by Tony Pollard
The fact that I did have another existence was brought home by the arrival of a letter. It was from Brunel, whose company I had last shared almost two months previously. It was written in his usual spidery hand, with the head of the paper embossed with his Duke Street address. I could only surmise that he had obtained my own address from Sir Benjamin.
Dear Phillips,
I hope that this short missive finds you well. Also, that the past weeks have seen an improvement in your father’s condition.
You have missed very little by way of excitement in the city. Work on the ship progresses at a damnably slow pace but the engines at least are all but fully installed. In spite of Russell’s procrastinations I am sure she will be ready for sea trials in no more than six weeks.
Despite the continued labours required of the ship I have found time for a new project, which though far more modest in scale is imbued with much greater ambition. There is still however much work to be done here and I suspect I will require further assistance from your good self with the matter.
The Lazarus Club continues to meet irregularly, although your presence as secretary is sorely missed. We all look forward to your return. But things are alas not what they were. I fear that our small club has forgotten the thirst for knowledge that motivated its formation. Too many of our members seem overly concerned with lining their own pockets, and Russell I fear is the worst offender – the man should never have been put in charge of the ship. But I should not be burdening you with my worries. You have more important matters at hand.
My kindest regards,
I. K. Brunel
Whether it had been his intention or not, Brunel’s letter served to shatter my rural idyll, and all at once I ached to be back in the city, at the hospital and in the thick of things. But I also craved a return to the world of Brunel and his engineering marvels. Once again he had piqued my inquisitiveness – what project could be more ambitious than the great ship and what assistance could he require of me? It sounded as though his relationship with Russell had reached a new low, and I could only hope for both their sakes that the ship was soon finished once and for all.
As if in perverse compliance with Brunel’s desire to renew our acquaintance my father’s health took a serious downturn not two days after the arrival of the letter. This came immediately after a marked lifting of his spirits which, although providing Lily with encouragement, had caused me some private concern. How many times had I seen patients rally just before a rapid decline and death?
I was between consultancies when Lily came running down the stairs and burst into the surgery in a highly agitated state.
‘He is having great difficulty breathing,’ she gasped between deep breaths of her own. ‘He seemed so well yesterday.’
The sound of my father’s dreadful rasping gasps greeted us as we entered the room, and even before reaching the bed I could tell that the final crisis was upon him. I took his wrist and felt for the pulse, which just as I feared was now dangerously thready. His eyes were open but he seemed barely aware of our presence, a clear sign that his body had entered into its last, involuntary struggle. He was now fighting for every breath. Lily stood at his feet, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the bedstead. I put my arm around her and guided her to the chair in which we had spent so much time over the past weeks. ‘We need to prepare ourselves, Lily,’ I whispered. ‘We are here with him, that is the important thing now.’
Lily took hold of his right hand, and his fingers flexed in an attempt to take a grip. I do not know how long we waited, perhaps an hour, maybe two. On one occasion he seemed to stop breathing, but then exhaled and continued, only much more quietly this time. Lily, who unlike Father and myself had always been a churchgoer, began to utter a quiet prayer. I am sure that if I had known the words I would have joined her gentle incantation.
Then at last it came. His mouth opened wide and issued a last draught of air, a terrible rattle coming from deep within his throat. Lily let out a cry, and later informed me that I too called out just on the moment of losing him. There had been no last words, no final farewell, but I am sure there had been a faint glimmer in his eyes, a flicker of acknowledgement just as he expired. We stayed with him for what seemed a long time afterwards, Lily weeping quietly. Only when Mary entered the room and let out her own expression of grief did we leave him. It had been a quick and painless passing, I told Lily, but in reality what did I know? What do any of us know until our own time is upon us? I suggested fetching the undertaker, but Lily would not have it, at least until she had washed and dressed him.
The funeral was four days later, and what seemed the entire population of the village turned out to pay their last respects to their good doctor. I stayed on at the house for as long as I felt able, which was long enough to mark a very subdued Christmas and New Year with Lily, who in normal circumstances so much enjoyed this time of year. On New Year’s Eve I told her that I had to return to London. She asked me to stay but knew that I felt my proper place to be in the hospital. Seeing that she was fighting a losing battle, she volunteered to accompany me to the station, but I told her it would be easier for both of us if we said our goodbyes at the house. Two days later, with 1859 seen in, and following much hugging and mutual promises to visit in the near future, we parted company at the garden gate.
After loading my bags, which were heavier than on my arrival due to the addition of the pistols and a single volume of my father’s journals, I clambered into the carriage. Fortunately, this vehicle, which had been laid on by Gilbert, seemed better disposed to movement than the wreck of a cart which had dropped me at the same spot six weeks previously.
Little more than an hour later I was standing on the platform at Bath, watching as the train to London pulled out of the station – a situation that would have been a little difficult to explain to Lily if she had come along to say her farewells. Not thirty minutes later the train to Bristol, which had started its journey in London, pulled in and I stepped aboard. Having racked my luggage I pulled Brunel’s letter from my coat pocket, and then removed from the envelope the key which had come with it. Then I reread the PS to his missive:
PS Should you have time on your return to London, if it occurs within the next few weeks, I would be extremely grateful if you could take a small detour to Bristol, which I know lies in the opposite direction, but is not too far away. If you can, then please call on my old friend Mr Leonard Wilkie and collect a package from him on my behalf. I would not like to entrust it to the postal service and cannot find the time to make the trip myself. Should you require an overnight stay then please feel free to make use of rooms I retain in the town, the key to which you are now holding. Should this prove impossible then I will fully understand.
In eternal gratitude,
I.K.B.
On a tag attached to the key were a pair of addresses: the first for Mr Wilkie and the second for Brunel’s lodgings. Here was the real reason for Brunel writing to me. Yet again he was after something – but I was well accustomed to his audacity by now, while he knew that his request would intrigue me. Obviously, I couldn’t tell Lily that I was leaving to carry out an errand and so had made much of my need to return to the hospital. And now here I was, heading west instead of east, my destination the town they say Brunel built.
13
The train came to a halt at Temple Meads, the bustling western terminus of the Great Western Railway. Beneath the iron-spanned roof of the passenger shed the tracks lay five abreast, with those on the outside running alongside the pillar-lined platforms. On to one of these the train debouched its passengers, myself among them.
It was strange to see so many people after months in the peaceful surroundings of home. Even Bath had been much quieter than this. With my fellow passengers I made my way to the exit, where coloured light streamed through cathedral-like windows. Porters dragged trolleys heavily laden with boxes and trunks while others manhandled a large coach, minus its horses, up a ramp on to an open freight c
arriage on one of the inside tracks.
The street was no quieter; carriages and carts drew away from the station in a steady stream. A fly poster on the wall gave notice that the transatlantic packet was leaving with the tide next morning. As many of the people seemed to be carrying all their worldly possessions I assumed they would be on it, their hearts set on a new life in America. Watching the already bedraggled travellers, I was grateful that Bristol marked the end of my own journey.
People were crammed uncomfortably into every available conveyance, and the exodus did not bode well for a rapid departure from the station but, to my surprise, it wasn’t long before I was sitting in a cab. My driver waited as I pondered which address on the tag to request. Since there wouldn’t be another train back to London until the next day I called out the address for Brunel’s lodgings, as there would be time enough to track down Wilkie once I had secured a bed for the night.
The cab drew to a halt on a street high on a hill. It was less affluent than I had expected, not down at heel by any means, just very ordinary. Paying the cabbie, I asked him for directions to Wilkie’s address, thinking it might be within walking distance. After a number of rights and lefts I would find the street in question, near the floating dock, whatever that might be.
The door gave way to a flight of stairs, at the top of which was a suite of three modest rooms, in addition to a bathroom and kitchen. Aside from the telltale signature of stale cigar smoke the place had the musty smell of a property left vacant and unaired for some time. I had known married men to keep a second address purely for the purpose of entertaining women other than their wives, but Brunel was not one of them. Work was his only mistress, of that I was sure. The apartment had the look of somewhere occupied by a man barely aware of his surroundings, with nothing in the way of decoration or embellishment. It was a bolt-hole cum office, nothing more.
A small mountain of stubbed cigar ends sat in a bowl on the desk. Alongside it lay the shrivelled and blackened husk of what had once been an apple, probably dating from the same time as the most recent of the drawings scattered across the desk, some three months before my arrival. All of the sheets appeared to relate to the same project – a bridge. Brunel had been working on the suspension bridge across the Avon Gorge for years, and like the ship it still wasn’t finished. I hoped my visit would provide an opportunity to see what some said would be among his greatest achievements.
I opened a window and was disappointed to find that despite being on a hill the buildings across the street blocked any view of the town. Leaving the sash up, I checked my watch – half past three. Just enough time to track down Wilkie and collect the package, take a quick stroll around the town and find somewhere for supper. Before leaving, I took the blankets and sheets off the bed and hung them over the chair by the open window. Whether or not they were clean was not a concern, and it was obvious from the cloud of cigar ash produced by a brisk shake that they were not, but lying down in them would be a more appealing prospect once they had been exposed to a little fresh air.
Liberated of my luggage, I set out to walk into town. It was a pleasant enough afternoon, if a little cold. Indeed, as I watched the seagulls circling overhead I realized I was quite enjoying my little excursion. It was a relief to be away from the confines of the family house. Momentarily distracted by the memory of my father, I tried to recall the directions given by the cabbie.
Wilkie’s address was not in a residential area, not if the ramshackle sheds and warehouses were anything to go by. I wandered along the street looking for the number on the tag, which had by now taken on a rather dog-eared appearance. Some of the buildings had numbers painted on their doors while others bore signs instead. I walked past Henry Bryant and Son – chandlers; Thomas Etheridge – shipwright and carpenter; William Forsyth – coffin manufactory; and then over the double doors of the largest of the sheds Willard Semple – ropemaker. Although I had not as yet seen a single stretch of water, it was apparent that the dock mentioned by the cabbie could not be far away. Given the inherent risks in going to sea, even the coffin maker did not seem too much out of place in this maritime quarter.
After walking half the length of the street I came across an unassuming door with the number 16 daubed in bitumen. Returning my trusty key to my pocket, I knocked soundly – nothing. Just as I was about to give up and walk away the sound of a bolt being drawn came from inside. The door creaked open and a big man emerged from the gloom within. ‘Oh, hello,’ I said brightly.
Instead of replying, the man craned his thick neck forward and checked to the right and the left. Apparently satisfied that I was alone, he asked in a deep voice in keeping with his stature, ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Dr Phillips,’ I replied, taken aback by the man’s brusqueness. ‘Mr Brunel sent me to collect a package?’
‘Keep your damn voice down,’ the man boomed, and then in an equally resonant tone, ‘Prove it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I asked, not knowing whether to be worried or amused by the chap’s manner.
‘If Brunel sent you, show me the key.’
Once again I pulled the object from my pocket and, stepping towards him, dropped it into the open palm of a hand almost twice the size of my own.
Reading the label appeared to provide all the proof he needed. ‘All right, come in.’
The giant stepped fully into the street to allow me entry before following and bolting the door behind us.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, handing back the key, which clearly had more than one way of opening a door. ‘It’s just that there have been a few strangers poking about of late, and you can’t be too careful.’
‘Quite,’ I said, for want of any other response. It was only then I noticed the heavy spanner he was hefting in his right hand. Could his suspicion of strangers be great enough for him to feel in need of a weapon?
I felt a little better when he put the spanner down on a bench and took my hand in a surprisingly gentle grip. ‘I am Leonard Wilkie.’
‘Good, then you’re the man I’ve come to see. I am sorry to catch you so late in the day.’
‘You’re still earlier than I would have liked. I’m not ready for you.’
This was not going as I had expected. ‘You mean you don’t have the package?’
‘I haven’t quite finished it yet. Mr Brunel didn’t tell me when you were coming.’
‘No, he wouldn’t have done. My arrival was dependent on rather unpredictable circumstances.’
Introductions complete, I looked around the room. Machines filled almost every available space. I had seen some of these metal beasts before in the sheds at Millwall. There were lathes, drills, borers and cutting machines, along with other devices with which I was unfamiliar, all with their own cogs, gears and drive belts. In one corner a gangly young lad was filing a piece of metal held fast in a vice, his narrow back arched over his work.
‘You’ve been building something for Brunel?’ I enquired, using powers of deduction that would have made my father proud.
‘Just a small job. I specialize in small jobs,’ replied my host, scratching his brow as if wondering what to do with me. ‘Truth be told, we’ve fallen behind schedule. It’s not too much to look at, but a tricky little blighter it’s been to get right.’
At the rear of the workshop a pair of sliding doors gave way to another room. There, the hot coals of a smith’s forge sent out a flickering red light, which gave the brick-vaulted hall and the machines within something of the look of a castle dungeon complete with terrible torture devices. Now that I looked again, the drills did appear to have very narrow bits, and some of the lathes were no bigger than Lily’s sewing machine. Perhaps it was all just a matter of scale: Wilkie wasn’t a big man after all, just a normal-sized chap working with undersized machines. A fine theory, but then I had to look up again to talk to him.
The mention of a project of modest scale in Brunel’s letter came to mind. ‘When you say small jobs, you mean you make small
things?’
‘I’m a metalworker, just like any other. Made a bit of a speciality of one-off, high-specification jobs, that’s all. I’ve built full-sized engines for ships and fully working models of the same thing you could sit on a dinner table.’ Holding out the shovels he used for hands and looking from one to the other, he said, ‘Hard to believe really, isn’t it?’
‘I’m a doctor, Mr Wilkie, I see all manner of strange things. But I can only thank you for your talent. Who, after all, would relish the prospect of carrying a ship’s engine back to London?’
He chuckled at this. ‘Indeed, no, you’d have a pretty sore lap by the time you got there.’
‘But I do need to get back to London,’ I said, more relaxed now that the ice had been broken. ‘Mr Brunel may have to make other arrangements for the collection of his package.’
‘When do you need to be back?’
‘The train leaves at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
Wilkie glanced back towards his machines and the boy. I wondered if the lad was working on whatever it was. ‘Ideally I would like another day. But if we work late tonight I can get far enough along for you to collect it in the morning. Brunel may need to do some fine-tuning at the other end, but it’s caused me enough grief already. I have other work I need to concentrate on.’
‘Can you tell me what it is?’
Wilkie sighed, beckoning me to follow him into a crypt-like chamber leading off the main hall. ‘I wish I knew,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Brunel sends me drawings with instructions to make things just so. They’re parts, that’s all. Some of them fit together but I haven’t got a clue what they’re for. He provides a specification and I meet it. If it was anyone else then I’d tell them to go elsewhere. There’s little satisfaction in making objects you don’t understand the purpose of.’
We climbed a short flight of rickety wooden stairs and entered a loft-like space with a small recessed window at one end. The tracery of timber beams and plastered surfaces created a less oppressive atmosphere than the heavy brick vaults beneath our feet. But Wilkie may not have seen things the same way. For up here, beneath the low-slung eaves, he was cast into a permanent stoop until he took a seat behind a large desk. The rest of the room was taken up with cabinets of papers and plans and a drawing board, but there was also a stove and an unmade cot.
