by Tania Crosse
‘How did you know where to find me?’ she asked as they splashed along, trying to avoid the puddles.
‘Well, it weren’t easy, my lover. You suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth. No one knew where you’d gone. An’ then I saw that nice Miss Miles in the town, an’ I asked her, knowing you were friends. At first she said she didn’t know, but when I says to her it were because I wanted to offer you a job, like, then she tells me.’
‘That were my fault. I felt so ashamed, I told her I didn’t want anyone to know.’
‘Well, I can understand that, so no harm done. But, oh, let’s get in out of the rain. Not stopped for a couple of weeks, it hasn’t.’ She unlocked the door to the dairy and ushered Tresca inside. ‘First thing we must do is get you some decent clothes an’ a good coat if that’s all you’ve got.’ And she went behind the counter and was soon holding out a shiny florin she had taken from the till.
‘Oh, I can’t possibly—’
‘Your first week’s wages in advance. Get yersel’ down to the Market House an’ see what you can find. An’ when you gets back, we can have a nice cup of tea afore we starts work. Off you go, now. An’ take my umbrella, cheel.’
‘Thank you. And I’ve still got the slips from the clothes we took to the pawnbroker’s. They’ll have run out, but you never know.’
She pulled her old, worn shawl back up over her head. She no longer possessed a hat and didn’t want anyone to see her shorn head, even if her hair had grown back to a cap of silvery brown, inch-long curls. She had been due to be scalped again in a few days’ time. Thank goodness Mrs Ellacott had come when she had, or it would have been even worse!
She hurried downhill, the euphoria of her release flowing through her and her head reeling with plans for the future. Yes, she needed a few items of clothing, but then she would save every penny she possibly could. And one day she would be able to take Emmanuel out of the workhouse, even if it took several years. He hadn’t seemed that unwell, and surely kind Dr Greenwood would be able to give him something that would make him better?
She was so lost in her spirited resolve, her vision obscured by the umbrella, that she collided with the figure that came round the corner of Market Street in the opposite direction. It was a man, and a very tall one at that, her umbrella only coming halfway up his chest. She felt horribly embarrassed and looked up, burning with apology.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she gasped. And then stopped abruptly.
Connor O’Mahoney’s thick, auburn eyebrows shot up towards the brim of his hat. ‘Tresca!’ he exclaimed. ‘Cunuss thuee?’ he asked, in his surprise reverting to his native tongue. ‘How are you? And where have you and your father been hiding? Haven’t I been asking for you all over, but nobody seemed to know where you’d gone.’
Tresca glowered up at him, her instantly reignited hatred simmering just beneath the surface of her self-control. ‘None of your business where we’ve been. And why are you all dressed up in your Sunday best? Got a promotion on the back of other men’s hard work?’
She caught the stab of hurt indignation on his face and felt pleased. Her remark had obviously hit exactly where it was intended. Or so she thought. She was intensely disappointed when his explanation wiped out her success.
‘Sure it’s been raining non-stop the last two weeks,’ he told her, raising his eyes to his own umbrella. ‘The ground’s saturated and you can’t dig tunnels when the whole lot is likely to fall down on you. And you can’t build embankments when there’s a danger of mud slides. So we’ve all been laid off, so we have. And I don’t see why I should wear me old muddy clothes if I’m not working. Now I’ve answered your question, but you’ve not answered mine.’
‘Nor am I going to. Now will you kindly let me pass.’
She tried to dodge past him, slipping between him and the wall since there was a large puddle on his other side. But as she did so, he caught her by the elbow.
‘Sure, why are you always so—?’
He got no further as he snatched in his breath. His sudden grasp on the shawl had pulled it clean from her head, exposing her shame to full view. The disgrace of it turned her to immovable stone and she stood, perfectly still, like a statue.
‘Oh, acushla, what happened to your hair? Have you been ill? And . . . what’s that mark on your forehead? I’d swear to the Holy Mother it wasn’t there before.’
Tresca felt something rupture inside her, and all the strain and resentment of the last months erupted like lava from a volcano. ‘Well, if you really want to know,’ she spat viciously, ‘because of you, my father and I had to go into the workhouse.’
‘The workhouse!’
‘Yes. And they cut off your hair so that you don’t get lice. Not that you’d care. Now kind Mrs Ellacott has just given me a job at the dairy, but my father’s still inside because he’s not well and might never be able to do manual labour again.’
Connor’s eyebrows swooped into a frown. ‘I’m mighty sorry to hear that, but sure it’s not my fault he’s ill. If only you’d allowed me to help you when I wanted instead of letting that stubborn pride of yours get in the way.’
‘Help? Oh, as if you cared . . .’
‘But I do. I care for all my men and their families.’
‘But not my father and me, or you wouldn’t have dismissed him.’
‘You know I had to, acushla. Wasn’t it his own—’
‘And stop calling me that! I know what it means, and I’m no sweetheart of yours. So,’ she snapped, moving her eyes with caustic disdain to where his hand was still on her arm, ‘if you’d kindly let go of me, I’ll be on my way.’
Connor’s arm at once dropped to his side, and with supreme dignity Tresca pulled the shawl back up over her head and walked majestically away. But inwardly she was cursing the fact that Connor O’Mahoney lived on the same street as the dairy and so it would by no means be the last she would see of him.
Her lips compressed into a rebellious line and she marched off towards the pawnbroker’s. She was seething after her meeting with Mr High and Mighty O’Mahoney, and was just in the mood to confront the nasty little money-dealer. She pushed open the door of the dark, musty shop so hard that it nearly came off its hinges.
‘Half a crown to redeem,’ the fellow demanded when he found Tresca’s old coat still hanging on the rack.
‘What! A shilling you gave me for it, and I only paid two shillings for it in the first place.’
The pawnbroker shrugged. ‘Three months’ interest charge,’ he slurred slyly. ‘And it’s a nice piece. Did well to get it for two shilling, you did.’
‘Well, I’ll give you one and six, and that’s a good return. Better than nothing at all.’
She held his gaze defiantly while he sniffed extra loudly and turned the coat over in his greedy hands. ‘All right,’ he finally agreed. ‘But don’t expect to do business with me ever again.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve no intention of doing so.’
She paid the money and at once slipped into the coat, but kept the shawl tightly over her head. She only had sixpence left, but she simply must have a hat. She crossed hurriedly to the Market House and searched out the second-hand stall where she had originally bought the coat. She found a somewhat plain black bonnet and managed to knock the price down to fourpence, declaring that it was rather old-fashioned and nobody else would want to buy it. She kept very quiet about the fact that it was exactly what she wanted as it would hide her shorn hair. That left tuppence. All she could afford on the material stall was a poor-quality calico, but it would have to do. She was able to buy just enough to sew herself a spare blouse, and then she would save up to buy something better at a later date.
‘That’s better, my lover!’ Mrs Ellacott beamed when she walked back into the dairy ten minutes later. ‘Now I’ve had the kettle on the go, but first, come an’ see your room.’
‘Thank you.’
She followed Jane Ellacott through the side door, which led down a couple o
f steps into the working part of the dairy, and then into a narrow scullery where a staircase took them directly upstairs. On the right on a tiny inner landing was a room the size and shape of a corridor, so narrow that there was just room for a single bedstead at one end and a chest of drawers at the other. But it looked so cosy with rose-patterned curtains at the window that, after the austerity of the workhouse, to Tresca it was pure heaven.
‘Is that all right for you, cheel? My own room’s just here,’ Jane said, indicating a door at the top of another few stairs, ‘an’ Mr Preedy, my lodger, has the other two rooms. Grumpy old so-and-so, he is, but he pays his rent regular enough. Summat to do with the highways, he is. Takes his meals up here, so I hardly ever sees him, an’ that’s how I likes it,’ she winked.
Tresca wondered what Mr Preedy was like, but at that moment she didn’t really care. ‘Oh, it’s a lovely room, Mrs Ellacott! Thank you so much!’
‘Well, I could see you knows what you’m doing, an’ I reckons you’ll work hard. I’s not a slave-driver, but I does expect a good day’s work.’
‘And you’ll get it. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. And for the loan of the money.’
‘Well, no good me lendin’ you any of my clothes!’ Jane wobbled with laughter. ‘Wouldn’t see you inside them, would we? But what I can lend you,’ she went on, her face more serious now, ‘is an apron. An’ a cap to hide your hair. Beautiful, it was. But it’ll soon grow, an’ that little scar’s not goin’ to spoil your good looks. Proper asset you’m goin’ to be. Sally were a lovely girl, but she weren’t as bright as you. Goin’ to be proper friends, us. I can feel it in my bones.’
‘Oh, yes, so can I!’ Tresca cried, and she could have wept with joy.
Sixteen
‘Vera!’ Tresca cried as the tall figure came in out of the rain, shaking the water from her umbrella.
‘Tresca, my dear! How good to see you! And first of all, I must apologize for breaking your confidence, but I thought, under the circumstances—’
‘Oh, no, not at all. I’m so grateful, really I am. I couldn’t be happier than working here.’
‘Good! I’m only sorry there’s nothing I can do for your father at present, but if I hear of any work—’
‘He’s learning to make boots,’ Tresca informed her, ‘now that he may not be able to do labouring any more.’
‘Oh, dear, is he unwell?’
‘Did you not know? Didn’t Dr Greenwood tell you?’
‘Not allowed to. Well, I’m sorry to hear that. What’s wrong, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Dr Greenwood thinks he may have some sort of cancer. I don’t really understand. At first I had the impression it were something serious, but Father seems fine. A little tired, perhaps. But I’m going to save up and in a few years’ time, I’ll take him out of the workhouse. I’m sure he’ll get better then.’
Her voice had been light and full of confidence, her happiness at living and working at the dairy filling her mind and pushing aside all other doubts. But now she saw Vera purse her lips pensively.
‘Cancer is very serious,’ Vera said hesitantly. ‘It drains people’s strength as much as anything. I know – it’s what my mother died from. But hopefully your father will have many a long year in front of him yet.’ She had deliberately made her tone brighter, not wanting to spoil Tresca’s obvious delight at her new situation. ‘Now then, I was wondering what free time you have? It would be lovely if we could go for a walk if this dreadful weather ever stops. It’s been raining stair rods for nearly three weeks now. All work on the railway’s been suspended, and the men don’t get paid, you know.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Tresca confessed, remembering her altercation with Connor O’Mahoney. ‘So none of them get paid?’
‘Not a penny. We’ve set up a soup kitchen for them. A penny for a quart of good, thick broth. Just about keeping some families alive. And Mr Massey, the navvy missionary, wants to set up a sick club for them. Did you hear about that dreadful accident a few weeks back? A young navvy tripped on the rails and was run over by a cart. Crushed both his legs. They tried to save his life by amputating them, but he died an hour or so later. Terrible,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Dreadfully hard lives these navvies lead, all of them. And such dangerous work.’
Tresca sucked in her cheeks. Perhaps she had been a little hard on Connor. Emmanuel had deserved to lose his job. It wasn’t right that he should have been drunk at his work. It was irresponsible and dangerous. It was just that their lives had blossomed because of his job, and she was sure that given a second chance . . .
‘Yes. Look at poor Assumpta,’ she sighed, driving Connor O’Mahoney from her mind. ‘Have you heard from her at all? She said she’d write.’
‘But she hasn’t. And to be honest, I’m not sure she could write. Anyway, when are you likely to have some time off?’
‘I don’t really know. Maybe on Sundays. We still have to see to the cows, of course, but Mrs Ellacott doesn’t open the shop. I might be needed to help cook dinner, but it certainly would be lovely to have some time with you. I’ll ask Mrs Ellacott.’
‘Excellent! Well, while I’m here, I’ll have half a pound of butter, please. And then I must hurry home before I have to swim for it!’
‘Just a gill o’ milk, if you please,’ the customer asked. ‘All I can afford just now’
‘Does your man work on the railway, then?’ Tresca enquired sympathetically as she took the old jug the woman offered her and went to measure a quarter pint of milk into it.
‘Rather he’s not workin’ on it. Been nearly a month now an’ no wages comin’ in. Supposed to survive on thin air, are we? If it weren’t for Mr O’Mahoney, we’d be starvin’ by now.’
At the mention of Connor’s name, Tresca gave an involuntary jerk and spilt a drop of the creamy milk. ‘Mr O’Mahoney?’ she repeated cautiously.
‘He’s the ganger for my Herbie’s part o’ the line. You must know him. Big Irish chap lodgin’ almost opposite yere.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Tresca admitted reluctantly.
‘A grand man. Subbin’ those of us with families out o’ his own pocket when he won’t be gettin’ paid, either. There’s not many would do that for you. You’m new in yere, bain’t you, but haven’t I seen you afore?’
‘Yes. I were living further up the hill,’ Tresca answered somewhat absently. For a moment her mind was distracted from her wonderful new life, and was instead invaded by a vision of a thatch of red hair and a pair of deep-set blue eyes. She didn’t want Connor to spoil her present contentment and she didn’t want to hear what a kind man he was. Angrily she pushed any thought of him aside.
‘Will that be all?’ she asked instead.
Tresca stepped into the street and took a deep breath of the fresh spring air. After nearly a month of continuous rain, the sky was clear. It was Sunday. Having brought the cows down for milking and stored the rich white liquid ready to make butter the next day, she had herded them back up to their field and was now free until evening milking. She had washed, changed into the plain white blouse she had sewn from the calico, and donned her coat and hat. It was three months since her head had been shorn and her hair was growing so that she wasn’t quite so self-conscious about it. But it would be a long time before she could feel anything like a young woman again.
She was in buoyant mood today, if only because it had finally stopped raining. Mrs Ellacott was chapel, but Tresca was going to St Eustachius’s Church with Vera and afterwards they would spend a little time together. And that afternoon she was going to visit her father. On the first Sunday of each month, the Solloways had said, and she was bursting with anticipation.
There were still puddles on the pavement and Tresca lifted the hem of her skirt to avoid getting it wet. The inhabitants of Bannawell Street were setting out to their various forms of worship – those that had one – and after all the weeks of being deserted as people cowered from the rain, the street seemed to have explo
ded into life. Familiar faces nodded a greeting at Tresca, and she smiled back.
Oh, Lord. She stopped in her tracks when she reached the point where Bannawell Street became King Street. The little houses facing each other on either side had been stripped of their roofs and the windows removed, as if they were being demolished. They looked sad and forlorn, and Tresca felt a cold shock slithering down her spine.
‘Pity, isn’t it?’ a voice said at her shoulder. ‘But sure, they’ve got to come down for the viaduct.’
Tresca turned, all her animosity towards Connor O’Mahoney snapping back into place. ‘And I suppose you’ll be in charge of building it?’ she said icily.
‘Me? Oh, Jesus, no. Sure, I’m not an engineer. Would have loved to have studied engineering at college or university, so I would. But what chance would a lad brought up in a backwater of Tipperary have of that? No, I might be senior among the gangers, but I’m only fit for digging cuttings and tunnels and laying track. Have to leave viaducts and bridges to the experts. Sure, it’d fall down if I built it,’ he concluded, tipping his head upwards, ‘and we wouldn’t want that, would we?’
His generous mouth moved into a tentative smile, his eyebrows arched questioningly. But if he thought an attempt at friendly banter was going to soften her after what she had suffered in the workhouse because of him, then he would have to think again. She stared back at him, her expression implacable, and felt pleased at the awkwardness that came over his face.
‘Going to cross right up there, so it is,’ he went on, gesturing towards the sky. ‘Wonderful feat of engineering. And built from your Dartmoor granite, so it’ll not look out of place.’
Despite herself, Tresca found her eyes following his heavenwards. When she considered the steepness and height of the hills the viaduct was to bridge, it would certainly be a thing to behold. For a moment, she was swept up in the same awe as Connor, but then reality overtook her again and she spun irritatedly on her heel.
