The Ugly Sister (15 page)

One evening the Canon, having returned from a visit to Bodmin and having taken a late supper, said to me:

‘I wish you were not so bitter, my child.'

‘Bitter?' I was surprised. ‘ Have I been in any way disagreeable to you, because—'

‘No, no, no, no, no. I do not mean it quite that way. You are always willing, lively in your answers to me, companionable in a manner that Freda never was able to be. And you have done wonders in the house and garden. Although I have so much to occupy my mind at present, I am not unaware of the – almost transformation you have wrought. I appreciate that and I appreciate you—'

I lowered my eyes. ‘Thank you.'

‘But always I am aware of a bitterness in your soul. You must be very lonely here.'

‘I have always been lonely,' I said.

‘I have prayed for you. I still do. Your disadvantage sets you apart. Do you miss your sister?'

‘Well, yes I do … though she was not always very kind. Most of all I miss Sally Fetch, who was a maid at Place but who was discharged on my account.'

‘I had hoped – I still do – that your frequent attendances at church, the Christian atmosphere of this household, will turn you more to God and to a view of the eternal verities which would enable you to see your disfigurement in its proper proportion. That is to say in its very
small
proportion. Our body, our face, is but the mortal shell in which flourishes our immortal soul. That you are not as other young women, that you have a cross to bear, does not mean you are any less worthy, less to be admired than they. Indeed your personality, your honesty, your sense of purpose, your
soul
can be the greater, the more worthy, the more honourable for the disadvantage that you have to overcome. In the course of time we shall fade and rot away, and what will be left? All that is noblest in your character for suffering and enduring this misfortune will earn its reward in the life to come. It is often the less abled of human beings who develop the sweetest natures in adversity.'

I thought about this on the way back to the kitchen. Of course I was bitter, bitter to the depths of my soul – if that thing of which my uncle was so fond of speaking was something I really possessed. But my bitterness was twofold and compounded by what had happened last year. Indeed it was because of what had happened last year that it had become insufferable. Over eighteen years I had slowly adjusted to my disfigurement, the increasing knowledge that I could never be as other women, that no man would ever look at me with admiring eyes, this had to be accepted. But Bram's appearance, his good looks and charm, his apparent lust for me, his seduction and then his betrayal …

When I went back into the dining room the Canon had gone, so I followed him up the creaking stairs to his study.

‘Uncle.'

‘Yes?'

‘I please you as a housekeeper and companion, and that is important. But I do not think I have been an apt pupil for your Christian teachings.'

‘Possibly not. But there is time. You are young. Water, they say, weareth away stone.'

I looked at him, and he was smiling. He had a finger in his book, a pipe waiting to be lit.

‘Do you think I am of stone, then?'

‘No. But there are many ways to God. If I can help you, I will.'

‘Thank you.'

‘In all ways, the most essential guide is humility.'

‘That I certainly lack.'

‘Do not confuse humility with resentment.'

‘No … no … Thank you, Uncle.'

As I was about to leave he said: ‘ I have not involved you enough yet in my secular interests. You know of my interest in railways.'

‘You have mentioned it.'

‘The laying of the rail between Bodmin and Wadebridge has been encountering some problems. I do not doubt they will be overcome, but I am going tomorrow to see the situation for myself, and if you would care to accompany me, it might give you a change of scene.'

W
E LEFT
at seven in the trap the Canon used for most of his travelling around the county. It was a very light vehicle, drawn by a piebald pony called Joseph. It was a fine warm day, which was just as well for we had little cover.

We drove almost into Bodmin and then forked right down a narrow lane which presently became no more than a track. The land was moorland, with an occasional cottage, usually in a copse. The ground was level – you could see for miles.

After about half an hour we came into a woodland valley and then saw the line. A group of about forty navvies were at work, most of them constructing a rough stone bridge across a stream. The road was being laid by a team of the men on a slightly raised bed about fifteen feet wide, while another team, not far behind, built the rail track. The sleepers were of granite blocks, about two feet square by a foot thick, and it was a big effort to carry them and set them in place. Where the rails joined, a single granite sleeper six feet wide was used. Most of the men wore sleeveless singlets with brown corduroy breeches and heavy boots. I could see their muscles standing out as they strained to edge the blocks into place. Many of the men looked exhausted with the heat. The rails by contrast looked very light as they were bolted into the chairs.

The Canon was talking earnestly to the foreman, and they went to compare notes at a trestle-table on which was pinned a map. I wondered what practical business my uncle really had here. Was he a dark horse? After his visit to Place he had, I remember, been going on to some meeting in Bodmin the following day, representing his wealthy young cousin Mr Agar-Robartes, who was travelling abroad. But Mr Agar-Robartes was home now, had attended the Admiral's funeral.

There was a workmen's hut on the other side of the stream, and a man came out whom I instantly recognized. He was young, tall, heavy, wore his curly hair parted in the middle. He walked with an easy but clumsy gait as if he was not yet quite accustomed to his own size. He went across to my uncle without seeing me – I was standing by the trap – and they shook hands and engaged in conversation which at least on my uncle's side looked argumentative.

Charles Lane, whom I had last seen at dinner at Place House in company with Mr Isambard Kingdom Brunel. I wished now I had not come.

I patted the pony's nose, which was in a bag. He gave a little tossing snort to make it easier for him to reach his refreshment. I slid further behind the trap where I should be less visible. I smelt the leather and the heat of the pony and the iron of the wheel rim and granite dust, and nearby gorse dropping its flowers in the sun and a touch of salt in the breeze. Then I looked up and saw Charles Lane coming towards me.

There was no getting away. He seemed to flush as he came up.

‘Your uncle told me you were here, Miss Fry. I had no idea you were living at Blisland.'

‘Yes. I have been there nine months, Mr Lane.'

His flush deepened. ‘Er – it's Miss Spry, isn't it? I am sorry for the mistake. There's a Mr Treffry intimately concerned with the railways and projecting a great bridge near Luxulyan – and for a moment I confused the names.'

I did not answer.

He said: ‘I am not accustomed to the – the company of young ladies. My tongue ties up.'

I said: ‘I am not accustomed to the company of young gentlemen.'

‘Oh,' he said. ‘I do not – I do not know that I am a gentleman. Mr Brunel has raised me up, but I began life as a bricklayer.' He looked at his big hands as if about to show me how rough they were.

‘Is Mr Brunel here?'

‘No. Oh, no. He is far too busy. He left me here to superintend – to – to see that his instructions were carried out.' Charles Lane hesitated, his eyes going beyond me. ‘ I do not know how long I shall retain his confidence.'

‘Why? Why is that?'

‘It is a technical point, Miss Spry. This line will be eight miles long when it is completed – that is without the possible extension. Most railway tracks in Cornwall are still drawn by horses, but there is now such development in the power of steam that the adventurers feel this line should be steam operated.'

‘Yes. I follow that.'

‘Well, Miss Spry, there is a division of opinion as to how it should be operated. Mr Brunel insists that we should use the atmospheric method. That – roughly …' He stopped. ‘Am I taking your time? I can't believe you can be interested in such a dull technical matter …'

‘Pray believe that I am,' I said.

He looked at me in embarrassment, then moved his gaze to the middle distance again. ‘Mr Brunel prefers the use of stationary engines at each end of the line – and at least another one halfway – which will propel the wagons by atmospheric pressure. The adventurers prefer the idea of a locomotive – or even two, one at the front and one at the back of a train – propelling the trucks with their own steam power.'

My uncle had now walked across and was stooping down peering at the structure of the new stone bridge.

‘And you – and you,' I said, ‘have taken the side of the adventurers?'

He smiled awkwardly. ‘How did you guess?'

‘I guessed.'

‘Yes, that is the crux of the matter. Mr Brunel does not like his subordinates to disagree with him. He thinks I am here to obey his instructions. And so I am.'

My uncle had straightened up and was looking this way. His visit was coming to an end.

‘What is there against the – what did you call it? atmospheric – way of working this line?'

‘Mr Brunel asserts that it is technically more advanced. He also points to the fact that if this line begins to carry passengers – as it surely will – they would be saved all the noise and smoke and smell of an engine close in front of them: sparks, coal dust, vibration.'

‘You are arguing for him. What have you against that?'

‘I do not think the pipes would sustain the pressure. Of course it does work – it has worked. But I believe there would be frequent breakdowns, that maintenance would become prohibitive in cost.'

‘So what do you suppose will happen?'

‘If the investors stand firm they will have their way. It is their money.'

‘And you?'

‘Mr Brunel pays me.'

‘Ah …' said the Canon, rather breathless as he came up. ‘You have been renewing acquaintance? Lane tells me that you met at Place a few years ago, Emma.'

Conversation was general for a moment or two, then as the Canon moved away to pay the farmer for Joseph's fodder, I said:

‘What does that mean?'

‘What?' Charles Lane turned his absent-minded grey eyes on me with a look that was shy but friendly. ‘Do you mean about the line? Mr Brunel does not brook disobedience. Either I shall be moved to some other project or I shall be dismissed. That, I fear, is more likely.'

‘If that happened, would not the investors here be happy to employ you?'

‘They might. But I'm not anxious to lose contact with Mr Brunel, because he has helped to make me what I have become – little though that may appear in your eyes.'

‘Is my uncle an investor?'

‘He has been at all the meetings I have attended. Though I have no idea whether his involvement is small or large. Most of it, you know, comes from the landed gentry.'

‘Possibly my uncle would be able to influence Mr Brunel.'

Charles Lane smiled wryly. ‘If Mr Brunel forms an opinion it takes an – an explosion to move him. Indeed in the six years I have known him I don't remember one occasion when he has changed his mind as a result of outside influence.'

‘No doubt, then,' I said, ‘ he will influence his investors to install the atmospheric system.'

A flicker went across his face. ‘He may. Yes, he may.'

I detected a steeliness in Mr Lane's tone which suggested that under the rather shambling exterior he had strong opinions of his own.

On the way home I asked my uncle if he had invested money in the building of the line. He was silent for some moments as if I had been guilty of an indelicacy. Then he said:

‘A mite. A widow's mite.'

I thought of the extreme penury in which we lived and hoped he had not ventured too much.

‘It seems there is a difference of opinion between Mr Brunel and Mr Lane as to whether the trains are drawn by moving engines or stationary ones.'

‘I do not think you can have a difference of opinion between one of the supreme engineers of our time and a subordinate. Mr Lane is here to obey orders.'

‘You agree with Mr Brunel, Uncle? I mean on this point?'

‘I am not qualified to judge. Nor, I think, is Mr Lane.'

I was rebuked and said no more and we were nearly home before he spoke again. ‘These Stephenson engines which are coming into use in the north of England are proving a great success. We will have to see. It will be a year yet before the permanent way is complete. A decision will not be taken until then.'

T
AMSIN GAVE
birth to a daughter, who was christened Celestine. Mother returned from London for what I gather was almost a society christening, but I was not invited. However, a few months later my mother wrote me from London after another successful season and said she would be spending Easter at Place and thought I should perhaps ask the Canon if I might take a week off and visit the newly-weds and see my new niece. I put this to Uncle Francis, who said unfortunately Easter was the busiest time of the year for him, and I could hardly be spared, but if the week following would suffice … I said it would suffice: I could travel to Place myself, and my mother could bring me back when she returned to London.

Easter was dull and rainy, but in the week after came brilliant weather with a light northerly breeze: a time to blossom in the sunshine and shiver in the shade. Mixed feelings going home. The weather had changed conveniently so that it seemed as if I were moving to a lighter, brighter scene. Not merely was the contrast in the houses, but in the landscape, the sky, the glimmering water, the softer air.