The Wrong Side of Happiness

by Tania Crosse

  ‘Once every few years if I can make it. The important thing is to make as much money as I can while the railways are still expanding. There’s not much work at home. But I’d rather not think about it on this fine morning. Here.’ He drew a brown paper bag from his pocket and held it out towards them. ‘I come to feed the ducks when I can.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Emmanuel spoke at last, taking a slice of stale bread from the bag. ‘The little divils’ll be hungered this chillsome morning.’

  Tresca, too, took some bread and began to break it up and throw it in the water. At once, several ducks descended in a flurry of feathers and wild quacking, and Tresca reflected that not so long ago, she and her father might have fallen on such a handout with equal zeal.

  The big Irishman was chuckling now at the ducks’ antics. What a complex fellow he was, Tresca thought. Dominant, self-assured, intimidating almost, and yet here he was, enjoying such a small pleasure as feeding ducks and talking ruefully of the home he missed. Tresca was glad of the interlude, but she really could not think of anything else to say to him.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Trembath, good morning to you, and Mr Trembath.’

  Tresca could not have felt more relieved as Connor turned to the couple walking towards them along the path. The young man sported a good-quality jacket with grey-striped trousers, and the older lady, whose gloved hand was placed delicately on the crooked arm of her companion, was wearing a fine, tapered coat and matching velvet hat. Tresca had noticed them in church and the young fellow had looked familiar, though she couldn’t think why. But she had made so many acquaintances since they had come to Tavistock that it wasn’t surprising.

  ‘Good morning, Mr O’Mahoney. A fine one it is indeed.’ He raised his hat, but Tresca noticed that the woman looked on sourly, frowning at his friendly attitude. He went on eagerly, ‘I hope those lamps proved adequate.’

  ‘Indeed they did. And I thank you for your help. I’ll soon be putting in an order for another couple of barrels of lamp oil, so I will. I trust Pethicks paid the last bill promptly?’

  ‘They certainly did. A pleasure to do business with you, Mr O’Mahoney.’

  He lifted his hat once more, and as he shifted his gaze from Connor to his two companions, Tresca saw his eyes rest on her for longer than was polite. But an instant later, the woman tugged surreptitiously on his arm – although Tresca had seen the small movement – and with a forced, haughty smile, directed him away. Connor touched his fingertips briefly against the brim of his hat and watched them move off.

  ‘Who were they?’ Tresca asked. ‘Trembath, you say? I recognize the name.’

  ‘They have the ironmonger’s and hardware shop in West Street.’

  ‘Oh, I know where you mean. Of course. I went in there asking if they had any work. It were him I spoke to and he were very pleasant.’

  ‘So he is. But I did give him a big order. I’ve bought other things for the railway from the other ironmonger’s, too – Bakers, on the corner of Market Street. All the big items come from the foundries in Tavistock we’ve taken over, but for smaller things, well, it’s good to make allies of the locals. Mind you, it’d be difficult to make a friend of the old mother there, it would. Face like a shrew, wouldn’t I be thinking.’

  Tresca blinked at him in shocked embarrassment. Thank goodness Mrs Trembath and her son had walked on out of earshot. Then she saw Emmanuel grinning impertinently as he enjoyed the joke, and she found herself laughing, too. For she was beginning to see that there was more to Connor O’Mahoney than met the eye.

  Seven

  ‘Tresca, are you there? Oh, pray sweet Mother of Jesus you are!’

  Tresca looked up with a start as the door flew open and a young woman, eyes wild as her hair, burst into the room, a squealing babe in her arms and several small, bewildered children at her skirts.

  ‘Assumpta! Oh, God Lord, whatever’s the matter?’

  Assumpta’s face turned paper white. ‘There’s been another fall at that Shillamill Tunnel. And, oh, Holy Mother of God, isn’t my Rory buried beneath it all!’

  Her bloodless lips were trembling and Tresca felt her own chest squeeze with horror. The very same thing had happened a few days previously when the facing of the tunnel had collapsed, but the men had been eating their lunch so mercifully no one had been hurt. Boring had been suspended while the tunnel had been shored up securely. It had brought it home to Tresca how dangerous the work could be, and she had feared for her father’s safety. But it had been Rory Driscoll, with his tribe of young children at home, who had been caught in this new fall.

  ‘Oh, Assumpta, my poor lover.’ Tresca’s voice shook with pity. ‘Sit yoursel’ down here and—’

  ‘No. I must go to him. Must be there. In case . . . in case . . . Could you be looking after the children for me? They like being with you. I can’t take them with me. I don’t want them to see . . . see their daddy . . .’

  She choked on the last words, her eyes brimming with pleading tears. Tresca put an arm about her shoulders, could feel her juddering with fear.

  ‘You don’t know,’ she said firmly. ‘But of course I’ll look after the children. Give me the babby—’

  ‘Weren’t you sent by the Angel Gabriel himself. Thank you so much,’ Assumpta faltered, handing over the rag-clothed infant.

  ‘Good luck,’ Tresca answered, her own voice quivering.

  ‘Pray for us, Tresca.’ And making the sign of the cross, Assumpta fled the room and raced down the stairs.

  Tresca stood for a minute, jiggling the baby in her arms, while the other children stared up at her, wide-eyed and expectant. She gulped hard. Poor mites. Did they understand?

  And she, too, said a prayer.

  The priest in his long robe led the lugubrious procession out of Tavistock’s new cemetery back towards the town centre. Assumpta, so frail and on the brink of collapse, leant on Connor O’Mahoney’s arm while Caitlin and Niamh walked behind, solemnly holding hands. Tresca held Brendan and Patrick by the hand, Emmanuel was carrying Liam, and Vera Miles had taken charge of the baby.

  Behind them, a dozen or so navvies who had worked with Rory Driscoll had come to see him laid to rest. They would need to get back to work now, as would Emmanuel, as they were officially paid by the hour and Mr O’Mahoney did not have the authority to stop their wages from being docked. They headed off in the direction of work, Emmanuel handing Liam into Tresca’s arms. The priest had a final word with Assumpta before hurrying off towards the existing station to catch his train back to Plymouth, leaving the remaining mourners to find their way home. Caitlin took charge of the boys and Tresca felt her heart tear at seeing the small girl having been turned into a world-weary little mother, since Assumpta seemed to have fallen apart.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr O’Mahoney,’ Tresca heard Assumpta murmur in an old, cracked voice as they reached their lodgings back in Bannawell Street. ‘Sure, if it weren’t for you, Rory wouldn’t have had a holy priest to bury him.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, Mrs Driscoll. Shall I be coming in with you?’

  ‘No. That’s very kind of you but I’d prefer to be on me own with the children, so I would.’

  Tresca exchanged glances with Vera, who had been a tower of strength to the young widow. Surely it would be better for Assumpta to have some company at this terrible time?

  ‘We’ll go with her,’ Tresca assured Connor O’Mahoney, nodding sombrely.

  But Assumpta was having none of it. ‘Sure you won’t. You’ve all been wonderful, so you have, but I really need to be on me own.’

  For the first time since that dreadful afternoon when the broken body of her husband had been dragged from beneath the tons of fallen earth and rock, Assumpta spoke with some strength in her tone. So perhaps it was time for her to be alone with her children.

  ‘Well, you know where I am if you need me,’ Tresca said doubtfully, standing Liam on his feet.

  ‘And let me give you this.’ Connor pulled two five pound notes from his
pocket. ‘Your widow’s compensation from the company.’

  Assumpta nodded her thanks, took the baby from Vera and disappeared inside with the children. Vera took her leave and Tresca stood facing Connor, watching as he shook his head sadly.

  ‘You gave her ten pounds,’ she said curiously. ‘She’s only entitled to five, isn’t she?’

  Connor shrugged. ‘Sure I can round it up from me own pocket if I want. If she knew some of it had come from me, she might not have taken it.’

  A rueful smile pulled at Tresca’s lips. Connor O’Mahoney was a hard taskmaster, Emmanuel had told her. He drove his men with his own vigour during their daily twelve-hour shifts, not letting them slack for a minute. But he was highly respected not only by his own gang of labourers, but by his fellow foremen. He was able to consult with the engineers on almost a level pegging, it was said, and often interpreted what was needed to the other gangers. But when it came down to it, he was a man of hidden compassion. His gift to Assumpta must be the equivalent of at least two weeks’ pay. And apparently when the tunnel wall had collapsed, he had led the rescue with no thought for his own safety and working with twice the strength and determination of any other man.

  ‘I must change and get back to work,’ he told Tresca now. ‘Will we walk up the hill together?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ And she fell into step beside him.

  ‘It’s a sad day, so it is,’ Connor went on. ‘Yesterday a fellow broke his leg further down the line. The first navvy to be admitted to the town’s new cottage hospital. Dangerous work, so it is, and then there’s all the explosives. That’s why we have to be so strict with all our men, for their own sakes. And why it can be a lonely job as a foreman. The engineers, like Mr Szlumper for instance – isn’t he the chief engineer for the Bere Alston to Lydford section of the line – they’re far enough away from the labourers. But gangers are like pigs in the middle, so I’m inclined to keep meself to meself. Which is why it’s good to have company such as yourself now and then.’

  ‘Mr Szlumper, did you say?’

  ‘Of Messrs Galbraith and Church. But don’t we need a good man with the line being such a challenge. Well, here we are then.’

  He stopped outside his lodging house but seemed to hesitate. Tresca was not sure why, so she said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Thank you for being so kind to Assumpta, Mr O’Mahoney. I’m sure she appreciates it.’

  ‘Sure, it was nothing when she’s lost the love of her life. But . . . seeing as we’re likely to be neighbours for some while,’ he faltered, ‘would you be after calling me Connor? Mr O’Mahoney sounds so formal.’

  ‘Oh, well, yes, of course, if you like, Mr . . . I mean, Connor,’ she corrected herself.

  ‘And . . . and may I make so bold as to enquire as to your given name?’

  He suddenly looked almost bashful and she was sure he flushed slightly. ‘Tresca,’ she answered, a trifle amused.

  ‘Tresca? Sure that’s mighty pretty. I’ve not heard it before.’

  ‘It’s Cornish. After my great-grandmother. Father always liked it.’

  ‘Then he chose well. A pretty name for a pretty girl. But I must get back to work if you’ll excuse me.’

  He raised his hat and then opened the door behind him and went inside. Tresca continued up the hill. Mr O’Mahoney, Connor, was a man of secret depths. Some feeling she could not quite fathom came over her, but she carefully put it to one side as she set her mind to the task of preparing the evening’s supper.

  Some time later, with the stew simmering away in the pot worked into the bed of coals in the small grate, Tresca felt she could relax and picked up the book she had borrowed from the public library. Thomas Hardy, one of her favourites. She was soon engrossed in Far from the Madding Crowd, her mind transported by the relationship between Bathsheba and Gabriel to the far away countryside of Dorset, her heart gripped with turbulent passion.

  Oh, where was Emmanuel? It had long been dark outside and Tresca had put down her book and lit their one candle some time ago. Connor’s words echoed menacingly in her head. Dangerous work. Oh, God, surely nothing had happened to Emmanuel. Bad things came in threes. Rory, and the man who had broken his leg – not her father as number three? He should have been home, what, two hours ago.

  As another ten minutes ticked by, Tresca was just putting on her coat to go down and see if Connor was back from work and could shed any light on the matter – what if he, too, had not returned because there had been another accident? – when she heard heavy footsteps lumbering up the top stairs and the door was flung wide.

  She knew instantly, and a red flash of anger snuffed out her crushing fear. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she attacked her father at once. ‘Oh, there be no need to tell me! You reek of it! How many have you had?’

  ‘Aw, don’t be like that, princess!’ Emmanuel slurred, staggering into the room. ‘A man’s got to ’ave a drink once in a while.’

  ‘A drink, maybe! But not a day’s wages, which is probably what you’ve spent! You just can’t be trusted, can you? Oh, sometimes I really . . . really . . .’

  A squeal of desperation broke from her throat and she shot out of the door and careered down the stairs. Outside, the cold, damp air stung her cheeks. She wanted to scream, but instead stomped down the darkened street in an agony of frustration. She needed to turn to someone she knew, but she couldn’t burden Assumpta, and she certainly couldn’t go to Connor. He must never find out about her father’s drunken tendencies, or he would sack him there and then.

  She stumbled on halfway down Bannawell Street, slowing her pace as she finally came to a halt by one of a pair of grander, double-fronted houses on the right that almost seemed out of place among the other humbler dwellings. She stood in the circle of light beneath the lamp-post opposite and leant her face against its cold surface as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

  She did not hear the front door open.

  ‘Excuse me, miss, are you all right?’

  The voice made her jump and she at once knuckled her eyes in embarrassment, lifting her head haughtily. ‘Yes, I’s proper clever, thank you.’ And then, realizing it was quite obvious that she wasn’t, added, ‘A friend of mine buried her husband today and I were crying for her, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m mighty sorry to hear that. But, oh! Aren’t you the girl who came in the shop looking for work? And then you were walking by the canal with Mr O’Mahoney the other Sunday. Won’t you come inside for a minute, Miss . . . er . . . ?’

  ‘Ladycott,’ she answered automatically, sniffing away her final tears. ‘And you’re Mr Trembath.’

  ‘I am indeed. Our business is in West Street but we live here. So, would you care to come in?’

  ‘Thank you very much, but no. I must be getting back.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure—’

  ‘Morgan, what in heaven’s name are you doing out there in the street at this hour and letting all the cold air in?’ A woman’s imperious tone came from within. ‘And who is that ragamuffin you’re talking to?’

  In the lamplight, Tresca saw Morgan Trembath roll his eyes skywards. ‘I’d better go,’ he sighed, turning away. ‘Coming, Mother!’ he called, and went inside, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  Tresca stood in the street and drew a deep, calming draught of air into her lungs as the anger pulsed out of her. Parents! She set her jaw defiantly and began to climb back up the steep hill.

  Eight

  ‘Morning, Assumpta. How are you today? Oh, Vera! I didn’t see you there.’

  Tresca paused on the threshold. Her friends were folding the few spare clothes that the Driscoll family possessed into a neat pile, while the children played about their feet.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Tresca frowned.

  She saw a smile light Assumpta’s thin face for the first time since Rory’s death. ‘We’re going home, so we are. To me parents’ in the Emerald Isle. Sure they’re as poor as church mice, but we’ll be happy tog
ether.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so pleased for you. But will the compensation be enough to pay for your passage? I could give you a few shilling if it would help.’

  Assumpta reached out and squeezed Tresca’s arm. ‘You’re a good person, so you are, Tresca. But there’s no need. Vera’s arranged it all for me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Vera looked up from folding a child’s undervest that was more hole than garment. ‘Well, you know I work with the poor of the parish, and I have a lot of dealings with Dr Greenwood. Lovely man he is. I happened to mention how Assumpta longed to go home now she’s, well, on her own. And Dr Greenwood said he knows someone, a Captain Bradley, who sometimes sails to Dublin for Irish whiskey. So he wrote to him, and he had a telegram back this morning. Captain Bradley is in Plymouth, and as luck would have it he’s sailing to Ireland at the end of the week. He’s promised to take Assumpta and the children for free. All she has to do is get to Plymouth by Friday.’

  ‘How wonderful! Warms your heart, doesn’t it, to know there are such good people in the world?’

  ‘The good man even said we can have his cabin, so he did. It’ll be cramped, but aren’t we used to that. And he says he’ll stop anywhere along the way, so I’m hoping he can take us to Rosslare.’

  ‘That is good. But I’ll miss you.’ Tresca smiled, even though her heart had indeed saddened at the idea of losing her new friend.

  ‘Won’t I be missing you, too. We’ve only known each other a few weeks, but you’ve been so good to me.’

  Tresca nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. She was glad for Assumpta. After all, what could be worse than losing your husband so tragically? But at the back of Tresca’s mind niggled the frustration with her father on the night of the funeral. Although Emmanuel had not come home late or drunk again, she suspected that he had taken to having a swift beer on the way home each night. Could she trust him to keep to just the one?