Authors: Tania Anne Crosse
As Mr Mayhew had said, they had been blasting that morning. It was the quarryman’s work to drill deep holes into the granite’s natural faults by hammering in a boring rod to the required depth. It took days of tedious, gruelling labour to drill one hole, three or four men working as a team. Then men with the required skill – and Arthur Southcott was one of them – would carefully charge the holes with gunpowder, using just sufficient explosive to move the block away from the quarry surface. The detached block of stone, or bench as it was called, would then be lowered by crane on to a waiting truck, and this was what Barney was needed for now.
Arthur had been a quarryman at Foggintor all his life, and so Ling had observed the workings in the quarry – naturally at a safe distance – since she was a child. It could be hot, dusty toil on a day such as this, especially when they had been blasting. Today, though, Ling knew the dust would have settled by now after the earlier explosion and the area declared safe. And so she hobbled to the quarry floor to watch.
Barney and his father were preparing to lower the stone bench. The gigantic quarry was for ever changing as stone was removed, but the overwhelming impression remained the same. The towering rock faces gave the appearance of having been deliberately hewn into monumental squares, when in fact it was Mother Nature who had provided the cracks in this densest of stone that were so useful to the humans who harvested it. The granite was cut away in colossal steps so that the workmen could get from the soaring height of the quarry to its floor, or vice versa, by a series of ladders propped against the vertical surfaces and resting on wide ridges. The sight of it always reminded Ling of the wooden building bricks she used in school to teach the youngest children to count, multiply and divide. Except that these massive bricks could be fatal since the ladders were never fixed and the idea of safety ropes was scorned by the men. They were proud of their skills and would not have used any security aids even if they had existed. Indeed, there was Ling’s father shinning up the rock face like an ant!
She watched as he joined his friend and fellow-labourer, Ambrose Tippet, and Ambrose’s son, the quiet and gentle Sam, who, like Barney, had almost completed his apprenticeship. Sam held the boring rod, giving it a quarter turn between each blow of the sledgehammers that were being administered alternately by his own father and Arthur. It always seemed to Ling perilous in the extreme to be holding the rod. The massive hammers only needed to slip or miss their mark, and she could envisage some horrific accident. But Ling had learnt to trust their skill. Indeed, her father was considered the most senior among the experienced powder monkeys, the name given to those who dealt with the explosives. He was intelligent and had quickly latched on to the reading and writing Ling had taught him, always eager to know what she was studying in the books Mr Norrish lent her. Born in different circumstances, she could have imagined him as a successful businessman, or whatever a man of class and education could achieve.
Oh, what
was
the matter with her? Ever since she had met Elliott Franfield she’d felt ill at ease with her own world. But . . . it was stupid. And selfish. Barney worked hard. Prided himself on his strength and the skill he had acquired. He was dependable, his joking reserved for his leisure hours. And Ling
loved
him.
Now he was perched on one of the giant steps in the side of the quarry. Several metal hooks called dogs had been driven into the sides of the granite bench and were attached to chains suspended from the crane. Barney and his father were carefully watching the stone and using hand signals to direct the crane operator. From where she was sitting, Ling could just make out the bench beginning to lift.
Quite what happened, she didn’t see, but Barney was suddenly thrown sideways. For one sickening moment, Ling’s heart stood still. Her face drained of its colour as, in that split second, Barney managed to twist himself away from the sheer drop and instead fell against the rock face behind him, his cry echoing about the quarry walls. Ling found herself scudding across the quarry floor, heedless of her ankle as she neatly dodged the tramway rails and scattered stones. By the time she reached the base of the rock face on which Barney and Mr Mayhew had been working, other labourers, her father among them, were scrambling up or down the patchwork of ladders to reach them.
‘He’s all right!’ someone shouted, and a murmur of relief rippled through the quarrymen who had congregated by Ling’s side.
They began moving away, leaving her trembling on the spot. Barney was all right. Well, perhaps he was, but it had only been his own quick reaction that had prevented him from being flung to certain death. Oh, dear God, it had been
that
close, and her insides clenched into a tight knot at what might have been. She just couldn’t bear the thought of what her life without Barney would be: his sense of fun that matched her own, his smiling face flushed with pride that she was
his
girl. Oh, how could she ever have let her heart wander elsewhere, to something that would never be?
And actually, she realized with horror, Barney wasn’t all right at all. Her spirit plummeted as she could see now that his father was helping him to climb slowly down the long wooden ladders. His left arm was cradled across his chest so he only had one hand to hold on with, which was why he was moving so cautiously. Every second seemed an eternity as Ling hovered by the bottom ladder so that she was there, ready to comfort and care for the boy she loved, the instant his feet came to rest on solid ground.
His young, usually boisterous face was grey and stiff, his brow dotted with pearls of cold sweat. Ling knew by his silence that he was in agony as he would normally shrug off quite a severe knock with a manful laugh. In the warmth of the late-summer sunshine, the men had been working with their sleeves rolled up above their elbows, and Ling had to stifle her horrified cry as her gaze rested on Barney’s forearm. It was already livid and badly misshapen, and a sharp edge was trying to protrude up through the skin. It didn’t need an expert to know that the bone was broken.
‘Send for the doctor,’ Mr Mayhew growled.
‘I’ll go.’ And, within seconds, Sam had dashed across to the quarry entrance and disappeared.
It flashed across Ling’s brain that a physician could mean Elliott Franfield, and she angrily pushed the thought aside. A few minutes ago, her conscience had made a promise that she would forget the young medical student for ever, and here she was, already thinking about him when poor Barney,
her
Barney, was in physical torment. The doctor in question would be the prison surgeon who also treated, when required, the local population. The jail was so much nearer than Tavistock, and, anyway, Ling had no idea where Elliott lived. Besides which, this was clearly no simple break and would need the skills of an experienced doctor.
Ashamed of herself, Ling put her arm about Barney’s shoulders. She could feel he was shivering from pain and shock, and the smile he tried to offer her ended in a grimace.
‘What . . . what happened?’ she mumbled, though what did it really matter
how
her dear Barney had been injured?
‘’Twould seem one of the dogs slipped out,’ Arthur answered as he came towards them, having stopped to investigate the cause of the accident. ‘With the strain already on the chains, it must’ve swung out with some force and hit the poor lad afore he knew it.’
Ling caught the accusing look her father cast at Mr Mayhew. As the experienced quarryman in charge of an apprentice – even if Barney was his own son and had less than a year to go before he was qualified – it was his responsibility to ensure the dogs were all properly hammered into the stone before it was lifted. But then it wouldn’t be the first time that Arthur had complained that Barney’s father wasn’t as thorough as he should be.
‘We’d best get you home, lad,’ Arthur said with firm compassion, taking command since Mr Mayhew seemed too aghast to organize what was needed. ‘Then Ambrose and I’ll fetch that bench down. We won’t mind working on a while, and the cutters’ll want it ready for Monday morning.’
Barney glanced up, his features strained and rigid as he nodded briefly. As Ling well knew, they were all of them, quarrymen and masons alike, paid on the end product. If there was a delay caused by an accident, everyone would understand, but if anyone could make up the lost time they would do so.
‘Take your time, son,’ Mr Mayhew said as he and Arthur helped Barney across the uneven floor of the quarry. Ling’s heart ached with frustration as, for the moment, there was nothing she could do to help. She had heard of people losing their limbs because of broken bones, or fractures as she remembered Elliott had called them as they had chatted on that enchanted afternoon. A break could interfere with the nerves or blood supply, he had explained, or if an operation was needed then there was always the danger of a potentially lethal infection. Ling’s hands were tightened into balls at her sides. This was all her fault. Her retribution for letting her attentions wander, if only fleetingly, elsewhere.
Please, God, forgive me
, she prayed silently,
and don’t take Barney away
.
To Ling’s utter relief, the surgeon was able to put Barney to sleep, reset the two broken bones, since both had been damaged, and encase the arm in a plaster of Paris cast without recourse to surgery. Afterwards, Ling was allowed to sit by Barney’s bedside, holding his other hand and crooning softly to him. His eyes flickered open, he gave what seemed to her a wan but contented smile and then he drifted asleep again.
Ling dropped her head into her hands. Thank God he was all right.
‘Get yersel out from under my feet, Barney Mayhew!’
Barney was only too happy to obey. He had been struggling with a book Ling had given him to read while he couldn’t work, and he was glad of any excuse to abandon it. The sight of his sister wielding a broomstick was all he needed. Since their mother had died many years ago, Eleanor had taken charge of all things domestic, wearing the crown over both their father and Barney himself, and yet, despite her always seeming to be rushed off her feet, chaos reigned perpetually. Apart from his passionate love for Ling, Barney was also looking forward to living in her parents’ orderly household – as he imagined they would for the first few years of their marriage until they could afford somewhere of their own.
He smiled indulgently under Eleanor’s challenging gaze. Reading was all very well when the school day was over and Ling was free to sit at his side, his senses stimulated by the curve of her jawline and her pretty, laughing eyes. But on his own the words seemed to dance up and down on the page, and he was grateful to Eleanor for driving him outside.
The pleasant, early September morning seemed to ease his frustration. Now that the excruciating pain in his arm had completely gone, he longed to be back at work, where his skill and physical strength gave him a feeling of usefulness and pride. But it would be another five weeks or so before he could return to the quarry. What could he possibly do to while away the time, starting with today? Well, he supposed he had two good legs, so he could at least go for a walk. It wasn’t very productive, but, with only one good arm, he couldn’t exactly dig over the vegetable plot!
His legs took him to the tiny chapel at the corner of the square of cottages. During the day, the small building doubled as the school, and, inside, either Mr Norrish or Ling would be teaching the motley band of scholars. He could hear them now, chanting their times tables.
A smile played on his lips at the thought that only the stone walls separated him from his beloved. He breathed in deeply as if he could smell the intoxicating scent of her. At least his accident seemed to have brought them closer again. She had doted on him, and he had supped on each sweet moment, the stranger who had interrupted their relationship seemingly fled from her memory. Barney only had to get back to work and complete his apprenticeship, saving every penny he could. Maybe even next year, he might have enough money to marry her, and everything would be settled.
The idea lifted his spirits, as he walked along the track past Yellowmeade Farm, stepping on the stone slabs or setts from the branch of the original horse-drawn tramway that had preceded the new steam railway. Yellowmeade was farmed by a former quarryman. Like the local miners, all quarry workers and masons grew much of their own food in their gardens, and with livestock all around it was perhaps an easy step to farming, at least on a small scale. Possibly, one day, Barney would retire to a cosy farmstead, and he and Ling would see out their lives in blissful peace.
As he reached the row of humble dwellings known as Red Cottages – renamed as such when their porous walls had been clad in corrugated iron and painted with red lead to keep out the damp – Barney’s pleasant reverie was fragmented into dust. His attention was drawn by the sound of hooves, and, when he saw the distinctive dapple grey horse coming towards him, disdain seethed in his breast.
‘Good morning!’ Elliott brought the mare to a halt and, swinging his leg over the hairy neck, alighted on the uneven track. ‘Barney, isn’t it? Remember me? I’ve come to see Ling. Miss Southcott. Is her ankle better? Oh!’ His animated, gabbling words came to an abrupt end as he took in the sling tied about Barney’s neck. ‘Oh, dear me, what happened to you?’
Oh, yes! I remember you all too well!
Barney growled in his head, but he forced a casual smile to his lips as he shrugged at the young man who was, in his eyes, his rival. ‘An accident at the quarry. Bad break, the prison surgeon said. We always use
him
, you see.’
The last comment was meant to intimate that the Medical Officer at the jail was far superior to any fancy physician from Tavistock, and certainly better than Elliott Franfield. But it totally missed its mark.
‘Oh, you poor fellow.’ The concern in Elliott’s voice was so genuine that Barney’s mouth twitched with remorse. ‘Did he have to reset it? I wish I’d been there. To observe, I mean, not because you were hurt. How does it feel now?’