by Helen Watts
‘I am not saying he should waste it. I’m saying that he’s old enough to be out earning a living.’
‘Well, he will be, soon enough,’ replied Alice. ‘He doesn’t have long to go at school now.’
‘So what are you planning to do when you leave, Billy, if you’re too clever for the stone pits?’ William put down his knife and fork and looked directly across the table at his son. ‘Work in a dingy old office, pushing papers around your desk? Please God, tell me you’re not planning on joining the clergy, like your grandfather! One man of God in the family is already more than I can bear.’
Alice pushed her chair back from the table. Its legs scraped loudly on the stone floor and her face flushed red as she got to her feet. ‘William, that is enough! Why do you insist on being so hostile? Surely you want the best for your son?’
‘Best? What does that mean, Alice?’ William was shouting now and he, too, stood up so that he was face to face with his wife. ‘All I know is that my best is never good enough—not for you, and certainly not for your holier-than-thou father!’
Alice’s jaw dropped as her husband stormed out of the room. Billy heard the front door slam and then the crunch of his boots on the gravel outside as he strode off up the path.
His mother’s shoulders dropped. All of the air appeared to drain out of her body, and she crumpled into her chair and stared silently at the uneaten food on her plate, the gravy now cold and congealed.
Billy reached over and took her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ he said softly, fighting back the tears.
‘Don’t be sorry, Billy. It’s not your fault. Your father doesn’t mean what he says, you know. He loves you. It’s just that he wants so badly to do better by us, to look after us properly, in his own way. He’s not a bad man, Billy.’
‘I know.’ Billy squeezed her hand. ‘I just wish he wouldn’t fly off the handle like that at you. He does it every time Grandpa’s name comes up. I shouldn’t say this, but I think Grandpa’s a lot to blame. He makes Father feel worthless.’
Alice let go of Billy’s hand and moved her plate to one side. She ran her fingers around the circular imprint left behind on the tablecloth as she spoke. ‘It’s true. My father doesn’t think William is good enough for me. But your father works so hard and he does love us both. Grandpa will see that he’s a good man in the end, as I did.’ She paused and smiled. ‘You should have seen your father when I first met him. He was so young and handsome.’
‘How did Father persuade Grandpa to let him marry you?’ Billy liked to think about his parents being in love, back in happier times. But when he asked the question, his mother suddenly drew herself up in her chair. It was as if a dark curtain fell down across her face.
‘You shouldn’t ask so many questions, Billy!’ she snapped.
‘But I was just…’
‘I need to clear the table.’ Alice spoke over him. ‘Fancy us sitting here looking at dirty dishes for all this time. Run along now, I am sure you have schoolwork to do.’
Billy knew better than to keep on pushing. Disappointed, he got up from the table and left the room. What had made his mother change the subject like that? Whatever it was, it was likely to be a long time before he could find out. She rarely spoke of the past.
Picking up his satchel from the hall, he hooked it over his shoulder, and retreated quietly to his room.
Chapter 9 – Summer 1859
William had marched all the way down the path, along the lane and to the main street into Wilmcote before he was able to calm down. With his hands shoved hard inside his trouser pockets and his shoulders hunched, he kicked several stones into the hedge along the way to help vent his rage.
But as he emerged onto the village street, the sight of distant lights in the windows of the Mason’s Arms soothed him. As his anger subsided, he became more defiant. Arguments flew round inside his skull. So what if the cottage they lived in belonged to his wife’s father? It didn’t make him less of a man. And what did it matter if he was only a lowly railwayman? He worked hard for a living and he was the one who put the food on the family table and the clothes on their backs. His father-in-law could go to the devil and take his pompous views with him.
Trust me to have fallen in love with the daughter of a vicar, he mused. Yes, who would have dreamed it? His father-in-law, the Reverend Frederick Knott. William would never forget the look on his face when they had told him that Alice was with child.
William had assured Alice that honesty was the best policy and had persuaded her that they should tell her father of her condition right away. Fair enough, at twenty-two he was five years older than Alice and should have known better, but he was willing to do the right thing now and stand by her. He had hoped that her father would give him credit for that, at least.
But breaking the news had gone even more badly than he had predicted. William had thought that Reverend Knott was going to have a heart attack on the spot. He was left in no doubt that, while the vicar would agree to William marrying his daughter in order to protect her reputation, he would never, ever forgive him.
Nothing that William did was good enough in the eyes of Reverend Knott. The vicar could not bring himself to praise William for anything, instead undermining all of his son-in-law’s achievements.
‘You have never done anything on your own merit,’ he had scoffed at him, over a family lunch the other weekend. ‘You only got out of that stone pit and into a job on the railway because of my daughter. They would never have employed you otherwise.’
That had cut to the quick. William had been so proud to be starting a new job. And even if Alice had asked her employer, Mr Greenslade, to put in a good word for him with the railway company, he had still had to impress the foreman, who had warned that only the hardest workers would keep their place on his team. William was pleased to be able to bring home a better wage, too. With a son with a growing appetite, who didn’t seem in a rush to leave school and help bring in some wages, they had been struggling financially.
William’s solution at times like this, when his own failings were paraded so cruelly before him, was to head for the nearest cask of ale and drown his sorrows. That usually meant joining his friends in the warmth of the Mason’s Arms, where he would throw back several pints before staggering home and falling asleep in the boxroom in a sweet, soothing stupor.
That evening, when William entered the public house, his three companions, Ted, Lewis and George, were already seated around the fireplace among several other railway workers. On the far side of the bar, like opponents on the opposite side of a chequers board, was a group of pit workers, still grey and grimy from their day at the rock face.
Friendly banter passed between the two sets of drinkers, who nicknamed one another Pitheads and Steamheads.
‘Well, look who the cat dragged in!’ remarked one of the Pitheads, when he saw William heading for the bar. ‘You’d better watch your step, Denton. Don’t come any closer or your Steamhead friends’ll think you’ve gone over to the other side. We know how you like to do that, eh? Or do you think you’re too good for us, now that you work above ground?’
William shrugged and raised his glass to his challenger. ‘Hey, you know me. I’ll go anywhere for a good pint of ale.’
The Pitheads laughed. ‘Come and join us for a while,’ said one, a jolly, round-faced chap who had worked alongside William when he had been at the quarry. ‘I want you to meet my son, Gabriel. He’s just started in the pit.’
William sat on the end of the bench and the men chatted congenially while they supped their ale. The Pitheads were keen to brag about the vast quantities of stone they had quarried since Christmas and how much had already gone down to London.
‘I can’t remember a time when we were so busy,’ William’s old friend told him, ‘and it’s only going to get worse when that railway of yours opens. We will have a devil of a job to keep up the pace then.’
‘Have you heard? That architect, Sir Charles Barry, is going to
honour us with his presence again next year for the official opening,’ said William. ‘Alice told me that he and Greenslade have both sunk their own money into the railway. So I suppose they have their own reasons for wanting the line finished, besides being able to get to London quicker.’
‘I remember that Barry chap as clear as a bell,’ said one of the older Pitheads, leaning up against the wall in the corner, sucking on his pipe. ‘I was working in the pit the day he visited. 1839 it was. He was travelling all over the country looking for the best stone he could find. Mr Greenslade asked me to bring him a rock sample. Barry struck me as quite a decent gentleman. A bit of a toff, in his top hat and shiny boots maybe, but he asked me a fair few questions, about working conditions and the like. Of course, that was before he was made a Sir. I’ll wager he wouldn’t give me the time of day now he’s rolling in luxury.’
William agreed, thinking of someone else he knew who thought himself a cut above the rest. Suddenly he needed another pint.
Chapter 10 – Summer 1859
That evening, Barry was also enjoying a drink, but rather than a mug of ale, his was a crystal snifter of fine French brandy. He was standing in the recently completed office of Sir Francis Throckmorton MP, where the smell of fresh paint and wood varnish still filled the air.
After raising his glass to his friend, Barry took a moment to look around. Although small compared to some of the more impressive rooms, the office was a serene and satisfying place to be, with beautifully carved oak panels on three walls and a velvety flock paper on the fourth. Barry recognised the pattern as one of Augustus Pugin’s favourites—a rich colourful design of floral motifs, with red roses and golden daffodils on a pure white background, bordered by navy-blue ribbons edged in gold.
‘So we finally got our charter. Our Stratford-upon-Avon branch line is well underway.’ Throckmorton smiled knowingly at his friend and fellow shareholder over his glass.
‘Yes. By this time next year the line should be fully open,’ replied Barry. ‘But at what cost? I don’t know about you, but I have invested more than I intended and this whole deal has taken far longer to secure than—I think it’s fair to say—you led me to believe. I may well see the return on my investment in the railway but I didn’t expect to have to help the rail company buy the canal company too! I shan’t see a return on that investment, I doubt. The canals are a dying business, if you ask me.’
‘Well, it was bound to take time, my good man.’ Sir Francis swirled and sniffed the brandy in his glass. ‘You can’t blame the canal industry for putting up a fight. Their business has been hit hard since the railways came. Like it or not, buying up that stretch of canal was the quickest solution in the end.’
‘Indeed, and it will ease at least some of the delays on the build if I can have access to Greenslade’s stone—and his masons—at short notice. But it still leaves me with a mighty headache. This project should have made me financially secure yet I fear it has the potential to destroy me.’ Barry shook his head and looked down into his glass. ‘It certainly causes me plenty of worry. I can see myself heading for Bedlam, like my poor old friend, Pugin.’
‘I am sure you exaggerate, Sir Charles. But speaking of funds, how’s the bottom line looking on this project?’
‘Disastrous. Do you really want to know?’
‘Well, I can help to keep the wolves from your door more easily if I know what I’m defending. You realise I can put in a good word for you in Parliament.’
Barry sat, as if the financial burden was physically weighing him down. ‘I won the bid based on an estimated project cost just short of £725,000.’ He paused and looked Throckmorton in the eye. ‘At the latest review, we are already over £2 million.’
‘Hell’s teeth, Sir Charles!’ Throckmorton swallowed hard.
Barry reminded Throckmorton of the delays and huge additional expense caused by the problems with ventilation. After the fire that had destroyed the original building in 1834, Barry had been asked to ensure that the building could breathe properly. He had, on Parliament’s advice, been required to bring in a ventilation expert, who had amended his drawings to include a 300-foot high tower above the Central Lobby. The tower would act as a chimney, the expert had assured him, drawing up stale air and allowing it to escape through vents in its spire. But his design didn’t take into account the direction in which the stale air would flow. MPs constantly complained about the cooking smells and the dreadful reek of manure that wafted by from the kitchens and nearby stables. As a result, Barry was forced to find another solution—and another ventilation expert.
‘Then there was the problem with the bells for the Clock Tower,’ Barry added. ‘Do you recollect? The casts kept cracking. The workshop had never had to make anything of that size before. Then of course I had to find a solution to stop the limestone on the outer walls from decaying in all the blessed London smog. All these things have all added up, you know. Not that any excuse seems to wash with the Treasury. You’re aware that they are trying to cut my fees, I suppose?’
Sir Francis remained silent.
‘They are refusing to pay anything beyond the fees I originally quoted—but those were based on a six-year project time span. Next year it will be twenty years since we laid that first foundation stone, but no one can blame me for over-running this far. It’s not fair that I should be so heavily penalised.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. I understand. And other people will too, Sir Charles, I will do my best to make sure of that. Besides, name me an architect who could have done this any quicker.’
‘Thank you, Sir Francis. I am for ever in your debt,’ said Barry, raising his glass to the MP.
Throckmorton inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, then added, ‘But take my advice as a friend, Sir Charles. If there is even the slightest chance that something else could go wrong, particularly if it could place you in even deeper financial difficulties, then you have to start putting some insurance policies into place—and fast.’
‘What do you mean?’ Barry asked.
‘Protect your investments where you can. Tell the chairman of the railway company that we will both withdraw our support if the branch line is not open within the next twelve months. And by that I mean financial support, of course. Look out the time clause in the contract and threaten to use it. And make sure you tell that quarry owner that he won’t get a penny more until you have every last piece of stone that you need from his quarry.’
Barry’s thoughts went back to that morning, all those years ago, when he had taken breakfast in Richard Greenslade’s dining room. Greenslade was a good, honest man. Barry liked him, and he was aware that Greenslade had almost as much at stake in this whole railway line affair as he did. But Throckmorton was right. Barry had to protect himself, for Sarah and the children’s sake, if nothing else. Yes. He would have to start making some ultimatums.
Chapter 11 – August 2012
During the days that followed Kelly’s Sunday morning encounter with Ben, she returned to the railway bridge several times on her walks with Tyson, hoping that she might bump into her new friend again. But so far there was no sign of him. She had walked along the canal in the other direction too, to see if she could work out the route he had taken back to his cottage. She remembered him saying that it was on Stone Pit Farm, on the other side of the village, but she wasn’t sure where that particular farm’s land started and finished, so she didn’t really know where to begin looking.
By Friday, she had pretty much given up, and decided that it was about time she took Tyson somewhere he could have a good long run off the lead. She took the footpath that led south from the caravan site and crossed first over the railway, then over the canal, by way of a narrow old stone bridge, before winding its way through some woods and out onto open farmland.
There were no sheep or cattle out in the fields that day so she let Tyson off the lead and ambled along happily, while he ran in mad circles through the long grass. Every few seconds Tyson’s head
would pop up above the level of the grass as he jumped up like a kangaroo to check where Kelly was.
It was a lovely warm sunny day. Kelly took off the denim shirt that she had on over her strappy T-shirt and tied it round her waist, as she and Tyson followed the footpath up the hill and along the edge of a wheat field. It wouldn’t be long before the farmer would be out there harvesting. The wheat had already turned an even, pale gold colour, and Kelly could hear it popping and crackling in the heat.
In the corner of the field the path ran along the side of an overgrown copse, roughly fenced off with two strings of barbed wire suspended between wooden posts. Then it turned sharply on a ninety degree angle to follow the trees up towards a small gate into a meadow. It looked as though the ground inside the copse fell sharply downwards, forming a deep bowl in the earth, like a crater. As Kelly walked, she peered between the gaps in the vegetation, trying to make out what was on the other side of the fence line.
Just after she had passed through the gate into the meadow, she spotted a bigger gap in the bushes. A fence post had come loose in the ground and was leaning at an awkward angle, while the wire fence was bent down, as if someone had climbed over it. She glanced behind to check on Tyson and saw him happily sniffing around in the meadow. He had picked up a badger trail and was following it, nose to the ground like a bloodhound.
Kelly ducked under a low branch and stepped right up to the wire. She peered through the trees and bushes, trying to get a better view down into the crater. Suddenly, she flinched. There was something there. A shape, blocking out the light which otherwise filtered through the leaves. A deer perhaps? Then a sudden movement, and Kelly let out a little cry as she saw, peering back at her through the greenery, two blue eyes.
‘Hello, Kelly.’
‘Oh my God! It’s you! I nearly died. What the hell are you doing in there?’
Ben stepped out from the trees, looking more than a little dishevelled and covered in dirt.
