The Iron Road (7 page)

The women edged forward, listening now. ‘Can you get medicine?’ one asked. ‘My baby got some awful chesty cough.’

‘Shouldn’t you see a doctor?’ Chloe was cut short by the barrage of derision.

‘Doctors don’t want to see us.’

‘D’you know how much they charge?’

‘Where’re we supposed to get that kind of money?’

‘All right.’ James raised a hand. ‘You’ve made your point.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Chloe promised. ‘Just give me a few days.’

‘That’s all right, my handsome,’ someone shouted. ‘We aren’t going nowhere.’

‘Now, now,’ Queenie reproved. ‘That’s no way to talk to her Ladyship, not when she’s being so kind and all.’

‘Is there anything else I can bring you?’

As Chloe looked round the upturned faces, James saw Veryan watching with a half-angry, half-yearning expression. She started to raise her hand but dropped it again, and turned away.

‘Over there,’ James murmured to Chloe. ‘The big shanty.’

‘You there,’ Chloe called, ‘the girl in the doorway. Did you want something?’

Flushing crimson as all the women craned round to stare, Veryan drew back, hugging her arms across her stomach.

‘Don’t be nervous,’ James smiled encouragement. ‘What were you going to ask for?’

‘Books,’ she blurted.

Several of the women raised their eyes heavenward and shook their heads.

Startled, Chloe rallied magnificently. ‘Certainly. Would you like writing materials as well?’

It was like watching the sun come up, James thought as Veryan’s pale face flushed with pleasure.

She nodded quickly. ‘Yes please.’

As the women moved away to resume the morning’s work, Chloe urged her horse forward.

‘Do you run a school for the children?’

‘Beg pardon, Your Ladyship,’ Queenie positioned herself like a rampart between Chloe and Veryan. ‘But she got too much work to do to be running a school. Anyhow, who would she teach? The girls help their mothers, and look after younger brothers and sisters. Once the boys reach eight they join the line, fetching and carrying for the navvies, or working as tip boys.’

Seeing Chloe’s bewilderment, James quickly explained. ‘Leading the horses that pull the wagons to the tip head.’

‘They don’t get paid much, them being just kids,’ Queenie sighed. ‘But their wages means more food on the table.’

‘Or more beer for their fathers,’ James murmured, raising a cynical brow as he met Chloe’s startled glance.

She turned back to Queenie. ‘Might not the children’s lives be much improved if they learned to read and write?’

‘Bless you, My Lady.’ Queenie’s wolfish smile revealed broken and blackened teeth. ‘You got a good heart, and I wish I could say you was right. But it isn’t like that. See, if you go filling children’s heads with such notions, well, it makes them want what they can’t have.’ James saw her small eyes flicker towards Veryan. ‘Then they get ideas above their station. It only leads to unhappiness. So best leave well alone. But as for the clothes and suchlike, now they’ll be very welcome. To save Your Ladyship any trouble, why don’t you have them brung here to my place, and I’ll make sure they all get given out fair and square.’

Escorting Chloe out of the village James saw her glance at him.

‘That girl.’ A furrow appeared between her brows and he wanted, more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, to smooth it away with the ball of his thumb. ‘Is there anything we could do for her do you think?’

‘We?’ he repeated gently.

She looked away, blushing deeply. ‘Th – the ladies on my committee – I’m sure we might be able –’

‘Your kindness does you great credit,’ he broke in. ‘I agree, she does indeed seem very different from the others. But she is no child. Perhaps she has good reason for remaining here. After all, had she wanted to leave surely she would have done so?’

She hesitated, then smiled briefly. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ They began to talk lightly, distantly, of other things. Only as he took his leave on the outskirts of the park did she meet his gaze. It was fleeting, but it was enough. As he rode away his heartbeat echoed the drumming of his horse’s hooves.

Three days later, after another night of heavy rain, Veryan set out for the works with the men’s dinner. A blustery wind chased puffs of cloud across a gauzy sky and piled them into a thick rumpled blanket. Teams of ploughing horses were followed by hordes of screaming gulls that whirled and swooped above the furrows of rich soil. Black and white cattle grazed the high hillside, picking their way between clumps of gorse and outcrops of rock. Lower down, fat sheep like blobs of cream nibbled in the patchwork of small fields divided by stone walls.

Everywhere the sepia tones of winter were being replaced by the fresh green growth of spring. She inhaled deeply. The air tasted sweet after the heat and fug of the shanty. Though the trek to the works took longer each day, it was a relief to get away from Queenie’s constant needling.

Paddy’s gang was working at the front of the line. To avoid running the gauntlet of the other gangs she had cut across country and angled her approach so she arrived just beyond the well-advanced cutting. Now, standing above the workings, she looked down onto the temporary track that had been laid from the cutting to the edge of the new embankment.

The end of the track had a large baulk of wood roped across it. But instead of being straight and level, the rails looked as if they were askew and sloping. Her eyes must be tired. She’d had little sleep since that dreadful night. She kept the lamp lit, partly in case Davy came, but also because the darkness was too full of memories and suffocating fear.

Where
was
Davy? She had last seen him standing alongside his father, his little face a mask of terror. Had he been threatened? Or worse still, beaten again? Did he think she had killed Ned? He had looked so frightened. She wanted to seek him out, but so far she had resisted, afraid she might make things even worse.

Blinking hard, she looked down into the works. A train of wagons waited a little way back, loaded with muck excavated from the cutting. Her gaze skimmed over the men: looking for Paddy, she told herself. Spotting him quickly, she should have started down. Yet she hesitated, growing angry with herself as she sought the brawny figure of Tom Reskilly.

He had obeyed her plea to leave her alone, and not approached her since. His capacity for work made him popular. Easy-going, he accepted the ragging and joined in the banter. Then, a couple of evenings ago, Nipper had made a crude remark about her.

Pretending it didn’t hurt, that nothing they said was important enough to matter, she had caught her lower lip between her teeth, trying to stop the stupid tears that now came all too easily, and carried on dishing up the meal.

Then, aware of an unnatural silence, she had looked up to see Tom leaning across the table, one huge fist around Nipper’s throat. He had spoken too softly for her to catch what he said. But Nipper had been only too eager to agree: slumping back onto the bench as he was released. Tom had not looked at her, just carried on as if nothing unusual had happened.

Tempted, just for a moment, to thank him, she had resisted. She hadn’t asked him to intervene and he might get the wrong idea. Besides, she didn’t want any of them thinking she couldn’t look out for herself. She’d managed all right before he came. She had learned very young
never
to depend on anyone else.

There had been no more jibes or taunts. Except from Queenie, whose piggy gaze, as she teased Veryan about
her protector
burned with curiosity and resentment.

Veryan watched one of the men detach a wagon from the train and harness a horse to it. Towing the wagon, the horse was urged into a trot then a gallop by the man running alongside. As they approached the edge of the embankment the driver unclipped the harness. Signalling the horse with a yell and a slap on the flanks, man and animal jumped clear. The wagon hurtled on, slammed into the baulk of wood, and tipped forward. But the wet earth and rock had been jarred into a sticky mass. Instead of being flung over the edge, it clung to the inside of the wagon. Struggling to keep their footing on the steep slope below, the navvies began to shovel it out. Their curses and grunts of effort were clear in the still air.

A dark line appeared, snaking under the rails. Even as she wondered what it was, the crack spread, opening wider. With a tortured groan the rails twisted and the wagon lurched forward, tilting to one side. Horror stopped her breath. Hoarse shouts of warning turned to screams of fear as a twenty-foot chunk of the embankment subsided. With slow sickening inevitability the wagon tumbled over the edge and out of sight.

Dropping both basket and keg, Veryan plunged down the steep slope. She saw Paddy shouting for someone to go back down the line for help, and to tell Pascoe. Staggering across the mud and debris to what remained of the embankment Veryan peered over.

The wagon lay halfway down the long slope, upturned and aslant, in the debris. Her heart gave a painful lurch as she saw Tom Reskilly, digging with his bare hands to free a groaning man buried up to his neck in the muck. All around him others worked just as frantically, only too aware that the unstable slope might shift again at any moment and swallow everyone on it. Shutting her ears to the screams and groans, Veryan scrambled across to Tom.

‘Have you seen Davy Thomas?’ His head flew up. Shock whitened his nostrils and darkened his violet eyes. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing? You shouldn’t be –’

‘Was Davy working with you?’ she insisted. Then, looking anxiously around she spotted a man carrying a small limp body. With a choking cry she started forward. Tom grabbed her arm.

‘Get back up to the top. It isn’t safe here.’

Wrenching free she stumbled across to intercept the man and his bloodstained burden.
Please don’t let it be Davy.
It wasn’t. Relief, and nausea at the child’s terrible injuries, made her dizzy. She crouched for a moment, taking slow deep breaths, willing herself not to faint.

Then she began picking her way across the earth and rubble, blocking out gut-churning sights and sounds as she approached the upturned wagon lying half-embedded, metal wheels in the air. She paused every few moments to shout his name.

A hand caught her arm, pulling her round, and she looked up into Tom Reskilly’s glowering face.

‘Haven’t you got no sense at all? Do you know what –’

‘Shush.’ Veryan clapped her hand over his mouth. ‘Listen. Davy?’

The faint sound came again. Whirling, she fell onto her knees beside the upturned wagon. There was a small gap between the earth and the metal rim of the butt. ‘Davy? Are you in there?’

‘I can’t move.’ His voice was thin and high-pitched.

As Veryan turned anxiously, Tom’s big hand briefly gripped hers in warning.

‘Hold on, my handsome,’ he called. ‘We’ll soon have you out of there.’ But before he’d finished speaking, stones and clods of earth rolling from higher up clanged against the metal. Davy squealed with fright.

‘It’s all right, Davy.’ Lying flat on her stomach Veryan stuck her arm in through the gap. ‘Can you see my hand? You take hold of it.’ She felt small cold fingers brush hers, and hitched herself closer to the wagon. It creaked ominously. She heard Tom’s sharp intake of breath, pictured the steel edge of the wagon slicing down on her outstretched arm. Fighting the image, and the urge to snatch her arm out and roll away to safety, brought her out in an icy sweat.

As Davy’s fingers gripped hers she twisted her head towards Tom and whispered. ‘He’s lying at an angle with his head lower down the slope than his feet. ‘If it subsides any more …’ She stopped herself.

‘Come on out of the way. I’ll –’

‘No. You’re too big.’ Using her free hand she scooped away the earth and stones. ‘I can wriggle in –’

‘For Crissakes!’ he hissed. ‘If it starts shifting –’

Twisting, she looked into his eyes, her voice flat and utterly determined. ‘I’m not leaving him. Now either help me, or go away.’ She turned her head to call under the wagon. ‘Davy? I’ve got to dig a hole so I can get in to you. That means I have to let go of your hand.’ His grip tightened painfully. She understood, and his terror brought a lump to her throat. ‘It’ll only be for a moment.’

‘You won’t go away?’

‘I promised you a story, didn’t I? I’ve been waiting for you to come so I could read to you.’ After a moment he let go and she withdrew her arm.

‘We can’t dig here.’ Tom kept his voice low. ‘All the weight’s on the lower edge. If we undermine it, the wagon could topple over or slide further down the slope and take him too.’

They scrambled carefully along the upper side of the wagon. With feverish haste Veryan shifted stones and lumps of rock while Tom scooped out armfuls of earth.

‘Veryan.’ Davy shrieked, panic-stricken. ‘It’s moving.’

‘All right.
Now
,’ Tom panted, leaving grimy streaks on his face as he wiped away sweat with the back of an earth-caked hand. ‘And don’t hang about.’

Veryan wriggled between the edge of the wagon and the hollow they had dug out of the slope. There was little light and the air was dose and dank. ‘Right, Davy,’ she spoke quietly, with deliberate cheerfulness. ‘Time to go.’ Crawling over to him she touched his face lightly. ‘You’re a very brave boy.’

‘I peed myself,’ he said in a small voice.

‘That’s nothing. I bet most of the men did the same.’ While she talked she brushed the earth away, and ran her hands over his arms and legs, felt one very swollen ankle, sticky wetness, and tried not to imagine blood. ‘Can you move everything? Head?’ Toes and fingers?’

‘My foot hurts.’

‘You just crawl then. That’s right.’ The metal wagon seemed to be shrinking around her. She had to fight a desperate urge to hurry him. ‘You’re doing really well. Now, down onto your stomach.’ He squirmed through. As she knelt to follow, the earth seemed to shiver.

‘Veryan!’ Tom shouted.
‘Quick!’

As she dived out, her eyes seared by the sunshine, Tom seized her outstretched hand and, with Davy clasped in his other arm, flung himself back, lying full-length on the spoil.