World From Rough Stones

by Malcolm Macdonald

  "Well what?" Stevenson asked. "What's that to do wi' it? I put navvies on bonus because I needed their output. If this driftway's not through by first o' January next—that's it. I'm as good as dead. Off't contract! Duffed! Dominoed! And't likes o' you lot are standin cap in 'and before't next contractor. Ye want that?" He looked searchingly from one to the other. "Ye want a man like Skelm back—"

  "Nay!" they chorused.

  "Or go an' work for Calley up Todmorden?"

  Their denials were even more vociferous this time.

  "So! Aye—I put navvies on bonus. But I've not got money to chuck around. I've no need yet for extra bricklayin'. I'd not fart no louder if ye laid twenty nor two 'undred cubic yard. Ye may all piss off tomorra for all I care. Good bloody riddance."

  "That's not what we understood," Metcalfe said, his confidence unshaken.

  Stevenson looked contemptuously at the three of them. "Oh? 'Oo's the great teacher then?" he asked. "'Oo's bin broadening your understandin'?"

  Hope began, "Mr. Thornton said…"

  "Shuttup!" Metcalfe snapped.

  "Well 'e's wrong," Stevenson said. "But if ye're still seekin' understandin',

  I'll tell ye: If I was another contractor likes o' Skelm, likes o' Calley, likes o' a dozen others we've all met an' all could name, if I was like them, I'd bounce the three of ye off this site an' clear across Yorkshire. But I'm not like them. Ye know what I'm like—soft as poor Will. 'Appen that's why ye'll try this on. So I'll tell ye."

  "Tell us what?" Metcalfe sneered.

  Stevenson turned to him and looked him up and down. "T'ole truth, Metcalfe. All on it. Do'st know 'ow many bricks'll be required for t'ole Summit Tunnel— includin' all twelve shafts we're leavin'?" He looked around to invite the others to answer. Several of the bricklayers had walked over to stand within earshot.

  "Ten million?" Hope suggested.

  Burroughs looked at him in scorn. "Never!" he said.

  "Listen then," Stevenson said. And now he was the magician about to climax a trick. "Twenty…three…million!"

  Incredulous whistles rose around him but Stevenson was interested only in Metcalfe's response. This was the crucial moment. The bricklayer looked around at the satisfaction and glee on the faces of his brothers and his whole expression turned to open scorn. From then on, Stevenson lost all compunction about the possibility of running the man into gaol, for Metcalfe was, at heart, not interested in the welfare, security, or wages of the Summit tradesmen; he was out to fight some remoter, more abstract battle.

  "Twenty-three million," he repeated when the commotion died. "Aye—an' eight thousand ton o' Roman cement. An' the last one—t'very lastest brick— must be laid December twelve-month. One year! An' ye think there's no bonus in th'offin'! Someone's 'ead wants lookin' at." He carefully avoided turning his eyes on Metcalfe, but he was the only one who did not.

  "We'd want details. We've gone too far to…" Metcalfe began.

  "Gone too far!" Stevenson mocked. "Ye've gone nowhere. Ye've gone to't threshold o't goalhouse door, that's where ye've gone. But I'll tell ye. I said I would and so I will. From this twenty-eight December, when't driftway's finished an't main workin' can start, I s'll pay two shillin' and three pence—twenty-seven pence—a yard for clean brickwork up to spess." He turned abruptly, taking them by surprise, and left. At the edge of the oval shaft he paused and turned back. "Ye may think it over. I s'll come back while knockin' off toneet."

  After he had gone, Hope looked at Metcalfe. "Well!" he said "Here's owt what don't run square an true wi' what Mr. Thornton was…"

  "Shuttup!" Metcalfe said. "He's comin' back!"

  And indeed Stevenson stood again at the edge of the oval. "I'll tell ye one thing that's fast now," he shouted, walking to rejoin them. "If ye've any notion o' formin' any kind or degree o' combination or union, ye may put all such thought from ye." He smiled and looked at each in turn. "I'll tolerate papists, Jews, devilworshippers, an Irishmen. If ye twist me arm, I'll even put Lancashire men on." He grinned and pointed to James Moffat of Littleborough. "Like old buggerlugs ere! But I'll never, never, never make terms wi' a union. Never!" He left again, this time for good.

  "Yes, master!" Metcalfe called after him.

  Stevenson arranged with Fernley, his clerk of works, to take on extra carpenters for shoring up through the fractures. He was about to start out on the path over Summit when he saw Metcalfe waiting for him at the edge of the turnpike. He stopped about five paces short, forcing the bricklayer to walk to him. As he came, he began to speak, trying to regain the initiative: "I don't know what your game may be, Mr. Stevenson…"

  "Then I have the advantage of you, Metcalfe. For I know yours—from foundation to toppin' out." He halted, wondering if it was even worth trying to talk to Metcalfe. When he spoke again, it was as if he were merely making a test of the other's ability to follow. "There's only two really dangerous sorts of men in this life. One is the villain that lacks all principle an' all regard for his fellow man. I'm bound to say I've never met such a villain—an' I've mixed with some reet desperate folks. The other is the very opposite. Some may even call 'im saint. 'E's the man that's so full o' principle, so full o' regard for 'is fellow man in general, that 'e's no time left fer't neighbour folk around 'im."

  Metcalfe smiled sarcastically. "And you have met such a man, of course. You think that's me."

  Stevenson changed his position on the highway, showing that half his mind was no longer eager to be away up the path. "I'd be glad to be shown up for wrong," he said. "But tha'rt a born believer. Tha'llt find a cause—'appen it's Chartism or workin' man's rights or owt o' that nature—an' tha'llt crucify thissen for it."

  "'Ow can you possibly say the like o' that?"

  "I've watched thee."

  "Huh!"

  "I 'ave. I've forgotten more about men than tha'llt ever learn. It's my trade."

  "You may imagine so. But if it's teachin' and learnin' time, I fancy it's thee that's got the lessons comin'. The middle classes got their demands, their just demands, in 'thirty-two. We didn't. Now we're goin' to get 'em too. Thou'll see."

  Metcalfe paused for breath but Stevenson cut across him. "If I truly thowt as thou were after betterment for these lads o' thine, I'd tread soft wi' thee and deal wi' thee to the best o' my ability. But if, as I truly suspect, I find tha'rt willin' to trample over my lads' better interests in pursuit of this bloody union, I'll not scruple to smash thee. That's me last word to thee—play fair and tha'llt need fear nowt. But try comin' it wi't unions an' conspiracies an' tha'd best wear armour double indemnified an' triple proof."

  Metcalfe drew himself up to full height, looking at Stevenson eye to eye. "Thy threats hold no fear for me, Lord John. The interests of my men and of their union are one and the same. Fight for one and ye fight for all. We'll get our rights our own way. No thanks to thee."

  Stevenson smiled, not the least put out. "Tha'llt find soon enough. Tha'st picked wrong battleground, wrong tactics, wrong master."

  He walked off across the turnpike without waiting for any answer. Nevertheless, answer came before he reached the other verge. "But the right principles! And in the long run that's all that counts," Metcalfe called.

  "The long run?" Stevenson called back. "In the long run we're all dead!"

  Chapter 23

  Luncheon was long and heavy, for Robert Stephenson was a champion eater. "Not as athletic as his father" was the kindly way of putting it. Nora was glad that Thornton, who still was incapable of behaving normally with her, stood in such awe of the great man, for he hardly looked her way all the meal. Stephenson was also a champion storyteller and kept them amused with his account of his days in South America, when he had worked as a mining engineer in Columbia. At one point, he looked around at them and said: "Truth to tell, there is a direct connection between my time out there and the work that brought me here today." He smiled. "The man who can tell me shall have the privilege of buying the next bottle of wine. For a special toa
st."

  No one could guess. Nora, looking at their faces, could see that Jack Whitaker thought he was on to it, but he was being cautious.

  "I'll prompt you," Stephenson said. "High-pressure steam."

  "Your father?" Walter asked.

  Stephenson shook his head.

  "Watt?" John suggested, with even less confidence.

  Nora nodded at Whitaker. "He knows."

  "Perhaps…no, I'd rather not."

  "'E's too mean to buy the bottle!" Nora teased.

  "He has a son called Francis, also in the business?" Whitaker asked.

  "You've got him," Stephenson confirmed.

  "Trevithick," Whitaker said at last.

  Stephenson grinned and nodded. "Make it this same claret," he said. "We'll toast the memory of one of the greatest."

  "Trevithick?" Walter said dubiously.

  "Cornishman, was 'e?" John asked.

  Stephenson looked sadly from one to the other. "How quickly history gets lost! And how fickle is reputation! Trevithick was a greater man than all of them—greater than Watt. Far greater. And my father—which I say in no disparagement for he's said as much himself many a time. A genius. The kind that comes along once in a century—if our luck holds. Yet you've never heard of him…" He nodded at John. "You're doubtful of his achievement…" He turned to Walter. And then he asked of Whitaker: "And you—what do you know of him?"

  "I know nothing of his recent activity."

  "His 'recent activity' is rotting in a pauper's grave in Dartford. Six years he's been at it there."

  No one spoke; Robert Stephenson was not the sort of storyteller you prompted along with questions at every pause.

  "I met him in Peru in 1827—or perhaps it was Columbia. No one knew. He was penniless, of course. It was a very characteristic Trevithick sort of tale. He'd gone out to install steam in their mines in Peru and walked"—he smacked his hands together—"like that into civil war. One side presses him as fortifications engineer, then the other side takes him and turns him into surgeon! He hadn't a brass button left when I met up with him."

  The pot-boy came across with the new wine bottle and Whitaker indicated he should pour all round. John stopped Nora's glass. "I've work for thee," he said. She pouted in pretended annoyance.

  "Yes," Stephenson lifted his glass to look at the colour. The others, thinking he was about to make the promised toast, reached for theirs, but he rested his again and looked around at them. "I remembered my father telling me how when he was a lad, not yet twenty, he went to Wylam Colliery in Newcastle on his day off—he walked all the way—just to see a new steam locomotive. The first they'd ever had up there. They were trying to run it on rails of wood! In fact, they never gave it a chance. I don't believe it ever ran. But that engine was what put the gleam in my father's eye—and the steam in his veins. That is where the Stephensons began. And it was Trevithick who built it. So you may imagine my thoughts as I stood out there in that godforsaken place and saw Trevithick himself, in the most straitened circumstances. It was a chance at last to repay a twenty-year debt."

  There was a ruminative silence before Walter said, "I had no idea he was so important."

  "Nor did his country. Nor"—Stephenson laughed—"nor even his wife. When he returned from Peru, he landed at Falmouth and they'd not let him ashore, because he was destitute again—having lost what I gave him. They threw him in gaol and sent for his wife, who kept a pub, The White Hart, I think, over near Penzance." He chuckled again, preparing them for the point of the tale. "She came over, bailed him out, and then drove back in her carriage without even seeing him—left him to walk!"

  They all laughed at that.

  Stephenson looked serious again. "Yet, there was the man who built the first practical high-pressure steam engine, built the first railroad, ran a steam-carriage service in London, built a steam dredger, a steam shovel, a steam threshing engine…and all these iron ships, you know—they owe more to Trevithick than anyone will admit. More than the Admiralty would admit, for they never granted him a bean on his petition."

  They looked down in silence at their glasses.

  "And he lies in a pauper's grave, eh?" John said.

  Stephenson sighed. "I heard of it too late. Yes. Too late." He looked up. "Curious thing, you know. When it became known down there in Dartford that poor old Trevithick hadn't left enough for a proper burial, the workpeople—not the masters, the workpeople—at the Hall Engineering Works got up a subscription to give him a decent grave. But they failed to gather enough. Think of that, eh? Think of the fortunes people were making in railways! By the time I learned of it and went down there…they couldn't even find the spot where he lay."

  John, thinking of the pauper's grave where Nora's father lay, looked across at her and pulled a glum face. But she glanced from him to Walter Thornton, then, immediately, she lowered her eyes and coloured. It cost some effort, but he avoided catching Thornton's eye. Stephenson, unaware of these exchanges, proposed a toast to the memory of Trevithick.

  Shortly after that, he returned to Manchester by train, having sent his hired mount back to the livery stable before the luncheon began.

  Walter Thornton, when the train had gone, suddenly remembered that Nora had, in fact, been their hostess.

  "I quite overlooked it—being in a tavern," he said greatly agitated. "I must thank her properly."

  Stevenson grinned broadly. "Never fear. There's no ceremony with her! I'll say your thanks for you," he assured him.

  But Thornton would hear none of it; he must thank her himself. When they arrived back at the Royal Oak, Stevenson went up to tell her of Thornton's mortification and how he wished to make amends.

  She was changing from her best plain dress, which she had put on especially for the lunch, into her everyday plain dress. All she said was "huh!" in a tone of deep scorn.

  "What s'll I go down an' tell 'im?" he asked.

  "Send 'im about 'is business." She formed a curl around her little finger and released it.

  "No kind word? Poor bugger's smitten wi' thee."

  She turned to him, shocked that he could say such a thing.

  "Desp'rate bad," he added.

  "Tskoh!" She turned away again, losing her patience. "I'll discuss it no further. Thou should die o' shame sooner nor say such things."

  He smiled indulgently. "See it from 'is point o' view. Think what it's like bein' married wi' yon tender angel."

  Nora's laugh rang across the room.

  "Not," he went on, "as I've gotten owt against 'er. In fact"—he grew thoughtful—"if you ask my opinion, I believe there's a strength in that one as'll rock young Mr. Walter on 'is 'eels one day. I fancied 'er for temperance work among my lads but she's not come round to it."

  "Temperance!" Nora's surprise quickly turned to scorn. "That Arabella! And our lads!"

  "She's gotten the makins o' that sort o' person. She lacks a fit purpose. But when she finds it, or it finds 'er then…"

  "Thou!" She smiled at him softly. "Tha never sees a dirty gray goose but tha'rt shoutin what a lovely swan!" Her face fell then. "But I'll tell thee this for nowt: Thought o' goin over Summit to live at Rough Stones—it fills me wi' dread. We'll 'ave 'im livin in us pockets. An' 'er, belike."

  "Oh?"

  "'E's not comfortably wed, I'll tell thee that. 'E's like a man what's fed on nowt but curry from birth."

  There was a knock at the door.

  "Seems normal to me. 'E were be'avin normal like, up there, today."

  "Normal to thee," she smiled. "Thou'rt no woman."

  He stood behind her; she spoke to him via her looking glass. He leaned forward, dropping his hands in front of her, and slipped one of them into the vee of her blouse and under her shift. "Art complainin'?" he asked.

  The knock was repeated.

  "See 'oo that is," she said.

  He did not move for a moment. Then, caressing her breast more fervently, he leaned down to kiss her. She leaned back upon him and closed her eyes
, surrendering to him.

  In the glass, John saw the door soundlessly open to frame Walter Thornton. As his eyes took in the scene his jaw fell open and he stood transfixed in horror and shame at his intrusion. Only then did he notice Stevenson's mocking gaze fixed on him in the looking glass. He closed his eyes and turned to leave, pale and shaken.

  Nora, feeling John's lips smile, opened her eyes, expecting to meet his; instead she met two pools of white. Quickly she followed his gaze to the glass—just in time to see a hand slip from between the stile and jamb so as to ease the door silently closed.

  "The new maid," John told her, and she pretended to believe him. But she knew that hand.