by Helen Watts
Kelly raced down from the footbridge just in time to see Tyson emerge from the bottom of the hedge, proudly carrying his prize. He stopped and sat down, dropping the object at his feet just as the train thundered past.
Kelly ran up to him, tears streaming down her face. ‘What were you doing, you stupid little dog?’ she cried, swooping him up into her arms. ‘You scared the life out of me. I thought you were going to get killed!’
Tyson’s little body wriggled in Kelly’s arms as he wagged his tail happily and licked her face.
Kelly wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and looked down to see what it was that had nearly cost her beloved Tyson his life.
There on the ground was nothing but a soil-covered, mangled old leather boot.
‘Is that all it was?’ she asked in exasperation, as she put Tyson back down on the ground. ‘What on earth did you want that for?’
Tyson looked up at Kelly expectantly, still panting from his adventure. His tongue hung out and his tail swept from side to side on the grass.
‘You can wag your tail all you like,’ said Kelly. ‘I think you’ve had enough fun for one day.’ She bent down to put the dog back on the lead. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’
She turned, ready to head back to the towpath but Tyson had other ideas. He dug his feet into the ground and refused to budge.
‘What?’ asked Kelly.
Tyson looked down at the boot.
‘Surely you don’t expect me to take that home?’ She tugged on the lead. ‘Come on!’
This time, Tyson did spring to her heel, but not before he had picked up the boot with his teeth.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Kelly shook her head in disbelief.
The boot was half as big as Tyson, but the little dog insisted on carrying, or dragging, it across the grass. Kelly had to admit he looked hilarious, and by the time they had reached the gravel path again, she had taken pity on him.
‘Oh, go on then, if it matters so much,’ she sighed, as she took the boot from Tyson’s mouth and tucked it under her arm. ‘You know you can always win me over, don’t you?’
Chapter 5 – August 2012
That evening, Kelly was sitting outside the caravan, helping her mum to peel the potatoes for tea. Exhausted from his adventure by the railway, Tyson was stretched out in the shade of his kennel, tied to a hook on a long lead. There was still plenty of warmth in the evening sun so lots of people were outside and there was a happy and contented bustle around the site as families prepared and enjoyed their evening meals, or relaxed while their small children played. As Kelly’s mum chopped the peeled potatoes and dropped them into a pan of water, she hummed along to a Take That track playing on her iPod inside the caravan. She was about to launch whole-heartedly into the chorus of ‘Rule The World’ when she and Kelly heard Dad’s Nissan Navara coming through the gate.
‘Here’s your dad,’ said Mum, getting up out of her chair. ‘Better get these potatoes on. He’ll be hungry.’
Kelly smiled and waved at her dad as he got out of the four-wheel drive.
‘Hi, love!’ he piped cheerfully. ‘Good day?’
‘Well, it was interesting.’ She gave him a kiss as he bent over her before flopping down in the chair Mum had just vacated. ‘How was yours?’
‘Good.’ He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. ‘Bloomin’ hot and sticky but we’re making good progress. We’ve cleared all along the track up the slope from Stratford-upon-Avon and we’re not far from here now. We’re working near that hill where the track bends round before the final stretch into Wilmcote station. I reckon we’ll be finished by the end of September if we keep going at this rate.’
Just then, Mum appeared at the caravan door holding two ice-cold beers in her hand. She came over to greet her husband and handed him one of the bottles.
‘Ooh thanks, love. I’ve been dreaming of this all afternoon.’
Mum chinked bottles with him then went back inside, taking her own drink with her.
‘You must be working just round the bend from where I was with Tyson today,’ said Kelly. ‘I was on the footbridge. You know? The one you have to cross to join the canal towpath, the other side of the station.’
Dad nodded as he took a long swig from his beer bottle. ‘So what was so interesting about it, then?’ he asked, smacking his lips. ‘You said your day was interesting. That makes a change from the usual moans about how bored you are.’
Kelly told Dad about Tyson, the rabbit, and his close escape.
‘Well, good for you for not trying to follow him,’ praised Dad. ‘You hear crazy stories about people getting into trouble trying to rescue their dogs. People walking out onto frozen lakes and falling through the ice and drowning, that kind of stuff.’
‘I know. But you can understand it though, Dad. I was so scared. I thought he was going to get hit by that train.’
‘Well, keep him on the lead in future. Unless you’re one hundred per cent sure he can’t go anywhere he shouldn’t.’
‘I know. I will.’
They both fell silent while Dad drained the rest of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his grimy hand. ‘That didn’t touch the sides, that didn’t. It’s thirsty work, clearing that embankment in this heat. Anyway, what did you say it was that Tyson dug up?’
‘I’ll show you.’
Kelly jumped up and ran over to Tyson to retrieve the mouldy old boot which he had been lying with, protectively, ever since he came home. She sat back down next to her dad, holding it out in front of her, and turning it over and over in her hands.
‘Why on earth would you let him bring that home?’ asked Mum, as she came out to join them. ‘It’s just a mucky old work boot. Don’t you think about bringing it inside my caravan, will you?’
‘I didn’t intend to bring it home at all,’ replied Kelly. ‘But Tyson wouldn’t come without it.’
‘You spoil that dog,’ moaned Mum.
‘Well, dogs love leather chews, don’t they?’ laughed Dad, nudging Kelly’s arm with his elbow. ‘I guess that’s, like, the crème de la crème of dog chews!’
Kelly chuckled. ‘Ha ha. Good one, Dad. We sure know Tyson’s always liked the smell of sweaty old feet, don’t we? Just think of all those times when he’s licked the sweat from between your toes when you’ve had your socks off.’
The two of them laughed loudly while Mum turned her nose up in disgust. When she’d finally stopped giggling, Kelly peered inside the boot again.
‘For goodness sake, put it down!’ cried Mum. ‘It’s filthy! You don’t know who’s had their foot in there.’
‘Actually, I think it’s really old.’ Kelly was trying to peel back the tongue, which was stiff with mud and fused in place. ‘I mean, it could be Victorian or something.’
‘Nah,’ said Dad. ‘It’s probably just made to look old.’
‘Maybe. Perhaps there’s a label inside. I’m going to clean it and see if I can see anything that might give me a clue.’
Mum shook her head in disbelief as she watched her daughter head off to fetch an old washing-up bowl.
Kelly brought out a kettle and filled the bowl with some warm soapy water. She used a sponge to gently clean all the mud and silt from the boot. It took quite a time, and a couple of changes of water, but eventually the leather began to regain some of its original colour and started to soften so that Kelly could open it up and have a good look inside the boot. She could see where there had been an imprint in the leather sole on the inside, but it was far too faint to make out clearly.
‘I definitely don’t think this is a modern boot, you know, or even a replica of an old-fashioned one. I think it is old,’ she said to her dad as he returned from his shower, rubbing his hair with a towel. ‘It’s not that big, either. I don’t think the owner could have been very tall.’
‘It still just looks like a smelly old boot to me,’ said Mum. ‘What on earth is the fascination with it?’
Kelly couldn’t answer that str
aight away. It puzzled her too. But there was certainly something about the boot that fascinated her. Something that made the hairs tingle on the back of her neck.
‘I guess I’m just curious to know whose foot it might once have been on. It might have belonged to one of the old steam train drivers, or one of the men who built the railway in the first place. When was our line built, Dad? Was it Victorian?’
Dad laughed. ‘Don’t ask me, love. History’s not my thing. I never learned to read and write at school, let alone learn all those dates and boring old facts. I’d be interested to know if your boot was worth something, though. You sometimes hear on the news about people digging up old coins and daggers, and ancient Roman sandals and all that, don’t you? They must be worth something. So you never know, Kel. You might have struck lucky there!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ scoffed Mum. ‘I think the sun’s gone to both your heads. Anyway, supper’s ready. Come inside, both of you.’
Mum was probably right and the boot was unlikely to be anything special, but somehow Kelly couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. Quickly, she climbed up the ladder attached to the back of the caravan and slid the boot onto the roof where it could dry off safely in the sun. At least Tyson wouldn’t get hold of it up there, and when it was dry she could add the boot to her treasure chest under her bed.
Although it was only a cheap plastic toy crate with a clip-on lid, Kelly’s treasure chest was full of special objects—things she had found, been given or collected, which had taken on special meaning to her. Tucked into a corner was one of Uncle Dave’s old Rizla tobacco tins, still secreting its vanilla-sweet scent, in which Kelly kept a small collection of old buttons. Her favourite was one of Nana’s old cardigan buttons. It was navy blue with gold patterned edging and Kelly always thought that it looked royal in some way, as if it belonged on the robe of a king or queen. Then there was the sparkly butterfly hairclip that Dad had bought her when she was tiny and which she had dreamed once belonged to a fairy princess, and an old piece of glass, worn smooth by the weather, which Kelly had spied poking out of the soil on their campsite near Malvern. It had a beautiful aquamarine colour and was oval in shape. Finally, tucked among this random collection of odds and ends were some old family photographs and an envelope of used tickets and receipts from places Kelly and her family had visited.
Everything in the chest had a story and, as Kelly went inside for her supper, she wondered what the story of the old boot might be. One day, perhaps, she could tell it.
Chapter 6 – 2 February 1852
It was a cold, stormy, winter evening and the fireplace in the study in Sir Charles Barry’s London home on Clapham Common was stacked high with logs. The fire crackled and roared as the high winds sucked the flames up the chimney. But even the heat of the raging blaze did little to soothe the tension in Sir Charles’ tired, aching body.
He was working late, as usual, having headed back to his study immediately after supper, asking his wife Sarah to excuse him from her company while he tied up a few loose ends from the day. How ridiculous that was, he thought to himself as he uttered those words. He wasn’t sure he would ever tie up all the loose ends on this project. They were more like gaping holes.
What had first been an enviable prize had turned into a burdensome weight around Barry’s neck. His designs for the new Palace of Westminster had been chosen as the favourite from ninety-seven entries, submitted by top architects from all over the world, so the news that he had won the commission had left him bursting with pride. Now, six years beyond his original target completion date, Barry felt suffocated by the pressure of it all and wrung out by the challenge of overcoming one unexpected setback after the next, and answering to so many masters. Lately, even Prince Albert had begun to take an interest in the building by chairing the committee which vetted the choice of sculptures and paintings. While the support of such an important figure was flattering, the Prince’s involvement meant there was yet another voice to listen to, another body of opinion to be seen to consult.
And the pressure was mounting. Tomorrow was the official state opening by Her Majesty the Queen. Preparing for the event had been a living nightmare. Although the House of Lords and the House of Commons were both now in use, large sections of the building were still incomplete, with months if not years of interior work still to come. Barry and his team had spent the last few weeks focusing on the route that the Queen would take through the building, making sure that royal eyes would not see a single bare wall, unpainted ceiling, or even the tiniest speck of dust. His team had done a marvellous job of preparing those rooms, but Barry still felt like a reluctant party host, caught out by guests arriving too early.
Not that he was in the mood for a party. How could he be, when just one month before he had buried his dear friend and partner, Augustus Pugin? An esteemed designer, Pugin had worked with Barry successfully many times in the past and had proven himself to be an unsurpassable talent. Over the years, the two men had formed a firm friendship, and Barry’s affection and admiration for his friend was summed up by the nickname he chose for him: Pugin was his Comet.
The shared stresses and strains of the Westminster project had cemented the two men’s friendship, but what Barry loved most about Pugin—his attention to detail and quest for impossible perfection—had been the poor chap’s undoing. Achieving perfection on the interiors of a building as large as the Houses of Parliament had proved impossible. Pugin’s vision had been compromised all too often and the project had driven his sensitive soul quite mad. In a state of high stress and fragile health, Pugin had finally been admitted to Bedlam, the huge asylum for the insane in Southwark, and had died there before the month was out. Grief at the loss of his friend, and the fact that he felt partly to blame, lay heavily on Barry’s mind.
Barry bent over his desk and studied the latest drawings for the Members’ Lobby on which he had pencilled some of the most recent amendments. His eyes were scratchy and sore and, in the gloomy evening light, he struggled to read the tiny notes that he had scribbled all over the margins during his last site visit.
‘Come in,’ he croaked, as he heard a gentle knocking on the door. It was his wife, carrying a glass of brandy on a silver tray.
‘I thought you might like a little refreshment, my love,’ she said softly as she put the tray down on the end of her husband’s desk. ‘Do you have much more to do? It’s getting so late.’
‘Oh my dear, I could work through the night and still not complete everything.’
‘Well, I simply won’t allow it.’ Sarah placed her hand tenderly on top of her husband’s. ‘Tomorrow is a day to celebrate what you have achieved. You should enjoy it and be proud, and to do that you need a good night’s sleep.’
Barry had aged at a frightening rate since the construction of the Palace began and Sarah had nursed him through long bouts of illness. Although she tried to keep his home life free from worry and stress, she could not protect him from events beyond their door. The rush to prepare for the state opening, Pugin’s death, and even his recent knighthood had added layer upon layer of pressure upon him.
‘The work doesn’t stop when the building is officially opened, Sarah,’ snapped Barry, then immediately felt bad for taking his frustration out on his wife. Sarah flinched at his abrupt tone but did not move from his side.
‘It became necessary to change the dimensions of the Members’ Lobby,’ Barry explained, pointing to his drawings. ‘So we have had to alter the size of the floor slabs also. Each one needs to be a few inches smaller or we won’t be able to lay them without cutting them. Normally that wouldn’t matter, but on a project like this, everything has to be just so. Only whole slabs will do. It might sound like an insignificant change but it has resulted in a delay at the quarry in Wilmcote—and their deliveries are still coming by canal, which means a further wait. I need the new slabs right away.’
‘But did you not say that there was to be a new railway line through Wilmcote? I thought t
hat was all part of the original agreement?’ Sarah enquired.
‘It was indeed,’ said Barry. He looked his wife directly in the eye. ‘Sarah, I apologise, but there is something I have not shared with you. I invested some money in the railway company too—our money—to speed the whole thing along. They needed £150,000 for a charter, and I gave them a significant sum towards it. Our friend Sir Francis invested too—as did the quarry owner, Richard Greenslade, so I can’t hold him responsible for the delay. But we all underestimated how the waterways company would respond to the threat from the new railway. Holding the keys to the quarry’s only existing transport route, the owners of the Stratford-upon-Avon canal had a lot of power to wield. So they launched one appeal after the next.’
‘I suppose one can’t blame them for trying to protect their business,’ remarked Sarah.
‘No, but they have become a thorn in my side. I should have given the flooring contract to a quarry that already had rail links.’
‘Is it too late to change? Could you get the Yorkshire quarry to take over the whole contract, perhaps?’
‘Unfortunately, that’s not possible. Even if we did terminate the contract with Wilmcote, there is a difference in the colour of the stone. It is far paler than the sand-coloured stone from Anston Quarry. And my goodness, Pugin would turn in his grave if he thought that his floors wouldn’t all match perfectly.’
Barry sighed. ‘Anyway, I have sunk too much money into the Wilmcote deal to back out now. No, I shall have to fall back on Sir Francis and his political contacts if I am going to make that railway happen soon.’
Sarah smiled at her husband. ‘I am sure you will succeed, my dear. I have every confidence in you. But you also need to look after yourself and to do that you need sleep. So promise me, no more than half an hour more.’
Barry nodded at his wife. Kind, gentle, sweet-natured Sarah. It would break his heart to let her down.
Chapter 7 – August 2012
