by Tania Crosse
They left the idyllic scene with the ponies and continued towards Great Staple Tor. Connor found a spot between two boulders where the springing grass was flat and dry, and yet they could still watch the glorious landscape. He spread his coat on it, glad to be rid of the garment it was so hot, and Tresca sat down, hugging her knees in pleasant expectation. Connor hadn’t worn a waistcoat and Tresca’s pulse skipped along as she secretly admired his powerful body through the thin material of his shirt. It made her knees turn weak and peculiar.
She could see, then, why the knapsack had appeared so heavy. Connor had brought along a veritable feast! Tresca marvelled at his appetite, but he was a big man and his abundant energy needed fuelling. It was all being washed down with a couple of bottles of cider that Connor persuaded her was not enough to make her drunk. Finally he produced fresh strawberries by way of dessert.
Afterwards, Tresca lay back, utterly content. The sun was so hot and strong it seemed to nail her to the ground. She shut her eyes, but the light was still so dazzling, she placed her hat over her face. Beside her, Connor did the same, and they lay, side by side, holding hands, in joyous silence. Tresca drifted asleep, her head whirling with the cider, the heat and the closeness of the man she knew she loved.
When she awoke, she instantly sought Connor’s hand, but it was gone. She sat up abruptly, suddenly bereft. The picnic was all packed away, the haversack propped neatly against one of the rocks. And then she caught faintly on the air the haunting, wistful notes of a tune being played not far away. She followed the sound, and navigating some stones, found Connor leaning nonchalantly against the wall of rock behind him as he played on the instrument he called his tin whistle.
‘Did Sleeping Beauty enjoy her little nap?’ he asked, straightening up.
‘Don’t stop playing. That were lovely. What were it?’
‘A farewell song, called “The Parting Glass”. But wouldn’t you be after hearing something more lively now? To wake you up for the walk home.’
‘Yes, if you like.’
‘How about this? Rather appropriate as it happens. “Poor Paddy Working on the Railway”.’
Tresca tossed up her head with a laugh as Connor began to play again, slow and rueful at first, followed by a fast and rhythmical section. Each alternate verse was either fast or slow, and Tresca couldn’t believe how nimbly Connor’s fingers played the fast ones, as he tapped his foot on the ground. She was disappointed when it came to the end.
‘I’ll sing you the words as we walk home,’ he promised. ‘At least I should have the breath for it going downhill.’
Ten minutes later, they were heading down towards the road that would take them home, with the moor rolling down to the Tamar Valley spread out before them. Connor sang on the top of his voice:
Oh, in Eighteen Hundred and Forty-One,
Me corduroy breeches I put on,
Me corduroy breeches I put on,
To work upon the railway,
The rai-ailway,
I’m weary of the rai-ailway,
Poor Paddy works on the railway.
Tresca was giggling as she hopped along beside him. She didn’t think she had ever been so happy in her entire life. And when Connor grinned down at her, her heart soared to heaven.
Twenty
Hoots of laughter and the strains of a flute-like instrument playing a distinctive Irish jig drifted into the darkened street from inside Mrs Ellacott’s dairy. Morgan Trembath halted in his tracks and his heart dragged in sadness. It was no good. In his hand he held the bunch of autumn flowers he had purchased at the florist’s and kept hidden from his mother. He had actually told her a lie, saying that he was going out to check on the shop as there had recently been a spate of burglaries in the town.
But it was too late, wasn’t it? The girl who had stolen his heart was already in love with another. And who could blame her? The devil had rescued her from that abominable attack back in May and must appear as a hero in her eyes. To add to it, he was tall, exciting, handsome in a strange sort of way, and blessed with that lilting, romantic accent. How could he, Morgan Trembath, a dull shopkeeper under the thumb of his mother, ever compare? He had prayed the new railway would not take too long to build and that the navvies would soon be on their way, Connor O’Mahoney with them. But the route of the line demanded stunning feats of engineering that would take time to achieve, and Shillamill Tunnel, which Morgan understood O’Mahoney was working on, was only half-finished. So the big Irishman would be around for some time yet. Time for him to cement his relationship with Tresca Ladycott – if he hadn’t done so already.
Morgan sighed dejectedly and turned away, his shoulders slumped. He just hoped the fellow wouldn’t break Tresca’s heart, for what would happen when the railway was finally completed? But he would be ready and waiting to pick up the pieces for her. His mother wouldn’t approve, so it wouldn’t be easy. And if he were honest, he wondered if he would have the strength to face up to her over it . . .
What should he do with the flowers? He supposed he would give them to his mother since there was no other woman in his life. Perhaps it would assuage his guilt over the blatant lie he had told her.
While Morgan shambled back home, up in his room over the dairy, Ebeneezer Preedy’s lips were drawn back over his teeth at the racket that was going on downstairs. He had lodged with Mrs Ellacott for nearly three years, paying his rent bang on the dot. He kept himself to himself, taking his meals alone and having a jug of hot water brought up to him each morning and evening, so that he was no trouble whatsoever to his landlady. It had all worked perfectly – until young workhouse had taken Sally’s place. A pretty child and a good worker, he could see that, and she was always polite whenever he saw her. He didn’t begrudge her having friends, or even a sweetheart. But why did she have to choose a navvy, and a Paddy at that?
No, this really would not do. He was a respectable gentleman, and he should not be subjected to such raucous behaviour as was going on downstairs. And what was worse was that homely Mrs Ellacott, whom he secretly admired, seemed to be encouraging the revelries. He would have to have a quiet word with the good lady, for he did not think he could remain in the house if such frivolity was to continue.
Downstairs in the kitchen, the table had been moved to one side and the rug rolled back from the flagstones. The four occupants of the room, three women and one strong young male waving a primitive wind instrument in his hand, were falling about with laughter.Jane Ellacott flung herself down in one of the chairs, wobbling with mirth.
‘Oh, my goodness, I doesn’t think I can dance another step!’
‘Sure you’ve done very well, Mrs Ellacott. It mightn’t look it, but Irish dancing’s mighty strenuous.’
‘Let’s have a rest,’ Tresca spluttered, gasping for breath, ‘and then let’s have another go, shall we, Vera?’
‘Wearing me out, you are!’ Vera declared good-naturedly. ‘I don’t know. Had me swimming all summer long, and now I’m prancing about like a butterfly!’
‘And a very pretty one, too, if I can make so bold.’
Connor met Tresca’s sparkling eyes and grinned. She was a dark horse, was Vera. Although as nervous as Tresca on their first visit to the Bannawell Street Baths, they had both so enjoyed the experience that they had gone there twice a week until the place had closed at the end of the season. Tresca had initially gone there to please Connor, but had found the activity much to her liking. It was one of many things he had opened her eyes to, including the lively jigs that were, quite strangely, danced with your arms pinned to your sides while your feet and legs needed to be made of springing rubber!
‘You will play us another tune, won’t you, Connor?’ she begged.
‘Just one more, and then I must be going. Haven’t some of us got work in the morning?’ he chided, his eyes shining with mischief.
‘I’ve got to be up early, too, you know, you old rogue!’ she chortled back, pushing him playfully. ‘So what’ll it be?’
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‘How about “The Cork Hornpipe”?’ he suggested with a smile that melted her heart.
Tresca gazed in fearful wonderment at the massive structures that were growing daily on either side of the street. Huge, solid cranes were hoisting gigantic boulders of squared-off Dartmoor granite towards the bright spring sky, settling them on top of what had already been built of the colossal piers of the Bannawell Street viaduct. Men were standing fearlessly atop the already lofty pillars, guiding in the next mammoth stone, while down below, huge carthorses, harnessed to stout ropes radiating from the cranes, were being encouraged to step forwards or stand still while straining into their mighty collars. And all was under the close direction of Mr Szlumper, the chief engineer, looking important and formidable as he stood in the middle of the road sporting a fine top hat.
Very soon, the joining arches would start to take shape in such a way as to give the viaduct the Herculean strength needed to support the monstrous steam engines that would thunder overhead. Tresca was, quite frankly, terrified at the prospect, but supposed that these expert men knew what they were doing. After all, Britain had led the world in engineering feats throughout the century. Nevertheless, she was sure she would always scuttle hell-for-leather beneath the viaduct when it was finished, just in case it suddenly crashed to the ground. Now she was obliged to wait for ten minutes while some activity was taking place which necessitated the public being held back while it was carried out.
Tresca’s lungs collapsed in a wistful sigh as she waited. She wasn’t just a dairymaid with Jane Ellacott. She had become the daughter the kind, jolly widow had never had, and while Jane had, in return, become like a mother to her, Emmanuel’s health also seemed to have stabilized. There was only one problem to mar Tresca’s supreme happiness, and that was Connor.
She loved him, as sure as night followed day. Her heart leapt for joy every morning when she awoke, knowing that she would see him for at least some part of the evening. The moment he walked in the door, her pulse galloped with expectation. If no one else was present, she would spring into his arms and he would envelop her in a ring of warm, strong flesh, protecting her, loving her, kissing her lips so softly, smiling down into her face, his eyes radiating with his own passion. And she would nestle against him, drowning in his presence and feeling so vital and alive.
All through the winter, their love had grown and expanded, filling every fibre of her soul, and she was sure it was the same for him. But now, as the days had lengthened into spring once again, the doubt that she had buried in the darkest recesses of her mind was creeping stealthily forward. There was no question about the elated rapture that existed between them. But as Tresca stared up at the growing structure before her – or rather above her – it symbolized her fears all too starkly.
For how long would it be before Connor’s work took him away? The Shillamill Tunnel was well on the way to completion, and work was just beginning on the cleared site for the new station. It would be some time before the entire new line from Plymouth to Lydford – and eventually to London’s Waterloo via Exeter – would be opened . . . perhaps another year. But Connor’s part in it would finish long before then. Yes, he could oversee the laying of track over ready-prepared ground at any point along the route, but his expertise was in digging tunnels. And Tresca was sure her heart would break when he had to move on.
Oh, why was life so complicated? The small crowd was waved on now, the possible danger over, and Tresca continued down the hill. But her mind wasn’t only preoccupied with thoughts of her dearest Connor. She had gradually introduced her father to the fact that she was walking out with the man he still loathed. She had dropped hints for months, finally admitting that she had a strong affection for her saviour from the horrific assault almost a year ago now, and that her feelings were returned.
‘I’ll not see my princess consorting wi’ that divil!’ Emmanuel had expressed his passionate disapproval, and Tresca had attempted to plead and reason with him.
‘But you don’t know what he’m really like,’ she had protested, and had gone on to reiterate the times when Connor had, like a silent hero, helped so many people less fortunate than himself. With his position on the railway, he had responsibilities which could make him appear a hard taskmaster. But underneath it he was kindness itself, sensitive and caring. And when you got to know him, she had insisted, you would learn that he was actually an incurable romantic. He was utterly trustworthy and now that winter was over, they had resumed their lonely rambles on Dartmoor. Tresca felt completely safe with him. They held hands, kissed tenderly, cuddled a little, but never had Connor overstepped the bounds of propriety. On the odd occasion when Tresca sensed his desires were about to get the better of him, he would abruptly pull his treasured tin whistle from his jacket pocket and start playing an Irish air instead.
‘Doesn’t it make me dream of home,’ he would say, his eyes a faraway blue as he stared out across the dramatic landscape of the moor. ‘Makes me think of me mammy in the little cottage we had when I was a lad. Take you there one day, so I will. Me mammy’ll love you as much as I do.’ And he would regale her with tales of his poverty stricken boyhood. A little monkey he had been, so he had, he would say, and Tresca would end up with tears of mirth trickling down her cheeks from his accounts of his childhood antics. Blessed with the gift of the gab, he was. Had kissed the Blarney Stone apparently, whatever that meant; it was an Irish expression she had often heard among the other Irish navvy families who lodged in Bannawell Street. Tresca didn’t really understand, but somehow it fitted Connor perfectly. When she timidly asked him what it meant, he had roared with laughter.
‘Sure, it’s in an old castle a few miles outside Cork,’ he explained, still grinning. ‘Legend has it if you kiss the stone, it’ll give you a gilded tongue. It’s way up high below a parapet and the only way you can get to kiss it is to have someone you trust hold your legs and dangle you over the side and you pray they won’t let go.’
Tresca had gasped in horror. ‘That must be really dangerous!’
‘Well, you wouldn’t let your worst enemy do the honours, that’s for sure! I did it as a lad, but it’d need a carthorse to hold me weight now and you can’t get them to climb up the steps.’
His eyes had glinted in that rakish way of his, and Tresca had at last seen the funny side of his teasing and given a light laugh. But she wasn’t laughing now. A horrible darkness churned in her belly and was beginning to temper the joyous enchantment she enjoyed in Connor’s arms. For what did the future truly hold?
‘Oh, acushla, what’s the matter with you today?’
Tresca caught her breath, trying to quell the festering sadness that was eating into her enjoyment of the glorious summer’s day. She glanced at Connor, noting the concerned, questioning expression on his strong, beloved face, and she had to avert her eyes.
‘Nothing,’ she muttered, failing miserably to put some brightness into her voice.
‘Sure, don’t I know when something’s wrong,’ Connor persisted. ‘I bring you out for the day, all the way to Plymouth on the rival railway line which offends me conscience greatly,’ he half-teased, his eyebrows arched cajolingly, ‘and you’ve a face on you like a wet lettuce. Have I done something to upset you? Or . . . you don’t want to end our relationship, do you?’
His voice had suddenly slowed as he spoke, the animation on his face slipping away as his own words penetrated his thoughts. He looked so crestfallen, so very hurt, and Tresca at once turned to him, guilt ripping through her. How ever could she have made him think that? But the moment she had dreaded had arrived; the moment when she must voice her fears. When they would become real.
‘Oh, no! Not at all! Just the opposite. In fact . . . Oh, Connor, I can see the end of the building of the railway looming fast. And . . . and you won’t be needed any more and you’ll go away and I’ll never see you again!’ she blurted out in desperation. She was staring up at him, her forehead squeezed painfully, and watched as his wide m
outh first dropped open and then curled up into a grin.
‘Oh, would that be all?’ He shrugged casually as if they were merely discussing the weather. ‘And you think I’ll be going away from you? And well I might if I can drag meself from the most lovely creature I’ve ever met. But if I do, it’ll only be for a short while to earn enough money to put a ring on your finger. It won’t be an expensive one because don’t we need the money for other things. I’ve already saved a pretty penny in me bank account, and when there’s enough, we’ll take your daddy out of the workhouse and we’ll all go and live back in Ireland with me family. You never know, your daddy and me mammy might like each other, too, and wouldn’t that be grand?’
Tresca’s eyes were glued to his face. They were standing on the green lawns of the Hoe, overlooking the unruffled water of Plymouth Sound and the sea beyond, which spangled with diamonds of light from the dazzling sunshine. Hundreds of people were dotted about the grass, all enjoying the warm Sunday afternoon. Some were taking a constitutional stroll and others were seated while children played with balls or chased each other round in games of tag. As always, a breeze was blowing in off the sea, adding to the cacophony of sound, but suddenly all the noise dropped away as the meaning of Connor’s words percolated into Tresca’s brain.
‘You . . . are you asking me to marry you?’ she stammered, hardly able to breathe.
