The World From Rough Stones

by Malcom Macdonald

  "What?"

  Whatever he had been going to add he thought better of it. "'Twill keep," was all he said. "Wait while we've supped."

  The horse, eager for oats, passed them. Each foot unerringly found a sleeper. The navvy sat slouched on its shoulders; together they formed a single deep-blue shape against the orange of the setting sun. For a while after it passed she and John had to swish away a swarm of midges.

  "See yon shanty?" He nodded toward a stoutly boarded timber hut with four glazed windows and an iron chimney. "Mine. Big Lord John's Palace. As they call it."

  "Nay!" she said. "I thowt as navvies lay rough."

  A breathless youth, barefoot, ran up behind them.

  John turned and stopped. "Aye lad?"

  "I…" he gasped.

  "Get thy breath. Tha'st been to't surgeon?"

  "Aye…an 'e'll not come. 'E ast if it were…navvies…an 'e'll not come."

  "Tha said it were Lord John's gang?"

  "Aye. 'E said 'e'd not come, not if it was Lord Melbourne's gang."

  John looked coldly at the distant hills, as if seeking a safe path through them. "I shoulda sent thee, Nora."

  "I'll go now if tha wish it." His confidence filled her with assurance. For a moment she felt she could, indeed, talk the surgeon round.

  He laughed as he turned to her. Not in mockery. More in admiration. It made her want to help him even more, and she understood the effortless command he had over all these other huge and dangerous men.

  "Nay," he said, implying thanks. He was serious again. "I'll do what I can. As well as any bloody surgeon." Then he added enigmatically, "This is what must change, lass. One day. It's wrong."

  A distant shout behind them made them turn. Two navvies were running out of the cutting, one of them bearing something aloft. Folk streamed from huts and hovels to cheer them from the edge of the permanent way. There was a good deal of laughter, too.

  "Pengilly's leg," said the lad.

  When the two runners drew level, the one bearing the leg—part of a calf and a booted foot—threw it at the gang around the stretcher. There it was neatly caught and passed from hand to hand until one of them laid it, almost tenderly, beside the still unconscious Pengilly.

  Their callousness disgusted Nora—but not absolutely; something in her was eager to share their high-spirited contempt for danger, mutilation, and death.

  "That'll cheer 'im when 'e wakes," John said. "They'll 'ave a mock funeral

  toneet. Any excuse for a booze up." He began to walk again. "See what I can do. Nora—in yon palace there tha'llt find an old woman name o' Meg. Tell her Lord John sent thee. Lad'll go with thee. Tell 'er she's to give 'im me cauterin' irons an' spirit stove. The lad knows. An' tell 'er tha'rt to 'ave me best overcoat while they rags are on't dry."

  She and the lad made for the hut.

  "One thing," he called after her. "Tha'st got thy pair 'o boots now!"

  Chapter 5

  She gorged herself that suppertime, putting down almost as much beef and ale as Lord John. A corner of the shanty was partitioned off, by r o u g h wooden lockers on the one side and heavy curtains on the other. Outside, the furniture was all crates and packing cases; it lasted as long as someone's casual drunkenness permitted. The men and their women slept in hammocks or on straw mattresses. But inside Lord John's area was real furniture: a bed, all of four foot wide, with a hair mattress and blankets; a scrubbed table; two stout chairs; two pewter candlesticks not yet lighted; and an oak chest, smaller than the nautical kind but, like it, bound in brass and with a lock. She felt privileged to be sitting and eating in there with him.

  Washed and changed he looked almost a gentleman. He certainly behaved like one—helping her into her seat, making the old woman serve her first, and things like that. And he took such an interest in her, too. Whatever she said he found some way of turning it into another question—about her, her family, her life. And though she knew it was all just a way of passing the time until he took her over to the bed, it was kind and good of him to make her feel so interesting. Yet, funnily enough, he said almost nothing about himself; there weren't many men like that.

  He held up the ale jug. "S'll I burl more stingo?"

  "Nay!" She put a hand over her mug. "I've supped plenty. An' I've etten while I'm nigh brussen. Eee—I've not 'ad beef while..." She could not remember.

  "When?" he prompted.

  "While circuit preacher come to sup," she said, not certain it was true. "One Sunday, last backend."

  "When tha father were still alive."

  "Aye. Just afore 'e deed."

  "An ye 'ad beef in plenty afore that?" He suddenly noticed that his hand still held aloft the jug; he poured himself a bare pint, what they call a woolsorter.

  "Nay," she said. "Me dad were a 'andloom weaver. If we'd not 'ad five acres we'd of starved long since. Even then it were catcollop an' chimpins mainly."

  "'Ast tha…" he interrupted.

  But she was already speaking on: "If we ate flesh at all…'Ave I what?"

  "Nay. Go on." He downed most of the ale.

  "I said if we ate flesh at all, it were pig."

  She brushed some hair from her forehead; he thought she was mopping her brow. "It's that 'ot in ere," he said. "What say we go out for a stroll on't banks?"

  She wondered why, with a good bed and a thick curtain, he'd want to go out and frig among the grass and rabbit dung. "Aye," she said, standing up and easing the twine that girthed her waist. "By it were reet grand las' neet, wi't moon out an' all. It were that big and red."

  "Oh aye," he said, smiling a pretended innocence. "Tha likes it big an' red, dost tha?"

  She giggled and dug him with her elbow. Then she realized they had not said grace. "Hold fast."

  She did not bow but turned her head up to an imaginary sky. "Thank thee Lord fer what we've getten. More we'd 'ad an' more we'd etten. Amen."

  "Amen," he said and parted the curtain for her.

  Ironic cheers greeted them. The navvy who had been playing a jig on his concertina broke at once into "The Yorkshire Ram."

  They were still roaring out its chorus as John and Nora stepped outside.

  "They're not like navvies," she said.

  "That they are not. They're Stevenson's lads—my lads." He spoke with unaffected pride as he led the way across the line to the banks beyond. "'Ast tha still got't land?"

  "Nay," she said. "Sold it. To pay't lawyer for defendin' me brother when 'e got took for swearin' a combination. Bugger got 'is ands on't title deeds an' pled me brother guilty. There weren't nowt as I could do." She spoke as poor folk speak of floods and famines and other acts of God.

  "What tha done since?"

  "Looked after't bairns while they deed. Grafted in't mills down Stockport, then in't markets in Manchester. I've just done gatherin'…"

  "Markets! What dids't do there?" His interest was more than merely polite.

  "Figure work," she said proudly. "I like figure work. An' I've gotten the gawm for it. Up to Cocker, as they say."

  "Oh? What made thee leave?"

  "Gaffer there. 'E were on't swindle. 'E thowt I'd be too soft to see it." She snorted. "Ill-thriven fool! I saw it first day! 'E were keepin ten quid a week off takins o' 'undred 'n fifty. I don't see ow e's not caught. Without they're all at it down there."

  "Seven per cent!" he marvelled.

  "Six an two-thirds," she corrected automatically.

  He laughed. "An then 'e got to learn as thou knowed?"

  Now she was scornful: "Got to learn! I bloody told 'im. I said I'd want two ten an' 'e could keep seven ten."

  "Ye what!" He was taken aback.

  "I did. I thowt it weren't out o't way."

  "Ye don't lack fer stomach, Nora, but, eee, ye want teachin'!"

  "'Appen," she conceded. "'E paid us three weeks. Then one o't lads tipped us as gaffer were arrangin' fer us to get killed. 'E couldn't thoil it, see tha. Copper and gold give' im cramp i' th'ead."

  Joh
n laughed. "I don't blame 'im! So—'ere tha be."

  They had reached the highest of the banks. A bright silver moon picked out the land as clear as day, though it was still dark enough to show the gleam of factory windows in Littleborough and Rochdale and even in distant Manchester. Nora thought briefly of the days she had ached and sweated among the looms, inhaling the cotton lint until each breath was a struggle. Of the thousands of women and children now so placed she thought not at all.

  "There's no neet left," John said. "Not from Manchester to Leeds. Even on the darkest ye can always see them things reekin'." He nodded at the factories.

  "Aye," she said. "I thowt as I'd tramp back to Leeds afore winter falls. Job were that drear, anygate."

  He sniffed. "What did'st do wi't seven guineas tha got in't market?"

  "Th'art askin' a lot." She wished she could see his face more clearly.

  "Not in idleness, Nora. I have a purpose."

  "Why'd they call thee Lord John?"

  Laughing he threw himself upon a bank and patted the grass beside him.

  "It were Lord Muck once. I grafted a twelve-set on me own. Fer a bet, see."

  "What's a twelve-set?"

  "I filled twelve tubs o' muck. Twenty-seven yards. Cubic yards. Say thirtyfour ton o' muck." He sought for terms she could grasp. "Pair o' good men in a twelve-hour'll do fourteen tubs. I done twelve on me own. So they called us Lord Muck. Every navvy's gotten 'is name. There's none goes by 'is given name."

  "Why not?"

  He spoke for effect: "We're breakin' ground that none 'as opened since the world and time began. There's spirits there undisturbed. They'd 'ave us if they knew our given names."

  "Oh aye." She did not think him serious.

  "That's what't lads say, anygate. Fer missen I'd say there's a deal o' bodies above ground an' all, some way more solid nor spirits, as'd nab us if they knew our given names!"

  "Ah," she said with more conviction.

  "I can talk like a lord, if I'm minded to," he said.

  "Go on then."

  He crossed arms behind his head, closed his eyes, and recited: "It is with most agonized heart and mind I presume to address these few lines to your lordship's notice, whom I have had the honour of knowing by sight these many years…"

  Her giggles rose to a crescendo, drowning his plea. "Kno' what tha sounds like?"

  "A begging letter," he said. "I once made a good screw…" He dropped back into his affected speech: "…a tolerable living, a tolerable living, harkee, writing begging letters."

  "Eee! Give over! Beggin' letter! I know what thou sounds like."

  "What then?"

  "Church o' England! Church o' England sounds just like thee."

  The thought delighted him. "Very good! I'll wager tha could talk just't same if tha wanted."

  "Me? Nay. That I could not."

  "Go on!"

  "Nay, I sallant."

  "Say 'five.'"

  "Ffff. . ." she began. "Nay!"

  "Go on."

  "Thou say it again."

  "F i v e," he said deliberately.

  "F i v e," she mimicked perfectly.

  "Bloody marvellous!" he said, genuinely astonished.

  She giggled. She knew she could talk like Manchester or Stockport well enough to gull the folk there; but she had never tried to talk like a nob.

  "Say it again," he urged.

  "Five," she said, not quite so perfectly when she lacked his model to copy.

  "Say 'thousand,'" he continued.

  "Thousand." Again it was perfect. She giggled, again in surprise at herself.

  "Tha'llt do." He was completely serious. "Tha'rt gifted, lass. Tha'st gifts tha never dreamed on."

  "Nay, don't mock," she said, misjudging his tone in the dark. "Anygate, what're tha so quick to know bout us for then?" And when he did not answer at once, she prompted, "Tha said th'ad reasons."

  "I know," he said, still pondering. "All right. I'll tell thee. Yon fall in't drift, in't tunnel today…"

  "Aye?"

  "That little accident is goin' to domino our contractor, Mr. Skelm. It's beggar's staff for 'im now, see tha."

  "Nay." She was horrified.

  "Failed brickie. Failed builder. An' now failed navigation contractor. Or railroad contractor. 'E'll be sold up—dish, pan, an' doubler."

  She could not understand his relish. "But won't ye all be out o' work? If't contractor's dished up?"

  He chuckled but did not at once speak.

  "What'll ye do?" she prompted.

  "Skelm's in debt to these gangs two hundred'n fifty pound, give or take. I'll tell thee what I'll do. I'm goin to pay 'is debt for 'im. That's what."

  "Hoooo! Lord John Muck! Why—it's nobbut two undred 'n fifty!"

  He did not respond to her banter. "Oh—I've gotten it."

  "Where?" she said, deliberately overeager. She began to search through the pockets of his coat, which she was still wearing.

  "Ye'll not find it there. Give over! Anyroad—aren't thy own rags dry yet? Nay—give over." His voice was edged with anger but she did not notice.

  Her search produced a small silver box. It gleamed in the moonlight as she held it for him to snatch. He did not take the bait. "That's mine an' all. Give over I say!"

  She sniffed it. "Snuff. An' silver, too." She ran a fingernail across the lid. "What's that? All them squiggles?"

  "Put it back please," he said, still not joining her game.

  "Duke o' Bridgewater's agent 'ad one o' them."

  "Back please."

  She yielded, no longer seeking to taunt him. "'E were our landlord down Stockport," she said as she put the snuff box back in his pocket.

  "I s'll buy out Skelm's debt on condition 'e assigns me t'contract to finish Summit Tunnel."

  At last she realized he was perfectly serious. "What's that worth?" she asked, eager to make up for her disbelief.

  "To 'im? Bloody millstone round 'is neck. To me and my lads five more months for't drift, a year after that for't tunnel. To me missen? Profit on… 'undred thousand pound? Belike more." She drew in her breath sharply. "Aye! Food for thought, lass. Food for thought."

  "'E'll never do it. Will 'e?"

  "'E's goin to 'ave to. See tha, e's not been entirely honest—an I'm not entirely ignorant o' that fact. Nor'm I unwillin' to use it. Anygate—t'reason I was askin thee all that was…I mean when tha said tha could do figurework…"

  "I can," she said. "I know tha'd not think it, to look at us, but me dad taught us. Them five acres—I sold all't produce of o' them in't market. When I were so 'igh."

  "Everything?"

  "Money. An' bargainin'—I'd badger anyone down, or up, as I wanted. That's why Charley Eade took us on in Manchester. 'E said 'e'd never seen a body figure as quick as what I could."

  "What's seven per cent of a quid?" he asked.

  "One an' five," she said, barely pausing for thought. "Nigh on."

  "And of sixteen an four?"

  She thought only slightly longer before replying, "Nigh on one an two." Thinking aloud she added, "An ye'd be…fourpence…fourpence ha'penny in the pound too rich if ye multiplied up from that. If you was the taker."

  "Eay tha'llt do, lass!" He was delighted—something more than delighted "No doubt on't."

  "I love figures," she said. "It's like patterns an' colours." She wished she could explain it properly.

  He grasped her arm briefly, to stress his words. "See tha—if I can hook this contract, I'm goin to need someone who can do figure work. It's not as I can't do it missen. But I can't do it all. Not on me own."

  "Straight?" she said, beginning to feel excited. "Not just gas?"

  "Tha'llt see. I was sayin'—I s'll need someone who can…see tha, there'll be quantities to survey, materials, provisions, things to buy. I need a factotum."

  "Oh ah? That's another o' them things me sister give to't ragman."

  Impatience crept into his voice; he was eager to make his point. "A clerk. A help. An
other right hand. I tell thee, Nora. This is an age for fortunes. There's brass to be made on't railroads. Brass for common folk as would turn kings an' queens o' past ages green wi' envy." She smiled at the thought of it. "Aye," he went on, "ye may pull all't faces ye will, ye may doubt on—but I tell thee: We can be rich!"