A Bridge in Time

by A Bridge in Time (retail) (epub)

  Tim did not look over-impressed. ‘The Crimea – to the war? I don’t want to fight in a war, Sydney. It’s a hard enough life being a navvy, but at least you’re your own master. In the army you’re just a slave.’

  ‘Peto’s not recruiting men to fight, but to build a railway between the port and Sevastopol. He only wants the best and he’s getting them. If you don’t go down there fast, you’ll have missed your chance.’

  ‘It sounds as if you’re wanting rid of me,’ said Tim with a wry smile, his first for a long time.

  Sydney saw it and grinned back. ‘Of course I am. No, seriously, if you can’t stay here where else will you go? There’s not much work available anywhere apart from here. Or have you made enough to return to Ireland? Could you go there?’

  Tim shook his head vigorously. ‘No. That dream died long ago. Anyway, I’m going to give Hannah’s mother most of my savings. I’ve no use for money now and she’s lost her only child. There’ll be no one to care for her when she’s older. Hannah loved her Mam. I’ll see to it that she has a bit of money put by for when she needs it.’

  ‘In that case, go to the Crimea and make more.’

  ‘Are you going too?’ Tim asked curiously, wondering why Sydney was so keen on the idea. But the answer was a shake of the head.

  ‘No. I’d like it, I think, but this bridge has got hold of me in some way. I want to stay and see it finished.’

  Tim said slowly, ‘I thought I did, too, but what’s happened has ruined it. When Mr Wylie died I was sad, but now that I’ve lost Hannah and Kate I’ve completely lost heart. Maybe there is a curse on the bridge after all. That mad farmer cursed it, you know.’

  Sydney stood up. ‘In spite of what we’ve just been through, I still don’t believe in curses any more than I believe in divine retribution. I’ll stay – but you should go.’ Tim did not say whether he would or not but he did concede, ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Sydney was pulling on his hat. ‘Robertson says the cold weather’s going to kill off the cholera. He’s still got some patients very ill, though. I’m off to help him. That man’s worked like a slave through this. He thinks he’s done nothing, but I know that a lot more people would have died if he hadn’t come to help us. None of the other doctors would even set foot in the camp.’

  ‘What’s the death-toll?’ asked Tim bleakly.

  ‘It’s hard to believe it, but this morning it was one hundred and twenty-eight. So many people in less than a week! I find it impossible to comprehend. I keep expecting to turn a corner and walk into Naughten or Major Bob.’

  Tim shivered. ‘They’ve all gone. I wonder why we didn’t die too?’

  ‘There must be a reason. Either the man up there doesn’t want us, or he’s got something else for us to do,’ said Sydney in his old irreverent tone of voice.

  ‘You’re the master of the cover up, aren’t you? What’s your story – why are you here in a navvy camp? Are you just amusing yourself?’ asked Tim.

  Sydney, at the door by this time, turned and glared back. ‘It may have begun like that, but it isn’t that way now. My story’s my business, Black Ace. I might tell it to you some day when we’re both old men and meet in our clubs, because you’ll get to the top. I’ve a good facility for picking out men who make it.’

  ‘Is that how you persuaded the Duke to lend you his horse and send his factor to make sure Hannah’s stone stayed on the grave?’ asked Tim curiously.

  ‘It might be,’ Sydney’s voice shouted as he went away.

  * * *

  Emma Jane’s days went by very fast, but as she hurried around the bridge she found that her biggest setback was the unsuitability of her clothes for working on a building site. The long frilled black skirt was a nuisance; the thin-soled shoes a liability. She looked at the heavy boots worn by the navvies and longed to have a pair like them herself. Then the thought struck her: ‘Why not?’ She’d seen children walking to school in heavy boots, and the women gathering potatoes in the next field wore them too. At midday she walked across to where two women farm workers were sitting in the lee of a hedge eating slices of bread with cheese and onion, and asked the oldest one, ‘Would you mind telling me where you buy your boots?’

  Big Lily stared down at her sensibly-shod feet and then at Emma Jane’s slim ones. ‘I buy them from Bob’s in the village,’ she said.

  ‘Would he have my size?’

  ‘He might hae bairns’ bits that wid fit ye,’ suggested Wee Lily, who was listening to the exchange with interest.

  ‘Where’s his shop?’ asked Emma Jane.

  ‘We’ll tak ye,’ said Wee Lily, jumping up. ‘Come on, it’s no’ far. If you’ve no’ got enough money he’ll gie ye tick.’

  Emma Jane smiled and patted the side of her skirt. ‘I think I’ve enough money providing they don’t cost too much.’

  Wee Lily cocked her head and said solemnly, ‘A good pair o’ bits’ll cost you one pound and ten shillin’,’ she warned.

  ‘But they’ll last ten year,’ said her mother, who was walking behind her.

  ‘That seems like a good bargain,’ said Emma Jane. ‘I’d be pleased if you showed me where to buy them.’

  The shop was within walking distance and everyone in it seemed to know who she was, for they all asked about Tibbie Mather, referring to her as Emma Jane’s landlady. It struck her that it was impossible to keep anything secret or private in a village like Camptounfoot. A pair of boots swinging from the rafters turned out to be the right size for her. Bob swiftly threaded long leather laces through the eyeholes and then everyone stood around watching while Emma Jane tried them on. Holding up her skirt with her hands, she clumped around with a most satisfactory feeling of solidity. ‘Oh, they’re perfect! I’ll take them,’ she cried. Bob told her they were a bargain at two pounds and she paid it gladly.

  Outside the shop Big Lily pulled a face and said ‘You should hae knocked the price done. He was glad to get rid o’ them. They’re only bairns’ boots.’

  Emma Jane laughed and hitched up her skirt so that she could admire her new footwear. ‘I think they’re splendid. They’re just what I need. I feel so out of place in my town clothes on the site.’

  ‘That’s a bonny skirt but it’s awful thin. It’ll no’ keep the wind out when November comes,’ warned Big Lily. ‘I’ll give you one of mine. It’s real thick stuff. The cold doesnae get through it, not even in the middle of winter.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t take it from you,’ protested Emma Jane, but Big Lily was intent on making her a present of the skirt.

  ‘I’ve twae o’ them. Come on into our hoose and try it on.’

  The bondagers’ little house was a shock to Emma Jane. The kennel at Wyvern Villa where her father and James used to keep their gun dogs was more salubrious. The thatch was thin and ragged, with broken places where the sky showed through. It was unplastered inside, so the walls were rough unhewn stone and the floor stamped-down mud. There was no chimney, only a hole in the thatch over the open hearth so the room was smoky and it was difficult to see into the corners. Above the fire a round pot like a witches’ cauldron was swinging from a hook. The furniture consisted of two chairs, an iron bed and a table – and nothing else. There were no pictures or pieces of china, no colourful ornaments or brass knick-knacks like the items that prettified Tibbie’s little home. This was genuine poverty.

  The poorness of their surroundings did not seem to worry the two women, who ushered Emma Jane into their house with affability and showered her with hospitality. ‘Take some tea? No tea? Then have a mug of ale. It’s good ale, we mak it oorsel’s.’

  The ale was sweet and malty and she drank it with relish. ‘It is excellent,’ she agreed, and had the greatest difficulty in preventing them from giving her more. The little she had taken had already made her head swim so she knew it was very strong.

  Big Lily was rummaging beneath the bed and eventually emerged with a dark swatch of material in her hands. When she opened it out and held it in fro
nt of herself, Emma Jane saw it was voluminous and made of black material through which a thick red stripe ran vertically. ‘It’s a braw skirt. It was my mither’s – she wore it for thirty year,’ Big Lily announced proudly.

  She pushed it towards Emma Jane. It smelt of soap and woodsmoke, ‘It’s a bit big for me,’ said little Emma Jane.

  ‘Put it on. Hitch it up,’ cried the Lilies, greatly excited. When she did as she was told, the skirt reached to the tops of her new boots and she had to admit it felt soft and comfortable around her legs.

  ‘You wear that. It’ll keep you warm down there by the bridge. We’ve been watching you and wondering about what you’d do when the winter starts, and it’s coming soon. I smell it on the wind,’ said Big Lily.

  Emma Jane tried to give them her old skirt in exchange, but they laughed at the very idea. ‘What wid we do wi’ a skirt like that, wi’ frills on the bottom and everything? You wear our yin when you’re at the bridge and let us have it back when you’re finished with it,’ said Wee Lily.

  ‘Now all you need is a good thick shawl and you’ll be set up for work as good as any bondager,’ added her mother, and it took all Emma Jane’s strength of will to stop them giving her Big Lily’s dead mother’s shawl as well.

  ‘I’ve a good shawl in my bag at Mrs Mather’s. I’ll wear that,’ she promised.

  ‘See and wear it the right way then, crossed over your breast and knotted at the back, not thrown over you like a lady,’ was Big Lily’s advice.

  When she left, they showed her a quick way to reach the bridge site by clambering down a steep hill behind their cottage and following a river path downstream to the site. They wouldn’t go with her because they had work to do on the farm. Feeling much more businesslike and efficient, Emma Jane planted her big boots firmly in the slippery ground and slid to the lower level. She was halfway along the path before she saw that someone was sitting by the river bank in front of her. It was Tim Maquire, and he had not heard her approach. To her distress she saw that he was hunched up like a hurt child, weeping into his crossed arms on to which his head was bent.

  It was impossible to pass him without being heard so, very quietly, she backed away and retraced the precipitous path up the hill to the road, hoping that the Lilies would not see her. She returned to the bridge by the normal route, but was unable to drive the memory of the grieving navvy out of her mind.

  That night, after taking supper with Tibbie, she went early to bed and was lying in the dark relaxing her aching muscles between cool linen sheets. Her eyelids were beginning to droop when the sound of voices coming from the room below woke her again. It was impossible not to hear what was being said because the floor was very thin and Tim Maquire’s voice was loud and very audible. He was saying, ‘I’m off, Tibbie – I’m leaving. It’s not possible to stay here after losing Hannah and the bairn. I’d do myself an injury if I stayed.’

  Tibbie’s voice murmured something. It was obvious that she was consoling him for he went on, ‘That’s good of you, but I’m worried about you. Who’ll look after you now Hannah’s dead?’

  More murmurs and then Tim again. ‘I know your brother’s here and that your neighbours are good but you’ve not much money, have you? I want you to take this. It’s my savings. They’re as much Hannah’s as they are mine because she was my wife, and I’m giving them to you because that’s what she would want.’

  Protests from Tibbie were so loud that this time they could be heard. ‘I canna take your money, lad. You’ll need it yourself.’

  Then Tim was saying, ‘No, I’ll not take it back. What about the bridge? It’ll be finished by someone – the railway company’ll see to that. You’ve the girl staying here, haven’t you, but I don’t think she’ll be with you for long. She’s not up to it. It’s just a whim she’s got. She’ll give up, but the bridge’ll be built. It doesn’t need me.’ When she heard this, Emma Jane put her hands over her ears in an effort to cut out the sound of his words. The pity she felt for his evident sorrow and suffering was lessened a little by her anger at his dismissal of her. ‘How dare he talk about me like that! How dare he dismiss me as if I was a child playing games! He knows nothing of my circumstances, nothing of how much I’ve got to drive myself to do this but I’ll finish it,’ she wore to herself. ‘I’ll finish it and show you that I’m serious, Tim Maquire!’

  As she was finally dozing off she heard the door opening on to the street and Tibbie’s voice ringing out clearly in the midnight air. ‘God bless you, laddie. My Hannah loved you dearly and I’m sure she’ll watch over you wherever you go.’

  He didn’t say anything, but Emma Jane thought she heard him sobbing after Tibbie closed the door.

  * * *

  Later that night, when Alex Robertson and Sydney had done their last round of the remaining cholera sufferers, they totalled up the number of deaths so far; it came to one hundred and thirty, and there were still four people grievously ill and unlikely to survive. Dog tired, they were making their way back across the half-deserted camp to Major Bob’s old hut, when suddenly to their horror they saw that a hut was blazing over by the far wall.

  As they ran towards it, Sydney gasped out, ‘It’s Benjy’s! It’s Black Ace’s hut! My God, I hope he’s not inside.’

  The tiny house that Hannah had loved so much was well alight, with flames leaping like dervishes to the sky from its wooden roof. As they watched, the glass of the little window exploded outwards with a terrible bang and the glare from inside lit up its gap and the open door so that it looked like a peepshow of a scene from hell. If a devil had suddenly appeared, prancing in the middle of the orange glow, the two men would not have been surprised.

  The fire had attracted a little crowd which stood clustered together out of range of the flying sparks and blast of heat thrown out by the burning of the tinder-dry wood. ‘Is Black Ace in there?’ gasped Sydney as he ran up, but the man he spoke to shook his head.

  ‘No, but I saw him start the fire. He filled the house with straw and set a light to it. He waited till it was well alight and then he just walked away.’

  Sydney and the doctor stood staring at the burning house till the walls fell in and it became a flickering heap of firewood, just another bonfire. Then they went to bed. In the morning, when Sydney walked back to the place where Benjy’s had stood, the only sign that it had ever existed was a smouldering heap of grey ashes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dr Robertson’s prediction that the first frost of autumn would kill off the cholera, proved correct. After Tim left, nature showed clemency by sending a succession of mornings that dawned bright and crisp; frost silvered the tops of walls and shone like silk on cobbles. Ice covered the puddles between the huts and water kept in buckets by the doors froze overnight. The cold, combined with Robertson’s efforts to make the inhabitants clean up the camp, defeated the scourge. The doctor stayed ten days after the last death to be sure the disease was definitely burned out, but on the day he left to ride back to Maddiston, one hundred and thirty-four people – eighty-one men, thirty women and twenty-three children – had died.

  Miraculously, the infection had not affected the outside population to any great extent. When cholera did appear in Rosewell, the weather was about to turn. Five people died in the town but the cause of their deaths was kept secret, and Dr Stewart officially listed them as having succumbed to enteric fever. Their burials took place beside their forefathers in the Abbey grounds, with headstones and full panoplies of grief. The mourners attending those interments looked with interest at the white marble stone that jutted out of the top of the navvies’ burial mound, but few of them were sufficiently brave to go close enough to look at the carvings on it.

  A group of grateful men saw Robertson off at the camp gate. Because he had not shaved for many days, a light brown beard covered his chin and he looked tired and ill. One by one the navvies shook his hand, and when it was Sydney’s turn, Robertson asked him, ‘What’ll happen to the widows and orphans?�
� His gaze swept up the hill to the bedraggled camp, which looked even sadder and shabbier than it had done before. Its population was cut by thirty per cent through desertions and fever, and more would soon be leaving, for in many huts, women and children mourned the deaths of their breadwinners.

  ‘The men who’re still at work will take a collection for them, but there’s so many that it’ll be the Poor Law or charity for most, I’m afraid,’ was the reply.

  Robertson shook his head sadly. ‘I feel I’ve failed. I never want to have to cope with anything like this again. So much death!’

  Fervently Sydney told him, ‘Without you, my friend, it would have been worse, much worse. Everyone in this camp will be eternally grateful to you.’ He knew that the navvies had collected money to make a presentation to Robertson, who had given his services for nothing although he was little better off than the people to whom he ministered. The man who was to present the doctor with a purse of ten sovereigns, now stepped forward and handed it up with a few words of gratitude. Robertson stared at it and tried to give it back. ‘I can’t take it. I don’t deserve it. Give it to the people who have been widowed or orphaned.’ But the men would not take their gift back. For Robertson to refuse this token of respect and thanks would be an insult, so he had to accept it. ‘If any of you ever need a doctor, just send for me. I’ll come at any time, for anything, and I won’t expect a fee,’ he promised them before he rode away.

  After the doctor left, Sydney walked to the bridge. It was the first time he had been there since the fever began and, as people always did, he paused on top of the rise after Camptounfoot and stared down at the river valley. Tall pillars were lined up like an avenue of storm-broken trees, the ground was covered with piles of stone and bricks, and the embankments at both ends were rising like giant molehills. Though there were a few advances, the difference was not very striking because, during the fever, the workforce had been too depleted and too dispirited to be very active.