Abbeyford Remembered (3 page)

Lloyd Foster was something of an enigma. No one knew anything about his background, only that he was a railway builder – one of the best in the country and he was a clever man with people, Carrie thought. The gangs of navvies who worked on the western railways were often made up largely of Irish and to hear their own delightful brogue from the lips of the Boss himself ensured hard work and loyalty from them. The railway site rang with his boisterous laughter and the workmen's faces, glistening with sweat, would break into a grin at the sight of the tall man on his horse. Also, he was reputedly generous to a fault towards his employees, so much so that other contractors on rival lines grumbled that he attracted all their best navvies into his gangs!

“I'm supposed to be here on a matter of business wid your father, me darlin', but 'tis all a devious plot, for me eyes were hungry for sight of your lovely face.”

Carrie raised her eyebrows cynically and glanced at her mother.

Lucy Smithson sat at the table, leaning wearily against it, her eyes dark pools of suffering and bitterness. The years of itinerant living had treated her harshly. Her once black hair was now grey and dull. Her body was thin and shapeless, her hands wrinkled and work-worn. Lucy had borne seven children of whom only four now survived. The others were buried in different parishes, their unmarked graves in churchyards alongside the railway line. One had died of typhoid and two of consumption. And now Luke, Lucy's first-born, suffered from that same terrible cough. The two younger children, Tom and Matthew, only fourteen and thirteen, yet already working on the railway bed, were sickly too. Of all Lucy's children only Carrie, now aged eighteen, was healthy, strong and resilient. And of all of them only Carrie was not afraid of Evan.

“Will ye be takin' a walk wid me, Miss Carrie?” Lloyd Foster was saying, bending towards her. Carrie opened her mouth to refuse but at that moment the door opened and Evan Smithson came in.

“Ah, an' now here's the man himself,” Lloyd Foster said. “An' how is me darlin' railway comin' along under your guiding hand, Mr Smithson?”

Evan grinned and slapped Lloyd Foster on the back, for, although in theory, Lloyd Foster was his employer, in practice Evan enjoyed an unusual position of equality with him. Such was the amiability of Lloyd Foster that no one, not even the youngest navvy with the most menial task, was ever made to feel his inferior. He made each and every one of them feel that all of them together were building the railway.

Evan turned towards his wife and daughter, his face once more hard. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the door.

“Out – we've business to discuss.”

Tiredly, Lucy levered herself and moved, without argument, towards the door, but Carrie, hands on hips, faced her father squarely. “Why? What's so secret?”

“None of your business, me girl. Get!”

“Ah, sure an' me lovely lass can stay if she'll sit an' hold me hand.”

“Not
this
time,” Evan said firmly. “ We've men's affairs to talk on.” He glanced meaningly at Foster, who shrugged, laughed, and slapping Carrie once more on the backside said, “ Now don't you be goin' too far away, me girl.”

Carrie moved towards the door of the shack. To her left hung an old brown curtain, dividing the small area where her parents slept from the rest of the shack. Carrie opened the door and then glanced back towards the two men. She was curious to know what lay behind her father's secretiveness. Their backs were towards her so she shut the door with a slam, as if she had left the shack, but instead she slipped stealthily behind the curtain. Her heart was beating rapidly as she sat quietly on the shakedown on the floor and pulled the worn blanket over her. Silent, she sat listening to the voices of the men, her father's sometimes low so that she had to strain to hear his words, but Lloyd Foster she could hear plainly.

“And what did ye find out then, me friend?” Foster was saying. She heard the rustle of paper and could only guess that her father was unfolding a map. She had seen them use one before to plan the route of the railway line.

“It's even better than I had hoped,” Evan replied, and there was a kind of suppressed excitement in his tone. “The best route is right across the land which now belongs to the Trents. And Squire Guy Trent's tight for money. Drinks and gambles all his grandson's inheritance away. He's ripe, I tell you!” There was a dull thud as if Evan had thumped the table with his fist in his enthusiasm.

“Gambles, is it, you say? Ah, a man after me own heart! And where is it you think our railway should run?”

Again Carrie heard the rustle of paper and imagined their heads bent together over the map as she had seen them so many times. She heard her father's voice. “We continue south from where we are now, making a cutting through this small incline, then into Abbeyford valley, between the hills to the east and west. We'll need an embankment, but the best line would be between the Manor House and the stream and continue south out of the valley. We can get through the dip between these two lines of hills quite easily.”

“Mmm,” Lloyd Foster's tone was, for once, serious – the only time he was ever serious was when discussing his beloved railway. “I'll be needin' to survey the whole district. ' Tis me engineer's job by rights, but you know when 'tis me own livelihood I'm gamblin' I like to be seein' the cards for meself.”

Carrie knew that, although a fine engineer by the name of Thomas Quincy, who also happened to be a surveyor, was employed on this line, Foster himself always surveyed the land and knew the workings of the line as well as any engineer. And she also knew that the money which built the railway was not his own but that of the Railway Board – men who invested capital into such schemes with the hope of becoming even richer than they already were.

There was a pause, then Foster added, “What about skirting these hills – avoidin' Abbeyford all together?”

“No!” Evan's tone was sharp. “To the east there's more hills and if you veer to the west you'll go through Lynwood's lands – not the Trents!”

“And will that be mattering?”

“Well – he'll demand a higher way-leave for his land. I reckon we'd be better to buy off a good deal of Trent's land – we ought to have a station or a halt hereabouts, anyway.”

“Aye, maybe you're right as ever, me boy.” Foster's ready laugh rang out. “ You'll be takin' me job if I don't watch out. Tell me now, what is it about these Trents? Your face seems to change when you speak of them and you're determined the railroad shall run through their land, are ye not?”

“It's none of your concern,” Evan growled.

Behind the curtain Carrie stifled a gasp. Despite Lloyd Foster's friendliness, he was still Evan's employer and she had never heard her father be deliberately rude to him before. But, even now, Foster took no offence. Reluctantly, Evan added, “I've an old score to settle. By rights, the Manor House should be mine!”

“Yours? How?” Foster's tone registered surprise, but that was nothing to the astonishment Carrie, in her hiding-place, felt.

“It's a long story,” Evan muttered, his voice now so low that Carrie could scarcely hear. “Just take my word for it. I aim to ruin the Trents and live there mesel' – one day!”

“Well, now, me boy,” Foster's hearty laugh rang out. “I just might be able to help you there. I have plans of me own, don't you know, and there's something
I
want – very much – that maybe
you
could be helpin'
me
.”

“What's that?”

“Ah, now never mind for de moment. Maybe in time we'll both be gettin' what we want.”

“Hmm, mebbe.” Evan sounded doubtful. There was the rustle of paper again as he refolded the map. “Shall we go and have a look at the land?” It sounded as if Evan were trying to change the subject now. Carrie heard him move towards the door and the curtain shook. She froze, holding her breath, fearful her father would come behind the curtain and discover she had been eavesdropping.

Carrie heard the door slam and their footsteps move away from the shack and she breathed again. She waited some moments before moving from her cramped position till she was sure they had really gone. She thought about her father's bitter words. ‘The Manor House should be mine … I'll ruin the Trents and live there mesel'.'

The picture of Jamie Trent, the tall, handsome young man on horseback she had met but once, came before her mind's eye and inexplicably her heart began to beat a little faster at the thought of him.

Two days later, in the early afternoon, Carrie slipped away from the shack and, avoiding the railway workings, made her way across the fields and up the hill towards Abbeyford. She was determined to get to know her grandmother better, yet she had had the intuitive sense to keep her intentions secret.

Carrie tapped at the cottage door with some trepidation, remembering the unwelcoming figure of the hunched cripple in the corner – her grandfather, and yet he seemed to bear such hatred for his son, Evan.

The door opened and Sarah Smithson's wrinkled face lit up with pleasure at the unexpected visit from her granddaughter. “ Come in, my dear, come in.”

Carrie followed her slow-moving steps into the small back scullery where they could talk freely without the malevolent presence of Henry Smithson's scowling face.

“Tell me about yourself, child.” Her old eyes roved over the girl's lovely face, as if she would draw strength from Carrie's youthful vitality.

Carrie shrugged and smiled. “There's not much to tell. There were seven of us children, but three died in childhood. There's Luke – he's twenty, the oldest.” A shadow flickered across her violet eyes, “but he's not strong. Then there's mesel' – I'm eighteen. Then there's Tom and Matthew – they're fourteen and thirteen. They all work on the railway – with Pa. I help Ma as best I can.” She broke off and asked, “Do you know me Ma?”

“I might. Is her name Lucy?”

Carrie nodded.

Sarah Smithson sighed. “ Yes, I thought so. Lucy Walters. She disappeared when Evan first left Abbeyford.”

Carrie leant forward eagerly. “Grandma – will you tell me about me Pa? What caused him to leave home …?”

“No, no,” the old woman cried sharply. “I cannot speak of it! He – he is not welcome here. People remember. He should not have come back.” Her words were halting and painful to her, Carrie could see. She bit back the words of pleading which sprang to her lips. She could not cause her grandmother more pain by making her relive unpleasant memories, but she longed to learn the truth.

Some time later Carrie took her leave. The summer sun was warm upon her head, and in the quiet of the valley she felt a peace settle upon her. She wandered along the lane, reluctant to return to the shack she must call home. Her gaze roamed the hills on either side. The mansion to the east called Abbeyford Grange and then opposite the Manor House and above it, silhouetted sharply against the blue sky, gaunt and lonely, stood the abbey ruins. Intrigued to see them, Carrie took the lane leading towards Abbeyford Manor. As she drew level with the house she looked at it with interest. This was where Jamie Trent lived – and it was the house her father coveted. He had vowed to bring ruin to the Trent family because of some deep ill-will he bore them, some revenge he sought. His reasons, buried deep in the past, were a mystery to his daughter.

Even in the warm afternoon sun Carrie shivered, and moved on up the lane past the gate leading to the Manor's stables and on up the hill towards the wood.

Beneath the trees it was cooler and shady and quiet save for the sounds of the woodland creatures. She took off her heavy clogs and delighted in the feel of the long grass on her bare feet. Joyously she skipped along, light-hearted and for once free from the cares of her harsh life.

As she emerged from the wood she stood a moment looking down on the valley below, her eyes tracing the line her father had suggested to Lloyd Foster that their railway should follow, entering the valley from the north and running alongside the stream directly in front of the Manor and on southwards to the natural pass out of the valley.

“Why,” she spoke aloud in surprise, “ the line will cut right through his pastures – and his cornfields!” She remembered her father's bitter words, ‘I'll ruin the Trents', and she frowned thoughtfully. Perhaps he had planned the route to come through the Trents' land intentionally for the very purpose of ruining them.

She shaded her eyes against the sun. Carrie expected to see men working in the fields, but there seemed a strange lack in numbers. Certainly there were one or two tiny figures in the far distance, moving about their work in the fields. She saw a horseman cantering along the side of the stream and then turn up the hill towards her. As he drew closer she saw the rider was Jamie Trent. He reined in beside her and sat, tall and straight, upon his horse. He wore breeches and knee-boots and an open-necked shirt. His brow glistened with sweat and his shirt was stained darkly with the signs of hard labour.

Why, thought Carrie in surprise, he's been working in the fields alongside his labourers.

He was smiling down at her. “Miss Smithson. How good it is to see you again.” His voice was warm and deep, and Carrie's heart beat a little faster.

“Mr Trent,” she murmured, almost shyly, though her eyes regarded him boldly, taking in every detail of his dark, handsome face, his deep brown eyes and rugged jaw line. He dismounted and stood beside her, the manly closeness of him quickening her pulses.

“I hoped we might meet again, but I had no idea where you came from – or why you came visiting Abbeyford.”

“I – we – came to visit my grandmother, Mrs Smithson.”

Jamie Trent's eyebrows rose a fraction. “Oh! I had no idea she had any children, let alone a granddaughter. Where do you live?”