The Iron Road (5 page)

‘I got my job to do. No way can I let you stay another night in that hut. Not unless …’

Veryan saw the women exchange glances. They knew what was coming.

‘What?’ Cora Pearce demanded, hope battling with anxiety, itself tinged with suspicion and dread. ‘Not unless what?’

Bernard Timms tapped his ledger. ‘Beany Flynn says he’s willing to pay your rent if you’ll take him as your man.’

Cora Pearce’s thin face turned chalk-white. ‘But – I’m a married woman. What if my Denny comes back?’

‘What if he doesn’t?’ The timekeeper was brusque. ‘Come on. I haven’t got all day. What’s it to be? Yes or no?’

Veryan saw agonized indecision on Cora’s pinched features as she automatically rocked the crying baby then looked down at her other two children.

When she raised her head her face was etched with shame and grief. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

As Bernard Timms made a note in his ledger, the women turned quietly away to their shanties. But inside Veryan the guilt and fear and rage that had been draining her of purpose suddenly coalesced into a resolve as cold and clear as frosted starlight.

Newspapers constantly railed against the evils of slavery, condemning the southern states of America for inhuman behaviour. Yet what of the slaves in England? For navvy women were little better. Moving from line to line, they quickly lost touch with their families. All they had was their man and their children. But if he lost his job, or grew bored with the responsibilities of family life, he went on the tramp looking for new work, leaving her to follow when or
if
he sent for her. Thus, in order to survive, women like Cora Pearce could start the day as the legally married wife of one man, and end it, for her children’s sake, living as the kept woman of another.

Not me,
Veryan vowed.
I won’t give up. Somehow I’ll get away.

Chapter Four

Veryan felt every muscle tighten as she heard the men arrive back that evening. Before she had been wary, watchful. Now she felt vulnerable and afraid, and hated the feeling. She tried hard to shrug it off. But everything was different now.
They said she had killed a man.

Grumbles and curses overlaid the squelch and suck of boots in the mud as the men tramped into the village and dispersed to the crude and sparsely furnished huts.

Veryan kept her back to the door and with shaking fingers dropped suet dumplings into the thick bubbling stew. The shanty was suddenly full of voices and thuds. Boots were kicked off, mud-soaked shirts and trousers thrown into a corner for her to collect later. Then, hauling on dry clothes over grubby and felted woollen combinations, the men crowded around Queenie who had tapped a new beer barrel.

‘Who’s this then?’ Queenie demanded, her voice rising above the rest. ‘You’re some fine-looking feller. What’s your name?’

‘Tom Reskilly, ma’am.’

Though she’d expected it – he’d asked for Paddy after all – the sound of his voice caused a strange contraction deep inside her.

Confused and angry at her own reaction, she kept her head bent, refusing to look round.

‘Listen to ’im. Ma’am is it? I know your sort, my lad: a silver tongue and itchy feet. I bet you’ve broken a few hearts. Where’re you from?’ Curiosity and amusement had replaced Queenie’s habitual cynicism.

‘Born at Treskillet. Just come from a branch line down west.’ Hearing him establish his Cornish origins as well as the fact that he had not open out of work for very long, Veryan recognized Tom Reskilly was a lot more astute than his brash cheerful manner suggested. Had Paddy forewarned him? Suggested the best way to approach Queenie? Not that it would have made any difference. Queenie was a law unto herself when it came to lodgers. She had turned away a chirpy little man from Bristol. Yet she had accepted the dour Mac who grumbled incessantly, and Gypsy Ned.

Veryan’s head swam and the sweat bathing her was suddenly icy. Dropping in the last of the dumplings she replaced the heavy lid. It clattered loudly and she flinched.

‘So what are you doing up here then?’

‘C’mon, Queen,’ Paddy Maginn groaned. ‘How about our beer? Chacking, we are. I said Tom could have Cider Joe’s bunk.’

‘Oh you did? Well you had no business to. Not till I’ve seen the colour of his money.’

Paddy might run the gang, but the shanty was Queenie ’s. Foul-mouthed and temperamental, she still provided better food and conditions than most of the other shanties.

‘If you want to bunk here, my handsome, it’ll cost you seven shillings week, in advance. Take it or leave it.’

‘What do I get for my money?’

Turning to set out bowls on the narrow folding table she used for preparing food, Veryan stole a glance. He was still smiling, but his tone made it clear that whether he stayed or not was
his
decision. The men caught it too, for the noise level fell as they stopped to listen.

‘Three meals a day. It’s good food too. Well, the best we can get from that cut-throat, Pascoe. You get your own bunk and locker, and your washing done.’

A spoon slipped with a metallic rattle from Veryan’s clumsy fingers and her face flamed.

Tom Reskilly said, ‘What more could a man ask?’ And Veryan heard the clink of coins.

‘Right then,’ Queenie was brisk. ‘Who’s first for beer?’

‘Bleddy mad you are, man,’ Nipper jeered. But he was careful to keep his voice low. ‘How didn’t you go to Elsie Bray’s? You’d have got more than food there. She’d have warmed your bed all right.’ His voice grew louder as discretion was overpowered by jealousy and grudging admiration. He turned to the other men. ‘She wasn’t the only one neither. Did you see they women standing in their doorways? Near enough throwing theirselves at him they were. Not just the young girls neither. Tidn’ fair. How don’t I get women chasing after me?’

‘Cos you ain’t as pretty as him,’ Fen retorted.

‘And you stink,’ Yorky grimaced, his weathered face resembling crumpled brown paper.

‘Veryan!’ Queenie shouted above the roars of agreement and laughter, ‘put some more dumplings in that stew. I got a new lodger. You hear me, girl?’

As Veryan looked over her shoulder and gave a brief nod, Tom Reskilly caught her eye. He touched his cap, a deliberate repeat of his gesture on the path. One of the men nudged him. ‘You don’t want nothing to do with ‘er. She’s trouble, she is.’

Turning away, her face burning as she struggled against the quicksand of shame and defiance, Veryan tried to block out the whispers and mutterings.
It had just been a bit of fun. All right, so Ned had had a drop too much. But there was no need to take a knife to the poor bugger, for Crissakes. She thinks she’s too good for the likes of us. Saving herself she was. She needn’t bleddy bother now. Who’d want her after what she’ve done?

Let them mock. Let him think what he liked. She had been attacked by two men, both had been drinking, and both were bigger and stronger than her. Yet they were saying it was
her
fault:
she
was to blame. She bent her head over the new batch of dough, hot tears of anger and helplessness sliding down her cheeks. She dashed them away with a floury hand.

The men moved with their beer to benches around the big table.

‘What did ye do tae get yersel’ sacked?’ Mac demanded of Tom.

‘The contractor wouldn’t pay us what we were due. Said we’d have to wait. I told him there was no food and kiddies were starving. He said that wasn’t his problem. So I broke the bastard’s jaw. I had to get away quick then. So I thought I’d try my luck up this way.’

‘I bet you’ve left half-a-dozen women weeping and wailing,’ Queenie shouted over in dry accusation.

‘I gave no promises,’ Tom shrugged.

‘Crafty bugger,’ Nipper said gloomily.

The door flew open and Cora Pearce burst in, She looked wildly round, spotted the newcomer and rushed towards him.

‘Mister? Have you seen my man? Denny Pearce?’

Veryan saw Tom Reskilly’s gaze flick over Cora. He probably looked at a horse with the same practiced objectivity.

‘On the tramp is he?’ Cora nodded quickly: anxious, hopeful.

Tom shook his head. ‘Sorry, my bird. I reckon your man will be long gone from Cornwall. There’s nothing down here for him. The Trewirgie line’s in trouble. They’re laying men off. And the gangs laying extra rails on the West Cornwall line aren’t taking no one on. ‘’Tis a short contract, see, and they want to keep the work for themselves.’

Cora’s thin shoulders drooped. As hope finally died she aged ten years in as many seconds.

‘Cora Pearce,’ Queenie snapped, ‘it’s time you stopped all this. Thanks to Beany Flynn you got a roof over your head and food on your table. It’s not every man who’ll take on someone else’s kids. You’re bleddy lucky, and don’t you forget it.’ She turned to the men, waspish and irritable.

‘What’s up with you lot. Something wrong with the beer?’

Cora was elbowed aside as the men crowded around Queenie and the barrels. Covering her mouth with a red-knuckled hand, she stumbled out.

As she hefted the heavy cauldron onto the small table Veryan saw Paddy, beer in hand, take Tom to the double row of lockers on the back wall and point out the one that had been Cider Joe’s. After stowing his few possessions Tom came towards her, carrying two bowls.

‘Told you I’d see you again, didn’t I?’ he said softly.

Head bent as she dished up the stew, Veryan didn’t reply.

‘You’re not spoken for then?’

The full ladle tipped dangerously as her head jerked up. ‘Didn’t you hear what they said?’

‘I heard.’ His violet gaze was level. Then he grinned.

‘Here, girl, keep your flirting for later,’ Queenie shouted, raising hoots and laughter. ‘These men been working all day. They want their food while it’s still hot.’

Flushing scarlet, Veryan bent her head again. ‘Go away,’ she said with quiet force. ‘Find your fun somewhere else.’

The men had collected their bowls of stew and were seated at the table when once again the door crashed open. A man lurched in, drunk and angry.

‘All right, where is he?’ he shouted, glaring blearily around.

‘By all the saints,’ Paddy grumbled. ‘Can’t a man have his tea in peace? All this coming and going and shouting, it’s like Dublin market so it is.’

‘I told you before, William Thomas,’ Queenie snapped. ‘You’re not welcome in here. Now get out.’

‘I’ll go when I’ve spoken to
her.’
He stabbed a grimy finger at Veryan.

Flinching as vivid memories assailed her, Veryan ignored him and lifted two boiled suet puddings out of the copper.

‘All right,’ he snarled, coming towards her, shoulders hunched, head thrust forward. ‘Where is he? Where’s Davy?’

Losing interest, the men turned back to their food. A good fight was one thing, but no one with a lick of sense got involved in a family row. Hunched over their bowls they shovelled up the stew, slurping and chewing noisily.

‘I don’t know.’ It was the truth. She hadn’t seen him all day. She tugged at the knots, scalding her fingers. Fear shafted through her but she fought it. William Thomas had never been able to frighten her before. She would not let him frighten her now.

‘Don’t you give me that rubbish,’ he bellowed. ‘The boy follows you round like a bleddy shadow. Well, I won’t have it. You and your bleddy books, filling his head with nonsense. You’re turning him against us.’

Veryan’s head flew up. ‘You don’t need my help for that. You’re doing very successfully all by yourself.’

‘You stay away from him, do you hear me?’ Leaning over the flimsy table he stabbed his finger at her again. ‘I’m warning you.’

Sickened by his drunken belligerence, remembering Bessie’s bruised and swollen face, and her own terror, Veryan’s fear was swept aside by angry contempt. ‘Or what? Why does a man your size need to beat a small boy?’

‘To teach him obedience and respect,’ he snarled. ‘I reckon you could do with a lesson.’ Grabbing the table he dragged it sideways. Startled, Veryan reared back. But before he could grab her, Tom Reskilly had sprung from his seat, seized a fistful of collar and, twisting it tight, hauled William towards the door. Crimson, choking, his eyes bulging, Davy’s father thrashed his arms wildly.

‘You don’t raise your hand to a lady,’ Tom said. A few of the men sniggered. But as he glanced round they quickly fell silent. Shoving the man out, Tom closed the door and wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers. Resuming their meal the men murmured among themselves.

Veryan watched Tom come towards her, her head bursting.
He was a navvy.
The first man since her father to think her worth respect.
He was a navvy.
She was determined to escape from the works.

‘Listen –’ he started quietly, but she didn’t let him finish.

‘Leave me alone,’ she whispered, half plea, half dismissal. ‘I’m not – I can’t – If there’s any mercy in you, just let me be.’ She turned away and, with shaking hands began cutting the puddings and spooning them into bowls. She could hear him breathing but he didn’t speak. Then he loped back to his place at the table. He was met by noisy approval for having got rid of William, and further warnings about her.

After several moments, calmer now, driven by curiosity, she risked a glance. He was talking to Paddy,
and watching her.
As their eyes locked briefly she tensed, steeling herself for his grin of triumph. All she saw was a slight frown. She reached for the pan of watered-down syrup, trying to shut out the insistent echo, ‘You don’t raise your hand to a
lady.’

Chloe Radclyff had drunk her morning tea out of bone china so fine it was almost transparent. She had taken her morning bath in water fragrant with attar of roses. Now she sat at the toilet table in her dressing-room wearing fresh, sweet-scented linen beneath her embroidered silk wrapper. Polly’s sweeping strokes with the silver-backed brush had reduced her headache to a dull pressure at the base of her skull. She was desperately tired, yet jumpy as a cat.

She watched Polly dip her fingertips in a pot of pomade, rub it between her palms, and smooth it lightly over her hair leaving a glossy shine. A fire burned brightly in the grate, and downstairs a variety of dishes were being prepared for breakfast. For the hundredth time that morning she reminded herself of how fortunate she was, how much she had to be grateful for.

Brought up a gentlewoman, marriage had been her destiny. But after … Everyone said her father had done the honourable thing. There was no place in society for a man who couldn’t settle his gambling debts. So he had taken his leave with characteristic flamboyance and a duelling pistol to the temple. While his friends praised his sense of honour, she, with no mother to turn to for comfort and explanations, struggled to come to terms with his abandonment.

Well-meaning friends had lost no time in pointing out the precariousness of her position, for there would be no dowry to compensate for the stain on her father’s name. Their shock when Gerald married her had been profound. As her own had been the evening he proposed.

They had dined early. He had returned that day from London having been away for almost a week. She had noticed immediately his pallor and the dark circles under his eyes.

‘Gerald, are you ill?’ she had blurted, concern overriding good manners. ‘You look so tired.’ If anything happened to him, what would become of her?

‘I’m fine.’ He had patted her hand and smiled reassurance, but his eyes had glittered strangely. That evening as they dined he had seemed preoccupied. Assuming he was still suffering the after-effects of the long journey she had taken the burden of conversation on herself, talking lightly of her activities during his absence, and relaying snippets of gossip she had heard at a committee meeting. He had not bothered with brandy, but had accompanied her to the drawing-room.

Seating herself at one side of the blazing fire she had felt an odd shiver of anticipation as he sat down opposite. She had taken extra care while pouring the coffee aware that her hand was less steady than usual, yet unsure why she should be feeling so nervous.