Richard Foley and the River Stour by Peter Hodges

"Why do you not rid yourself of this river?"
The man was on the opposite bank staring into the idle muddy waters. "You have the means," he said. "It floods. It is spoiled so why be troubled with it?"
I wasn't sure about the question. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure of very much then. Except the can of beer in my hand, my usual tipple, Banks Bitter, and it was cool and comforting. I said, "You know the river well."
"Of course," came the reply. "You know that I do, John." Beneath the trees his face was dark. Yet the face was not unfamiliar to me, I had seen it many times. So many that it seemed in some strange way, connected to me. He was a figure from the past. Or so I think. I cannot even now be sure. Strange yet not a stranger. I wonder if I might have imagined… but no, he was there, clear as day, and it was a bright Summer's day. A figure on the opposite bank, short and broad, but powerful, shoulders that stretched the leather jerkin he wore, breeches tight across the thighs, boots that buckled up to the knees. A figure that, for all it was archaic, could have been part of my mind rather than there on the banks of the River Stour in Staffordshire. Was it real? Was I really imagining or dreaming?
"D'yer hear me, John," he called out.
"Yes, of course…" My fidgeting fingers set the condensation running down the can of beer. A balmy afternoon, and I was strolling through the Hyde along the canal towpath at Kinver where the two - river and canal - wind the valley together. Suddenly he was there talking to me as if we had spoken only yesterday or the week before, or an hour past.
"Well, why don't you?" he said.
"Do what?"
"I speak of the river, John. Did you not hear me? I said why don't you be rid of it. What purpose does it serve? You can do most else it seems. Everything once dreamed of in my day you seem to have mastered well enough. What is that you are drinking?"
"Beer," I said.
"Even beer in your hand."
He looked down again at the muddy waters between us. He seemed fixated there. Silvery long hair fell across his face, straggled over his collar. "Do you remember my name?" he asked.
"Why shouldn't I?" I replied.
"Indulge me, John. I like to hear my name."
"Richard Foley," I said.
"That is good. Very good. Richard Foley, Ironmaster of these parts during the reign of the Jacobean. Not that I'm a Royalist you understand. Not a particular one like those who came after. I sold my goods to whomsoever had the means to pay. Here, on this river, I made my money. Here I was master of iron. This was my place." At this he suddenly launched himself over the river in one great bound, splashing down just beneath me to scramble up the bank, scattering earth and stones, to arrive red-faced and glorious, right in front of me.
I jumped back. "You shouldn't have done that. The river's been deepened since your day. You could have been drowned."
"Hah…" he shot back. "Drowned. Not in my river. Here was where I came upon my future, not my end. This river. This valley. This place." He turned and spread his arms wide as if to embrace all before him. But his arms sank. "And to see it now. Wilderness. A waste. The river serves no purpose now. It floods. I know, I have seen it in spate. It is unmanaged. The banks fail. You should be rid of it, I say."
We both gazed at it, slow moving and gentle. I said. "Tell me why we should be rid of it?"
"Because you have the means. You are the masters now. Remind me, what is the year?"
"What year?"
"Now, now… in God's name, remind me, what is the century you live in?"
"The twenty-first."
"In less than four hundred years this place is become Wilderness. Where once it prospered, roared with the noise of iron, furnaces raged, rush of water. Good water that powered my great slitting mill. Cutting iron to make nails to build houses and ships. Here, on this river. Before the canal, before your roads and… what is it you call those carriages that speed along your roads?"
"Cars," I replied.
"Before all of that was my mill. And now…" his voice drifted. "Now there is nothing."
"Oh but there is," I said.
"What, trees and weed? Tumble of walls and broken weirs?"
"There is wildlife."
He stared at me. "Wildlife? What is wildlife?"
"Animals, flowers, that sort of thing. Fish in the river. Frogs. All that sort of thing."
"That sort of thing." He snorted. "Really John, this talk of wilderness. What value is there in that? Flowers grow in gardens. Animals in farms. And frogs…" he was shaking his head. "But power… that is what this river made. I built gates and weirs to make power for my mill. To let boats bring the iron and coal. Carry away my goods. This river added value. Now it is nothing. You should fill your cars with it and carry it away to the sea."
I smiled to myself. "How many times have you returned to see it?"
At this he thought a moment. "I have lost count."
I too had lost count. How many times had I met with this figure from the past? Yes, I wondered too. "You saw it at its best," I said.
"It was best when I was master here."
"What of those who followed?"
"No one did."
"Oh come on…"
"No one, I say."
"Dud Dudley. Abraham Darby. What of those?"
"Hah… he of the iron bridge. One bridge? Tell me what value is that? As for the charlatan Dudley, what of him?"
At this I grew bolder, the little research I had done since we last talked made me so. "Dud Dudley said you never existed. That you were a fiction put about by later Foleys, and that it was many men working in this valley."
"Hah. And what else did the rascal say?"
"He called you Fiddler Foley."
"Fiddler! Aye, I mastered the fiddle. I played many a pretty tune. Men danced to me. Many men with need of a Master. I, Richard Foley of this place, was that Master, and let no one speak the contrary."
We were interrupted by two cyclists coming along the towpath, two girls, and on seeing me they stopped.
"Hi, John," said the first. "You enjoying the weather too? Meet my friend Sally."
"Hello Sally."
"John's writing a book about a fella who used to live down here by the river. What was he?"
"An ironmaster," I said.
We chatted for a while. As we did so he was studying them. They were, it seemed, unaware of him. And very close, close enough for him to study them in their skimpy tops and short shorts. But they were quite unaware. As if he were not there.
As he watched them cycle off he said, "You let your women display themselves on machines like that. Confident and proud for all the world to see. But the power they possess." He turned to me again. "You as well, John. You possess this power. You too have young health and well-being. How old are you? Five and twenty? With prospects, no doubt? One who writes did I hear?"
I shrugged and didn't answer not wishing to disillusion him: I was nearer twice that age and out of work.
"Prospects, John. Like the giants of those times. I have met all the men of substance and prospects. Watt, the man of steam. The builder of this canal, James Brindley. Now there was a man of prospects, a fellow who could see the future. What genius he had. Who would have thought possible the building of a road… yes, a road of water to carry goods the length and breadth of the land. What genius. And those who came later… that fellow Stevenson. Later still, Brunell. I met them all, John."
I let him talk on. I did not want this to end. It was as if I had been put here to meet this man and, real or imaginary, made no difference. He was talking of the most famous and now he was talking to me. Yet did he see me as a man of prospects? Of substance? One who knew this place, this river? An ordinary fellow without work, no giant or genius. I reached into the bag and brought out the last two cans of the four-pack.
"Would you care for a beer?" I said.
"Now that is civil of you, John. Beer, you say?"
I cracked open the can for him.
"Hmmm…" there came a licking of lips. "It is good, if sharp." He raised the can higher. "Sharp on the tongue but good."
"Here's to prospects," I said.
"And to genius."
I tried to imagine the place as he knew it. The noise and smoke, the turmoil of industry as men wrestled iron to create wealth. How different now. Not to me but to him. Richard Foley, ironmaster, born 1580, died 1657, standing next to me and drinking my beer. He drained the can and tossed it into the river.
"You shouldn't do that," I said. "There are receptacles for rubbish."
"What better receptacle than a river of no worth," he answered. "Come, John, I will show you the river as it was. "Come, follow me," and much to my dismay, he was down the bank again and in another great leap had returned to the other side.
"I can't do that," I called after him.
"Why? Are you afraid of the river?"
"I will cross at the bridge."
It was only a hundred yards. I broke into a run to return along the opposite bank pushing through brambles and low branches. He was waiting, hands thrust onto hips, and grinning. "You should get one of your cars, John." I hadn't the chance to explain the difficulties associated with cars and fields and river banks because he had grabbed my arm and was running. Together we flew along the bank. Branches snatched at me. I see it now… so clearly… then suddenly I'm falling… the ground flying by my face. My mouth opens to shout but nothing comes. Noise fills my head. I hear a wild clamour all around me. Then I'm standing. And he is with me, leading me further, the noise is intense. Now I see the river, angry, writhing, and we're approaching a huge turning wheel. I pull back in alarm and the grip on my arm slackens.
"My wheel, John. My river. See, harnessed to my wheel. The river is tamed."
But I was too bewildered to speak. The noise was not of water or the wheel, which was angry enough, but what went on behind. The shriek of tearing red hot metal. A plate of it, feet wide, was driven between a rolling cutter that sliced through it like butter to send strips of it clattering to the floor where half naked men rushed to them gather up. If it were not the din it was the heat that made me turn away. Thankfully we left that place. He said, "You tremble, John. What is there to be afraid of? There shall be no fear where I am Master. No honest man who does his work need have fear of me. Aye, nor woman."
We had reached a track, the noise and heat was behind and I dared to pause and look back. Now I could gauge the site. Through the smoke I could make out the river. At one end was a vast pool held by a dam. From the side of the dam hurtled the water that drove the wheel. At the bottom of the wheel, spent and done with, it slid away forgotten into the valley. For some time I stared at that scene.
"John." It was he calling to me. He had gone on a little, the track was wider, it met another, and I saw gates and a driveway. The gates were open and he was standing there, right there, hands on hips. This was where his mansion was, I knew. Two men on the other track passed between us, both turned to him and touched their foreheads. "John," he called to me again. "I have more to show you. Come."
But I held back. "Let me gather my breath."
"You are tired?"
"Bewildered, overwhelmed," I said. "I should return…" I felt my voice begin to fail. He walked down to me, took my arm.
"I am not holding you. But first I, Richard Foley, will show you how real is all this. Come, if you will. Please me."
Reluctant as I was there was nothing I could do. We walked the drive. The mansion came into view. A newly built place, half-timbering still fresh and pale, young trees planted to create landscape, freshly planted gardens. The scene was so tranquil after what had gone before I blinked my eyes to clear them. I leaned against him. He was speaking but I had difficulty making sense any longer. I saw - or imagined - two ladies sitting in the gardens taking tea, and he was saying who they were…

I awoke in the arms of the girl cyclist.
"John, you okay? Did you fall? You gave us a fright finding you like this. Sally is getting your bag from the other side. Whatever brought you over there?"
I suppose it must have been a good minute before I spoke. I could feel her arm shaking. "I'm sorry I scared you," I heard myself say. "Yes, I am, very sorry." But I was desperately tried to recall all that had taken place. Each and every second of it, detail by detail, and as it came back to me I knew that however sure I may be, I could never explain or convince anyone else. I looked up at the girl's face and smiled. "Sally shouldn't have bothered about my bag. It was an old one."
"Well, we don't like leaving litter around, do we?"
Sally appeared. "I got it," she said quite out of breath. "You okay now?"
"I was dreaming," I said.
"Dreaming…"
"Yes. About Richard Foley."
"Who?" they chorused.
"A man I met."
"Oh," said the first letting go of me. Sally went over to pick up her bike. I thought it time I got up.
"Hot, isn't it?" I said. "The sun, I mean."
"You should wear a hat. We always wear our hats in the sun, don't we Sal?"
They cycled off and I glanced down the bank at the quietly wending river but he wasn't there. He was around though, I knew.