A Journey by Rail
Steve Shepley
Copyright 2003 Steve Shepley
Smashwords Edition
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This work of fiction is based on the premise that it was possible, though extremely difficult, for a woman to become a mechanical engineer in late Victorian England. In point of fact, it was impossible. As one of my characters might have put it, the world was not that shape at that time.
The action takes place against not only the politics but also the engineering realities of the English railway system of the late nineteenth century; and a map is provided to help ordinary readers to a greater understanding of these matters. I have unashamedly based part of the narrative on the activities of the railway entrepreneur Sir Edward Watkin, as some of my readers may recognize.
Steve Shepley
This little map of the eastern side of England should help orient the reader.
The approximate area served by the old North of England Union Railway is enclosed in green. The fictional city of Ramsden lies slightly south of Bradford and Leeds.
The approximate area served by the London & Kent is enclosed in orange.
The very approximate route of the London, Central & Northern Railway is indicated by the blue line.
The silver whistle of a train came drifting up the valley from the direction of Ramsden.
"Come on!" said Frances excitedly. "It's the Leeds express. If we run quickly we can see it!"
Her companion, an older man with a stick, stopped. "I can't run," he said quietly. "You go along, Frances, and I'll catch you up."
Frances looked at him for the briefest moment. Then she gathered up her cloak and ran down the path, past the small marshy spring where she used to make little steam engines out of mud, towards the viaduct over the valley. Around the curve and onto the beautiful brick-built bridge came the express: a single-driver locomotive with its stately connecting-rod moving back and forth; and then the six-wheel clerestory carriages, clack-clacking over the rail joints. Frances waved at the engine, and – as sometimes happened – someone on the footplate waved back to her. The white-gray smoke drifted over the field and Frances smelled the delicious, almost sweet, smell. Then the clack-clack and the low roar of the wheels died away. The semaphore signal resumed its horizontal position. Once more there was quiet, and the turbulent song of a skylark somewhere over her head.
Her companion limped up to her as the clear whistle of the train came softly back from further down the valley. Frances turned to meet him as he approached, and a feeling of guilt flittered across her consciousness.
"I shouldn't have left you behind," she said suddenly. "It was wrong of me, when you can't get about very easily."
The man looked up from her and back along the line over the viaduct, where the sunshine of the afternoon was reflected in ribbons of steely gold on the tops of the rails.
"No," he said, "you must go to what excites you, whomever you leave behind." There was a silence after this peculiar speech. Then Frances seized his free hand in hers.
"I still shouldn't have left you," she said. "I'm very sorry."
The signal on the far end of the viaduct suddenly dropped.
"It must be a goods train," said Frances wisely. "You never know when they're going to come."
It was indeed a coal train, hauled by two wheezing six-wheeler locomotives. The endless line of wooden wagons, each piled high with Ramsden coal, clanked monotonously by. Then there was a banging noise in the distance and a whistle from the now invisible locomotives. Back down the train passed the banging noise.
"I never know what that is," said Frances. "Do you?"
"Yes, I do," said the man. "They've seen a distant signal at caution. Now the drivers must show all their skill. Most of the train is over the edge of Sutfield Bank, and wants to run away. The drivers have screwed down the brakes on the engines, and they're signaling to the guard in the guard's van to do the same. The wagons are banging against one another as the engines slow down. All that's between them and a runaway are the brakes on the two engines and the guard's van."
"Are there no brakes on the wagons?"
"There are, but they're hand brakes – you must apply them by hand. If they'd been able to stop at the top of Sutfield Bank they could have applied some of them to slow the train as it goes downhill. But they didn't see the signal till it was too late to halt."
"You know an awful lot about it," said Frances.
"Yes. Yes, I do," said the man thoughtfully. And after a moment, as if coming out of a private reverie, he added:
"Come on, Frances, it's time for your piano lesson. If we don't hurry, we'll be late."
Frances was running across the field, with the man hobbling as quickly as he could after her, when a rider came galloping around the hill. It took some time to tell that it was a horsewoman, as she was wearing riding breeches like a man; and she was clearly a rider of accomplishment. Frances stopped walking, and the rider slowed and came up to her. As the man limped up the rider took off her riding hat, and her black hair tumbled down over her shoulders.
"Hello, Fanny!"
"Don't call me Fanny, Beatrice, I hate it."
"Who's your friend?"
"This is Arthur. Arthur Jamieson, my new tutor."
"You're on awfully familiar terms with your tutor, Fanny."
"What a beast you are, Beatrice."
"How do you do, Miss Godley."
"How do you do, Mr. Jamieson. Is Fanny learning anything? The impression of everyone in the family is that she's a little dense."
The horse shook his head, as if ready to be away. Beatrice tugged the reins to the right to restrain him.
"Frances seems to be an apt pupil so far, Miss Godley."
"Then you must be an excellent tutor, Mr. Jamieson. Miss Siddley will be waiting for you, Fanny. Plinkety-plinkety-plink. Come on, Firebrand. Mr. Jamieson."
"Miss Godley," said Arthur Jamieson, bowing his head – Frances guessed because he had come out hatless.
They watched as Beatrice cantered, then galloped up towards the stables.
"I hope she falls off and breaks her neck," said Frances with feeling.
"Is she that awful?" asked Arthur Jamieson, as they walked towards the house.
"No more awful than any other older sister, I suppose," said Frances phlegmatically. "Oh bother it, there's Miss Siddley outside the front door. Now I shall catch it when we get back."
"Your father hardly mentioned your family when we discussed my coming here," said Arthur Jamieson. "Tell me about them."
"I've got a brother, Hastings – he's the oldest. He works at Father's bank, but I don't think he's much good at it. Mother's in London. She has lots of friends up there. We don't see much of her. But you're lucky – the whole family will be here this weekend. There's a dance at Tillotson Hall, and we all have to go, worse luck. See, Miss Siddley's waving to us."
"So she is, how very thoughtful."
"I think she's waving because she's annoyed we're late," said Frances sadly.
*
"Dominus, domine, dominum, domini, domino, domino," chanted Frances next morning.
"Very good," said Arthur Jamieson. "Now quickly: the accusative."
"Dominum."
"The vocative."
"Domine..."
The door opened.
"Good morning, Jamieson," said Mr. Godley. "Latin, excellent, excellent, well done, Frances. Jamieson, would you join us for dinner tonight again? My wife will be back from town, and my son and daughter from my wife's first marriage. Hastings will be bringing his wife and Beatrice's fiancé should be here. There's a party and dance over at Bullingford's house tomorrow night and Bullingford says they're short of men – I hoped you'd be able to go, and it would be best if you met the whole family this evening."
"I'd be delighted, Godley, though how well I can dance at Mr. Bullingford's remains to be seen."
"And all the – er – paraphernalia you have below your rooms in the old stable. If you could move it a little to one side, we may need to put one or two of the traps in there ...."
"Certainly."
"Good, well that's settled. Frances, you may stay up a little later and join us if you wish. And Mrs. Bullingford would like you to come to the dance tomorrow. Your mother will have to see if you have a dress you can still get into, I suppose. Back to dominus, dominus, dominus, then."
When the door had closed Frances said:
"Father's Latin is a little weak, isn't it, Mr. Jamieson?"
"Frances, you must call me Arthur, as I told you yesterday when we met. Not Mr. Jamieson – it's too formal. And yes, your father's Latin is certainly – original."
"Because he never learned it," said Frances. "He barely went to school, as far as I know. It's not fair that he should make me learn it."
Arthur was silent. After a moment, Frances said:
"Except that I shouldn't have such a nice tutor, of course."
"Thank you," said Arthur gravely.
Frances was finishing her piano lesson with Miss Siddley that afternoon when the gravel outside the music room began to crunch unevenly and voices could be heard.
"Oh, Miss Siddley, it's Mama!" said Frances.
"Then you had better go meet your Mama," said Miss Siddley, reaching over and closing the music. "Frances, pay more attention to your scales, particularly the harmonic minors, which were of a distressing nature yet again." She rose to go, and Frances slipped off the stool and ran down the corridor to the back stairs. She rushed up them, past one of the maids – "Careful, Miss Frances!" – all the way along the upstairs corridor and down the far back stairs. This brought her to a little alcove just off the drawing room. She squeezed into a cupboard, and left the door slightly ajar.
She did not have long to wait. She heard her mother sweep into the room, and the creak of her father's boots behind her.
"I hope you appreciate the trouble I am taking for the Bollingers," said her mother, and there was a rustle as she took off her hat. "Plop!" said Frances to herself, and at almost exactly the same moment she heard the hat land on a chair.
"The Bullingfords, Caroline."
"I don't like them."
"That's as may be, but Bullingford is on the board of the bank, and if he has an affair of this kind we must go."
"They're extremely tedious people. If you only had a notion of how boring people are here, you'd come to London more often."
"I'd come to London more often if you invited me to do so, Caroline, but I'm under the impression that you don't really want me there."
"Bullingford talks incessantly about coal. Coal and railways. Of what interest are coal and railways to me?"
"Well, coal and railways paid for this house. They paid for your clothes. They pay for your London house and your London lifestyle. Perhaps if you reflected on that, you'd be more inclined to humor Bullingford when he talks about them."
"Don't be tiresome, dear. And speaking of tiresome, I talked to my brother earlier this week about Frances. He says that Julia is at an excellent school in Kensington, and just a word from him would result in Frances being able to go there too. Naturally the headmaster will do anything to please my brother."
"Frances is not going to school, Caroline. She is going to stay here. In fact, I've just retained someone to tutor her."
"If Julia is a pupil at this school, William, it is certainly good enough for Frances."
"It's not an issue of whether it's good enough. It's quite the reverse. Julia is the daughter of your wealthy brother, and if he wants to be up with the times and send her to some expensive new-fangled school that is his privilege. Frances is the daughter of a middle-class banker, and she will be tutored here at Hawthorns."
"Frances is the daughter of a peer's daughter-in-law. A peer's daughter-in-law who later married one of the landed gentry."
"Fiddlesticks!" Frances whispered to herself.
"I'm not one of the landed gentry, I'm afraid, Caroline. And Frances is not the daughter of a peer's younger son, unlike Hastings and Beatrice. The matter is closed."
"Well, at least she'll have a governess, I suppose. Just keep her away from me – I cannot abide the lower orders."
"I'm a member of the lower orders. And no, she won't have a governess. I've engaged a male tutor."
"A man?"
"Yes, Caroline, a man, a man of considerable education."
"A man," repeated Frances's mother.
"This is partly a matter of charity," said her father. "He's a gentleman, a brilliant scholar, a gifted mechanical engineer, and a notable amateur scientist. However, the important thing as far as Frances is concerned is his breadth of learning. He was terribly injured in an accident, and it affected his nerves as well as laming him. McDonald told me about him."
"And who's this McDonald?"
"He serves as churchwarden with me, as you'd know if you ever troubled to go to church," said her father, rather more forcefully. Frances could read the signs even from the haven of the cupboard. In a moment her father would lose his temper – he only ever seemed to do so with her mother – and then her mother would back down. "Furthermore, Caroline, you will be doing me a great favor if you treat this man with respect instead of looking down your nose at him."
"My dear William, I have no intention of meeting him."
"You most certainly will meet him. He will be dining with us tonight, and accompanies us to Tillotson Hall tomorrow evening. Mrs. Bullingford is short of men."
"Why should I care how many men Mrs. Bullingford has? Being around people like your charity case makes me feel quite ill, as I think you are aware. I do not want him at the dinner table tonight, and if he goes to the Hall tomorrow I do not want him in the carriage."
At first Frances thought that a silence had fallen over the room. But when she pressed her ear to the wall, she could hear her father talking in low tones. This was invariably the prelude to what Frances called "the big explosion."
"Listen to me, Caroline, and listen well. You may indulge in the vapors all you choose when you are among your witty and aristocratic London friends. When you are here, however, you will do as I ask and you will do so gracefully. I shall not soon forget that disgraceful scene when Baines came to his interview for head groom and you fainted from what you claimed was the smell of him. I give you fair warning now that I will not tolerate your fancy ways here at Hawthorns." Now Frances could move her ear away from the wall. Her father was getting into his stride. "You were more than happy to marry me when you saw the color of my money," he said more warmly. "You, Hastings and Beatrice were on the road to genteel poverty when you met me. Now listen to me well, my lady" – it was not good news, thought Frances to herself, when her father swore or addressed her mother as "my lady" – "you will obey me, d'you hear, when it comes to Frances's education, Frances's tutor, and Frances's tutor's presence at Tillotson Hall. Do I make myself clear? Do I make myself clear?"
There really was a silence after this, and then Frances could hear her mother saying:
"Really, William, there is no need to be so aggressive. I understand your desire to keep Frances's pretensions within bounds, and to save face with your friend McTavish ...."
"McDonald!"
"Whatever, my dear, whatever. But please, William, keep your charity case away from me as much as you can, will you?"
For a minute or more Frances could hear nothing. Here was her cue. She jumped out of the cupboard and tiptoed back along the corridor. Then she spun around, walked openly back towards the drawing room, and turned into it.
"Mama!"
"Darling Frances, don't embrace me, dearest, I'm really not well. Your father has been telling me about your new tutor. Do you like him?"
"He's very good, Mama, really he is."
"Er – where have we put him, William – is there room in the servant's quarters?"
"He lives above the old stable," said Frances. "And all his stuff is in the stable itself."
"His – stuff?"
"His scientific apparatus," said Frances's father. "You'll recall I told you he was a scientist of no mean accomplishment."
"How ... eccentric. What do the other servants say?"
"He is not a servant, Caroline. I told you, he is a gentleman. He occupies a ... somewhat vague position here, but he is most certainly not a servant."
"Well, let us talk about more pleasant things," said her mother faintly.
Someone knocked on Frances's door later that evening.
"Frances, you do need to hurry," said Arthur's voice urgently, apparently from against the door panel. "I'm sure your father and mother will be very annoyed if we don't get to the dinner table right away."
"Coming, coming!" called Frances, and adjusted her second-best dress in front of the mirror. Then she ran over to the door and opened it.
"This will be horrid for you," she told him gaily as she skipped down the stairs. "Hastings is all right but his wife is very odd. Beatrice's fiancé is something in the government, I think, and an old stick-in-the-mud. And Mama will probably have a fit when she meets you."
"Why?"
"She doesn't care for the ... lower orders." This last part was in a conspiratorial whisper, as they turned the corner and entered the dining room.
"Better late than never," said her father, rising from his chair. "My dear, this is Arthur Jamieson, Frances's new tutor. Jamieson, my wife Caroline. Now, the rest of us: my son Hastings; his wife, Lady Anne; Sir James Upcastle, our Member of Parliament; his fiancée, my daughter Beatrice."
Hastings stood and bowed, Frances noted with approval; Sir James remained in his seat and nodded, as did Lady Anne and Beatrice, who said:
"Mr. Jamieson and I have already met. He has apparently managed to teach Fanny something useful."
There was a silence after this speech, and gradually the table became aware that all was not well with Mrs. Godley. Everyone turned to look at her; she was pale, and seemed to have difficulty in getting her breath. "Caroline!" said Frances's father under his breath; and then he added something that Frances could not catch, though it might have been, "Pull yourself together!"
"I'm so sorry," said Mrs. Godley after a moment. "I really do beg your pardon, Mr. Jamieson, but meeting strangers can sometimes be a strain." She was quiet for a short time, and Lady Anne pulled back her chair and went over to her.
"Are you very unwell – do you need to go and lie down, Caroline?" she asked in the little squeaky voice that sometimes made Frances laugh.
"No – no." Mrs. Godley put her hand to her chest. "I think I shall be all right shortly. A little water, perhaps."
Frances's father poured some water for her and gave it to her. Mrs. Godley's color was returning, and the party began to relax.
"Well, let's begin," said Mr. Godley, nodding to the servants. "Jamieson, Frances, please sit down. Anne, thank you."
Frances pulled Arthur towards the two remaining seats at the other end of the table, and the meal commenced.
"We were talking about railway shares, Jamieson," said Mr. Godley. "Do you have any?"
"I wish I were sufficiently well off, Godley," said Arthur.
"Father, no talk of business at the table," said Beatrice firmly.
"Nonsense, my dear, Hawthorns isn't a London salon, it's built with banking money. Hastings, what about you?"
"What little I have is in the London & North Western and the Great Western," said Hastings.
"Good man!" said Sir James.
"Anyone own North of England Union?" asked Mr. Godley. There was general laughter at this question as Sir James raised his hand and pulled a face.
"I do, for my sins," he said. "I sit on the Board, so I have to. But I hold the minimum number I can get away with."
"I don't mind telling you that the Union owes my bank quite a lot of money," said Mr. Godley. "Hastings, don't you handle their account?"
"I think we'll be safe for some time," said Hastings, putting down his wineglass. "They're talking to the Lancashire & Yorkshire about amalgamation – you know that, Sir James?"
Sir James put his finger to his lips and shook his head.
"Not that amalgamation with the Lanky will improve the service much," said Mr. Godley. "It's one of the few railways I know that's worse than the Union."
Frances was monumentally bored. Lady Anne, who was sitting to her left, attempted to entertain her, but Frances was too occupied with trying not to laugh out loud at her baby voice. On her right, Arthur said nothing. Frances began to sense that Arthur was somehow out of place in this company, and that her father's efforts to treat him as an equal were some sort of attempt to disguise this fact. Her mother had reacted poorly to his presence, but Frances could tell that the rest of the company treated him as an outsider too. Eventually the ladies rose to retire, and Mrs. Bamford was called to take Frances away.
"Come say goodnight to me, Arthur," she whispered, squeezing his hand; and he nodded.
Frances was almost asleep when there was a light knock on her door.
"Come in!" she called softly. The door opened, and Arthur came in and sat on the edge of her bed.
"I can't stay long," he whispered to her.
"No, I understand. What a boring dinner! Did you hate it?"
"It was very good of your father to ask me," said Arthur diplomatically.
"Sir James is an old stick – I don't like him," said Frances. "I don't think Father does either, very much. But Father doesn't much care for anyone unless they're in business."
"I like your brother," said Arthur. "He was very kind to me after the ladies withdrew. He seems more interested in high finance than working in a bank. Not that I'm criticizing anyone for doing that, of course ...."
"Isn't Lady Anne peculiar? What do you think to her voice?"
"I think you're a little unfair, Frances. She can't help the way she sounds."
"Hastings fell helplessly in love with her when he met her," said Frances. "He says he's in love with her brain rather than her looks. She's some sort of Radical, whatever that means."
"Is she really?"
"I'm sorry about my mother – she can be so unpleasant about meeting people. And Beatrice – Beatrice is hopeless, of course. She's marrying Sir James for his money, Mrs. Bamford says. He must be ever so old – seventy or eighty, I should think."
"About half that, by my estimate, Frances."
"And all that business stuff! What's this Union they keep talking about?"
"It's the railway at the bottom of the valley – the one we saw the other day. The North of England Union Railway. Like most of the railways around it, it was built on coal – coal and local passenger traffic. Haven't you ever visited the locomotive works in Ramsden? I'm surprised, considering you like railways so much."
"I never go to Ramsden, except to the shops sometimes," said Frances.
"Would you like to visit the locomotive works?" said Arthur.
"Oh, yes! That would be thrilling! Can you arrange it?"
"Oh, I should think so," said Arthur. "I used to work there."
"You did? How exciting!"
"I did some research work for them, though I don't think they used many of the results. You'll be able to see some of the experiments I did when I get everything set up in the stables. I'll talk to your father and see if it's all right."
"Oh, wonderful!"
"Now go to sleep, Frances. You'll be up late tomorrow night because of the dance, remember."
"All right. Goodnight!"
"Goodnight."
*
"I should like some wine myself," said Frances in as grown-up a voice as possible.
"Nonsense, child, you're far too young," said her mother. "Ah, look at Beatrice – isn't she the most beautiful young woman here? And Sir James keeps up so well with her, considering – considering ...."
"His age," supplied Frances.
"Manners, young lady!" said Hastings, tapping her on the head with his dance card. "Anne, my darling, the next dance is mine, I think." His wife stood up in obvious delight.
"Bullingford," said Frances's father, getting to his feet and shaking his hand as he came over, "and Mrs. Bullingford – what an excellent affair! Hastings you know, of course, and Lady Anne. Allow me to introduce Arthur Jamieson – McDonald's protégé, you know. And this little scamp may not be unknown to you either – my daughter, Frances, whom you were kind enough to invite."
Mrs. Bullingford was a large lady who wanted to take Mrs. Godley to the whist tables, and Mr. Bullingford seized this opportunity to sit down.
"Tek the weight off'n yer feet," he said conversationally to Mr. Godley. "Jamieson, pleased ter meet yer. Didn't yer used ter work at Calder Beck?"
"The locomotive works, yes, I did, Bullingford."
"Ah thowt so. Decker, 'e's a friend of mine. An acquaintance, anyways."
"Who's Decker?" said Frances loudly as the band struck up again.
Mr. Bullingford laughed.
"He's t'Locomotive Superintendent o't North of England Union Railway, little Miss Pert," he said. "By gum, Godley, you've got a for'ard one theer."
"Yes," said Mr. Godley resignedly.
"Coom and sit on me knee, Miss Bright Eyes," said Mr. Bullingford teasingly, and Frances slipped out of her chair and jumped onto his lap.
"Do yer love me, Bright Eyes?" said her host in a quiet voice when Frances was settled.
"I might if you didn't smell so much of cigars," said Frances forthrightly.
Mr. Bullingford laughed wheezily. "Na then, yer sound like me wife," he said. "I were 'opin' for more lovin' and less naggin'. Jamieson, yer still needin' yer stick? I don't think me wife knew yer were lame when she asked fer yer to come tonight."
There was a silence. Frances looked quickly over to Arthur. He was a little pale, and nodded.
"I think I'll always need it," he said.
"'Igh pressure steam is dangerous," said Mr. Bullingford lightly. "T' Union were sad to lose yer, like, but 'igh pressure steam is dangerous, like Decker allus said. Well, it can't be mended now. Godley, takin' 'im in were a right Christian act."
"Look at Beatrice with your son!" said Mr. Godley awkwardly, as if to change the subject. The men turned to look at Frances's half-sister waltzing.
"A pretty sight, a pretty sight," said Mr. Bullingford contentedly. "I allus thought 'Arry 'ad a soft spot fer your Beatrice, but she's spoken for now and I won't say no more about it. Now, my little lady, what are you wrigglin' for?"
"I've just remembered, Father. Arth – Mr. Jamieson says he'll take me to the Union's locomotive works. It's all right if I go, isn't it?"
That it was not all right became clear instantly from the frown that settled on Mr. Godley's features.
"I don't think that's a very good idea," he began, but Mr. Bullingford cut in almost immediately.
"Nay, nay, nay, Godley," he said. "Where there's muck, there's brass, and your brass and my brass come in the main from t'Union and the pits. She's not askin' to go down a mine, just ter visit t'Works. There's no 'arm in't lass goin' and lookin' for herself, is there?"
"It's not really an appropriate place for a young lady ...." began Mr. Godley. Mr. Bullingford began wheezing again, and bumped Frances up and down a little.
"Bankin' in't an appropriate place for a gentleman neether," he said, " but both you an' me ended up in it, din't we? Nay, Godley, let the child go. Jamieson theer'll look after 'er, though he weren't much able to look after 'isself, was 'e?"
There was confusion when the carriages were brought around later that night. The young groom was apologetic.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Godley, but the gray went lame on the way home and I couldn't bring the trap for Miss Beatrice and Sir James."
"William, for heaven's sake sort this out, will you?" said his wife faintly. "We cannot all ride back in the carriage; someone must wait." And she looked out of the corner of her eye at Arthur.
Arthur looked up at the sky and removed his hat.
"It's a balmy evening for May," he said to no one in particular, "and it's less than a mile to Hawthorns. Perhaps Frances and I could walk."
"Oh, yes, yes!" said Frances, looking up at the full moon.
"Excellent plan," said Sir James, who showed every sign of falling asleep on his feet. "Beatrice, that means you and I can ride with the family instead of in the trap."
"Very well, Jamieson," said Mr. Godley. "If you keep to the path by High Farm you shouldn't lose your way."
"I like Mr. Bullingford, don't you?" said Frances, when she had tired of running off into the dark and then running back to Arthur.
"He's quite nice," said Arthur.
"How did he know about your leg? What happened?"
After a moment, Arthur said:
"It was an accident in the plant. It could have happened to anyone."
"Caused by high pressure steam."
"Frances, don't talk about things you don't understand."
There was a break in the conversation, and then Frances said:
"That's the first time you've sounded just like my parents."
Arthur stopped, turned to her, took her arms in his hands, and looked firmly into her face.
"Don't you ever say that to me again, Frances, d'you hear?" he said in a low voice. "Your parents, Bullingford, that idiot Decker, they're all of a piece, you understand? They live in grooves. They take the conventional path because they can't help it, they don't have the imagination to do anything else. You have to step out in this life, take the challenge, do the unconventional. You have to do that, even though sometimes it can be a mistake, a terrible mistake for which you'll pay the rest of your days. It's all that makes life worthwhile."
Frances looked back at him. The moonlight behind his hat put his face in shadow, and suddenly she was afraid.
"Don't hold my arms so hard, Arthur," she said tearfully. "You're hurting me."
Then Arthur knelt down in front of her, and his stick fell to the ground. He put his arms around Frances and embraced her tightly for a moment. When he released her, Frances could see tears in his eyes too.
"I'm sorry, Frances, truly sorry. I didn't mean what I said. It's just that – well, sometimes it's hard living on the outside. Not really welcome, not able to dance, not even able to work properly. I'm sorry, my darling Frances."
Then he took his stick, and used it to help himself get up.
"Now take my hand," he said, "if I'm forgiven, and let us help one another home."
So Frances took his hand and squeezed it, and they walked slowly home, past the patches of late spring mist that lay in the bottoms of the dells, from which the surprised cows loomed out like rocks in a moonlit sea. As they approached Hawthorns, the sky was slowly becoming shot with faint scarlet streaks, and the mournful whistle of a train was lifted up the valley with the first breeze of the dawn.
*
The first part of the journey to Calder Beck was the nicest. Frances knew that her father had built Hawthorns as far away from its industrial surroundings as he could. The railway itself could be seen only from the nursery windows, and even then you had to lean out with Beatrice holding on to you; while the countryside round about was devoid of collieries, even though some recent cracks in the kitchen walls revealed the presence of the miners below the earth. But as the trap spun her and Arthur down towards the city, as the hills moved slowly against one another and pushed up into the sky, and as the very outskirts of Ramsden came into view, so Frances could see the winding wheels of the pits, the wet, colorlessly gray mountains of slag, the brown-gray maze of railway lines, and the rows upon rows of monotonous dull-red brick terraces that climbed up each side of the Ram valley. From countless chimneys belched smoke and steam, and the lightly metaled road they were traveling gave way to the broad, curved, pale butterscotch cobbles that helped the horses to keep their footing.
Horses, horses, horses. They pulled the tradesmen's vans and the Ramsden Omnibus Company's buses; they drew the drayers' wagons, hauling the rust-hooped wooden barrels of beer; they pranced along in front of the townspeople's traps and carriages; and the cobbled roads were covered with their droppings.
Arthur guided the trap through the part of town that Frances knew; then he turned left down Railway Street, and the surroundings rapidly deteriorated. There seemed to be more public houses than shops; a few children with dirty faces and dirty clothes played in the streets – "they should be in school," said Arthur, "since the Education Act the year before last" – and men in collarless shirts and women in faded print dresses stopped and watched as they drove past. Over the whole area hung a pall of smoke from the works and the Ramsden engine sheds nearby. Some small boys with filthy clothes little better than rags began to run beside their trap.
"Yah, yer little tart, yer little muckin' tart!" one of them called, and Frances shrank instinctively against Arthur.
They drew to a halt just inside the works gates at Calder Beck, and an old man hobbled out from the gatekeeper's hut.
"Why, Mr. Jamieson! I 'aven't seen you in I don't know 'ow long."
"Good morning, Mick, how's the missus?"
"Ah, she died, Mr. Jamieson, she died, the Lord took 'er. Consumption. She never could stop coughin' up blood, yer know."
"I'm sorry, Mick, I truly am – I didn't know."
"No, well 'ow would yer, Mr. Jamieson. Mr. Bottomley's waiting for yer in 'is office, I'm told. So long."
A young man – a mechanic of some sort, Frances guessed – took the trap, and Arthur opened a door she had not noticed in the side of the building. Inside were countless young men working at drawing-boards, and some said hello to Arthur as they walked through. Then up some dusty wooden stairs and into an office with huge glass windows at the back, through which a short, bald man with an old bowler hat in his hand was looking. He turned as they walked in.
"Arthur Jamieson," he said, holding out his hand. "Every time I hear your name, I wonder why you aren't dead."
"That's a cheerful start to our day, Wainwright," said Arthur with a smile. "This is my employer's daughter, Frances Godley."
"What, William Godley at the bank? I'm pleased to meet you, my dear, and perhaps you can oblige me with a loan before you leave."
"Now go lightly, Wainwright, the girl's not used to you yet."
"Ha!" said Mr. Bottomley loudly, and stared back at Frances, who suddenly took her courage in both hands, stepped forward, and said matter-of-factly:
"If you care to apply to my father at his bank for a loan, Mr. Bottomley, I should not be surprised if he were able to oblige you."
"Oh, shouldn't you now?" said Mr. Bottomley. "Well, I should be surprised myself, very surprised. Wouldn't you, Arthur?" And then suddenly there was a crack of noise in the room. It was Mr. Bottomley laughing.
"Shouldn't be surprised if he were able to oblige me! Oh, my sainted aunt! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
When Mr. Bottomley was a little recovered, he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and said:
"Well now, Miss Godley, what can I do for you? Have you come by any chance to purchase a locomotive or two? I can do you a nice line in out-of-date goods locomotives, which couldn't pull the skin off a rice pudding."
"Really, Wainwright, suppose someone were to hear you."
"Well, Arthur, it's not as though everyone doesn't know it. God knows how long Decker will be here, designing his useless locomotives and building them in this god-forsaken sprawl of a plant. Probably till the Lanky takes us over and shuts the place down. Decker told the Board he'd be willing to work till he was seventy, you know, Arthur. Well, it's like I said. There's no danger of him going mad before then, because he's as mad as a hatter already. Work till he's seventy! Oh, my sainted aunt! Here, Miss Godley, come over here." And he drew her over to the big windows.
They turned out to overlook a huge part of the main works building. Below her, on the shop floor, Frances could see locomotives and parts of locomotives, and dozens of men walking around them, lying under them, or crawling about inside them. Overhead, huge cranes suspended on rails from the roof slowly lifted and moved mysterious components around.
"Like it?" said Mr. Bottomley.
"Yes. Yes, it's wonderful," said Frances.
"Like it now?" said Mr. Bottomley, and suddenly opened one of the windows. A cacophony of noise – banging, scraping, rasping and ringing – assailed Frances's ears, and she covered them with her hands.
"They do it deliberately, because I'm the Works Manager," said Mr. Bottomley at the top of his voice. "They're trying to make me leave. The noise is quite unnecessary, Miss Godley – why, you could build a locomotive in a cemetery with no danger of waking the corpses. But I'm not going to leave. I'm going to stay here and make their lives a misery."
He closed the window and looked at Arthur, who was smiling broadly. "What are you laughing at?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing, nothing."
Mr. Bottomley put his bowler hat on his head. They descended the stairs and went through a door, and suddenly Frances was in the middle of it all. Now the place looked even more cavernous. Frances looked up, and saw that the ventilation windows were open to let some of the grime out and some of the summer air in. There were smells of metal shavings, oil, and sawdust. Dust and grime coated every surface she could see. The noise was considerable, but bearable. Mr. Bottomley reached out his hand to Frances. She was reluctant to hold it, so he wiped it ostentatiously on his trousers and offered it again.
"Better take it," said Arthur, grinning.
The men stopped working briefly as they walked past. Mr. Bottomley paused and pointed to the far end of the huge building.
"That's where we start," he said. "The parts come in from elsewhere in the plant, and we assemble them here. The locomotive is pretty much finished as it goes out of the other end."
"That's Mr. Bottomley's idea," said Arthur in a whisper. "Only Crewe works does anything like it, on the London & North Western Railway."
"Then we drive them away," continued Mr. Bottomley, "and as they're such poor designs, they generally fall off the tracks within a week or so, whereupon we bring the pieces back to where I was pointing and the whole process starts again. Hello, Billy, what're you staring at? Never seen a beautiful woman before?"
"Not as beautiful as that, Mr. Bottomley, no," said Billy with a grin, rubbing his hands on a rag.
"This is the new boss, so you'd better be nice to her, because compared to me she's a Tartar. Aren't you, Miss Godley? Billy here's an expert – they only keep me around to shine in his reflected glory. Do you have a question for him?"
"Yes, I do," said Frances decidedly. "All these wheels I can see are round. Why don't you make some of them oval?"
"Now, there you go," said Mr. Bottomley in some awe. "Here's me claiming to be an engineer, and never asked myself that question." He took off his bowler hat and scratched his bald head for a moment. "Do you have any particular reason for wanting them oval?"
"I think," said Frances, "they would look neater. And it would be easier to tell if they were going around and around."
"She's right, Mr. Bottomley," said Billy with a wink. "Blowed if I ever thought o' that."
The visit lasted for an hour or more. They visited the casting shop, the boiler shop, and the paint shop. In the paint shop stood a gleaming four-coupled locomotive in the dark-green livery of the North of England Union Railway. Mr. Bottomley indicated it with the back of his thumb.
"Last of the 180-pound boilers," he said to Arthur.
"Well, so much for that revolutionary idea of mine," said Arthur.
"He says it increases maintenance," said Mr. Bottomley. "And he's right, it does. Pressing them at 130 psi gives them a longer life. I said, you're right, Mr. Decker, and me and the lads have figured out how to make the locomotives last even longer. We stick the bloody things in a museum, which is where they belong, and they'll never wear out. Ah, begging your pardon, Miss Godley."
"What are they painting over the wheel?" said Frances suddenly.
"Oh, it's the engine's name," said Mr. Bottomley. "Mr. Decker likes their names on the splasher in gold leaf. Fred," he called out, "what's the name of this one? He's no idea, Miss Godley. I think it's Lady Godiva."
"But she rode through the streets of Coventry with no clothes on!" said Frances disapprovingly. "I don't think that's a very good idea."
"Just a minute," said Mr. Bottomley. "Here, Arthur, come over here." There was a whispered conversation, and then Mr. Bottomley said:
"You're quite correct, Miss Godley, and we're seeing to the matter right this minute. Now if you'd like to accompany me to the canteen, we have laid on an eleven-course meal for you."
The eleven-course meal turned out to be beef stew and a mug of strong works tea. Arthur and Mr. Bottomley began a technical conversation and Frances was free to look around the room. A very young and handsome apprentice with brilliant blond hair caught her eye and waved at her. Frances waved back, and Mr. Bottomley saw her.
"That's Mr. Decker's grandson you're waving at," he said. "He's not at all like his grandfather. Fair hair, not dark. Tall rather than short. Clever rather than ...."
"Wainwright!" said Arthur warningly.
"Ah well. Miss Godley, if you've finished your meal, our tour is at an end. Back to my office via the paint shop."
The pretty four-coupled engine was still there, and Frances could see that the name on the splasher was complete. And then her heart leapt; for as she came closer she could read it for herself. Frances Godley, it said, in beautiful gold-leaf blocked letters.
"Oh, Mr. Bottomley, they've put my name on the engine! Oh, Mr. Bottomley!"
"Well, my sainted aunt, it's a good thing you saw it, Miss Godley! What a terrible mistake. I'll have it removed immediately."
There was a pause, and then Frances looked Mr. Bottomley in the eye and said:
"I wasn't born yesterday, you know."
She ran up to him and threw her arms around his waist. A chorus of whistles sounded around the shop; but as Mr. Bottomley stared about him everyone appeared to be hard at work.
They said a reluctant goodbye to him outside the offices and climbed into the trap.
"We appreciate the time and the name," said Arthur, bending down and shaking his hand. "You won't get into any trouble about it, will you?"
"God bless you, Arthur, we could call her The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and Decker wouldn't notice as long as it was spelt right. Well, good day to you. Miss Godley, I'm a single man. If in twenty years you haven't found a husband, might I be permitted to speak to your father?"
Frances leaned out of the trap, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
"Well, my sainted aunt!" she heard him say as they drove away.
"Is that a special engine, the Frances Godley?" said Frances as they began to climb the hills out of Ramsden.
"Yes, in a way," said Arthur thoughtfully. "She's the last of a pioneer group. Wainwright and I persuaded Mr. Decker to increase the boiler pressure on several of that class. The idea is that it would reduce coal consumption."
"Why?"
Arthur laughed.
"If I'm your tutor for many more years, I'll tell you," he said. "It's rather complicated."
"Did it work?"
"Well, yes it did. But maintenance costs also went up."
"So you were wrong."
"We were right and wrong, and Mr. Decker was right and wrong. One thing I've learned in life, Frances, is that people are rarely all right or all wrong. So often the answer seems to be, 'it all depends'. Come on, sit on my knee and you can drive if you like."
The trap spun past the gates of Hawthorns and up the long drive. Suddenly Arthur took the reins from Frances and slowed the horse to a walk. He looked around him as if baffled.
"What's the matter?" said Frances.
"It seems very quiet, doesn't it?" said Arthur. "There was no one at the gate lodge house. And I've not seen a soul since we passed it. Wait, there's a crowd outside the front door. Something's wrong. Come on, girl." And he flicked the reins.
As they drew up to the front door Frances could see that most of the servants were there. What could be the matter? A lump started to grow in her tummy. Then Mrs. Bamford saw them, broke away from the group and ran up to them.
"Oh, Miss Frances, Miss Frances!"
"What on earth is it?" said Arthur sharply.
"What's wrong?" said Frances fearfully, starting to cry.
"Oh, it's your mother, Miss Frances. She fell down the stairs after you'd gone. She died in my arms. Oh, Miss Frances, what's to become of us?"
*
"You must wear your new black, Miss Frances, it's bought and it's made up and you tore your best and your father will be very angry if you don't wear it," said Mrs. Bamford soothingly.
"I won't, I won't, it's hateful and horrible. And I want to walk down past the stream to the railway, and if I get it all muddy, which I shall, Father will beat me as usual."
"If your father did beat you instead of giving you those love-taps we'd all be better off. You and your supposed beatings! And there's no going down to the railway today, young lady. Your father wants to visit the church and see the grave again, and you're to go with him, and Mr. Jamieson too."
"Oh, bother it!" said Frances unpleasantly; but she submitted to being helped into her mourning.
The carriage was waiting outside. Arthur was already sitting in the back seat, and Jack had the reins, but there was no sign of her father. Frances slipped into the front seat facing Arthur.
"Why does Father want to visit the grave again?"
Arthur shrugged. "People like to do these things," he said. "I can understand it."
"Why are you coming?"
"I don't know. Your father asked me to come."
"You look nice in black, Arthur. I don't. I look ridiculous."
There was a pause. Then Frances said:
"My mother's death upset you a lot, didn't it?"
"I don't care for death – I don't handle it well," said Arthur, looking away to the house. "It reminds me of how close I came to it myself when that little boiler blew up at Calder Beck."
"You've never talked about that before."
"No, well it's best left unsaid, probably."
The horses shook their heads impatiently in the warm August sunshine.
"What happened?" ventured Frances after a while.
Arthur was still gazing at the house, but then he turned his head and looked straight at Frances.
"This is what happened," he said in clipped tones. "Wainwright Bottomley and I had been pestering Charles Decker for months to increase the pressure on the Class D locomotives. Eventually Decker agreed to our making a working model. Wainwright and I worked with some of the apprentices on the mechanics of it, and Decker oversaw the construction of the boiler."
He stopped and looked away over the valley, at the cattle grazing peacefully in the fields, and at the rooks in the trees complaining to one another as they always did. Calder Beck seemed to Frances to be a long, long way away.
"He didn't bother to visit the boiler shop to see what they were doing. So naturally they made him a 150 psi boiler. We intended running the model at 200 psi, and so we pressure-tested it to 300 psi. Nothing that high had ever been attempted before. And we were using a 150-pound boiler."
"What's psi?" said Frances in a low voice.
"Pounds per square inch. I was standing about twelve feet away when the plate gave way and flew off. It was like a horse kicked me in the side – I couldn't understand what had happened for a moment. The noise was incredible. Little Tommy Hicks was burned from head to foot. Luckily he died very soon after – our bodies don't recover from burns well. He was a clever apprentice. It was a waste, a terrible waste."
There didn't seem anything to say when Arthur had finished. There was a long silence, and then Mr. Godley came out of the house.
"Good morning, Jamieson. Good morning, Frances – how nice you look." Frances pulled a face. "All right, Jack, let's go on."
The little church was less than a mile from Hawthorns. The graveyard was warm and still in the summer sunshine. They left the carriage outside the lych-gate and walked in silence to the grave. There was the quiet buzz of insects, and a blackbird sang from the low bushes by the wall.
Mr. Godley stood in silence a moment before the grave, and Frances read the headstone again:
In Loving Memory
of
Caroline Witherstone Godley
Born August 25, 1819
Died July 1, 1872
A dutiful Wife and affectionate Mother
"She is not dead, but sleepeth"
"Frances, you will want to pray a little."
"I already did, Father."
"Very well, then you may walk around the graveyard."
This was the church the family attended every Sunday, so it was familiar to Frances. She wandered over to the ivy-covered wall, climbed it with some difficulty because of her mourning, and sat on the top. Through the low bushes she could see her father and Arthur. They were talking animatedly. Then her father reached into his coat and pulled out some papers wrapped in a ribbon. These he gave to Arthur, who appeared not to know what to do with them. Her father walked away a little distance, stopped and turned, and then walked on to the carriage. Arthur stood for a moment alone with the papers in his hand. Then he put them inside his coat and knelt down. He appeared to pray for a few minutes. Then he covered his face with his hands. He remained like this for a long time. Frances watched intently. Then he stood up and walked towards the lych-gate; and after a short time Frances jumped down from the wall, walked along the path, through the lych-gate and up to the carriage.
"All right, Jack," said her father; and the carriage moved slowly down the little road.
"She has no mother to speak for her," said Lady Beatrice, "so I'll do it for her. The idea of her attending the Kensington school was raised years ago, before I married Sir James. For reasons best known to you, you decided to get her a tutor. I think that's worked very well" – she nodded at Arthur – "but Frances will be a young lady soon, and Mr. Jamieson would surely not claim to be able to teach her the higher feminine graces. I say Kensington for a couple of years, and then Boulogne or Geneva to be finished."
"H'mm," said Mr. Godley, as the soup plates were cleared away. "What do you say, Jamieson?" Frances reflected on the change in her father since her mother's death. In the old days Beatrice's remarks would have been enough to get him well and truly annoyed. But he had mellowed considerably, and not for the first time Frances wondered why.
"I'd be tempted to obtain a governess for her who can do more than just get by in Latin and French like I do," said Arthur. "I know that's important to you, Godley. And it addresses some of the points that Lady Beatrice has made, with which I agree. After that, I've got rather a revolutionary proposal. I think she should go to university."
"Monstrous," said Lady Beatrice. "Women don't go to university. Any normal woman wouldn't even want to."
"Bit advanced, isn't it?" said Sir James.
"Furthermore, I think she should read science."
"Now, Jamieson, be reasonable," said Mr. Godley. "I know she's learned a great deal from you in that area – physics, chemistry, some biology, I think. And mathematics – I'm a great believer in mathematics. But what's she going to do with all this learning?"
"Men don't like marrying women with brains, Jamieson," said Sir James, apparently without thinking.
Lady Beatrice coughed discreetly.
"Well, I may not be the most diplomatic husband in the world," said Sir James. "But I didn't marry you for your brains, my dear. I married you for those – those feminine whats-its you were talking about a minute ago."
"And because I'm beautiful and a talented horsewoman."
"Well, that too, yes."
"Of course, Hastings married Lady Anne for her brains, he always says," pointed out Mr. Godley.
"I trust we are not using Anne as some sort of model for Frances," said Lady Beatrice sweetly.
"And anyway, look at Anne today," said Sir James. "Two little children, and what use are her brains to her now?"
The subsequent silence was broken by a clear voice saying:
"Well, I appreciate all your concerns about my future welfare. The choice seems to be between becoming a bluestocking or a virtuous but empty-headed wife of an MP like my sister. Happily, I've already taken steps to secure my career."
Frances took out three letters and laid them on the table.
"I'm going to read to you all."
"Fanny, the dinner plates are here," said Lady Beatrice warningly.
"I'm not hungry. Mrs. Bamford, no plate, please."
"Yes, Miss Frances."
"Give those letters to me, Frances," said her father in an annoyed voice.
"I'd rather read them, thank you. Here's the first:
Tillotson Hall
Dear Miss Bright-Eyes,
Thank you for your note. It's a highly unusual request, but I've talked to the Chairman of the Board and he can see no reason for refusing you. Mind you, he doesn't care for Decker, so perhaps that explains it. I'll talk to the other Board members too, but I think you'll be accepted. Let me know what happens.
Most sincerely,
Brian Bullingford, J.P.
"And now the next:
Calder Beck
Dear Miss Godley,
I have looked over the terms and conditions in the Articles of Indenture and see no reference to the fact that applicants must be boys. However, I don't know I can encourage you to pursue this step, as the prejudice against you is likely to be considerable. And we'd have to do something about the facilities in the Works. That being said, I should be delighted to see you here, as we still have no oval wheels. I suggest you apply.
Best wishes,
Yours sincerely,
Wainwright Bottomley
Works Manager
North of England Union Railway"
"Frances, hand those letters to me this minute," said her father in anger.
"What's all this about oval wheels?" asked Sir James in bewilderment.
"Wait, wait, wait!" said Frances, springing out of her chair and dancing around the table as her father made a grab for her. "Here's the last one:
Calder Beck
To: Master Francis Godley
Sir:
I am instructed by Charles Decker, Locomotive Superintendent, to inform you that, your application being received and your references being approved, you are hereby bound over as Apprentice effective 1st September, 1878.
Yours faithfully,
Byron Garside
Secretary to the Locomotive Superintendent
North of England Union Railway
Enclosure: Articles of Indenture"
Her father subsided into his dining chair.
"It isn't legal," he said. "You're not of age; you must have forged my signature."
"I don't think we want any talk of forged signatures in a banking family," said Frances pointedly.
"Mr. Jamieson, this is your influence and your fault," said Lady Beatrice.