A Bridge in Time

by A Bridge in Time (retail) (epub)

  ‘Not very friendly, are they?’ Sydney remarked.

  Tim shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter – at least they don’t get nasty. I want you do me a favour. I’m trying to find rooms for Mr Wylie here but there must be something about the look of me that scares people because they slam their doors in my face. I thought if you asked, they might listen. You sound like a gent.’

  ‘My dear man,’ said Sydney with a laugh. ‘I am a gent! No, but seriously, why should they listen to me? And even if they did, that doesn’t mean they’ll do what you want.’

  ‘Talk to them – explain what a decent man Mr Wylie is. I’m sure someone will take him in. That Abbey Hotel’s worse than the navvy camp. It makes Major Bob’s shed look like a mansion. He can’t stay there. He was looking grey in the face today and I’m worried about him,’ said Tim solemnly.

  Sydney nodded. ‘You do worry about him, don’t you?’

  Tim looked up from the mug in his hands. ‘Yes, I do. He was kind to me when I was a lad. He needs somebody to help him now and I want to be the one that does it.’

  ‘All right, let’s go back to the camp and put on clean clothes before we go in search of lodgings. Take a tip from me, Black Ace: wear a white shirt and a black coat, and forget the fancy waistcoats and red hats. They just scare the locals.’

  The sun was lower when they returned to Camptounfoot by the river path. They stared down into the shot-silk rippling water flowing past their feet and Sydney suddenly said, ‘In a way, you can’t blame the people round here for not wanting anything to change, can you?’

  ‘But things change all the time, don’t they?’ Tim objected. ‘Even the water’s changing now, isn’t it?’

  His friend clapped his shoulder. ‘You’re a homespun philosopher. Come on, we’d better hurry up and get to Camptounfoot or all the landlords and landladies will be abed and they certainly won’t open their doors to us then.’

  Once again they bought some ale and sat on the bench facing Tibbie’s front door. Tim kept his eyes on it and his face was impassive. He was wondering about the girl he’d seen there. Was she married? She’d haunted his thoughts since he caught that glimpse of her. She’d made him think of the old Irish songs he’d heard sung long ago when he was a child, songs of love with lilting melodies that now ran through his thoughts like the river he’d watched with Sydney.

  ‘I think I’ll ask in the alehouse about lodgings,’ he announced, standing up. Over the door hung a wilting bunch of greenery, which was the sign that ale was sold inside, and the leaves brushed his head as he went back into the dimness. As usual the other drinkers fell silent at the sight of him. Tim wasted no time in pleasantries. ‘I was hoping there might be a household in the village that wouldn’t be averse to making a bit of money by taking in a gentleman. He’s looking for two good rooms and some decent food,’ he told them all.

  The men looked at each other, impressed by his directness. ‘He’s no’ a navvy, is he?’ asked one of them, finally.

  ‘He’s a building contractor, a gentleman from Newcastle who’s used to a good way of living. He’s in the Abbey Hotel now but it’s not good enough for him,’ said Tim.

  ‘Can’t say I blame him. It’s a filthy hole,’ muttered one of the men, who was a mason and not averse to the bridge-builders. He looked at his companions. ‘Jo’s mother might take him.’

  Another man laughed. ‘Aw, come on. If he’s a gentleman he’ll not want to go there!’

  ‘Who else is there, then? Big Bella? What about Tibbie? She’s got room now that her Hannah’s working up at the big house.’

  The others nodded. ‘Aye, Tibbie Mather might take him.’

  Only the alehouse-keeper demurred. ‘She’ll no’ do it. She’s dead against the railway,’ but the others disagreed: ‘At least he can ask. She can only say no.’

  Tim stood listening to them and then he said, ‘I’ll ask this Tibbie. Where does she live?’

  One of the men pointed out of the window. ‘Over there, that’s her house right opposite. Run and chap on the door and see what she says – or I’ll go, if you like.’

  But Tim was already halfway through the door. ‘No, no, I’ll try. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  As he stood on Tibbie’s doorstep with his hand on the knocker, he was thinking, ‘I wonder if that red-haired girl I saw here is Tibbie, or maybe she’s Hannah? I like that name. It’s pretty, like she is.’

  A motherly-looking woman answered the door. Her eye went up and down the dark stranger and she said suspiciously, ‘What would you be wanting here?’ She recognised him at once and it took all her courage, and the knowledge that Hannah was behind her in the kitchen, not to slam the door in his face.

  He was very polite, however. ‘I’m looking for rooms for my employer, Mr Wylie, and I was told that you might consider taking him in.’

  A figure stepped into the space at her back and Tim’s heart rose when he saw it was the same girl he had glimpsed before. She was even prettier than he remembered.

  ‘What are you saying to my mother?’ she asked grimly. He repeated his request and she took hold of the older woman’s arm, pulling her back from the door. ‘Don’t worry, Mam, I’ll take care of this.’ Then she stood firmly in the doorway and said, ‘We don’t take lodgers. I don’t know who could have given you the idea that we do. They must have been playing jokes. We’re not a lodging house. There’s a place in the village that takes men but I think it’s full.’

  He did not go away. ‘It’s not a common lodging house I’m looking for. Mr Wylie is a gentleman. He’s got a big house of his own in Newcastle but he’s needing a place to stay while the bridge is being built.’

  Behind the girl, Tibbie gasped, ‘That’ll be the man Craigie tried to shoot. Oh my God, we’re no’ going to tak him in. I don’t want Craigie bursting in here with a gun.’

  Tim backed away, saying, ‘I’m sorry for bothering you but he’s a gentleman, a good man, I’ve never met a better. I’m looking for a comfortable place for him because he’s not so young any more and can’t take the rough life… I’m worried about him. Maybe you know someone who’d take him.’

  There was an urgency in his tone that softened Hannah. She stepped out and pointed down the road. ‘Look, do you see that big white house there, the one jutting out into the road? That’s Mr Jessup’s house and he lives there with his sister. Sometimes he takes people in during the summer from Edinburgh, but there’s nobody there at the moment. Go and ask him, but please don’t come back and bother my mother. She’s nervous and navvies worry her.’

  When the girl closed the front door of the cottage, Tim heard her turn the key in the lock but he was not offended. His head seemed to be swimming and there was a funny haze before his eyes. ‘That beer must have been stronger than I thought,’ he told himself as he ran across the road to summon Sydney from the bar-room where he was regaling the customers with some tale that was making them laugh.

  ‘Come on, I’ve been told where to go to find a lodging for Mr Wylie. It’s down here,’ he said, setting off downhill towards the house the girl had pointed out. Its gable-end protruded into the roadway like the prow of a ship and it was as tall as the farmhouse, but not so gloomy. There were four little windows like ship’s gunholes scattered here and there in an apparently haphazard manner in the wall overlooking the street, and a large stone sundial that had lost its metal prong jutted out of one corner. The entrance was down a little alley and through a double gateway under a stone arch, in the middle of which was set a weatherworn and featureless stone head. When Tim pushed on the gate, it swung easily and they found themselves in a paradise of a garden, full of fruit trees and beds of multi-coloured flowers. Along a far wall ran a little burn with tall yellow flag irises and wild mint growing along its edge. The front door to the house was up a little flight of steps and when Tim knocked on it, an applecheeked, middle-aged woman answered and smiled at him. Her mannerisms were birdlike, for she cocked her head to one side and fixed his face with bri
ghtly sparkling eyes as she asked, ‘What can I do for you, young man?’

  When he explained his errand, she went on smiling but held up a hand and said, ‘It’s my brother you want. He lives here too. I’ll fetch him.’

  As if she’d given a secret signal, a head popped out of a window above the door and another bright voice called out, ‘Come up, come up and we’ll discuss your business, but I can’t hold out much hope. We don’t want to offend our neighbours, you see.’

  Tim and Sydney entered a tiny hall and climbed a precipitous staircase that was little more than a ladder leading into a long room filled with the rays of the dying sun, for there were windows in every wall, small and paned with old green glass and all admitting a flow of faintly-coloured light. A bright fire crackled in the burnished hearth, making reflections of the flames glitter and gleam on brass fire irons. An open piano, with music on its stand and a stool pulled up before it, stood against one wall; a cat slept on a mat under one of the windows. When the strangers entered, the animal opened a speculative eye and stared at them. Tim felt sure that it was also considering their proposition and had decided against it.

  ‘I’m Mr Jessup,’ said a spindly-legged old man, coming towards his visitors with a hand extended. ‘Good to meet you, gentlemen. I heard what you said to my sister. We do rent rooms but as I told you, there’s bad feeling in the village over the railway and we don’t want to cause any trouble. It’s best to be neutral.’

  Tim looked around the friendly room and pleaded, ‘But Mr Wylie is a gentleman like yourself, sir. He’s not a navvy – he won’t offend anybody. They’ll not even know he’s here. He’s badly in need of a comfortable place to stay.’

  Mr Jessup laughed. ‘It’s impossible to keep a secret in this village. If I took in a dormouse to spend the night, someone would know. But tell me about your Mr Wylie. I’ll ask Matilda to bring us some biscuits and a glass of wine while you sit down and tell me the story of your lives. I love stories.’ The two navvies looked at each other in surprise. That was the last thing either of them had intended to do, but they politely sat down, accepted wine and biscuits and listened while Mr Jessup told them the story of his life. ‘Matilda and I are city people really, from Manchester, would you believe! We came here on a visit fifteen years ago, saw this house, bought it and stayed. I teach the piano to young ladies, but there’s not a great demand for that in Camptounfoot. However, I sometimes go to the big houses round about and give little recitals. Would you like me to play for you now? Matilda plays too. She’s a violinist.’

  Tim was about to protest that they ought to leave soon but Sydney interrupted to say, ‘How delightful – I love music. What will you play? How about a little Mozart?’

  Mr Jessup clapped his hands together in delight. ‘Mozart for a summer evening! Perfect, perfect! Matilda, we’re going to play a little Mozart for these gentlemen…’ His sister immediately appeared in the doorway, violin in hand and smile in place. She took up her position beside the music-stand while her brother, flicking out his long coat-tails before he sat, plumped down on the music stool and off they went, launching themselves into music that twirled and twined a magical way through the long room.

  Sydney sat back with his eyes closed and one finger gently keeping time. When they finished, he opened his eyes again and said, ‘Masterly, masterly. I’ve never heard that piece played better.’

  ‘Have some more wine and then a little Haydn,’ cried Mr Jessup, refilling their glasses before they could protest.

  It was dark before the impromptu concert ended. As they said goodbye, Mr Jessup shook their hands and remarked, as if a bargain had already been made, ‘When will we expect Mr Wylie? Tomorrow – is that all right?’

  In the street once more Tim shook his head like someone who’d been entranced, for his ears were ringing with music and his stomach was full of sweet wine and biscuits. ‘My God, I thought they were going to keep us there forever,’ he said.

  Sydney only laughed and replied: ‘They’re actually very good musicians, you know – very skilled. Poor things, I don’t expect they get much chance to play to an audience like they did tonight. And you got what you wanted – you got Mr Wylie a comfortable berth, didn’t you? They wouldn’t have taken him if they hadn’t relaxed like they did with their music. That’s what did the trick.’

  ‘It probably did,’ agreed Tim. ‘I only hope he likes music, too.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘How are you settling in with the Jessups?’ Tim Maquire asked Christopher Wylie on a bright morning about six weeks after he had moved into the lodgings at Camptounfoot.

  ‘Every morning I waken up I can’t believe my good fortune at being so comfortable. Thank you so much for finding me such a pleasant place to live,’ was the heartfelt reply. Wylie’s face was less harried and he looked far more relaxed and healthy than he had done for a long time. He stared around at the scene of activity on the high ground where the bridge embankment was being heaped up by navvies pushing barrows and wielding picks and shovels. Horses straining before huge, heavily-laden waggons were carrying in load after heaped-up load of red earth; the air was filled with the thud, thud, thud of steam engines and the shouts of labouring men.

  ‘I don’t like tempting fate but strictly between ourselves, Tim, this job’s going far more smoothly than I anticipated,’ said Wylie, pointing over the river valley towards more men who could be seen labouring on the point of land where the first pier of the bridge would soon be built.

  Tim nodded. ‘They’re working well because they want as much as possible done before the Queen comes. Jopp told me that they’re bringing her up here to look at the place where the new bridge is to be built. Are you going to Maddiston station to meet her, Mr Wylie?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not keen on that sort of thing. They expect me to be there, though.’

  Tim glanced at him and asked, ‘Is your wife coming from Newcastle for it? Women usually like that kind of affair, dressing up and everything.’

  The answer was a shake of the head. ‘My wife’s too unwell to travel far. She’s not over James’ death, you see – and my daughter has never travelled on her own.’

  From the way he talked Tim imagined that Wylie’s daughter was still a child and he said, ‘Ah, that’s a pity. You must have been hoping you could show this place to them.’

  Wylie stared out over the valley, his eyes distant under furrowed brows. ‘Yes, but that’s not possible.’ He was thinking of James and the sorrow returned to his eyes but he shook himself and said briskly, ‘Anyway, I’m pleased it’s going so well. Our troubles seem to be disappearing one by one. Even in Camptounfoot people are nice to me now. They’re getting used to the idea of having a railway at their back doors.’

  ‘And they like the money,’ Tim said less charitably. ‘I’ve got twenty Camptounfoot men on the wage roll now. They’re making more money in a week than most of them made in three months before we came here. Today a young fellow called Rutherford arrived looking for work. He’s a likely enough lad so I hired him.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Jessup told me about him,’ Wylie said thoughtfully. ‘Robbie Rutherford’s his name and his family are the village weavers. Apparently they were very much against the railway, but the lad’s clever and he’s decided he wants to be an engineer – that’s why he’s come to us. Jessup says he’s only sixteen, so keep an eye on him, Tim.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Mr Wylie. And now will you come on down to the river bank with me? The men are starting to dig the first foundations in the water and I want you to make sure they’re right.’

  On the morning of the royal visit, the sun rose in a cloudless sky and larks were singing in cornfields that made patches of gold on the lower slopes of the hills. In houses large and small throughout the district, people were in a state of high excitement for, since the days of the Stuarts, it was rare for a ruling monarch to be seen on the Border roads.

  William Strang’s wife Effie was up at first light scouring every corner of
her cottage till it gleamed and sparkled. When he came in for his breakfast from the forge, her husband looked around in gratification. ‘My word, Effie, this place is looking awfu’ bonny.’

  ‘That’s because the Queen’s coming,’ she told him, tying on her largest and whitest apron.

  ‘But she’s no’ coming in here, is she?’ he asked.

  Effie bridled. ‘She’s passing by the end of the lane. She’ll be driving through Camptounfoot. It’s up to us to make sure the place is looking its best.’

  William lifted his tea cup in a genteel fashion and said, ‘My word, they’re great folk these royals. I didnae ken they could see through walls, though.’

  His wife bristled anew. ‘You’re as bad as that sister of yours! I told her about the Queen and she said she didn’t think she’d bother going out to see her. And her front door opens into the street too! I said, “Tibbie, if you don’t open your door and look at the Queen, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”’

  ‘What did she say?’ asked William.

  ‘Oh, she only laughed but I’ll get her out when the procession comes by. I’ll make sure I do,’ said Effie with determination.

  In Bella Vista the Colonel and his family were preparing to mount their barouche for the drive to Maddiston. The two males in the party were resplendent in military uniforms, booted, spurred, gold-trimmed and laced, buttoned, sashed and be-medalled. At least the Colonel was be-medalled. His son was merely bemused – and already half-drunk. The senior Mrs Anstruther was dressed in a gown of Prussian blue with a deep-brimmed bonnet from which trailed three enormous ostrich feathers dyed the same shade as her dress. Her jewellery was magnificent and even though it was not yet noon, she sparkled with diamonds. There was a brooch in her bonnet brim, another on her breast and a massive choker around her neck with huge droplets nestling on her comfortable bosom. She was considerably annoyed because the Colonel had given his daughter-in-law her pick of the family jewellery as well, and Bethya had chosen long emerald earrings surrounded by tiny seed pearls. The colour of the stones matched the bows and loops on her ivory silk gown which had been specially ordered from a London modiste and had arrived in a box the size of a small house. With it she wore a cheekily cocked hat in green that made her artfully arranged curls gleam like a raven’s wing. In her hand she carried an ivory silk parasol to keep the rays of the sun from her face. In its shade her eyes leapt and danced with excitement.