sweat trickled down his chest and soaked into the waistband of his trousers.
‘I know that, don’t I,’ Nipper scoffed. ‘You wasn’t in, so you had to be out. But where? Bleddy ’ell, what’s on ’ere, then? Think they might be looking for a bit o’ rough?’
Alerted by Nipper’s lascivious tone, Tom glanced round. The rest of the gang had stopped work to stare at the two women who had appeared at the top of the cutting. One, in a gown of garnet red and a jaunty hat of feathers and ribbons, had walked right to the edge and was gazing boldly down.
‘Get back.’ Tom waved. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘Shut up,’ Yorky hissed. ‘If she fall, l want to be underneath.’
Tom turned to Nipper, letting his pick drop. ‘Where’s Paddy?’
‘Dunno. Here, where you going?’
Clambering past the leering men, Tom caught Davy by the shoulder. ‘Unhitch one of the horses and find Mr Santana. He’s somewhere on the line.’ He turned back to the grinning men. ‘Hey, watch your mouths. Show a bit of respect.’
‘That’s no’ what they want tae see,’ Mac muttered. ‘Look at that tall one, If that’s no’ brazen … ‘
‘Dear life, she’s coming down!’ Excitement rippled through the gang.
Behind the woman in red, now picking her way down the slope on the rough but shallow path used by the carts, Tom saw another approach the one watching. Tom recognized the fair hair and slim figure of Lady Radclyff. She laid her hand on the other’s forearm, apparently pleading. But the restraint was shaken off and, clutching an open parasol in one hand, and a handful of buttercup satin skirt in the other, her giggling companion teetered down the slope.
Looking both ways, as if seeking help, Lady Radclyff clearly didn’t know what to do.
Taking the shortest route and avoiding the other two women, Tom hauled himself up the side of the cutting.
As he appeared over the lip she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he panted, touching his cap. ‘Didn’t mean to frighten you.’
Pale-faced and anxious, she tried to smile. ‘Do you know where Mr Santana might be? We …’ She indicated an open carriage and a flat bed cart piled with bulging sacks and wooden crates. ‘We’ve brought food.’
‘That’s some good of you, ma’am. I sent a boy –’ Hearing drumming hooves Tom looked past her. ‘That’s him now.’ Leaning forward in the saddle, the engineer came up the grassy incline at a gallop.
‘Thank you, Mr –’
‘Reskilly. Tom Reskilly, ma’am.’
He could tell she wasn’t listening. She seemed even more nervous: twisting her fingers. She wasn’t pale now. From the lace at her throat right up to her hat her skin was rosy. So that’s the way of it.
James jumped down, breathless, and whipped off his hat. It left a red mark on his forehead. ‘Lady Radclyff, this is a most pleasant surprise.’
‘I do hope we have not inconvenienced you. We’ve brought food for the shop.’
‘So I see. How very kind.’
‘But before delivering it to the village my companions wanted to see the line. They’ – she swallowed – ‘they were most insistent. I fear I was unable to dissuade them.’
Perplexed, James glanced round. ‘Where?’
As Chloe indicated the lip of the cutting, Tom snatched off his cap and, crushing it in his big hands, he stepped forward.
‘Fetch, ’em back up, shall I?’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Reskilly,’ Chloe answered with palpable relief.
‘No trouble, ma’am.’ He ducked his head. ‘I expect they seen everything they want to by now.’ And maybe more than they had bargained for. He received a nod of approval from James Santana who then turned to Lady Radclyff. The look they exchanged confirmed Tom’s guess that there was more going on between them than charity. He felt a pang of envy. Not for her. He liked and admired her, but that was all. His envy was for the engineer: for the way she looked at him, even though she pretended she wasn’t.
Sliding down into the excavation he compared Lady Radclyff’s sweetness and vulnerability with Veryan’s prickly independence. A man needed to feel protective. It was part of who he was; what he was for. But defending Veryan was like trying to look after a wild cat: you had to watch out for the claws. He grinned to himself. He’d tame her yet.
The woman in red stood at the bottom of the slope and gazed around with disdainful amusement. Below her in the earth and rubble of the excavation, the gang rested their picks and leaned on their shovels, watching. Though she appeared totally oblivious to the crude comments and guffaws of laughter, her companion clearly was not. Standing some way behind, she looked hot and flustered. Though she was still giggling, Tom could see it was from unease. Serve her right. These were working men, not freaks like those on show at the travelling fair. He skidded to a halt a few feet away. Both women looked round.
He touched his cap. ‘Mr Santana says –’
‘Does he indeed?’ As the men whooped and crowed, Diana Price-Ellis’s bold gaze swept over him. ‘And you are?’
Time someone taught you a lesson, m
y ’andsome. Tom never turned down a challenge. Studying her with equal boldness, he caught the flash of excitement in her eyes. A bitch in heat. He strolled towards her, hooking his thumbs in his waistband. ‘Name’s Tom, what’s yours?’
‘My name is none of your business.’
‘What? You come all the way out here to see me, and you won’t even tell me your name?’ He shrugged heavily muscled shoulders and winked at her. ‘Still, who needs names?’
‘What do you do, Tom?’
He grinned. ‘Tell me what you like and I’ll do it.’
There was a chorus of crudity from the watching men.
‘Diana,’ her companion called with a nervous giggle, ‘I really think we should –’
‘It’s all right, Loveday.’ She waved languidly. ‘He’s just trying to shock me, aren’t you, Tom? ’
‘That would be a waste of time, wouldn’t it? A lady like you.’ His roguish grin drew a small collusive smile. Then she met his eye and read the contempt there. He glimpsed the flicker of uncertainty, instantly covered. He heard the men’s intake of breath as she took a step closer, touched her gloved index finger to his bare chest then passed it under her nose, inhaling as if she were testing an expensive perfume. He’d heard about women like her: women who went, masked, to bare-knuckle prize-fights and offered themselves as reward to the winner.
‘Careful, lady,’ he warned softly.
‘Am I in danger then, Tom?’ She was goading him, daring him, knowing full well – as he did – that if he lay so much as a finger on her it would cost him his job.
‘Not from me, lady. But this lot’ – he jerked his thumb towards the men who had inched closer, their rank odour thick and oppressive in the still air of the cutting – ‘they’ll take anything.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Diana!’
