The Iron Road (12 page)

Back at his lodgings, James paced the floor, replaying Gilbert’s words over and over again, comparing them with his own impressions gleaned from conversations with Chloe. In the early hours, exhausted and still sleepless, he slumped into an armchair. There were only two positive aspects to the entire problem: his growing regard for Chloe was reciprocated, and as yet no one else was aware.

This couldn’t last. The only sure way he could protect her would be to leave. But how could he abandon her? Especially when it was obvious to him – and possibly suspected by others – that the celebrated marital harmony was just a facade. He needed an acknowledgement her loyalty would not allow.

Desperate for respite from a problem that appeared, for now at least, to have no solution, he picked up that day’s edition of the
West Briton und Royal Cornwall Gazette.
He scanned the pages, skimming over news stories that, a few weeks ago, would have had his undivided attention. He turned another page. After a few minutes, not having taken in a single word, he gave a grunt of disgust and started to close the paper.

Something caught his eye. Angling the page to the lamplight he read the legal notice once more. His arms fell, crumpling the paper in his lap. So
that
was why the name had seemed familiar. He had glimpsed the same notice in the previous week’s paper.

Veryan held the wooden plank in place as Tom hammered it onto the partly repaired panel. The vibration jarred up through her arms to her teeth. It was mid-afternoon. They had both risen at first light.

She hadn’t slept much. The men’s snoring and other, coarser, noises had kept her awake. At least, that was what she told herself. In her heart of hearts she knew the real reason sleep eluded her was the man lying in the bunk above. She had wanted to think about the engineer: the way he’d turned back on the path to ask if she was all right. And how, after the accident, he’d insisted she and Davy ride. She wanted to ponder possibilities, test her hopes. But
he
kept pushing into her thoughts.

As she’d stared into the darkness her confusion had grown. Helping her build a new hut would cost him a day’s pay. Why would he do that? What would he expect in return? But she hadn’t asked for his help. He’d offered: insisted. So she didn’t owe him anything. She would make sure she did her share. Then she wouldn’t be beholden, and he wouldn’t get any ideas.

So, as soon as she heard the slats creak as he swung himself quietly to the floor, she had wriggled into her old skirt and blouse. As she’d slept in her chemise and petticoats it hadn’t taken more than a few minutes. He had stoked up the fire while she went outside. When she returned, face and hands washed, hair combed and tied back, she quickly dismissed her reaction to his admiration as hunger and lack of sleep. While she prepared breakfast he went to the wood dump for the first load of planks.

Queenie had been more than usually waspish. ‘What about the men’s dinner? Who’s going to get that ready and take it down the line? No good looking at me. It’s your job; I got more’n enough to do.’

‘Here, girl,’ Paddy had grunted. ‘You get it ready. I’ll take it.’ That had put Queenie in even more of a snit, and she had waddled between the fire, the dresser and the table, deliberately getting in the way. Biting her tongue, Veryan had got on as best she could. She had no idea why Queenie was being so difficult. But asking would only invite more trouble.

Breakfast over, the men left. Tom had gone too, to fetch more wood. Working around Queenie, Veryan had cleared away the breakfast dishes, got the washing done as fast as possible, and hung it out. The veil of thin high cloud hazing the pale-blue sky promised a few days of warm, dry weather.

‘That should give it some strength,’ Tom said, straightening up and flexing his shoulders. ‘I’ll try and bring back a drop of creosote tomorrow. He’ll stink for a day or two, but he’ll keep out the wet and slow the rot.’ He shot her a sidelong glance. ‘Queenie give you any trouble this morning?’

‘No more than –’ Veryan began automatically, then stopped. ‘Well, as a matter of fact –’ She glanced up, suspicious. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘How come you and she don’t share a room?’

Veryan wiped her forearm across her sweating forehead. ‘Have you
seen
Queenie’s room?’

‘Nope. Mind you, she did ask me.’ Bending, he picked up another plank. Veryan knew how heavy they were. She’d helped carry them. But in his big hands the wood looked weightless.

‘Asked you what?’

He raised his eyes to hers. ‘If I wanted to go with her.’

As she held the plank in place, Veryan felt an odd twist beneath her ribs.

‘But you didn’t.’

‘Of course I bleddy didn’t. What do you take me for?’

The flash of temper startled her, and she realized that though she’d seen him angry, it had never been directed at her.

‘I know you didn’t, or you’d have known what her room was like,’ she responded tartly. ‘So that was what had upset her. I wondered.’ She’d assumed it was Lady Radclyff’s maid arriving with a bundle of clothes.

‘I’ve never been
that
desperate,’ Tom growled. ‘Ugghh.’ He shuddered.

‘Yes, all right. You’ve made your point. Anyway,
that’s
why I don’t share with her. At least, it’s one of the reasons. I did, for a little while, after –’ She saw her mother, a human torch, and swiftly blocked the image. ‘But whenever Queenie … had company …’ Veryan looked away, furious with herself for blushing. Working in the shanty where such matters were talked of openly, and in much cruder terms, she couldn’t help knowing what went on behind the closed door. When the men baited her she had schooled herself not to react, taking refuge in silence. Now, speaking of it to Tom Reskilly made her feel ridiculously shy.

‘The men would … they made jokes. It was – I couldn’t –’ She shook her head. ‘So I hid a candle in the wash house. I’d go in there and read. That was another thing. She said my reading kept her awake. It didn’t. But her snoring stopped
me
from sleeping.’

‘Dear life, girl,’ Tom grinned. ‘Had some time of it, haven’t you?’ As she raised one shoulder, he said, ‘You don’t have to put up with it, you know. I heard her this morning, going on to you.’

Veryan turned her head as guilt, pushed aside but ever present, dried her throat. Queenie’s taunting had been venomous, muttered behind her while she dished up the porridge.
‘Do you reckon ’Er Ladyship would be so generous if she knew the truth about you? Don’t you go getting too much above yourself, miss, else someone might have to put her wise.’

‘All that stuff about you owing her for the roof over your head?’ Tom reminded, ‘And the clothes on your back, the food in your mouth? That’s boll – that’s rubbish, that is,’ he corrected quickly with a delicacy as touching as it was unexpected.

‘You think a minute. The only clothes you got now is what Lady Radclyff sent. The roof’ – he gestured from the pile of charred remains to the new panels ready to be erected – ‘is what we’ve built between us. As for food … seeing as how you do all the cooking, ‘tis only right you eat your share. She got no hold over you.’

Veryan gazed at him, hope battling with despair, and losing. ‘It’s not that simple.’

Hauling one of the panels upright, Tom gestured for her to support it while he raised a second, fitting it against the corner post. ‘Hold her steady while I get a couple of nails in.’

Within minutes three and a half panels were in place and Tom was fitting the door, using the old hinges salvaged from the ashes.

Holding the door while he tightened the screws, Veryan found herself looking at his arms, fascinated by the play of muscle. She could feel the warmth emanating from him and smell the sweet muskiness of his sweat. As he forced the screws in tight, grunting softly with the effort, her gaze flicked, shy and curious, to his thick neck and strong jaw, black with a heavy growth of stubble. The navvies only shaved at the weekend, some didn’t even bother then. She had never been this close to a man,
except –
she shuddered, mentally recoiling.

He glanced down.

Quickly she turned her head away. ‘Can I let go now?’

A slight frown deepened the twin creases between his heavy brows. ‘What’re you doing here, my lovely?’ he asked softly. ‘You don’t belong on the line.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Father worked on the lines. I was born in a shanty and started as a tip-boy with him when I was seven.’

‘Where are they now?’ Against her will, Veryan was curious. She had never met a navvy like Tom Reskilly.

‘Mother died when I was twelve, and father was killed six year ago when a tunnel collapsed on him. Here, pass me they screws.’

She did as he asked. ‘You said – you said you had a son.’

He eyed her. ‘I know what you’re doing, my lovely. It’s all right though, I don’t mind telling you,’ he said, as she opened her mouth. ‘But it works both ways. That’s fair, isn’t it? Yes, I had son.

‘I was working just outside London, a branch of the Great Northern Line. Doreen – that was her name – was in service in one of the big houses on the edge of the village. She didn’t have family, and said she wanted to travel. So when I moved on she went with me. The boy came along about a year later. Dear little soul he was, fat as a dumpling, and always smiling.’ Tom’s expression softened as he murmured, ‘Thomas Henry.’

Grief shadowed his broad strong face, dimming his smile. ‘Just toddling, he was.’ He fell silent, caught up in his memories.

‘What happened?’ Veryan asked softly.

Inhaling deeply, Tom wedged the door open against his foot to check the latch. ‘The croup. She didn’t stay long after that. I believe she went back into service.’ He stood back, surveying his handiwork. ‘So, what brought you here?’

‘The men haven’t told you?’ Disbelief frosted her voice.

‘They’ve told me all sorts. But half of ’em don’t know which way is up. Anyhow, I’d sooner hear it from you.’

‘Why?’ she demanded, wary, unsettled by the sudden urge to tell him. He would listen and not judge her. She could trust him.
Was she mad? How did she know that?
‘What difference does it make?’

‘None,’ he said simply.

So, helping him fashion a roof for the hut out of more planks and scraps of heavy tarpaulin, she recounted, briefly and without emotion, her childhood and the events which had led to her working for Queenie.

‘You know what?’ He looked sideways at her. ‘You and me, we’re two of a kind.’

‘No, we’re not,’ she refuted immediately. ‘I wasn’t born to this life, nor did I choose it: I was forced here by circumstance. But one day I’ll get out. I want a better life.’ Her look dared him to mock. Instead he eyed her thoughtfully.

‘You go for it, girl,’ he urged. ‘You got spirit.’

Having expected, and prepared herself for mockery, this encouragement threw her. Doubts seeped in. Where could she go? How would she support herself? Most frightening of all, if Queenie carried out her threats, would she spend the rest of her life living in fear of discovery, always looking over her shoulder? What kind of life would that be?
Surely better than this.

Chapter Ten

Since the moment Veryan had entered the shanty to light the fire and start breakfast Queenie had followed her about, her curiosity spiked with malice.

‘He didn’t do all that for free. I was watching. I seen the way he looked at you. You wait. Before the week’s out he’ll want paying, one way or another.’

Refusing to be drawn, Veryan said nothing.

Queenie peered into Veryan’s face. ‘I bet you won’t fight neither. I seen plenty like you. All touch-me-not one minute and skirts over your head the next. He’ve got the charm of the devil. We wondered where he’d gone last night. He wasn’t in here with us. He was with you, wasn’t he?’ Losing patience, Queenie grabbed her arm. ‘I’m talking to you, girl. I asked you a question.’

Veryan jerked free. ‘I’m not obliged to answer.’

‘Well!’ Queenie gasped. ‘Some gratitude that is. After all I done for you –’

‘Oh, please,’ Veryan muttered in weary disgust. Turning back to the table and the waiting men with downcast eyes, she ladled porridge into each bowl. She was all too aware of their speculation, and of Queenie watching her every move.

Already hot, she felt perspiration dew her skin as she recognized his broad, scarred hand. Keeping her head bent, she scooped out the thick oatmeal, willing him not to say anything. She owed him thanks. But not here, not now. He didn’t speak; she couldn’t. As he moved away to the table to join the others, her relief was tempered by a strange sense of anti-climax. Against her will, she found herself wondering. Where
had
he been? She hadn’t seen him since last night’s evening meal.

After clearing up, she had gone to the bunk to collect her bundle of clothes. They’d gone.
Surely Queenie hadn’t –
Then she realized the thin mattress and blankets were missing as well. She raced out to the hut. Opening the door she stood quite still.

Mattress, blankets, and clothes were all there: laid neatly on a
bed.
Made of six-foot planks nailed crosswise onto sleepers with an extra one at the head to stop her pillow failing off, it stood clear of the earth floor, which was now covered by a strip of canvas.

Her eyes pricked. Was it just kindness? Anguish and anger tore at her. She hadn’t asked – certainly hadn’t expected – no-one since her father died had ever –
What did he want?
Why
him?

When he left with the rest of the men for the works he still made no attempt to speak, or even to catch her eye. It was as if the unexpected intimacy of the previous day had never existed. Her confusion increased. Wasn ’t that what she wanted? At least it proved Queenie wrong.
So why, instead of relief did she feel so …at a loss?
She hauled a bucketful of hot water from the copper for the dishes.

‘Well.’ Queenie folded her hands under her sagging bosom. ‘Looks like your fancy man have had second thoughts. I bet I know why.’ She cackled with spiteful laughter. ‘He’s afraid if he cross you he’ll end up like Gypsy Ned. What you looking like that for? Can’t you take a joke?’

So it continued, a deliberate goading that dripped on and on, poisoning the sunny morning. Biting her tongue, Veryan willed herself not to react. There was a short respite when she returned, empty-handed from the tally shop.

‘What you been doing?’ Queenie demanded. ‘You was supposed to be going to the shop.’

‘I did. It’s closed.’ ‘What do you mean, closed? It can’t be, not this time of the morning.’

‘The shutters are still up. Pascoe isn’t there. People are banging on the door. There’s a whole crowd of them waiting.’ At the clop and squelch of approaching hooves they both looked towards the window.

‘Maybe that’s him now,’ Queenie said. ‘He don’t normally come in from this end. But I suppose he could’ve been up the line first.’

Veryan heard the jingle of harness and a soft thud as someone dismounted.

Queenie threw a malicious smirk over her shoulder. ‘I know, it’s Her Ladyship come to invite you to –’

Veryan started violently as James Santana’s head appeared round the open door.

‘Miss Polmear? I wonder if I might have a word?’

‘Well, now.’ Queenie’s bright sharp smile revealed a mouthful of decay. ‘Seeing as this young lady is in my care, perhaps you’d better tell me what you want with her?’

He ignored her. ‘Miss Polmear?’

Nervously smoothing her hands over the pale-grey dress, one of two in the parcel from Lady Radclyff, Veryan hurried to join him, heart hammering.
Miss Polmear?

Knuckles on her massive hips, Queenie squared up to him. ‘Now you hang on a minute –’

James placed himself between her and Veryan, ‘This is a private matter. We won’t be long.’ He shut the door, cutting off Queenie’s roar of protest. She promptly yanked it open again but remained, narrow-eyed and muttering furiously, on the threshold.

Veryan stood beside his horse’s head. She stroked the soft muzzle and felt the animal’s hot breath against her work-roughened palm.

James Santana glanced round. Following his gaze she saw the women watching curiously, some from their own doorways, others in a group outside the tally shop.

‘Is there somewhere we might speak privately?’

After a moment ’s hesitation she nodded, and, with her heart fluttering somewhere near her throat, led him towards her hut.

‘Good Lord!’ His astonished realization sent a thrill of pride and pleasure through her. ‘I didn’t realize … But how – when –?’

‘Yesterday.’ She saw the frown form, drawing his brows together as he scrutinized the panels and planking, and guessed what was coming.
She couldn’t have built this by herself.

‘How many of the navvies –’

She lifted her chin proudly. ‘Only one. With the ganger’s permission,’ she added quickly. ‘We did it between us.’

‘Only one? He must think very highly of you.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘He isn’t – I mean, we’re not –’ She felt herself flush. She wanted him to understand that, though she appreciated Tom’s help, there was nothing between them. Well, there wasn’t. She still didn’t understand why he hadn’t spoken to her this morning. Or where he’d gone last night. Not that she cared; it wasn’t any of her business what he did.

James Santana wasn’t listening. He reached into his pocket. ‘I saw this in the paper yesterday.’ Unfolding the clipping he passed it to her.

It wasn’t very long. She read it twice and the tremor in her hands increased. But at least now there was a reason she could admit to. She looked up at him. Guilt and terror dried her mouth. She had to run her tongue over her lips before she could speak. ‘Wh-why would a solicitor want to see me?’
Had the body been found?
No, it couldn’t be that. The police would have come.

‘Don’t look so worried.’ He smiled reassuringly as he stroked his horse’s glossy neck. ‘When someone is asked to contact a firm of solicitors, it is often related to a family matter.’

Veryan was bewildered. What family? Her parents were dead. She had no brothers or sisters. She had faint memories of older people she’d been told were her grandparents. But she had been very young and couldn’t remember their faces.

‘Yes, but why a solicitor?’ She was still apprehensive.

James shrugged. ‘To show that it’s important the person is found. Especially if,’ he added carefully, ‘no one knows where to look or who to ask.’ He gathered up his horse’s reins. ‘Anyway, I thought you should see it.’

‘Thank you. I’m – it’s very kind of you.’

He placed one polished boot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. ‘I’d go and see them if I were you. It might be good news.’

After all these years? Anyway, why would they want to see her now? Her mother had always blamed the family for the loss of her home. As the two of them had moved around the country she had become frighteningly unpredictable, her tears of self-pity changing within seconds to rage, bitterness, and wild-eyed vows of revenge. Veryan had quickly learned to think of her grandparents as the enemy: cold-hearted and cruel.

‘I think that’s very unlikely. Anyway, even if I did –’ She stopped, staring blindly at the now-crumpled paper.

‘What?’ She looked up, narrowing her eyes against the sun and against sudden despair. ‘How do I prove who I am?’

‘Don’t you have anything –?’ He frowned. ‘No, of course, the fire.’

Veryan screwed up her courage. ‘I don’t suppose –’

‘Would it help if –’

‘Please.’ She gestured for him to speak first, hoping.

‘I have no wish to intrude on your personal business, but it
was
I who brought this matter to your attention, so I feel a certain responsibility. Perhaps if I were to escort you …?’

‘Would you? Would you really?’

‘Shall we say the end of next week? Meanwhile, I will inform them that you have seen the notice and will be coming in.’

‘You’re very kind.’

‘It’s no trouble. Until next week, then. Now I have to see Mr Pascoe.’ Clicking his tongue, he turned his mount.

‘He’s not there.’

‘What?’ His horse, gleaming like a polished chestnut, danced restlessly. Shortening the reins, he glanced from her to the group of women who milled impatiently outside the shuttered shop. The horse tossed and shook its head, mouthing the bit.

‘He hasn’t arrived yet. That’s why they are all waiting.’

‘I see.’ His face was suddenly wiped clean of all expression. With his heels in its sides, the horse leapt forward.

Veryan watched him canter past the women, ignoring their demands to know what was going on, why wasn’t the shop open, where was Pascoe, and how were they supposed to feed their families, as he headed up the hill, taking the shortest route to the line.

‘So, what was that all about then?’ Queenie’s eyes were hawk-sharp, her expression avid, as Veryan passed her.

‘I just told him Pascoe’s not here.’ Veryan scooped up the dirty clothes that had been thrown at – and missed – the washing basket.

Queenie tutted impatiently. ‘I didn’t mean that, as you perfectly well know. What did he want with you?’

‘Perhaps you should ask him.’ Veryan picked up the loaded basket, resting it on her hip.

‘Don’t you get uppity with me, miss,’ Queenie snapped. ‘I dunno what’s got into you lately. Lord knows I always done my best for you –’

‘Your
best?’
Veryan stared at her. ‘How can you even – You would have let them –’ She caught her lower lip hard between her teeth.

‘Listen, girl, it’s time you –’ A commotion outside cut her short. ‘Dear life! What’s going on now? Like a bleddy fairground out there this morning, it is.’

Bessie Thomas stuck her grimy, tousled head around the door. ‘Queen, it’s that Lady Wassname come with two of her friends. Looks like she’ve brung the clothes and stuff.’

‘Out the way, Bess. Let the dog see the rabbit.’ Tugging her filthy shawl around her shoulders, Queenie pushed past Veryan and swiftly waddled out.

Veryan followed more slowly. Skirting round the back of the throng to the wash house, she glanced briefly at the gleaming open carriage in which the three elegantly dressed women had arrived. Behind it was a four-wheeled cart. Loaded with huge wicker baskets, all piled high with clothes and linen, it was in the charge of a second, much younger coachman who, judging by his crimson face, was being mercilessly teased and propositioned by the waiting women.

Veryan had rubbed four soaped shirts against the ribbed washboard then, after a quick twist to wring out most of the water, tossed them into a tin bath to be rinsed later. Reaching into the basket she picked up the fifth. Turned inside out, it was rolled up.

As she shook it out, recognizing it as the one Tom had been wearing the previous night, the foul smell made her recoil. There were dark stains across one shoulder and down the front.
Where had he been? What had he been doing?
She plunged it into the hot sudsy water. It was none of her business.

Deliberately she turned her thoughts to the newspaper clipping. Who wanted to find her? And why? What was she to make of Mr Santana seeking her out? Going to such trouble must surely signify more than just a passing interest on his part?

A shadow crossed the doorway. She took no notice. Then a soft, beautifully spoken female voice enquired, ‘Miss Polmear?’ She started violently.

‘L-Lady Radclyff.’

‘I just wanted to say how sorry I was, about the fire. To lose treasured possessions – it must have been devastating.’

‘Thank you for the clothes.’ Veryan knew she sounded stiff and cool, knew also that her visitor’s kindness deserved better. But just looking at the maroon ankle-length walking dress, the matching jacket, smart little hat, and polished shoes, made her ache with envy.

It wasn’t just the clothes – though God knew she was sick to her soul of ill-fitting, worn-out cast-offs – it was the world they represented: a world of privilege, of freedom to choose: what to eat, what to wear, who to see, and the most interesting and entertaining ways to fill one’s days. Best of all, it was a world free from fear. She had belonged to that world: once: long, wretched years ago.

‘I’m glad they have proved useful.’ It seemed to Veryan that, although the stilted thanks were accepted with more grace than they deserved, Lady Radclyff’s thoughts were elsewhere.

‘Actually, I’ve sought you out because – well, for two reasons really. The first concerns the books and writing materials you asked for. Do you want them put in the big –’

‘No!’

‘I thought perhaps not.’ Her quick smile held understanding. ‘So where should Robbins take them?’

‘Oh, er –’ Veryan hastily dried red, dripping hands on the torn shirt she had tied around her waist by the sleeves in place of an apron. ‘I’ll show you.’ Aware of watching eyes and whispers amid the clamour, she straightened her back.

Queenie had managed to haul herself up onto the cart. Amid shouting and edgy banter she was sorting and distributing the garments as if they were her own property. Yet no one had the courage to join her or take her place.

‘Who is that person?’

‘Queenie Spargo? She runs lodgings in the big shanty for one of the gangs.’

‘She appears to speak on behalf of everyone here.’