Chapter 4: Coming-of-Age

CHUCK still my written account

My coming of age, on Pionova, was a long time arriving. That is, my eighteenth birthday. You might have noticed that I emerged from regeneration on the 1^st of March in 505. Regenerated arrivals all had their birthday on the 1^st March. The first March 507, I should have reached the age of eighteen and gained the full rights of an adult. Heh, the Aliens had to poke their noses into my age, didn't THEY?

That date buggered things up for me, well that date and the aliens together, THEM. You see, I was born on the 29^th February 1980. Notice anything about that date? Yep! It's a leap year, the extra day. OK, strictly speaking, I'd only had seven real 'birth ... days' in my life. The other years I'd celebrated on the 28^th.. Can you imagine a kid waiting an extra day to celebrate on the 1st March? No way. As a kid, I'd enjoyed being different and was very possessive of retaining that, the 29^th as my birthday!

I was busy around the end of February/March and worked through my birthday without thinking. A few months later, a weird alien must have looked though my info. and unknowingly deduced I'd not reached the date of the February 29^th. yet so in April, when signing a document, I discovered I was still sixteen. That was a year after my arrival.

My confusion must have got back to the aliens as Craggs in a bizarre manner confirmed that this was so. We finally sorted out officially that my birthdate was on the 29^th February and I'd have a birthday on that day or the day before in non-leap years. But I was still sixteen!

No, it never made sense to me either, but by late 507, I FELT as if I was seventeen and a half, and not yet eighteen!

So for you bright mathematicians out there, who are going to work out that I couldn't cram everything I did into years, I refer you to THEIR Almanac and Calendar Specialist, and leave it up to the two of you to sort it out!

After that most confusing introduction I take up my narration again in late 505, attending interview with my acquaintance, Madame Grenouille.

As was usual, whenever I met the woman who I called my friend, I had hitched my mount at the rear of her premises and opened the gate. I looked forward to my breaks from the hard graft I had. Madame Grenouille was an easy woman with whom to talk.

Did I always call her Madame? Of course. Her almost aristocratic demeanour insisted on it. I'd never dream of calling her by her forename, even if I knew what it was. She was the best friend I had.

In fact, when I came to consider it, she was the only woman I spoke to. The other females I exchanged any words with were the girls undergoing work experience in the local businesses. They took their upbringing very seriously and would indulge in no casual words with a male customer, no matter how innocuous.

I opened the rear yard gate and let myself into the tiny shrubbed courtyard. After waiting some minutes, she acknowledged my rapping on the wooden door and appeared with a tray on which were coffee and cookies. They gave off an aroma that told me they had come out of the oven not many minutes before.

My upbringing forced me to rush to carry it to the table at which she often sat. For the first time, ever, I was aware that, despite her age, this fit, middle-aged woman, was most definitely 'all woman'! Today, she was not wearing her formal and boring uniform of the enormous cotton apron that covered a black ensemble.

I almost said something admiringly about her costume, but was glad I held my tongue. I was frightened any comments might be taken as a censure of her appearance. This was certainly not the case she was entitled to wear what she liked. At this time of day she had no intention of setting foot outside her own premises. Surely, at home she was allowed to dress how she wanted? If I'd not known she was a respectable lady, I'd almost have thought the long dress of very fine material was some form of nightwear.

"You and I," she started, "have things to discuss. I do hope you've left the morning free?"

I smiled, covering up the fact that my plans were now kaput, I'd have to re-arrange my timetable, "Of course."

The response was brief, but I hoped my smile covered up the lie. I was pleased to meet her, she was like a breath of fresh air, intelligent yet light-hearted, like no one else around. Oh, to heck with work! I enjoyed a few minutes careless chatter as we nibbled at the biscuits. In fact, the time flew by and ten was struck on the square's tower before we were both brought to our senses.

To business: "I understand you want a cellar?"

"That's right, not just a cellar! I want a new social club, the fact is, we're very cramped here. We need something three times the size. I've attended most of the Father's meetings and I think that bridge of yours is going to make a huge difference to this place. I'm not sure some people are aware of the effect it's going to have."

So Craggs was right.

"I've heard of the size of which you're thinking. Craggs said it was going to cover the whole of the width of the butcher's plot opposite."

I don't think I quite covered the amazement and disbelief in my tone as she agreed.

"Don't sound so disparaging. I can assure you, it will not be too big for my needs and the requirements of my guests and all my staff."

"At that size, are you sure you really need a cellar as well?"

She became the businesswoman now, "I am sure." She spoke with determination and I realised there was no dissuading her from her projected plans.

In fact, unlike Craggs, she had produced some very workmanlike sketches that I could follow. They were very neat with precise printed block capitals that left no vagaries.

I studied carefully what she wanted, the two-storey building with a third attic level. This comprised of a series of small attic rooms, each with their own dormer window. She had also produced an artist's impression of the building, "I think that wattle and daub looks so much more inviting than clapperboard," she added, making it quite clear the material she wanted for the construction.

I tended to agree with her, but then clapperboard went up so quickly. I agreed, "It's a lot warmer too, given the thickness of the walls." Her projected building was a half-timbered affair with the structural vertical timbers also split up by horizontal wooden dividers and diagonal stress supports. A quick glance showed me that the diagonals were randomly placed having no account for the stresses that they were designed to relieve. I wouldn't even need a calculator to asses where they were to be positioned that they should do most good. I liked the contrast between the whitewashed wattle and daub and the timber protected by a black wood preservative paint. The whole building was covered in the local Reed thatch, another house-building insulating material. Comfort was obviously a prime consideration. I continued to study the details and minutiae of added written points.

I asked myself if she had taken as a model one of the English Sixteenth or Seventeenth Century houses in the Tudor style, a bit like the cottage of Anne Hathaway. What is that, who is she? If you were as fortunate as I was in my pre regenerative life you may have visited Stratford-upon-Avon, and would immediately recognise the house, as being the birthplace of William Shakespeare. Of course her rather grand building was not quite so picturesque or 'chouette' as the French would say.

"Well? You've been looking at that for forty-eight minutes. What are your conclusions? It's a very handsome building is it not?" Madame's comments awoke me from my deliberations. There was an awful lot to consider and I'm not sure whether she would like it.

I took a deep breath, it certainly was an attractive edifice and would enhance the town. Pursing my lips, I began, "You want a cellar and then you want to mount a wattle and daub structure on top of it with the wooden roof supports more than twenty-five feet high. Did you know that they are normally mounted above ground to protect them from damp rot? You want yours at the edges of the building mounted in the cellar so that they will be lying against damp earth." I shook my head very slowly, "A timber framed house standing over such a cellar you want, on this land here, you'd have nothing but problems with it."

Her face fell. "So what are you saying? No cellar or no timber frame?"

"Which do you want, what is more important to you? I can put in a cellar for you or a timber framed house, but not the two together on this plot of land."

"I really wanted a cellar, I didn't think it would be a real problem."

"I assure you, it's quite unsuitable."

"Are you sure? I know they have a cellar at the hotel?"

"Yes, I'm aware of that". I'm not sure when he did, but Craggs told me about that. "I can explain later how they managed to do that, but I know exactly what the ground is like under the surface both here and over the road." There was an outcrop of rock that came almost to the surface within the vicinity of the town square.

She looked as though she wanted to argue the point.

"Who spent a month digging down a couple of metres for the road drains? I can assure you, what you want, it is not possible, just not on."

She wasn't happy that I said no, but there was no beating around the bush. I let her take that in and then set out my proposal, "Now, here's what I suggest..."

She didn't really want to hear my proposition, but was polite enough to be attentive. I think she had spent a lot of time on drawing up her 'perfect' solution. I can see how she had grown to like it more and more, judging by the effort she had put into a painting.

"The construction of the cellar presents quite a problem in itself. Even Craggs wasn't as aware of the enormity of the task. I'll come back later as to how I suggest that is tackled, but before I do, has Craggs mentioned the cost?"

Her face fell as she assented. "He said it up to me whose estimate I accepted. He was going to put in an estimate and he said you were going to put submit one."

Was I? I think I learnt more about Craggs and what he wanted me to do from other people that from him. I found the suggestion mind boggling. Frowning, not quite clear what she had said, I asked her to repeat it.

She started chuckling to herself. "I knew the old codger had something up his sleeve. He said if I accepted this contract or yours, he would give you a hand. Said too, that if I chose him, I would probably see you working here from time to time."

Time to time! He meant form morn 'til night. Shaking my head in wonderment, all I could do was tell her that I was not prepared. "I haven't done a true costing yet myself, but if you really do want a cellar I'll have to increase the estimate quite substantially."

Saying nothing, she just simply raised her eyebrows. She wanted a cellar. She was going to have a cellar!

"I'm going to propose something quite different. You need a solid structure for a three-storey building, very solid, if you're going to use the roof void as living space.

"I'm prepared to do it, but only on condition that you forget your pretty wattle daub, thatched mansion." I could see, by her reaction, that didn't please her, but I went on, "I can design something quite attractive, possibly more 'magnificent' than 'pretty'.

"One thing struck me when I first came here, was the potential fire risk of all the town. The buildings are all in close proximity with one another. So many are constructed of wood and the roofs are either wood or thatch. Wooden roofs can send burning embers across to other the buildings," I paused and pronounced slowly three words 'San Francisco, 1906'. Perhaps I should have thought of a French or German example?

"There's nothing wrong with a thatched roof, but with so many of them in close proximity with another other, it is just asking for trouble, Did you know half of London burnt down in 1666 and thatched roofs were a major cause? These are just two examples. History is riddled with old towns full of flammable building materials burning down with a terrific loss of life. You'd never get me sleeping in one of those dormers you have," I said with genuine feelings.

"In my opinion, it's going to happen as sure as eggs is eggs, unless something is done. The City Fathers just need to set out some more regulations to restrict the construction materials of all new buildings. And they ought to so do something about increasing the distance between the buildings in close proximity to the square. They look quaint but..." I left the rest unsaid.

"But the picture," she indicated her artwork, "isn't that a..."

"I love the style of the house and would most like to live in something like that. It's admirable but NOT in a town surrounded by other wooden, straw and reed houses. I propose brick."

"Brick!"

"Oh, come on, Madame, with a little bit of care, a brick structure can be very attractive. It's less of a fire risk and, for a building such as you want, more structurally sound."

"But brick, I know you used it for the bridge but I heard the Father's complaining that it was an awfully expensive material."

"That's the engineering brick." I smiled, "O K, I'm going to have quite a few thousand bricks of that quality left over" (tens of thousands). I'm no quantity surveyor and perhaps I over estimated what I should need." I snorted wryly, "Perhaps I thought that we would drop a few more into the River Long or perhaps I didn't appreciate that there would be so many skilled, bricklayers who ended up on my teams."

She interrupted, "It's THEM you have to thank for that. You won't go ceasing to be amazed at how they anticipate things. Skilled bricklayers," she said to herself. "Sorry, you were saying..."

" ... or perhaps I was just playing safe and didn't want to run out of materials three quarters of the way through the contract. Anyhow, I've plenty of bricks. I can tell you that I've got more than enough to complete a double-skinned wall for you of engineering bricks right up to above the string course and then we can use some prettier shaded hues for the faces. I've found a large bed of a good clay, you've probably seen them on the walls of the bridge?"

"The cost!"

I sat back in my chair and grinned, "I've just got the brickworks up and running. You've been telling me that businesses are going to take off here. People are going to want buildings like yours. I can afford to let you have those bricks at little more than cost." I did not say they had already been budgeted for in the bridge estimates and anything I sold them for was a hundred per cent profit. "Let the townspeople see what a brick structure can look like. If anyone comes to me and wants a structure other than clapboard and is doubtful about the aesthetic appearance, I'll simply tell them to look at your Social Club.

"I've got a vested interest in making your building as attractive, in its own way, as your pretty picture. You have the advantage that I have spare stock which I want to sell off cheap at whatever the price. I'll give you a figure for a double skinned brick design, compatible with any half-timbered building."

"Double skinned, what does that mean?"

"An outer wall and an inner wall. You referred to the insulation qualities of wattle and daub. In the cement works I'm producing spare clinker. Dropped between the two skins, that will increase the heat retention of the building in the winter and make it cool in the summer."

"I'd like to see your designs."

"Wait a minute, much as I like the aesthetic appearance of thatch, I shall put slate on the roof. The product will be a little more expensive to source than cutting the reeds and preparing them to be laid."

"The fire risk?"

She was reading my mind but I went on, "Have you any idea how long it would take a thatcher to construct the changing angle of the roof and overhang around a dormer window? Let's put it like this, he could complete the rest of the roof in two to three weeks, but you'd be paying him for another two months for all the fiddly bits around each window. Slating would be much faster, fewer labour/hours. That would bring down the final price. It would be cheaper than thatch. Finally, it has double the life or longer than thatch, and would not need replacing for upwards of ninety years as against forty for the reeds. And yes, I am concerned with the fire risk of thatch."

I didn't think that she liked some of my conclusions. "You are perfectly free to choose another builder, I'm sure Craggs would produce the picture you want."

She snorted, "Craggs said he would do nothing that you don't agree with."

I laughed, I could see he did not want this large contract, Give him a log cabin, a timber cottage, a clapboard house, a wooden barn and he knew what to do. Larger structures just were not his forté.

Not pursuing the matter, I decided to get over the difficult stuff and cover all the problems, "Now about the cellar."

"You said you can't do it. Ah, but you will if it's brick?"

I agreed. "When Craggs gave an idea of what was projected, I made some quick calculations. Did you know that digging out to an underground level, using three men, it's going to take over three months just to dig the foundations?"

"What!"

I could tell that she was taking her mind back to pre-regeneration constructions using JCBs or backhoes and thirty or forty tonne trucks and the like. " ... and given that length of time we take and the regular evening rainshowers, the sides will have to be shored up before we even think of constructing the walls. With other delays I'm not sure we would be ready to lay the first course in under four months after breaking sod."

"You really are a pessimist."

"I'm a realist." I didn't say that I was painting the worst-case scenario just as I had with the City Fathers when forced to contract for the construction of the road bridge. But then again, there are always unforeseen problems in tacking engineering tasks." One just hoped that one didn't come across things like a sinkhole, pure rock or shale. Each of those would produce their own real problems and need to be tackled in different ways. Dammit, there could be underground springs, even streams, I had to allow for all eventualities. I just hoped there were no sinkholes around here.

There was a proviso, "One thing I must insist on, if I meet any hard rock, I'm not spending months quarrying down for a cellar. I'll build on the rock foundations. Depending on how far down we are, anything over two feet of rock to excavate and you can't have your cellar. I'm sorry, but it has to be dug out with a pick and shovel. T here's granite under the hotel, and if we strike that strata here, it would take two or three months or even longer just to take it down one foot given the size of your cellar."

Her face fell, her face fell, "Is there not quicker way a of making the hole?

"No, not if it's rock. Madame, I'm trying to prepare you for what might go wrong. I think the strata from the hotel cellar slopes away from you, but you can't always be sure. There can always be a fold in a layer of rock, but I'm no geologist." Did granite have folds in it? I didn't know. I'm sure I should know the answer to that from geography lessons at school. I recall, I'd skipped over stuff like that in the semester I had a broken leg. See, passing an exam doesn't mean you know what you should do. It had not mattered at Stonecrete Construction and Engineering where I'd always relied on the soil experts and geological surveys before digging foundations.

I really had to ease the anxieties of Madame even though I was not keen on quoting for this job, I had to be fair. "I think we'll be OK, but I'm only cautioning you of what might go wrong. It's only right I tell you now.

I could find out by drilling down, but I don't have suitable drills or corers, I'd just be better carrying out the excavation."

I had worried her, "But if you did find granite, can't you loosen it and break it up into pieces with those banging things, like you moved that rock in front of the bridge road?"

I laughed, "Those banging things were explosives, even weak blasts would leave all your neighbours with trembling houses and cracked walls. I don't think you'd be very popular."

"Oh."

"Now we come back to the problem of tackling an enormous excavation, it's going to take some time."

"You are talking about three men digging out the cellar. Surely you can put a couple of dozen on the job at any one time?" I looked up, surprised, and there was Craggs himself.

"I was only working out the number of man-hours by using the example of three. But I can't see it taking much less than three months that's with increasing the number of navvies in the hole."

"He raised his eyes to study my face and his mouth turned into that inimitable knowing smile. "You've got a solution," he muttered, staring at me and silently defying me to deny it,"

"Have you thought of a dragline?" I suggested

"A what?"

"Instead of having men dig out the cellar we could do it in half the time."

He looked to me for an explanation.

Illustrating my idea, I started, "It was when I thought how they would do it in pre-regeneration times..."

Just mentioning that word caused the atmosphere to turn a few degrees colder. Even Madame Grenouille narrowed her eyes as much as to say that what we discussed in private was certainly never to be referred to in public and I was taking liberties by even referring to any previous existence. Such things were left unspoken. I had just committed a faux pas of the worst sort. Anyhow, I recognised, Craggs had no idea of the mechanisation which had been commonplace to me.

Passing on very quickly, I tried to explain what I meant to someone who had never seen a backhoe at work, "I'd design a bucket," I started. I tried to illustrate a mental image in words, "a large, rectangular iron bucket put on its side. It would be dragged along by one of your shire horses. I would design it in such a way that it scraped a few inches of surface soil off. I'd have one horse pull it from one side of your cellar to the other. Then it would be emptied and the waste thrown into a cart. The next pass would scrape another inch off and so on, getting gradually deeper and deeper.

Where you plan on having your new social club, there's plenty of room in the paddock to extend the excavation by providing a gradient for the horse to climb gently to the surface as we get down lower. The horse would, in fact, do the lifting, as well as the digging."

"Why are you going over details like this to me?" queried Madame.

"Because you will be the beneficiary. The process will reduce the cost of your cellar quite considerably."

In the event, Madame Grenouille selected my option. Later, in the absence of Craggs, she confided that I appeared to be the more professional of the two, and for the first time had misgivings about Craggs' expertise, even though he was a friend. I never told her that there was no way Craggs would have taken on the challenge.

So that was how the project started. Craggs left me almost completely alone in designing the draglines. It took quite some time to get the angle and shape of the bucket right and work out how to stop it gouging out more earth on reaching ground level.

As I went steadily deeper, for the three sides, I needed a man just neatening off the sheer walls and to drop the waste muck into the bottom of the pit. The bucket scooped it up next drag.

Watching the process, I made few changes and had a bigger bucket built. This carried four times the amount of spoil and only needed one extra horse. Another spare horse pulled the heavy empty bucket back down to the starting point around a pulley wheel

I soon discovered that too much time was being spent loading the carts and I extended the ramp above ground level – I had plenty of earth for that. This formed a small hump like a loading dock. On the top, Craggs constructed a sturdy extension which enabled the pair of shire horses, pulling the draglines, to part either side of the loading dock and heave the full bucket up on a line between them, right into the cart where it was tipped.

At first we needed three men for the horses, one to attend each horse, but shires are intelligent when they know what to do. Just one man accompanied the youngest shire pulling the left hand chain on the bucket. The 'ostler shouted instructions to the other two beasts. You couldn't do that with machines unless they were electronically operated and radio controlled.

Once things were working there, the bridge was just being finished off. I had to go back and clear up the stockyard, complete loads of paperwork as labourers were returned to their owners and reorganise the cement works and brickworks to operate on a reduced output. Even so, I started to get concerned that the balance in my bank account was reducing at a rapid rate.

I hardly had time to turn around and certainly none to devote to any personal activities, but Craggs was insistent that I get myself ready to move out of his home.

Anticipating my income from the City Fathers, I had no hesitation in signing a contract with Craggs to win fifteen per cent of my fee. I couldn't have managed without him. Strictly speaking, all the time that I had been devoting to the brickworks, the cement works and the bridge, I had been employed by him as his apprentice. He had certainly allowed me a lot of freedom. During this time, I now discovered that I had ended up with both the brickyard and the cement works as my own. Who else could lay claim to them? Subsequently the City fathers made over the few acres of land to me in lieu of some of the monies owed me. Once I tidied up all the loose ends from the bridge contract they were potentially profitable concerns on their own and would be able to rival the sawmill of Craggs as one of the three heavy industries in the region.

Some weeks later the man himself insisted on taking me to my new homestead. I had no idea where it was. We crossed the new bridge (from which I was exempt toll charges for life). We crossed the railroad and branched off on a track veering in a north-westwards direction.

I discovered that my new home was in excess of ten miles out from the Long River. Already I was not feeling too happy. That was an understatement.

It was originally a pioneer's homestead, and that is what it was described as on the deeds. It was in a small valley, to one side of a stream that flowed down from north of Deerpark Scarp. This was the stream that, when it flowed into the Long River, provided a spectacular waterfall. The cascade emptied its flow from just below the lip throwing its outpouring some distance into the gorge. It was situated some miles above the rail bridge so I'd never before seen the remarkable sight.

Back to what was now my own mind, the first thing that struck me with the homestead was that it was so far out of town. My mentor poo-pooed my grumble, "We trotted here from town and it's taken under an hour. That horse you've got between your legs would manage a canter most of way here. Making the trip every day, you would be getting down the time to about thirty minutes. Isn't that worth it for the peace and quiet amongst this impressive scenery?"

I can't say I disagreed with him, but I didn't want to admit it. "Canter?" I queried.

"It's the gait of the horse, faster than a trot, but not galloping. Some call it a lope. I'm surprised an educated man like you was not conversant with horses and horsemanship when you got here?"

I almost told him about horseless carriages, one hundred mile an hour cars, four hundred mile an hour aeroplanes, mach1 Concorde and mach2. I kept my mouth shut. Even so, I still felt very strongly that the place was too far out for a home and said as much.

"You don't want to be in the town..." This was coming from a man, who in his last life, had been brought up in a rural environment where half a dozen households was a town. And here, he's lived years on his own and moved into Hartglade when there were not more than a trading post, and a few dozen log cabins.

I cut him off, "It's bad enough putting on another forty minutes each morning to get to where I have to be, but living on my own, I shall need to go to the stores every day for food."

In 2003, living on my own, I had found it pretty exhausting. I used to shop at all night stores, buy ready-to-eat meals and send out for pizzas and other takeaways. By contrast, here, there were no fridges, most of the food was easily perishable and needed to be purchased fresh daily. I argued, "And if I've not got the energy to go to the shops every night, I'm not right next to the boarding house with its eating room or the hotel as we are here, in town." I was quite vociferous in my protest.