‘I’ve met some villains in my time, Begum,’ the old man began, ‘but that Miller’s worse than any of them in spite of his smooth manners. He’s a blackguard!’
Anger had been building up in him for hours. She looked up, surprised but pleased to hear this, but there was no time for private discussion because at that moment her mother-in-law came bustling in, summoned by the noise of her husband’s return. As the Colonel’s wife was alert to every nuance of Bethya’s expression when Miller’s name was mentioned, she kept her tone jocular as she enquired, ‘Why, what’s he done?’
The Colonel was not joking, however. ‘I went up to the city to tell them about how the cholera had affected the men, but neither Miller nor any of the other directors cared a jot. All they wanted to know was did I think the bridge would be finished on time? None of them have been down here since the fever started, you’ll have noticed. I tried to explain what a tragedy it’s been, but nobody cared.’
His wife sat down in a chair by the window and said dismissively, ‘Why should they, Augustus? The people who died were only navvies.’
The Colonel swallowed his whisky down. ‘Oh hell, Maria, don’t say that. You’ve not seen the camp. I have, and I’m not easily shocked, but those people have had a terrible time. More than a hundred and thirty died in ten days, and when I asked Miller if the company couldn’t start a fund to help them in their distress or do something for their families, he said to forget all about it. The holdup in building has cost us enough already, said he.’
‘Business is business,’ said Mrs Anstruther calmly, but Bethya stood up with her eyes blazing.
‘How typical of Miller!’ she cried out passionately. ‘We should do something ourselves. The weather’s so cold now – we could open a soup kitchen at least.’
Mrs Anstruther sneered, ‘I thought you’d have had enough of good works after the Corn Exchange fiasco.’
‘This is different,’ said Bethya, more to the old man than to his wife. ‘We’ll be doing something practical, not preaching. If you’ll provide the money, Bap, I’ll ask my friends to help.’
‘Your friends?’ sneered Mrs Anstruther in a voice that insinuated Bethya’s friends were insignificant.
Bethya ignored her, although the tone rankled for she knew very well that Gus’ mother thought she was aspiring above her proper place in life. A chi-chi girl from Bombay was lucky to have any well-bred friends, and if they knew the truth about her, she wouldn’t keep them for long. The reminder that she came from a class as reviled and discriminated against as the navvies, made Bethya’s mettle rise even higher, however. ‘I’ll do it, Bap!’ she promised vehemently. She had seen the camp since the fever struck, and had been horrified by the state of the women and children, some of whom were like walking skeletons. ‘Somebody ought to help them because they can’t help themselves,’ she went on in a tone that was unfeignedly sincere. She had been quite unprepared for the misery of the people she saw slinking about between the huts. They brought to mind the beggars of Bombay who used to wring her heart when she was a girl, and the memory of them could still make her feel guilty if she recalled how little she had done to help them.
Mrs Anstruther was angry that the girl and her husband were conducting a dialogue between themselves, so she stood up to walk over and stand between them. ‘Don’t call him Bap,’ she instructed Bethya. ‘It’s very native.’
Her husband did not take his eyes off Bethya’s face.
‘How much do you think you’d need to provide them with good soup till they get back on their feet?’ he asked.
‘How about ten pounds? I’ll ask people to arrange for their cooks to make the soup, then we’ll take it up to the camp and serve it out to them. And perhaps we could start a fund for the widows and children,’ she suggested.
Infuriated at being shut out, Mrs Anstruther sneered, ‘Children, indeed. You’d do better to have some children of your own.’
Bethya turned on her like a tigress. ‘If I haven’t any children, you should ask your son why – don’t accuse me!’
‘Did you hear that, Augustus? Did you hear what she said?’ squealed Maria Anstruther, but her husband was not listening. He was pulling out his pocket-book.
‘Here’s ten pounds,’ he said to Bethya. ‘See what you can do with that, my dear. If you need more, come back and tell me.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, planting a kiss on his cheek and running out of the room.
As she went she heard her mother-in-law starting to scold the old man. ‘How can you let that girl twist you round her finger like that? Did you hear what she said about Gus? There’s nothing wrong with him but there’s something very strange about her, I’m convinced of it. She has an extremely odd relationship with that maid of hers, and she’s a very funny one.’
Though she had left the library, Bethya stopped dead in the hall to listen to what was being said about her. Mrs Anstruther did not trouble to lower her voice. It was as if she wanted to be overheard. Bethya stood trembling with passion as she heard the clink of glass. That was the Colonel having another whisky. Then she heard his voice saying, ‘Oh Maria, you’ve always had a very nasty mind. The girl’s lonely and Gus doesn’t pay her any attention. You’d better face up to it, our son’s the odd one, not his wife.’
Maria burst into tears. ‘His own father! How can you say such a thing? He’s not in love with her any more, that’s what’s wrong, and who could blame him if she’s up to something unspeakable with her maid? There are women like that, you know, especially among her kind.’
Burning with anger, Bethya rushed upstairs to her bedroom. Francine was there, of course, and came across the carpet, eager to help with whatever it was that her mistress required. Bethya stood with her back against the door and stared at the French girl. ‘Oh God,’ she thought, ‘that horrible woman. I shouldn’t listen to her but there is something very peculiar about Francine. But not that… surely not that?’
‘You are upset, madame. Do you want to lie down?’ asked Francine.
Bethya shook her head. She did not want to be influenced by Gus’ horrible mother, for Francine was the only person in the house apart from the old man that she even liked, far less could talk to. She said in a trembling voice, ‘It’s that awful woman again. I don’t know why I let her annoy me so much. You’d think I’d be used to her by now, but she’s really clever at getting under my skin.’
‘There are people like that,’ agreed Francine, thinking of Jessie and Madge in the kitchen, who continued to tease her unmercifully.
Bethya walked into the room and went to stand in the window bay. ‘She asked me why I had no children with Gus. She blames it on me.’ As she spoke she wondered if she should tell Francine about the insinuation Gus’ mother had made about them, but decided to hold that back.
‘Does she not know about him?’ asked Francine. ‘If she doesn’t, she’s the only person here that is in ignorance.’
‘I think she only sees what she wants to see. Perhaps we all do that,’ said Bethya slowly. She hated the idea that her ease and friendship with Francine might have to end, but knew in her heart that from now on it would: Mrs Anstruther’s poison dart had struck home.
Few of the ladies of Rosewell and district were as enthusiastic about manning a soup kitchen at the camp gate as Bethya. Several of the people she approached pleaded family commitments, illness or an unexpected absence from home as their reasons for opting out. She knew perfectly well that they were not telling the truth, but pretended to believe them. ‘It’s quite safe now, you know,’ she assured them and they all nodded, saying, ‘Of course,’ but their voices lacked conviction.
Dread of what her mother-in-law would say if she failed in her intentions spurred Bethya on, and by dint of passionate pleadings and unashamed manipulations, she eventually recruited five other young women into the scheme. Some of the older ladies, who were not able to serve soup themselves because of various frailties, sent money, and as the subscription list was headed
by the Duke’s mother, who contributed ten pounds, everyone in society wanted their name on it as well. Money flowed in, and within two days Bethya was in receipt of over a hundred pounds. She took great delight in announcing this at dinner when both her husband and his mother were present.
Gus grunted, ‘They’ll only drink it. You might as well convert it into porter and send that to the camp.’
Bethya smiled most tenderly at him, as she always did on the rare occasions they spoke to each other. He found her unfailing sweetness disconcerting and she knew it. ‘Do you think so, dear?’ she trilled. Inside she was saying, ‘Well, you should know, you oaf. A hundred pounds wouldn’t keep you in drink for long.’
‘What are you going to do with all that money? It won’t cost a hundred pounds for a few plates of soup. The whole idea is madness anyway. You’ll all catch cholera. Well, I hope you don’t bring the infection back here,’ said Mrs Anstruther sourly. She didn’t care if Bethya fell sick. What worried her was the risk to herself – or so she pretended.
Bethya shot her a glance. In that instant she knew it was her mother-in-law who had been undermining her efforts for the soup kitchen. It was she who had been spreading scare stories about the virulence of cholera and the danger of infection to frighten off possible volunteers. ‘It’s perfectly safe,’ she said.
‘How can you say that? A hundred and thirty-four people died up there in ten days!’
Bethya switched on her most dangerous smile. ‘If there’s one thing my Bombay background is good for, it’s knowing about cholera,’ she said. ‘If there have been no cases for ten days after the last death, the danger’s past. And in cold weather, you’re safe as well. Both of those things apply in this situation. Perhaps you’ll remember to tell that to your friends, the next time you talk about it. We start serving soup tomorrow and we’ll go on serving it for as long as it’s needed. Then we’ll decide what to do with the hundred pounds – and we won’t be turning it into porter, either.’
* * *
The weather during November became bitter, so Bethya expended some of her hundred pounds on fuel, warm clothes and invalid food for people recovering from the fever and the families of those who had died. Though her mother-in-law scoffed and said such philanthropic enthusiasm would not last, Bethya became the driving force behind a group of women who wrapped up warmly and stationed themselves at the camp gate in a makeshift booth erected by their servants. From there they dispensed soup to anyone who wanted it or looked in need of it. Some of the helpers only appeared occasionally, but Bethya was there every day except Sunday, when she had to attend church with the rest of the Anstruthers.
At first the people of the camp were suspicious and prickly, fearing that they were being patronised, but the soup smelt delicious and there was a real need among them for nourishing food. On the second day, the ladies disposed of their entire supply in half an hour, and resolved to step up the quantity in future.
‘But when will we stop?’ asked one of Bethya’s helpers plaintively, for she did not relish month after month of good works. She was told, ‘When they don’t need it any more.’ As long as there were pinch-faced children and red-eyed women waiting for the soup to arrive every day, Bethya would go on serving it. She did not really know why she was so fired with zeal for the work, but fired she certainly was. For her stints over the soup cauldron she always wore a long cloak of green velvet lined with grey squirrel fur. It had a hood that surrounded her face with a flattering fringe and gave her skin a translucent glow, highlighting her brilliant eyes. Many of the people who stopped and accepted her offer of a mug of soup did so because they were dazzled by the look of her, and worshipping children were always waiting at twelve o’clock for ‘the lady in the cloak’ to arrive. She was very sweet to them, always gave extra to the thin and scantily-clad, and sometimes slipped a copper coin into the hands of the most dejected.
Most of the soup-kitchen patrons were women and children because the men were at work during the day, and were also too proud to take what they considered to be charity. After all, were not navvies the aristocrats of the working classes?
On the eighth day of Bethya’s visits to the camp, however, snow began to fall at eleven o’clock and the soup-kitchen ladies were surprised by a sudden increase in demand for their offering. Chilled, wet men coming back from the site where work had been suspended were halted at the gate by the smell of soup, and for the first time accepted the proffered bowls. The supply ran out quickly, and Bethya was scooping up the last dregs in her pot when she heard a voice saying, ‘G’morning, mum.’ The mocking note alerted her to its owner, and she looked up defensively to see Sydney standing before her. He grinned at her confusion and asked, ‘Temperance soup, is it? No brandy or anything in it? I won’t let strong drink pass my lips now.’ He had seen her at the gate and her beauty astonished him but, being Sydney, he was not going to give her any sign of his admiration and would have died rather than let her know how often he had made a detour or an unnecessary visit back to the camp at midday, simply to catch a sight of her in her green cloak.
‘Of course there’s no brandy in it. It’s soup, not grog,’ she snapped and then, recollecting herself, asked, ‘Would you like some?’
He looked cold, and she held the last steaming bowlful towards him but he backed away, shaking his head and saying, ‘No thank you. Give it to someone more deserving.’
She could not tell whether he was spurning her offer or whether he really felt there were others more in need, which of course was true for though he was cold and wet, he was well-enough nourished and looked very strong. He strode off and left her standing with a full bowl in her hand and when she looked around for a recipient, her eye fell on two approaching figures – a young lad and a girl with a black shawl drawn up over her head, a red and black striped skirt and enormous boots on her feet. The girl’s companion, who looked as if he might be her younger brother, was wearing a tight black jacket and trousers the seams of which seemed in danger of splitting. He had grown out of them, Bethya deduced as she observed him. Those clothes must have been bought when he was younger and smaller.
‘A drop of soup will warm you up,’ she said to the young woman, who paused, looking surprised at the offer. Thinking she was reluctant to accept charity, Bethya urged her, ‘Take it. The people in the camp have all had theirs. I’ll get another mug and you can share it with your brother.’
The face beneath the snow-covered shawl smiled and seemed to come alive. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said a gracious, ladylike accent. The hands which took the cup were covered with the fingerless gloves local women called ‘palmies’, which had been knitted for Emma Jane by Tibbie and were being worn for the first time that day.
Surprised and flustered, Bethya found another bowl and passed it to the young woman’s companion who was Robbie Rutherford, accompanying Miss Wylie into the camp in search of a workman from whom Emma Jane wanted advice about whether or not to go on laying concrete in such cold weather. Trying not to upset the well-meaning lady, they solemnly stood side by side spooning the soup up till it was all finished. Then Emma Jane handed back her mug and said, ‘That was truly delicious. Soup is very welcome on a day like this.’
Inadvertently, she sounded as if she were congratulating the hostess of a successful tea party. When she heard her own voice, she flushed but blundered on, ‘It’s very kind of you and your friends to take so much trouble for the people in the camp. I’ve been told how much my men appreciate what you’re doing.’
When the gracious girl went away, Bethya looked at her helpers in astonishment and exclaimed, ‘My men! Can anyone tell me who that was?’
Only one woman thought she knew. ‘I think she’s the daughter of the man who had the contract to build the bridge. He died and they say she’s taken over the work on his behalf.’
‘But she’s only a girl!’ gasped Bethya, staring up the path at the dwindling figure. She’d heard Colonel Anstruther talking about Wylie’s daughter and had
imagined a huge, Amazon type in middle age at least – not a little thing with fingerless mittens who looked like a working-house waif.
‘Oh, no one really thinks she’ll do it,’ said her informant lightly. ‘But it’s amazing she’s even trying, isn’t it?’
Bethya bent down and started putting used mugs and spoons into a big basket at her feet. When she straightened she said, ‘I think we’ve done all we can here now. The hardest-hit people have left and the men are all at work and earning money again. We’ll have to stop some time and I think that time has come.’ She was right: the crisis was over.
Next day, when Sydney made an unnecessary walk back to the camp at noon, he was disappointed to see the wooden booth empty and no beautiful half-caste woman smiling behind the swirling steam from the soup pots. What a pity, he thought. Today, if she had offered him soup, he’d have taken it.
Chapter Fifteen
When Emma Jane returned from her visit to the camp, she went straight home to Tibbie’s and was happy to find the little cottage glowing with welcoming comfort. ‘How lovely to come home to a warm fire,’ she exclaimed, hurrying across to the hearth where she stood with her mittened hands held out to the flames. Her fingers and toes were so cold that she feared blood would never run in them again.
‘Oh dear me, you shouldn’t have been out in that weather,’ exclaimed Tibbie, who was rolling out pastry dough on the table. ‘The snow’s blowing off the hill and when it comes from that direction it always cuts into your skin like a knife. Sit down by the fire. I’m making a pie for your tea.’
Emma Jane shook her head. ‘I can’t wait for it, I’m afraid. There’s a carriage coming to take me to Maddiston. I’m going back to Newcastle tonight.’
A Bridge in Time Page 45