The Iron Road (4 page)

‘Look, I don’t care one way or t’other. He’s no great loss.’ Queenie tugged her shawl tighter. ‘But we don’t want no magistrates on the works. Not when all the men have been drinking, and spirits is banned. Wouldn’t do us no good at all, that wouldn’t. Getting rid of the body won’t be a problem. He’s stinking of drink so if he’s put on the line it will look like an accident.’ She patted Veryan’s face with dirty fingers. ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of it. I’ve looked out for you since your mother died, haven’t I?’ She put her hand on the latch.

‘Just one thing: I don’t want to hear no more about you leaving the works. Best forget that. You’d always be looking over your shoulder; always wondering if someone would find out what you done. Better you stay here with me and make the best of it.’

Later that night driven by a vicious wind, the rippling curtain of rain beat down on the lifeless body of Gypsy Ned. It pounded fallen leaves to mush and flattened rust-brown bracken. It gouged channels down the embankment, softened poorly compacted soil, and pooled in the new excavations.

In the darkness, further down the track where the massive pillars of an almost-completed viaduct spanned the tree-lined valley beneath, it trickled into badly mortared cracks. Dripping and dribbling through the rubble, silently, unseen, it washed grit and dust from between the stones. A large boulder shifted imperceptibly, altering the load on a supporting baulk of timber.

Carrying the two brimming buckets, Veryan kept her eyes on the steep path and tried to avoid the muddiest patches. The dragging weight put even more strain on her aching shoulder, and her ankles were being rubbed raw by the wet slap of her skirt and petticoat hems. But these discomforts were nothing compared to her agony of mind.
She had killed a man.

Normally she was the first up. But that morning she had been roused from a state far deeper than mere sleep by an irate Queenie hammering on the door.

‘What’s going on? Why aren’t the fires lit? Why isn’t the porridge cooking?’

Startled awake, still trapped in her nightmare, she had staggered blindly across the tiny hut and pulled back the wooden bolt. The door flying open had knocked her against the wall as Queenie barged in.

‘What time do you call this? Come
on,
will you? Bleddy day’ll be half over by the time you stir yourself.’ She stopped, her face changing. ‘Oh my Lord, girl. What
have
you done?’

Pushing back her tangled hair, Veryan shook her head, her voice a dry rasp as she tried to explain. ‘I didn’t mean – But I couldn’t let him –’

‘No, I aren’t talking about that. What’s wrong with your arms?’

Veryan looked down blankly. Then it all flooded back. Last night after Queenie had left her, she had stumbled into the lean-to wash house next to the shanty and scooped a bowl of water from the still warm copper. Back inside the little hut, built with her own hands from salvaged planks and panels, she had bolted the door.

Then, ripping off the torn blouse she had screwed it into a tight bundle and thrown it into the furthest corner. She possessed few clothes and that had been a favourite. But though she might mend the tear and wash out the mud, nothing would remove the memories. She could not bear to look at it, much less wear it again. When she lit the fires in the morning she would burn it.

Soaping a rough cloth she had scrubbed her face, arms and upper body: everywhere Ned’s hands or even his breath had touched. Her gasps had deepened to shuddering sobs and she had rubbed and rubbed until crimson droplets had begun to stipple and smear her sun-browned skin.

Flinching from Queenie’s accusing stare she pulled the sleeves of her darned nightgown below her wrists, hugging her arms protectively against her body. She hadn’t meant – hadn’t
intended –
How could she have stabbed a man,
taken a life,
and not even remember? She cleared her throat. ‘Where –?’

‘It’s all been took care of. Don’t you think no more about it. Least said soonest mended. Now, move yourself. The men are waiting for their breakfast, and I don’t want no more trouble.’ She waddled to the door. ‘You can’t blame the men. It was your own fault. It would never have happened if you was spoken for. But oh no, none of ’em is good enough, not with you being a Polmear.’

Veryan bit back the reminder that Queenie herself had also deterred any would-be suitors, not wanting to lose her skivvy.

‘All that nonsense about leaving the line and living among good folk.’ Queenie snorted. ‘Well, you can forget that.’ Triumph rang in her voice. ‘You won’t be going nowhere now, my girl.’

Halfway up the path Veryan carefully set the buckets down for a moment. As she uncurled her fingers and painfully flexed her shoulders, her thoughts fluttered like frightened birds in a cage.
She could not have let him –
she shuddered. But in defending herself she had inadvertently played right into Queenie’s hands.

Until last night she had stubbornly refused to accept the hand fate had dealt her. Her dreams of escaping to a different life had given her the strength to keep going. Without those dreams, without even the hope of something better … A yawning chasm of despair opened inside her. What was the point of fighting any more?
She was so tired.

Resistance flickered, a candle flame in the darkness. To bolster her courage, rekindle her determination, she reached for memories of her childhood. But they were so faint, so difficult to recall. It was like trying to grasp a handful of mist.

The sound of a bugle, the warning signal for blasting, floated toward her on the breeze. Lifting the buckets she resumed her trudge up the path. A few moments later she heard a dull
crump,
and felt the ground shiver. Breathless, her lungs on fire, legs trembling from the climb, she reached the top of the path. Shouldering through the bushes onto the rutted muddy track which led to the shanty village she almost collided with a burly figure. Her violent start slopped water onto her skirt and shoes, making them even wetter.

‘Whoa!’ he grunted. His surprise equalled hers, but knowing that didn’t soften her fury. The grin spreading over his square, dark-stubbled face only made it worse. Though she had escaped violation the other night, this near collision had triggered a vivid flashback. She wanted to scream at him, to lash him with words for frightening her when she was already suffering more fear than she could handle. But, already gasping for breath, she had no strength to spare.

‘All right, then, maid? You gave me some start coming out like that.’

Ignoring the greeting that proclaimed him a Cornishman, she turned away and started walking. She could still see him in her mind’s eye. The gaudy waistcoat and neckerchief, the velveteen square-tailed coat and sealskin cap, all marked him as a navvy.

‘Hold on a minute!’ He started running after her, cursing as his heavy boots slipped on the thick sticky mud. ‘How far to the railway works?’

She was tempted to ignore him. But his rich Cornish accent hooked a fragment of memory buried deep inside.
My pretty little maid.
That’s what her father had called her. With hands like shovels he had gently towelled her hair dry in front of the fire, enthralling her with stories of his adventures in far-off lands as he combed out the tangles.
Why had he abandoned her?

‘What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?’

Working in the shanty and living so close to men, she recognized the stranger as one who would consider silence a challenge and who would not give up until he obtained a response.

She stopped, glancing back. ‘How should I know where the works are?’

‘Of course you know. It’s where you’re from and where you’re going.’ He ambled forward, solid and muscular, looking her up and down with cheerful insolence. ‘There aren’t no houses for miles. Yet here’s you carrying water, so you must live handy by. If the shanties aren’t far, then the works can’t be more than a mile or two.’

A variety of comments sprang to her lips, ranging from
Aren’t you clever?
to
Just go away and let me be.
But they remained unspoken. Instead she gave him a brief nod and continued on her way.

With his long loose stride he easily overtook her. ‘My name’s Tom, Tom Reskilly.’

Veryan stopped again, her impatience shaded with anxiety. ‘What do you want, Mr Reskilly?’

Twin grooves appeared between his heavy brows and she knew he was confused by the contrast between her voice and her appearance.

As a child she had been tutored in grammar and correct speech. She knew her father, though proud of his Cornish heritage, had wanted her to feel comfortable among her mother’s family, who had made no secret of their belief that their daughter had married beneath her. Though she could mimic the markedly different accents of west and north Cornwall, those lessons were too deeply engrained to be forgotten.

That was another reason for saying little. For all her attempts to remain unnoticed, others in the shanty village knew she didn’t belong there. She might be
with
them, having no other place to go, but she wasn’t
of
them.

Being able to read and write gave her a certain status. Her help was often sought, and willingly given, when letters needed to be read or written. But her only close friend was an eight-year-old boy. She knew why. She had not followed the accepted pattern. Most other girls of her age on the works were living with a navvy and had borne at least two children. Was her life better than theirs? Instead of cooking and washing for one man, she cooked and washed for ten. But at least her body was her own.
For how much longer?

‘I was told to ask for a ganger by the name of Maginn. Know him, do you?’

An image of Paddy, bold and clear, flashed into her mind. He was top man in the shanty.
He could have stopped them.
But, hot-eyed, he had shouted with the rest, urging the gypsy on, avid-faced and sweating. The memory was a sharp prod in a still-raw wound and she shied away from it. ‘No.’

Tom Reskilly simply nodded. ‘No matter. I’ll find him. Take in lodgers do you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you must know someone who do.’

Veryan thought of the shanty and the two empty bunks. ‘Ask at the works.’

He looked at her, his gaze steady and speculative. ‘Chatty little soul, aren’t you? Well, I’d best get on. Can’t hang about here burning daylight.’ He raised a forefinger to the brim of his cap. Though the gesture contained a hint of mockery it held something else as well, something that shook her.

‘I’ll see you again.’ It was both threat and promise. His quick grin revealed strong teeth with only one gap near the back. Against skin weathered to the same golden brown as the inside of oak bark, his eyes were the colour of violets.

While she stared at him, trying to identify a feeling she didn’t recognize, a feeling bound up with his salute, he winked then loped away, whistling.

He thought her worthy of courtesy.
Confused, disoriented, she trudged on with the buckets, deliberately keeping her gaze on the track. He certainly had a way with him. But the next time she saw him,
if
she ever did, there would be no smile, no casual teasing charm.
She had killed a man.

What did she care for his opinion? Handsome he might be. But there was more to him than a roguish grin and a silver tongue. She wasn’t sure how she knew, yet she would stake what little she owned that it was so. What did it matter? He was a navvy. That made him the last man in the world to interest her.

As she arrived back at the shanty village the sound of a woman’s voice, shrill and pleading, made her stomach knot painfully. Setting the buckets down, she massaged her cramped fingers. Drawn closer, she was wary of joining the other women watching in sombre silence. For them what was happening probably recalled all-too-familiar personal experience. She was merely an observer, envied because of Queenie’s protection.
If they only knew.

‘Just a few more days, Mr Timms. Denny promised. He said as soon as he found work he’d be sending for me and the kids.’

‘I’m sorry, Cora –’

Stick-thin and aged beyond her years, the young woman drew herself up angrily.

‘That’s Missus Pearce to you. I aren’t a works woman. Denny and me was married proper in a church. He’s a decent honest man, and –’

‘That’s as maybe,
Mrs
Pearce,’ the timekeeper, a bluff stocky man, checked his ledger. ‘But he isn’t here now.’

‘There’s men coming in on the tramp all the time,’ she cried desperately. ‘One of them is bound to have seen him. I’ve been going down the works every day asking. Just give us a couple more days. Please, Mr Timms. I’m begging you.’

A soft, barely audible sound rippled from the throats of the watching women. The timekeeper shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘You know the navvy law,’ he insisted, dogged and determined. ‘Only men working on the job, or their families, are allowed to live in the shanties. Your man’s been gone three weeks now. You got to get out.’

‘And go where? What am I supposed to do?’ The young woman’s anguished cry startled the baby in her arms who wailed in protest. Her other two children, both boys, one aged about five, the other a year or so younger, giggled as they pretended to fight, each clinging to her skirts with one hand, completely oblivious to their mother’s distress.

The timekeeper’s shrug implied that wasn’t his concern. ‘Go on the parish.’

Angry whispers rustled among the women.

‘Lose my children? Give up my freedom? Be forced to wear workhouse clothes so everyone knows? Be treated like I’m some kind of criminal when I haven’t done nothing wrong? Never! I’ll
never
go on the parish.’ Abruptly her voice changed again from defiance to entreaty. ‘Please, Mr Timms. Just one more day?’

The timekeeper’s gaze flicked to the watching women who stared back in silent hostility. He shifted again, clearly uncomfortable and losing patience. ‘Look, one more day won’t make any difference. Your man could be dead for all you know.’

Veryan knew Bernard Timms wasn ’t a cruel man. His brutal words were a simple statement of fact.