Chapter 9

Alexander gazed out over the grey, choppy waters of the Gulf of Bothnia, breathing in the sharp air. The coast here was low-lying, a lacework of waterways and islands, dark fir trees growing right to the water’s edge. Dotted among them were wooden houses and churches, the smoke from their stoves hanging over the trees like a blanket.

After three frantic months of travelling the countries of the Baltic, always keeping on the move, he had wintered in Uppsala, north of Stockholm. Constant ferry journeys, cheap hotels and touting for business had left him jaded and it had been a relief to see the winter draw in and the lakes freeze over. The eastern Swedish ports had become ice-bound and the steamers marooned, the flotilla of foreign ships slipping away.

He had taken rooms close to the lofty-spired cathedral, among Uppsala’s students, and hibernated. The furthest he went each day was to cross one of the five bridges over the icy Fyrisa River to spend the short afternoon in the public reading room, flicking through the foreign newspapers. In the evening he would keep warm in a cafe, drinking arrack and eating a smorgasbord of herring and relishes, discussing literature and art with students. They argued about politics and whether Sweden should break away from Norway; they talked of workers’ rights.

Alexander was impressed with conditions he found in the mining towns of Sweden. He had stayed with Baron Tamm in the forests of Osterby and been taken to view the mines and iron works of Uppland. Close to the baron’s mansion and parks was a purpose-built town of streets and canals radiating out from a central square. The workers’ dwellings were rows of one-storey houses, each with a garden, byre and stable, with plots of cultivated land behind.

‘Every family has at least one cow,’ the baron told him proudly. ‘Everyone should be able to feed their children.’

Alexander had nodded, reminded of dim childhood memories of Jarrow, a town of shipbuilding and iron works. How closely the baron’s words echoed those of his beloved cousin Edward, the local rector. He remembered the damp and filth of the houses they had visited. He would cling to his cousin in fright on entering the dark cottages with the stench of excrement from the open middens making him gag. He could not remember anything growing in Jarrow, let alone gardens and smallholdings for the workers.

How Edward would have wept to see the comparative paradise of these Swedish labourers. All he had been able to give the people of Jarrow was cocoa in the cold of dawn and the comfort of companionship and sharing their plight. Alexander felt angry every time he thought of Jarrow -the town that had stolen his cousin’s health and so robbed him of a loving family home. Not that Jeremiah had been unkind. But he was widowed and childless and had taken on Alexander as a commercial transaction as much as an act of charity. He was helping out his powerful employer at Ravensworth and training up a ‘son’ to carry on his business.

But Alexander was practised at banishing unhappy memories and had soon put thoughts of Jarrow from his mind. Instead he had enjoyed his stay with the baron and his family, especially the company of their daughter, Anna, who was lively and keen to practise her English. Alexander had spent a month hunting elk and shooting duck with the baron, and falling in love with fair-haired Anna.

Then letters had begun to arrive from Jeremiah, ordering him back to England, and Alexander had disappeared to Stockholm. There he had sent a message from the telegraph office of the Grand Hotel that he was ice-bound for the rest of the winter. He followed it up with a longer letter telling how he had secured a lucrative contract with Baron Tamm. The Swedish iron magnate needed a plentiful supply of British coal. While here he would seek out a ready supply of cheap timber for their North-East pits.

Alexander slipped north to Uppsala. But his money was spent (Jeremiah had stopped his allowance until his return) and he could no longer barter for food in the cafes with his sketches, or cover his rent by giving drawing lessons to students. Besides, spring was stirring in the deep black forests and the groaning sound of ice cracking broke the quiet.

Now here he was in the port of Gefle watching the newly arrived ships queuing at the quayside to load with timber. This rapidly growing manufacturing town, with its large shipbuilding wharfs, reminded him of Newcastle. Like Newcastle, the whole of the quarter on the north bank had been destroyed by fire a generation ago and its quayside was now laid out with broad streets and solid buildings lapped by the dirty waters of a bustling harbour.

Alexander felt a sudden rush of desire to be home. He wanted to smell the oily, fishy mouth of the Tyne, to step on the crowded quayside and hear the harsh cries of the brightly skirted fishwives. He thirsted for the taste of dark beer in the snug of a Newcastle pub, and yearned to ride out on the dun-coloured moors as the snows melted and the rivers roared with spring torrents.

He thought longingly of Ravensworth and the final ride he had taken with Polly De Winton. He’d hardly thought of the squire’s daughter in months, but he recalled how nimbly she had mounted her horse and ridden for hours without tiring. He would pay her a call on his return.

Ravensworth! He conjured up the bare trees sticky with new buds and the carpets of daffodils dancing in the March wind. Lady Ravensworth would be pleased to see him and demand to be told of his adventures. He would bask in her interest like the welcome spring sunshine.

Two days later, Alexander took the train back to Stockholm and then the long trail to Gothenburg in the west. He was too impatient to wait for the steamer that would edge its way across the massive central lakes, but all he could afford was third class on the local goods trains (which his worn copy of Baedeker warned him to avoid). The journey seemed endless as they rattled over viaducts spanning foaming waterfalls, constantly lurching to a stop at small villages and weaving towns.

For once he did not want to linger in the pleasant, elegant city of Gothenburg with its canals and wide avenues. He had no money for the harbour restaurants, and the pleasure gardens and open-air swimming baths were still firmly closed.

Alexander went straight to the Stora Bommens Hamn where the large sea-going steamers moored, and booked a passage home. He telegraphed his father, who grumblingly pledged to cover his fare. Five days later, after a stormy crossing that left him sick and cabin-bound, Alexander stepped shakily but thankfully back on to Newcastle’s quayside.