Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

I took my own camera with me and went to have a look at how the restoration was progressing. The lock was complete, with its new walls and brick arches, and there were a few inches of water in the bottom.

Passing the bottom gates of the lock, I walked along a short stretch of cleared towpath to where they’d started work on Fosseway Wharf. The trees on either side were thick, and the wharf was out of sight of the road. A ‘scrub bashing’ party had been clearing undergrowth from the central area, where the basin itself had been filled in with hardcore and a layer of top soil over the years. On the eastern side, the remains of some brick buildings could be made out, and the sides of the wharf were emerging under the assault of shovels.

The big excavator stood nearby. It had already made headway on the mammoth task of digging into the countless tons of earth and rubble that filled the basin, exposing a muddy bottom churned into deep, oozing ruts. For today the excavator had been lined up ready to dig into the debris on the wharf side. A corner had been chosen close to the remains of the bridge, where there was less solid rubble to shift. In fact, with the weeds and undergrowth removed, the earth looked strangely white, as if it contained more lime than soil.

Andrew had been nominated to drive the excavator and was executing a few practice scoops with the shovel. For a while, I admired his skill in manoeuvring the huge machine, backing and spinning it round, steering it to within inches of the bridge abutments, even when it was loaded with a mountain of dirt and debris.

‘He’s here!’ called somebody from the roadside.

There was a flurry of movement, and everyone gathered to greet the party that got out of the big black car. There were four of them altogether. A driver in a dark suit and white shirt got out and stood by the car. A tall man with watchful eyes cast a sharp look over the waiting crowd. Everyone seemed to get a once-over, including me, but especially the press photographers. He watched vigilantly as the other two men walked towards us. Lindley Simpson strode out confidently, clad in a stylish grey overcoat that toned with his hair, with a red and yellow tie the only splash of colour about him. Staying close at his side, heavy-shouldered and unsmiling, was Leo Parker.

For several minutes, Simpson listened carefully while the chairman pointed out the features of the restored lock to him. The little group posed self-consciously in suitable spots, moved on and re-formed into another pose, allowing me and the other photographers to get our pictures. The artificiality of it depressed me, and I soon decided I’d got enough.

As I was putting the camera away in the car, I heard a sound that sent a tingle of excitement up the back of my neck. It was a sudden, racking cough, deep from the lungs, and it carried clearly across the site. I turned quickly and ran my eye over the figures scattered around the wharf and lock. But the spasm had passed, and I couldn’t identify the cougher.

Lindley Simpson was gesturing with one hand as he stood talking with the chairman of the restoration group. Leo Parker seemed to be questioning Andrew about a detail of the construction. They stood with their heads down, nodding in unison. There were other restoration group members standing in twos and threes, and nearest to me was Simpson’s driver, who was leaning against his car, his gloved hand covering his mouth as if stifling a yawn. I looked around for the tall, watchful man. He was lurking to one side, standing on a mound of soil where he could keep the whole area in view. For a moment, his eyes met mine and something passed between us, cold and suspicious.

And then, in the background, there was another figure I hadn’t noticed before. He stood on the far side of the wharf, just beyond the area where the undergrowth had been cleared. His hair stirred in the breeze, and his pale face was caught by the sun. I waved urgently.

‘Frank!’

The tall man on the mound stared at me, then followed my gaze and saw the new arrival. He took a couple of determined steps towards him, but that was enough to make Frank look terrified and vanish into the trees.

I ran down the towpath and scrambled up on the stones of the bridge pier. But I knew it was useless — Frank was long gone.

‘Who was he?’

I turned to find the tall man had followed me. He was right at my elbow, peering into the trees. ‘Somebody I know. A sort of relative.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘That I don’t know. He seemed to be watching something.’ I looked around the restoration site, where people were throwing us curious glances. ‘Or watching somebody.’

A few minutes later, everyone gathered back into a small crowd to see the excavator start up. Andrew climbed into the cab, while another of the group took charge of the dumper truck and a few others donned hard hats and stood around to direct operations. The aim was to unearth a token section of wharf to symbolise the next phase of the restoration.

It was another staged scene for photographs. One of the pressmen had already left, and I decided that it was time for me to call it a day as well. The trust had their own pocket cameras to record the event for their society newsletter.

As I climbed into the car, I was aware of some excitement among the party on the wharf, but I assumed it was just a minor earth collapse, or the dumper stuck in the mud again. I didn’t wait to see what the latest mishap was, because I wanted to get back to Stowe Pool Lane and phone Sally.

So it wasn’t until I read the front page of the Lichfield Echo on Thursday that I heard about the human remains they’d unearthed at Fosseway Wharf.

Pipehill, Lichfield, Staffordshire. Thursday 23rd Jan. 1800.

To Reuben Wheeldon Esq., Warner Street, Ellesmere, Cheshire.

My dear friend,

You earnestly inquire about the failure of the Works. This failure has happened for want of diligence, and I blame no one but myself for the consequence of having often seen much profusion of expence by an unnecessary consumption of Materials. I beg leave to observe that the longer I live, I every year see more into the reasons why estimates are generally exceeded in the Execution and how impossible it is without repeated proofs from experience to conceive how this can happen in so great a degree.

I think it common Justice that no one ought to suffer for the faults of another. I shall use every means that I can to have the Works efficiently re-established, and no expence attending it shall be charged to the Company. Painful as it is to me to lose the good opinion of my Friends, I would rather receive their Censure for the faults of my head than of my heart.

For my own part, I am harassed beyond endurance and hate the sight of the Post that brings me Letters. I am persuaded that the fault in the distressing affair lies partly at my own door. In my Pride and Zealousness I found it necessary to condemn what they have done as deficient both in honesty and good business. By so doing I have raised a Nest of Hornets about me, and I shall have much difficulty in combating the Prejudices of those who pay heed to their spite.

Now I find myself at odds not only with Mr N., but with Mr P. himself, whose regard it distresses me to lose, but whose bitterness is now turned against me. Outwardly he is all politeness, yet at every turn he seeks to thwart me.

With others of their mind they have set themselves against me. Hate is like a poisonous mineral, which eats into the heart, and I fear where their spite may lead them. Yet I am determined to persevere in my chosen course. Events leave me in no doubt where the true interests of Honesty and Justice lie, though this business may be the ruin of me.