The World From Rough Stones

by Malcom Macdonald

  "I can, sir," Stevenson's tone was strangely perfunctory. He seemed more concerned to cover the marks of the blood. He kicked unstained muck over it and even bent to raise larger rocks with his hands to lay upon that patch of brown. Curious, Thornton now shone his lamp on the other's profile. Stevenson was totally absorbed. Only when the last trace of blood was covered did he return to their conversation.

  Thornton said, "Then, by George, you have my vote!"

  "Thank you, Mr. Thornton, sir. I'm counting on it," Stevenson replied. But he spoke as though that had been a foregone conclusion.

  Then, omitting only the mention of Nora and her part in it, he gave the engineer his account of the events leading up to and following the explosion.

  Ten minutes later they were out in the blinding moonlight. "My! It's brighter than day after that stygian dark in there," Thornton said. He greatly wanted to reopen the topic of Stevenson's bid for main contractor and wondered how the other had managed to close it so completely.

  "Look! Yon bank's live wi' rabbits," Stevenson said. "Ye'd think they knew they was safe from poachin'. Night like this."

  "They'll not be safe long."

  "Oh?"

  "No. I'm told they're to break up the warren tomorrow."

  The two men began to walk out along the cutting. "It's happening everywhere now. We broke up two down in Hertfordshire last summer. Big ones, too. Just in our one valley. Taken over the country as a whole; they must be ploughing up hundreds. About time too. The rabbits are a menace."

  "What'll poor folk be doing for meat?" Stevenson threw a lump of ballast at the bank, narrowly missing a large buck.

  "Hard luck! They'll not thieve it anymore, that's certain. There's talk now of fitting whole ships out with ice-making engines and chambers insulated from the heat in which to bring frozen meat from Australia. I suppose it will happen one day. I can't say I'd relish frozen meat, but no doubt it will be a boon to the poor."

  "'Appen," Stevenson said, already planning the night's work ahead.

  "Incidentally," Thornton chattered on, "talking of the poor—met a young gel this afternoon, tramping up this way, coming up from Littleborough. Handsome gel, too. Name of Molly. Tramping over to Leeds with her toes sticking out of her boots. I…uh, told her she might get a bite and some shelter with you." He looked for a response.

  Some time passed before Stevenson said, flatly, "Aye. She's there now." Then, turning suddenly he added, with every sign of innocent curiosity: "Did ye tumble wi' er, sir?"

  "I beg your pardon!" Thornton's hesitation and then his over-reactive bluster

  turned a near-certainty into one that was absolute.

  "She 'ad a sovereign hid about 'er—the which, if she got it off of you, were seventeen shillin too heavy."

  That, too, found an easy target. "You presume too far, fellow," the engineer said thinly. Then, in even less certain tones he added: "Did…er…she tell you so?"

  "Nay." Stevenson let him infer that the very idea was unthinkable.

  "Well…" Thornton, smiling again, was all breezy assurance, "there was nothing of that sort. The very idea! And a pound, too! Hah! There's better in St. George's Street at half as much."

  An outsider would have thought their laughter had a common cause.

  Chapter 7

  That same bright moon lay across the bed and Nora's sleeping form. Only her hand and arm extended into the light, but a softer reflection bathed the rest of her. It dimmed the redness of her hands and the weather stains upon her face. It lent her hair a lustre that daylight would dull and effaced the lines of care that these last years had etched. It was a more innocent girl, a Nora might-have-been who slept so soundly there.

  Long minutes he stood watching her, hoping the innocence might somehow invade her and stay, hating the necessity to wake her and knowing it would flee—especially with the tasks she must undertake for him between now and dawn. The sight of her almost turned his resolution. But at last, he reached down his hand and stroked her cheek as gently as he could. "Nora," he whispered. She stirred. "Come on, lass!"

  She awoke but did not open her eyes. The ease left her as she stiffened; a feline smile creased her face before she turned upon her back. The movement let the single blanket slide to the floor. She caught the hand that still caressed her cheek and carried it down to her breast. Only when it failed to play did she open her eyes. "Come on!" she said.

  "Nay, lass," he replied, but with little conviction. He sat heavily beside her. It cost a lot of effort to go on. "Theer's more important work afoot." He ran one fingernail down her midline, from neck to navel, as if it had been long familiar there. "Fetch us some watter," he commanded.

  "Watter!" She sat up.

  Moonlight on her body…the closeness of her body…the smell of her body…he compelled himself to look out through the window and speak with an edge of hardness. "Don't question, lass. Just do's tha'rt bid. Fetch watter."

  Piqued yet not daring to risk an open show of anger, she reached for her shimmy and the blue dress, now dry.

  "There'll be no slumber—nay, nor nowt else—this neet. See tha, this'll be thy first big test. Tha mun come through it."

  Curiosity began to replace her annoyance. "Reet, master! To be sure, master!"

  She spoke with the same sarcasm she had given the words earlier that day but, unlike Walter, John chose to take them straight. "That's't cheese, lass," he said. "Jump!"

  While she fetched the water he lit two candles. He washed face and hands with fastidious care, then bade her light two more candles and do the same.

  When she returned from tipping out the water she found him lifting a writing case from the brassbound box. "What're thou at?" she asked.

  He spoke as he worked, checking pens, paper, ink, and notebooks. "By daybreak tomorn I need a letter of introduction from th'Earl o'…" He ruffled his moustache with his thumb and smoothed it again. "Nay, we'll make it Duke o' Somerset. Aye! A letter from 'im an' a note of 'and from a London banker good for ten thousand quid. 'Ow's poor Pengilly? I should of ast."

  "Sleepin' now." Nora craned to see what was in the notebooks. "'E come to issen shoutin', so they topped 'im up wi' gin. Eh—know what they call im now?"

  "What?"

  "Pegoleggy," she giggled. "Instead o' Pengilly, see? Pegoleggy!"

  "Not bad." He was relieved to see her resentment was quite gone.

  "'E din' think it were owt to laugh at. They was 'owlin thissens daft, but 'e never even smiled."

  "Nay—well, tha can see 'is point o' view. Now…" He took the chair for himself and pointed for her to sit on the bedside, facing him across the table, "Get agate! Take pen and paper."

  Intrigued she obeyed. She dipped the pen, drained the excess against the neck of the well, and waited expectantly. "Aye?"

  "Set this down then. Figure this. Tha knows yon tunnel, 'ow it's shaped like a arch."

  "Aye?"

  "There's nigh on two 'undred 'n fifty bricks reaches from't invert up to't soffit an down to't invert on't other side."

  "Invert?"

  "Bed. Floor."

  She smiled. He asked her why.

  "Bed?" she said, with a different intonation. "Floor?"

  He grew exasperated. "Shape thissen, lass. No jokin' toneet. It's make or break, see tha. If theer's five courses—nay, figure't cost per course. Allow nine inches to a brick—'ow many bricks in undred yards? An' what's't cost at four bricks a penny? An' if a brickie can lay six 'undred an' forty to a day in't quadrant an' takes three bob a day…"

  "Three bob!"

  "Aye. Theer's't real aristocracy for thee! If they get three bob a day, 'ow long's it take 'em to lay 'undred yards—and the cost? Got all that?"

  Nora was scribbling furiously. "Aye, I think so."

  "Think! Think's no good to me!" Though his words were hard their tone was jocular.

  Her confidence was almost perfunctory. "Aye, well I 'ave then. Dids't say five courses to't arch? Ye want th' answer five times up?"


  His face creased in a slow smile, mainly of relief. "Tha'llt do. An' when tha'st figured that there's timber, hardcore, kyanised sleepers, layin' rail, stone… chippies, masons, navvies, Roman cement, gunpowder, coals, a thousand men, ninety 'orses, twelve—nay, ten, steam whims…an' more. All to be quantitied an' priced by sun-up."

  "Oh ah," she said. Her hand, independent of her, was already jotting down calculations. "What're thou goin' to do?"

  "'Elp thee. But first, like I said—I mun give missen some standing." He pulled a sheet of parchment from a shelf in the writing case. "See that?"

  "Aye." She barely glanced up before she spoke; the calculations seemed entirely to absorb her, leaving an automaton in charge of all her other actions.

  "Duke o' Somerset's own crested paper, yon. 'Is grace is about to write us a recommendation. 'Ere…" He held out another pen. "Take thou this pen. Yon's mine. Me special."

  She looked at him then; his words had just reached her. "It'll not be legal."

  He smiled and made some practice flourishes on a blank page of the notebook. "Listen! Success makes all legal. An' I'm goin' to succeed, see tha. Never mind 'legal.' No one'll talk of 'legal' when I'm made." Now he looked directly at her. "I've five thousand pound put by."

  Her eyes grew wide. "Five thousand! Nay!"

  "Aye. Not a penny—or not many—honestly come by. But I've worked for it, see tha! 'Ave I not worked! An now I'll tell thee this—there legal thievin', too. Industry's a golden turnpike to legal theft and extortion. For every quid I grafted there's lords and baronets and men o' middlin' sorts made thousands. An' now I mean to join 'em."

  "But a felony's still a felony—an' that's what tha'rt at. In't it a hangin' matter? Forgery?"

  "If I fail. If I'm found out. Aye—it'll be a felony. But if I clear, as I expect…" His voice fell as he beckoned her ear nearer. "If I clear thirty thousand on this an' put it back to make 'undred, an' that way onward…if they catch me then, there may be one or two will think I were a touch naughty at't start. But if they say it aloud, they'll cry it in't bloody wilderness. Anygate, t'int hangin now, forgery. Only fer forgin' wills and power of attorney to transfer stock. Forgery's transportable now, see tha."

  She had written £30,000 among her calculations, as if idly. "'Ow can tha make that much profit on a job that's bankrupted another?" she asked.

  He winked. "'Cos I got a factotum as 'e never 'ad!"

  "Nay. Bid off! 'Ow can tha do it?"

  He was serious again. "'Cos I got sense where 'e kept 'is brandy. I know what't navvy and craftsman can do. An' I know 'ow to encourage it. 'E slung money away did Skelm."

  "An' s'll I 'ave a wage or a cut o't profits?"

  Though her lips and glinting teeth smiled, as if she were really teasing, her eyes dwelled on his in a cold unhurried audit. This new depth to her excited him. He sensed a compulsion in her, and the compulsions of others always excited him. He understood them, those urges, as a musician understands an instrument or a craftsman his tools. And he could no more ignore it in her than a master carpenter could ignore a box of chisels found beneath a hedge. To recognize the power that gripped her was automatically to determine he would harness it and use it for himself.

  "We'll see," he promised. "Tomorn. See 'ow tha frame thissen to it."

  "Eay! In't it excitin'!"

  Her delight was infectious. "Aye," he said fervently, "it is. It is. Th'ast just 'it it. I reckon a successful swindle's t'most surpassin' thing in this world!"

  By morning even Nora's ardour for calculation was dimmed. She had worked through some parts of the contract six or seven times looking for savings—in the operations at the tunnel, in their sequence, and in delaying payment on the bills as they fell due. Time and again John had turned down her suggestions as "technically impossible" or "bad practice" or "not reet by't lads"; but a few he had allowed—and not grudgingly but with admiration. So she had been encouraged to gather all these permissible economies together and calculate their total effect. The purpose had been to keep the cost below five thousand pounds, John's total capital, until payment was due on the contract on Boxing Day.

  She could not conceal her disappointment. "Theer's no way I can trim it finer. It'll cost thee all but six thousand."

  Strangely, though, his disappointment was more conventional than deep. "There is a way," he said. "I've not told thee yet."

  "Nay," she choked a scream. "I can't. Not another. Me 'ed's that maddled wi' figurin'! I couldn't!"

  He waited patently. "'Ave ye done?"

  "'Ave I! Every bloody way! 'An I sallan't…"

  "Willt listen!" She was silent. "Reet. There's no figurin' in it. No figurin' to do. Plain reason is all. Tha says there's no way I can do it under six. Yet five's all I've got. Reet?"

  "Correct."

  "So. I must find a scheme to let them pay us 'alf what's due, 'alf way twixt now and th'end o't year. And then on, regular like, reet through't contract."

  "Oh aye—'ow'll tha do it?"

  "I don't know. But summat'll come to us. I'll find't way."

  His daring and wholehearted acceptance of the impromptu left her wideeyed. So did his mountainous breakfast of cold beef, hard eggs, potatoes, and beer. So, too, did the gentleman's suit and gaiters he put on for his visit to the directors of the Manchester & Leeds Railway in their smart new headquarters at Miles Platting.

  Chapter 8

  The directors of the Manchester & Leeds Railway in their smart new headquarters at Miles Platting were not in the best of humour. The whole railway world was still squirming at the memory of the Kilsby Tunnel, and the comparisons with Summit were uncomfortably resonant. Both were twin-track, brick-lined, with a horseshoe section and a twenty-six-foot span. Both had been surveyed by the Stephensons and both were originally estimated at about £100,000. And now, like Kilsby, Summit was running into trouble even before the driftway was through. The only difference was that Summit was 459 foot longer—hardly encouraging when one remembered that Kilsby had ended up at thrice its estimated cost. And every director there did remember it, only too well. Some at that hastily summoned meeting were seeking a scapegoat; others were praying for a saviour. The Reverend Doctor Prendergast was passing the sherry and Sir Sidney Rowbottom—sign of the seriousness of the occasion—was refusing it.

  Edwin Payter, respected as one of the larger shareholders, was impatient; this day had many calls upon his time. "Sir Sidney," he asked, "may we not start? I'm to take luncheon with Bridgewater's agent. I daren't…"

  "Quite. Quite. We'll finish this very quickly I think. I take it all here have read Mr. Thornton's report?"

  There were murmurs of assent. John Stevenson had not been alone in spending most of the night writing.

  "I believe he's to be congratulated," the Reverend Prendergast suggested.

  There were murmurs of assent to that, too.

  "In that case," Sir Sidney went on, "I propose we see this fellow…er…" He searched among his papers.

  "Stevenson," Thornton prompted.

  "Yes. Not related is he?"

  "No, Sir Sidney. Apparently not."

  "Useful name, what!"

  "But he spells it with a v, in any case."

  "What's known about him?" Payter asked.

  "Yes," Sir Sidney, not pleased to have the reins taken from him, looked at Payter though it was Thornton he addressed. "Will he die in harness on us, like this Skelm fella?"

  "I think he'll satisfy you there, gentlemen. He says he can. I'd feel more competent to advise you as to his suitability to the contract. With your permission."

  They approved; Sir Sidney nodded.

  "I met with him last night. He was the ganger on the shift that had the explosion…" He paused. The Reverend Prendergast's mouth was an astonished O of black, inside which the tip of a large furry tongue was trying to wrap itself around a word. Several words.

  "Did you say ganger?" the tongue achieved at last.

  "Yes, Doctor."

  "And thi
s…ganger…is going to be able to satisfy us of his financial standing! Is he aware…are you aware, Mr. Thornton, that we are talking about ten thousand pounds?"

  "Indeed yes. In fact, I told him I thought you'd want to see more, since ten was what Skelm was broken on."

  "Quite right," Payter said, nodding at everyone as if he had said it first.

  "If Skelm ever had it," one of the others said darkly.

  "Gentlemen!" Sir Sidney called. "I think we can satisfy ourselves of this Stevenson's standing. For goodness' sake let Mr. Thornton appraise us of his other qualities."