The Iron Road

by Jane Jackson

  Chapter Ten

  Since the moment Veryan had entered the shanty to light the fire and start breakfast Queenie had followed her about, her curiosity spiked with malice.

  ‘He didn’t do all that for free. I was watching. I seen the way he looked at you. You wait. Before the week’s out he’ll want paying, one way or another.’

  Refusing to be drawn, Veryan said nothing.

  Queenie peered into Veryan’s face. ‘I bet you won’t fight neither. I seen plenty like you. All touch-me-not one minute and skirts over your head the next. He’ve got the charm of the devil. We wondered where he’d gone last night. He wasn’t in here with us. He was with you, wasn’t he?’ Losing patience, Queenie grabbed her arm. ‘I’m talking to you, girl. I asked you a question.’

  Veryan jerked free. ‘I’m not obliged to answer.’

  ‘Well!’ Queenie gasped. ‘Some gratitude that is. After all I done for you –’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Veryan muttered in weary disgust. Turning back to the table and the waiting men with downcast eyes, she ladled porridge into each bowl. She was all too aware of their speculation, and of Queenie watching her every move.

  Already hot, she felt perspiration dew her skin as she recognized his broad, scarred hand. Keeping her head bent, she scooped out the thick oatmeal, willing him not to say anything. She owed him thanks. But not here, not now. He didn’t speak; she couldn’t. As he moved away to the table to join the others, her relief was tempered by a strange sense of anti-climax. Against her will, she found herself wondering. Where had he been? She hadn’t seen him since last night’s evening meal.

  After clearing up, she had gone to the bunk to collect her bundle of clothes. They’d gone. Surely Queenie hadn’t – Then she realized the thin mattress and blankets were missing as well. She raced out to the hut. Opening the door she stood quite still.

  Mattress, blankets, and clothes were all there: laid neatly on a bed. Made of six-foot planks nailed crosswise onto sleepers with an extra one at the head to stop her pillow failing off, it stood clear of the earth floor, which was now covered by a strip of canvas.

  Her eyes pricked. Was it just kindness? Anguish and anger tore at her. She hadn’t asked – certainly hadn’t expected – no-one since her father died had ever – What did he want? Why him?

  When he left with the rest of the men for the works he still made no attempt to speak, or even to catch her eye. It was as if the unexpected intimacy of the previous day had never existed. Her confusion increased. Wasn ’t that what she wanted? At least it proved Queenie wrong. So why, instead of relief did she feel so …at a loss? She hauled a bucketful of hot water from the copper for the dishes.

  ‘Well.’ Queenie folded her hands under her sagging bosom. ‘Looks like your fancy man have had second thoughts. I bet I know why.’ She cackled with spiteful laughter. ‘He’s afraid if he cross you he’ll end up like Gypsy Ned. What you looking like that for? Can’t you take a joke?’

  So it continued, a deliberate goading that dripped on and on, poisoning the sunny morning. Biting her tongue, Veryan willed herself not to react. There was a short respite when she returned, empty-handed from the tally shop.

  ‘What you been doing?’ Queenie demanded. ‘You was supposed to be going to the shop.’

  ‘I did. It’s closed.’ ‘What do you mean, closed? It can’t be, not this time of the morning.’

  ‘The shutters are still up. Pascoe isn’t there. People are banging on the door. There’s a whole crowd of them waiting.’ At the clop and squelch of approaching hooves they both looked towards the window.

  ‘Maybe that’s him now,’ Queenie said. ‘He don’t normally come in from this end. But I suppose he could’ve been up the line first.’

  Veryan heard the jingle of harness and a soft thud as someone dismounted.

  Queenie threw a malicious smirk over her shoulder. ‘I know, it’s Her Ladyship come to invite you to –’

  Veryan started violently as James Santana’s head appeared round the open door.

  ‘Miss Polmear? I wonder if I might have a word?’

  ‘Well, now.’ Queenie’s bright sharp smile revealed a mouthful of decay. ‘Seeing as this young lady is in my care, perhaps you’d better tell me what you want with her?’

  He ignored her. ‘Miss Polmear?’

  Nervously smoothing her hands over the pale-grey dress, one of two in the parcel from Lady Radclyff, Veryan hurried to join him, heart hammering. Miss Polmear?

  Knuckles on her massive hips, Queenie squared up to him. ‘Now you hang on a minute –’

  James placed himself between her and Veryan, ‘This is a private matter. We won’t be long.’ He shut the door, cutting off Queenie’s roar of protest. She promptly yanked it open again but remained, narrow-eyed and muttering furiously, on the threshold.

  Veryan stood beside his horse’s head. She stroked the soft muzzle and felt the animal’s hot breath against her work-roughened palm.

  James Santana glanced round. Following his gaze she saw the women watching curiously, some from their own doorways, others in a group outside the tally shop.

  ‘Is there somewhere we might speak privately?’

  After a moment ’s hesitation she nodded, and, with her heart fluttering somewhere near her throat, led him towards her hut.

  ‘Good Lord!’ His astonished realization sent a thrill of pride and pleasure through her. ‘I didn’t realize … But how – when –?’

  ‘Yesterday.’ She saw the frown form, drawing his brows together as he scrutinized the panels and planking, and guessed what was coming. She couldn’t have built this by herself.

  ‘How many of the navvies –’

  She lifted her chin proudly. ‘Only one. With the ganger’s permission,’ she added quickly. ‘We did it between us.’

  ‘Only one? He must think very highly of you.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘He isn’t – I mean, we’re not –’ She felt herself flush. She wanted him to understand that, though she appreciated Tom’s help, there was nothing between them. Well, there wasn’t. She still didn’t understand why he hadn’t spoken to her this morning. Or where he’d gone last night. Not that she cared; it wasn’t any of her business what he did.

  James Santana wasn’t listening. He reached into his pocket. ‘I saw this in the paper yesterday.’ Unfolding the clipping he passed it to her.

  It wasn’t very long. She read it twice and the tremor in her hands increased. But at least now there was a reason she could admit to. She looked up at him. Guilt and terror dried her mouth. She had to run her tongue over her lips before she could speak. ‘Wh-why would a solicitor want to see me?’ Had the body been found? No, it couldn’t be that. The police would have come.

  ‘Don’t look so worried.’ He smiled reassuringly as he stroked his horse’s glossy neck. ‘When someone is asked to contact a firm of solicitors, it is often related to a family matter.’

  Veryan was bewildered. What family? Her parents were dead. She had no brothers or sisters. She had faint memories of older people she’d been told were her grandparents. But she had been very young and couldn’t remember their faces.

  ‘Yes, but why a solicitor?’ She was still apprehensive.

  James shrugged. ‘To show that it’s important the person is found. Especially if,’ he added carefully, ‘no one knows where to look or who to ask.’ He gathered up his horse’s reins. ‘Anyway, I thought you should see it.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m – it’s very kind of you.’

  He placed one polished boot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. ‘I’d go and see them if I were you. It might be good news.’

  After all these years? Anyway, why would they want to see her now? Her mother had always blamed the family for the loss of her home. As the two of them had moved around the country she had become frighteningly unpredictable, her tears of self-pity changing within seconds to rage, bitterness, and wild-eyed vows of revenge. Veryan had quickly learned to think
of her grandparents as the enemy: cold-hearted and cruel.

  ‘I think that’s very unlikely. Anyway, even if I did –’ She stopped, staring blindly at the now-crumpled paper.

  ‘What?’ She looked up, narrowing her eyes against the sun and against sudden despair. ‘How do I prove who I am?’

  ‘Don’t you have anything –?’ He frowned. ‘No, of course, the fire.’

  Veryan screwed up her courage. ‘I don’t suppose –’

  ‘Would it help if –’

  ‘Please.’ She gestured for him to speak first, hoping.

  ‘I have no wish to intrude on your personal business, but it was I who brought this matter to your attention, so I feel a certain responsibility. Perhaps if I were to escort you …?’

  ‘Would you? Would you really?’

  ‘Shall we say the end of next week? Meanwhile, I will inform them that you have seen the notice and will be coming in.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. Until next week, then. Now I have to see Mr Pascoe.’ Clicking his tongue, he turned his mount.

  ‘He’s not there.’

  ‘What?’ His horse, gleaming like a polished chestnut, danced restlessly. Shortening the reins, he glanced from her to the group of women who milled impatiently outside the shuttered shop. The horse tossed and shook its head, mouthing the bit.

  ‘He hasn’t arrived yet. That’s why they are all waiting.’

  ‘I see.’ His face was suddenly wiped clean of all expression. With his heels in its sides, the horse leapt forward.

  Veryan watched him canter past the women, ignoring their demands to know what was going on, why wasn’t the shop open, where was Pascoe, and how were they supposed to feed their families, as he headed up the hill, taking the shortest route to the line.

  ‘So, what was that all about then?’ Queenie’s eyes were hawk-sharp, her expression avid, as Veryan passed her.

  ‘I just told him Pascoe’s not here.’ Veryan scooped up the dirty clothes that had been thrown at – and missed – the washing basket.

  Queenie tutted impatiently. ‘I didn’t mean that, as you perfectly well know. What did he want with you?’

  ‘Perhaps you should ask him.’ Veryan picked up the loaded basket, resting it on her hip.

  ‘Don’t you get uppity with me, miss,’ Queenie snapped. ‘I dunno what’s got into you lately. Lord knows I always done my best for you –’

  ‘Your best?’ Veryan stared at her. ‘How can you even – You would have let them –’ She caught her lower lip hard between her teeth.

  ‘Listen, girl, it’s time you –’ A commotion outside cut her short. ‘Dear life! What’s going on now? Like a bleddy fairground out there this morning, it is.’

  Bessie Thomas stuck her grimy, tousled head around the door. ‘Queen, it’s that Lady Wassname come with two of her friends. Looks like she’ve brung the clothes and stuff.’

  ‘Out the way, Bess. Let the dog see the rabbit.’ Tugging her filthy shawl around her shoulders, Queenie pushed past Veryan and swiftly waddled out.

  Veryan followed more slowly. Skirting round the back of the throng to the wash house, she glanced briefly at the gleaming open carriage in which the three elegantly dressed women had arrived. Behind it was a four-wheeled cart. Loaded with huge wicker baskets, all piled high with clothes and linen, it was in the charge of a second, much younger coachman who, judging by his crimson face, was being mercilessly teased and propositioned by the waiting women.

  Veryan had rubbed four soaped shirts against the ribbed washboard then, after a quick twist to wring out most of the water, tossed them into a tin bath to be rinsed later. Reaching into the basket she picked up the fifth. Turned inside out, it was rolled up.

  As she shook it out, recognizing it as the one Tom had been wearing the previous night, the foul smell made her recoil. There were dark stains across one shoulder and down the front. Where had he been? What had he been doing? She plunged it into the hot sudsy water. It was none of her business.

  Deliberately she turned her thoughts to the newspaper clipping. Who wanted to find her? And why? What was she to make of Mr Santana seeking her out? Going to such trouble must surely signify more than just a passing interest on his part?

  A shadow crossed the doorway. She took no notice. Then a soft, beautifully spoken female voice enquired, ‘Miss Polmear?’ She started violently.

  ‘L-Lady Radclyff.’

  ‘I just wanted to say how sorry I was, about the fire. To lose treasured possessions – it must have been devastating.’

  ‘Thank you for the clothes.’ Veryan knew she sounded stiff and cool, knew also that her visitor’s kindness deserved better. But just looking at the maroon ankle-length walking dress, the matching jacket, smart little hat, and polished shoes, made her ache with envy.

  It wasn’t just the clothes – though God knew she was sick to her soul of ill-fitting, worn-out cast-offs – it was the world they represented: a world of privilege, of freedom to choose: what to eat, what to wear, who to see, and the most interesting and entertaining ways to fill one’s days. Best of all, it was a world free from fear. She had belonged to that world: once: long, wretched years ago.

  ‘I’m glad they have proved useful.’ It seemed to Veryan that, although the stilted thanks were accepted with more grace than they deserved, Lady Radclyff’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  ‘Actually, I’ve sought you out because – well, for two reasons really. The first concerns the books and writing materials you asked for. Do you want them put in the big –’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I thought perhaps not.’ Her quick smile held understanding. ‘So where should Robbins take them?’

  ‘Oh, er –’ Veryan hastily dried red, dripping hands on the torn shirt she had tied around her waist by the sleeves in place of an apron. ‘I’ll show you.’ Aware of watching eyes and whispers amid the clamour, she straightened her back.

  Queenie had managed to haul herself up onto the cart. Amid shouting and edgy banter she was sorting and distributing the garments as if they were her own property. Yet no one had the courage to join her or take her place.

  ‘Who is that person?’

  ‘Queenie Spargo? She runs lodgings in the big shanty for one of the gangs.’

  ‘She appears to speak on behalf of everyone here.’

  ‘Self-elected,’ Veryan said wearily. ‘She has a louder voice than anyone else.’

  ‘Ah.’ Chloe Radclyff’s quiet acknowledgement held recognition. ‘The ideal committee chairwoman.’ She signalled the coachman, who reached into the cart. ‘The books are in a wooden box. I thought – if you have nothing better – it is somewhere safe to keep them. Turned on its side, the box offers a flat surface on which to write.’

  ‘Nothing better?’ Veryan faced her benefactor. ‘Where would I be likely to find –?’ She looked away, resentful, embarrassed, ashamed, and tucked an escaped curl behind her ear. ‘I’m sorry. Look, I don’t mean to sound rude, but why are you doing this? You don’t know me.’

  ‘No.’ Chloe Radclyff’s skin bloomed delicate pink and a shy smile lifted the corners of her mouth. ‘But I’m acquainted with someone who does. Mr Santana told me about the fire, and asked if –’

  ‘Oh,’ Veryan gasped. James Santana had requested Lady Radclyff’s help for her? She pressed one hand to her midriff, and felt her heart thumping unevenly. A gloved hand rested for a moment on her arm. ‘Are you unwell? Forgive me, a foolish question. The shock of the fire –’

  ‘No. No, I’m all right. It’s – I –’ Reaching into the pocket of her dress, Veryan drew out the clipping. ‘Your mention of Mr Santana – he came this morning to bring me this.’ She unfolded it. ‘In fact, he’d only just gone when you arrived. Apparently he saw it last night when he was reading the newspaper.’ She handed the clipping to Chloe, surprised to see that the narrow hands encased in fine kid gloves were trembling almost as much as her own had earlier. But this observation was swept as
ide by a rush of excitement. ‘He has promised to go with me to the solicitor’s office next week.’ She hugged herself. ‘He is the kindest man I have ever met.’

  As the words left her lips, she suddenly thought of Tom Reskilly. For an instant she could feel the warmth of his strong rough-skinned hand gripping hers, just as it had when they sprawled on the side of the collapsed embankment.

  She remembered the cold fury with which he had beaten William Thomas into unconsciousness, and pictured with startling clarity the bunching and flexing of muscle in his arms and shoulders as he raised panels and hammered nails.

  Were it not for him she would still be sleeping in the shanty, with no privacy and no escape from Queenie’s spiteful tongue. He had even built her a proper bed. He had done it in secret, and had not spoken to her since – Let alone looked for thanks.

  Thrown off balance by the vivid images, and the confusion they evoked, she wiped her hand down her dress as if to rub away the sensation, relieved at the length of time the golden head remained bent over the short legal notice.

  Eventually Lady Radclyff looked up. ‘It would seem so.’ Her smile was muted, less certain. ‘I hope you receive good news.’

  ‘Mr Santana expressed the same wishes.’ As she slipped into the vocabulary and speech patterns of her youth, Veryan was startled to find she felt awkward and gauche, like a child mimicking its betters. But pride kept her going. ‘I think it unlikely. But, as he pointed out, what do I have to lose? And having his support will make the experience far easier for me.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Handing back the clipping, Lady Radclyff beckoned the young coachman whose green and gold livery was almost hidden by the large wooden crate.

  As he approached, leaning back to counter the weight, Veryan couldn’t help noticing how Lady Radclyff’s thumb rubbed ceaselessly against the gloved back of her other hand. Yet, though the mannerism suggested stress, her expression – as far as Veryan could tell from a quick sideways glance – was perfectly tranquil.

  The coachman set the box down inside the door. With a brief bow and a murmured, ‘Ma’am,’ he returned to the cart.

  ‘I hope the books give you pleasure. Good day to you, Miss Polmear.’ With a quick smile, Lady Radclyff turned towards the carriage where her companions waited, clearly impatient to leave.