by Helen Watts
Barry was always an early riser, needing only four or five hours of sleep a night, and quite used to heading out for an early morning promenade before any of his colleagues had surfaced. He didn’t mind at all. For him this was valuable thinking time, when his ideas could flow uninterrupted. Some of his best decisions had been made before breakfast.
He was the only guest up and about when he descended the stairs at the Arden Inn that morning. Putting on his top hat, he slipped quietly out of the front door then paused on the steps of the inn to get his bearings and decide which way to walk.
In the soft, early dawn light, Wilmcote was a peaceful and pretty place. The Arden Inn had pride of place right at the heart of the village, facing a small triangular village green bordered by orchards, a thatched blacksmith’s forge and an old Tudor farmhouse. But its rural beauty and tranquillity were lost on Charles Barry. He disliked being away from London and detested the thought of a quiet country life. He preferred the hustle and bustle of the city, and fared far better in a man-made urban architectural landscape than in a rural, natural one.
Barry decided to turn left and, leaving the village green behind him, walked up the main street, following the road between two identical, parallel rows of quarrymen’s cottages built from the local stone. He came to a stop when he realised he had, by chance, found the lane which led to the quarry. He glanced at his pocket watch. Six o’clock. There was still time to carry out a bit of reconnaissance before breakfast.
He quickened his pace and headed across the road and up the lane. A couple of minutes later he reached a fork, where a small sign on a rickety wooden gate indicated that the right-hand track went to Stone Pit Cottage. To the left was a wider lane with a larger sign pointing to the quarry and to Stone Pit Farm, which Barry recognised as the home of Richard Greenslade. He followed the latter route and walked on for a few more minutes, enjoying the early morning bird song, until he came to a large, imposing set of metal gates. Unsure whether this was the entrance to the quarry works, Barry hesitated for a second before lifting the latch and passing through. The gate was heavy, and as he let it go, it swung to a close with a loud clang. Undeterred, Barry continued, following the track around the side of a stable building. Then he suddenly realised his mistake. He was standing in the rear garden of Stone Pit Farm house.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ A gruff male voice from an upstairs window.
‘Oh. My apologies. Er, Mr Greenslade is it? I was not intending to disturb you at this early hour. It’s Barry. Charles Barry. We are due to meet a little later this morning. I was taking a stroll and I lost my way.’
‘Ah, yes. Mr Barry. I am so sorry, I thought you were an intruder. Do excuse me shouting at you like that from my window. Please, let me come down and invite you in.’
Barry held up his hand. ‘No, no. No need. We have an appointment for which I am decidedly early. I will come back.’
‘No, I insist. You are most welcome here. Please do me the honour of joining me for breakfast—that is, if you haven’t breakfasted already?’
Barry smiled. ‘No I haven’t, and thank you. That would be delightful. How very kind of you.’
* * *
Richard Greenslade had bought Wilmcote Quarry and Cement Works, along with nearby Stone Pit Farm, three years previously. Since then the quarry had gone from strength to strength. Greenslade was a fair and astute businessman, well-liked by his employees, and highly ambitious for his company’s future.
He always kept his ear to the ground for the next business opportunity and so, when he heard that Charles Barry was looking for quality limestone, he had put a proposal forward. He knew he had some way to go to convince Barry of his company’s ability to deliver sufficient quantities at speed. So it was crucial that this visit went well.
He hadn’t expected to be wearing his undergarments when he first met his potential new client, and he felt embarrassed about suspecting him of being an intruder and verbally accosting him from the bedroom window, so he was determined to redeem himself by making his guest feel welcome in his home.
Dressing as quickly as he could, he dashed downstairs and instructed his housekeeper, Alice, to prepare toast, eggs and bacon and strong fresh coffee, leaving his wife, Florence, to keep their six children out from under their feet. Then he ran to the back door to let Barry in from the garden. He shook Barry’s hand a little too vigorously and then led him inside and showed him to a chair at their dining room table.
Helped by a hearty breakfast and several cups of hot, steaming coffee, Greenslade’s nerves soon subsided and the two men took a rapid liking to one another. Despite Barry’s intimidating reputation and his high social standing, Greenslade found him easy company and surprisingly talkative. He had feared that Barry might look down on him for his lack of airs and graces, but it seemed that his warm welcome and honest, down-to-earth ways were appreciated. Not that Barry came across as anything but tough when it came to business. In that respect, Greenslade sensed that Barry would not suffer fools gladly.
By the time their breakfast things had been cleared away, it was well after eight. Greenslade instructed one of his daughters to call in at the Arden Inn on her way to the village school, leaving a message for Barry’s party that he would meet them at the quarry at nine.
So it was that just before nine o’clock the group of five men, with Richard Greenslade in the lead, began their tour of Wilmcote stone pits. The quarrymen had already begun their day’s work at the quarry face, and Greenslade gestured to one of them to bring a rock sample up to the pit side to show to his guests.
‘You can see straightaway that the stone has a really rich, natural buff colour,’ Greenslade said proudly, turning the piece of stone over and over in his large, rough hands.
‘Hmm,’ said one of the geologists, assuming a non-committal expression. ‘It’s quite pale compared to the sand-coloured limestone we saw at the Anston Quarry in Yorkshire. We liked that. Their prices were good, too.’
‘Well, let me show you what else is so good about this stone,’ replied Greenslade. ‘Follow me, I shall take you to the saw mill.’
Greenslade was keen for Barry and his men to see some of the limestone blocks being cut to make paving slabs. They watched the stonemasons pouring sand and water onto the stones as they were split into perfect sheets, each just a couple of inches thick. Greenslade raised his voice so that he could be heard clearly over the noise, and explained: ‘These are going up to Ragley Hall to replace the flooring in the front portico. You’ll notice that we’ve got all the latest equipment. Our saws are powered by our brand new beam engine and you can see how easily the stone splits. It’s a natural choice for paving and flooring as it’s hard and can be quarried in such big slabs, but it’s an excellent general building material. You’ll find Wilmcote stone in churches and country houses all over the county and beyond. Bridges too.’
Barry and his party were impressed, particularly when Greenslade showed them the quality of the finish on some of the slabs which were ready to be despatched to Ragley.
‘There’s no doubt you have a good product, Mr Greenslade,’ Barry commented, ‘but from what I have seen of your pits and your set up here, you’re simply not big enough. Your quarry can’t possibly meet an order of the size we’re talking about.’
Greenslade’s disappointment must have shown itself on his face, for Barry added swiftly, ‘But I like you, and I like your limestone. So I will make you an offer. The stone we saw in Yorkshire is relatively cheap and they can supply it in blocks up to four feet thick so it lends itself to the kind of elaborate carving we have in mind for the exterior walls. So I’m going to offer them the contract for the main structure. But, unless my colleagues here disagree with me, I’m inclined to offer Wilmcote Quarry the contract for all the flooring, the main staircases and the external paving.’
Barry paused and glanced towards his advisers, who nodded in agreement. ‘Now that’s a big contract on its own, so you stand to make a lot of money from
it, if you can serve us well.’
‘That will not be a problem,’ said Greenslade, smiling, unable to conceal his pleasure.
Barry held up his hand to signal that he had not yet finished. ‘But I have one more concern.’
‘Whatever it is, you know I will do my utmost to allay it,’ Greenslade assured him, taking a step forward. ‘I can promise you, Mr Barry, we will give you the finest floors you ever did see.’
‘I am sure you will. But your challenge will be speed and efficiency. Your stone will need to be delivered to us in phases, towards the end of each main construction stage. So I will be requesting different quantities each time and you will need to fulfil each order pretty quickly. I might require some of your masons to work on site too, now and again, perhaps at short notice. Now, a lot of quarries already have the advantage of a railway link. You don’t, and I remain to be convinced that your business will cope with the added demands of this contract as long as you are still transporting by canal alone.’
‘But that will change,’ replied Greenslade, a tiny note of desperation in his voice. He couldn’t let this contract slip away from him. ‘There’s talk of a new railway. A branch line, linking Stratford-upon-Avon to Hatton. Once that’s built Wilmcote will be linked to the main Birmingham to Oxford line, and from there into London.’
Barry raised his eyebrows and rubbed his chin as he took in this piece of news. ‘Talk, you say? How certain is it that the line will be built?’
Greenslade shrugged. ‘It will be dependent upon the speed at which the Stratford-upon-Avon Railway Company can get the Act of Parliament they require. I am aware that they are still looking for some additional financial investment, but I believe that once they have the funding in place, they are ready to put a proposal to the Member of Parliament.’
Barry nodded. ‘I want you to speak with the railway company as a matter of urgency. Tell them what impact this deal could have on your business and on employment in this area. Trust me, the rail company will find it a lot easier to get the financial backing and a charter from Parliament if they can demonstrate a clear need for the branch line.’
Greenslade was about to speak but Barry once again held up his hand. ‘And if your MP doesn’t move fast enough, let me know. I have contacts—people who can help remind the Members that this decision could influence how soon they will find themselves sitting cosily in brand new chambers. I am sure they will see the need for a new branch line, then, don’t you?’
Greenslade smiled. ‘Quite right, Mr Barry. Your offer of support is most appreciated. But I would need a signed contract from you before I could argue my case to the rail company with any force.’ He could tell that Barry was impressed by his tenacity, so he dared push his luck a little further. ‘And if it will help to show my commitment to the project, I would be happy to invest in the railway myself. That might hurry things along a little, also.’
‘You are absolutely right, my good fellow,’ said Barry, holding out his hand, ‘and I believe that I can trust you to make this all happen. If you are happy, then I am happy. I think we should shake on it, don’t you?’
Chapter 4 – August 2012
Kelly’s optimism about the fun that her summer holidays would bring didn’t last. By week four, she was bored out of her skin. Not having to face Charlotte Kennedy every day didn’t outweigh having to stay around the site with little else to do but help her mum clean the caravan. Kelly missed the stimulation of school and, even though she had no real friends there, at least she was among people of her own age. There was no one over the age of seven left on the site to keep her company. Everyone, including her brother Perry, had gone travelling for the summer.
In the past, Kelly and her mum and dad would have gone too, but this year was different. Her dad and his partner had won the contract to clear the railway embankment along the line between Stratford-upon-Avon and Hatton which ran right through Wilmcote. There were some big trees to fell and others to lop, plus about ten miles of hedges and overgrown banks to maintain. It was a steady contract, with the prospect of more railway work if they did well. It was good money, too, as well as being convenient. Their Traveller site was on the road just outside Wilmcote, set apart from the village by farmland, and was right on the side of the railway—so the morning commute was an easy one.
After helping her mum in the mornings, Kelly’s afternoons were her own. To keep herself entertained, she went on long walks with her dog, Tyson, a stray who had wandered into the campsite earlier that year. Kelly had found him sitting on the caravan step when she came home from school. He wasn’t wearing a collar and no one had any idea where he had come from, but he latched onto Kelly straight away and followed her everywhere. Kelly’s dad reckoned that he was only about a year old, and probably a cross between a Jack Russell and a Staffordshire Bull Terrier.
Whatever his background, Tyson was a spirited little mutt. He wasn’t very sociable, so Kelly had to be careful to keep him on the lead when other dogs were around, and he didn’t like people very much, either. Tyson was fine with folk he knew—soft as putty, in fact—but he would growl, curl up his lips and show his teeth at strangers, especially anyone he thought could be a threat to Kelly.
It was this feisty nature that led to the name Tyson. ‘It’s a good fighter’s name,’ Kelly’s dad had said, though he was referring to the British boxer Tyson Fury, who had good Irish Traveller blood in him, rather than the American Mike Tyson.
Tyson’s fiery temperament brought Kelly a lot more freedom than she otherwise might have had to go out and about on her own. As long as she took Tyson with her, Kelly’s mum and dad were happy that she would be safe.
One particularly hot afternoon, Kelly was walking along the canal that curved gently around the outskirts of Wilmcote village before straightening up to tumble down a long series of locks that led in the direction of Stratford-upon-Avon. Tyson was off the lead and was cheekily chasing all the ducks into the water. About half a mile out of Wilmcote, they reached a crossroads where a footpath crossed the towpath and led up to a footbridge over the railway line, which ran parallel to the canal.
Kelly was just wondering which way she felt like going when a rabbit shot out of the long grass on the canal bank, almost ran over her toes and raced across the grass to her left towards the railway. Tyson set off in hot pursuit.
‘Tyson!’ Kelly shouted sharply, but the little dog was having too much fun to stop. ‘Tyson, no! Leave!’
The rabbit reached the hedge that ran along the top of the railway embankment and, with a flash of its little white tail, scurried through the nettles and brambles and disappeared from sight.
‘Don’t you follow him!’ Kelly called out, running through the grass after her dog. ‘Tyson! Stop!’
It was too late. Kelly’s commands fell on deaf ears as Tyson, tail held high in the chase, disappeared through the hedge after his prey.
Panic rose in Kelly’s chest and her throat tightened so that the next time she called Tyson’s name it came out as a squeak. The hedge was far too thick to see through, so she had no idea how far Tyson had gone or whether he had run onto the track. ‘Oh, you stupid dog,’ she muttered through gritted teeth, her fear mixed with frustration.
Desperate to see where Tyson was, Kelly raced along the hedge to the footbridge and looked over the side. Relief flooded through her. There he was. Thank goodness, he had stopped. ‘Tyson. Come here, now!’ she called.
But Tyson didn’t budge. With his tail wagging furiously and his nose down to the ground, he was frantically pawing at the stones next to the track. At first, Kelly was horrified, thinking that he had caught the rabbit, but then she realised that whatever he was sniffing at was definitely not alive. It looked like something buried in the ground.
Kelly’s panic returned. She knew how determined her companion could be and knew that he wouldn’t give up his mini excavation until he had unearthed his prize. What if a train came?
Kelly looked up and down the track. She
couldn’t see anything coming but behind her the line curved around a hill, so if a train was approaching from the Stratford-upon-Avon direction, she wouldn’t be able to see it anyway. And what was that noise? Was that the rumble of a train in the distance?
Kelly looked back at Tyson and shouted his name again, but he was still pawing away at the ground, stopping every few seconds to tug furiously at the object before resuming his dig.
The distant rumble began to pick up a rhythm. A stomach-churning pattern of metal rattling along lengths of track.
‘Oh my God, Tyson!’ Kelly screamed, tears forming in her eyes. She felt helpless. She knew she couldn’t reach him through the hedge, and climbing over the bridge would be suicide. In desperation she looked for something to throw. If she could startle and distract him, perhaps she could make the stubborn little dog move.
Louder now. The oncoming train sounded like it was just round the bend.
Scrabbling around on the ground, Kelly’s fingers closed around a stone. She threw, letting out a desperate sob as it bounced off the rail and over to the far side of the track. Tyson didn’t even notice.
Kelly quickly found a second rock and lifted her arm to take aim, the approaching train now terrifyingly loud. ‘Tyson!’ She let out one final scream and drew her arm back. But before she made her throw, she saw Tyson stagger backwards as the object of his obsession popped out of the ground. Then, as if nothing at all unusual had happened, Tyson gripped the object in his mouth, and trotted triumphantly back up the embankment, his chin in the air.
