Читать книгу A Country Girl - Nancy Carson - Страница 6

The sinking sun cast a long, animated shadow of Algie Stokes as he ambled that evening along the rutted road known as Moor Lane on his way to see Harriet Meese. To his right lay a rambling Georgian mansion, an island of prosperity set in a sea of stubble fields. The grand, symmetrical house seemed entirely at odds with the tile works, the slag heaps and the worked-out mines which it overlooked. No doubt it had existed long before its sooty neighbours had been dreamed of; a rural haven, set in bowers of peace and tranquillity. But no more. Yet it never occurred to Algie what the well-to-do occupants might think of the black, encroaching gloom of industry. He never noticed any of it, taking for granted these immovable, and probably eternal, man-made elements of the unromantic landscape.

The crimson glow from the sun at his back was augmenting the ruddiness of the red-brick terraced houses he was passing. He bid a polite good evening to a passer-by, and his thoughts returned to the golden sunshine of Marigold Bingham’s natural loveliness. Yet, strangely, he was finding that he could not ponder Marigold without Harriet Meese also trespassing unwanted into his thoughts. Mental comparison was therefore becoming inevitable. Maybe it was a guilty conscience playing tricks.

Harriet was twenty years old, the second of seven daughters belonging to Mary and Eli Meese. Eli was a respectable trader who described his business as ‘a drapery, mourning and mantles shop’, situated in Brierley Hill’s High Street, where the family also lived above the shop. Four of the seven daughters were sixteen or over – of marriageable age – but Harriet was blessed with the most beguiling figure of them all, wondrously endowed with feminine curves. She was slender and long-legged, her curves and bulges were in the appropriate places, and as delightful in proportion as Algie had ever had the pleasure to behold in or around Brierley Hill. However, to his eternal frustration he had never been privileged to know Harriet’s sublime body intimately. Nor was such a privilege likely as long as they remained unmarried. Chastity had been instilled into Harriet from an early age, both at home and at church. So, despite Algie’s most earnest endeavours, he had never so much as managed to unfasten one button of her blouse, nor lifted her skirt more than eight inches above her ankle without a vehement protest and an indignant thump. It was, of course, her figure which was the sole attraction, since her face was her least alluring feature.

After a twenty minute walk, Algie strolled up the entry that lay between Eli Meese’s drapery shop and his neighbour, and tapped on the door. Priscilla, Harriet’s older sister, a school teacher who was manifestly destined for eternal spinsterdom, answered it. Facially, she was unfortunate enough to resemble Harriet but, even more regrettably, not in figure. Her crooked lips stretched into a thin smile, yet her eyes, the most attractive feature in her face, creased into a welcoming warmth as she led him into the parlour.

‘Looking forward to church tonight, Priss?’ Algie enquired familiarly.

‘I always do,’ she responded. ‘But sometimes, you know, after I’ve sat and listened to the sermon, I wish I hadn’t bothered. Sometimes, if it’s a good sermon, I get a thrill up and down my spine, and for three or four days after I’m inspired. Once, I remember, after the vicar had preached about generosity, I took it all to heart and took a bag of bon-bons to share amongst the children in my class for a few days … until after that they expected it every day. But on another Sunday he preached against vanity and the love of nice dresses … Well, I was livid. I love nice dresses, as you know, Algie.’

‘Is Harriet ready, or am I in for a long wait?’

‘I should sit down if I were you. She’s been around the house again checking whether there’s enough coal in the scuttles and on the fires, rather than leaving it to the maid. I wouldn’t mind, but she always waits till it’s time to get ready to go out. Besides, it’s pandemonium upstairs right now, with everybody vying for space to get ready. I got ready early, you know, Algie. You’ve no idea what it’s like, all seven of us sisters trying to get in front of the mirror at the same time, not to mention Mother, and when Mother gets there there’s no room for anybody else anyway. Father got tired of waiting. He’s already gone … How is your mother, Algie, by the way?’

‘In good fettle last time I noticed, thanks.’

‘Does she manage to get out these days?’

‘Only in daylight. She won’t go out at night after what happened …’

Priss nodded her sympathetic understanding. ‘I know. Such a pity … But how’s your father?’

‘Oh, he’s well.’

‘What about Kate?’

‘Oh, she’s fit enough, the sharp-tongued little harridan.’

‘Sharp-tongued?’ Priss uttered a little gurgle of amusement. ‘Are you joking? I’ve never thought of your Kate as sharp-tongued. She always seems so cheerful and pleasant, whenever I meet her.’

‘Oh, she’s always cheerful and pleasant to folk she doesn’t know very well. You should try living in the same house.’

‘But she’s such a pretty girl, your Kate. I’d give anything for her looks.’

‘But you wouldn’t want her character or demeanour, Priss.’

‘Oh, I don’t know … People seem to like you more if you’re pretty than if you’re plain. Mind you, I always think that if you go to church regularly and do your duty by your neighbour, you’ll find plenty of people ready to like you … so long as you carry yourself well and don’t stoop,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘Anyway, I’m sure Kate’s nowhere near as black as you paint her … Which reminds me, Algie – will you do me a favour?’

‘What?’

‘Would you mind asking her if she wants tickets to see the plays? It only wants a fortnight.’

‘I daresay Harriet will remind me …’

Harriet appeared at that precise moment, wearing a white skirt printed in a delicate, blue floral design, and blouse to match. The ensemble did full justice to her figure. Because of the family’s business, the Meese girls were able to indulge themselves in the latest materials and designs, and several dressmakers too were always keen to run things up for them, for the recommendations they customarily received from the family.

Harriet greeted Algie with a smile as she put on a short jacket, also white. ‘I’m ready,’ she announced. ‘Are you ready, Priss?’

‘I’ve been ready ages.’

‘But you haven’t got your hat on,’ Harriet reminded her.

‘Oh, but I’m not going to wear a hat, our Harriet.’

‘Not wear a hat?’

‘According to the journals I’ve been reading, London girls are no longer wearing hats. They regard them as old-fashioned, and I’m inclined to agree. Anyway, does my hair look such a mess that I should cover it with a hat?’

‘Your hair looks very becoming, our Priss. I teased it for you myself. But you really ought to wear a hat. Don’t you think so, Algie?’

Algie duly pondered a moment, stumped for an opinion, not really bothered one way or the other. ‘Not if she doesn’t want to, Harriet. Let her go to church without a hat if she wants. Who’s it going to hurt?’

‘But it is Sunday. All the ladies will be tutting.’

‘Let ’em tut,’ Priss said defiantly. ‘I don’t care.’

Harriet shrugged resignedly. ‘Once she’s made her mind up there’s no persuading her, is there? Shall we go, Algie?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, come on, then. See you there, eh, Priss? Unless you want to walk with us …’

‘No, I don’t want to play gooseberry. I’ll be along with the others.’

Algie led Harriet down the cobbled entry. As they walked along High Street facing the low setting sun, he thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and Harriet linked her arm through his familiarly.

‘Priss asked me to ask our Kate if she wanted a ticket to see the plays,’ he said conversationally.

‘Oh, yes, the plays. It’s only a fortnight away and we’ve sold plenty of tickets already. I need to know so’s I can get her one. I know how she likes to see our plays.’

‘I’ll ask her.’

‘What about your mother and father? D’you think they’d like to come? They’re ever so comical.’

‘My mother can be comical,’ Algie quipped. ‘I’m not so sure about my father, though.’

She landed him a playful thump. ‘I mean the plays, you goose. One’s a farce, the other’s a comedy.’

‘Sounds like our house two nights running. But you know my mother never goes out of a night.’

‘Oh, I forgot. What a shame that fear of a bolting horse can stop you going out of a night. It’d be a change for her, though, to go out with your father.’

‘I know it would, and you know it, but she won’t budge. Not at night.’

‘As a matter of fact, there’s something else I’m supposed to ask your Kate, Algie.’

‘What?’

‘Well, she’s quite a pretty girl, isn’t she?’ Harriet admitted grudgingly, ‘and Mr Osborne wants to recruit some “pretty girls” into the Little Theatre, to use his words. I must say, though, I was a trifle narked when I heard him say it, so was our Priss. I mean, how demeaning to us. Not everybody can be pretty, can they? It would be a boring old world if they were. Priss told him so as well. Well, you know our Priss … But you know what men are like. Anyway, he mentioned your sister by name and I said I would enquire after her. Mr Osborne would like her to come along one rehearsal night so he can assess her ability to act.’

‘I’ll ask her then, shall I? I reckon she’ll jump at the chance to show herself off. You know how vain she is.’

‘But, in the long run, it all depends whether she can act,’ Harriet affirmed. ‘Not how pretty she is.’

‘It might divert her from that ne’er-do-well Reggie Hodgetts she seems so fond of.’

‘Reggie Hodgetts?’

‘The son of a boatman,’ Algie explained disdainfully. ‘A proper rodney. Plies the cut regular in that filthy wreck of a narrowboat his family own.’

Harriet gasped in horror. ‘Oh, goodness, a boatman? I hope she’s not thinking of throwing her life away on a mere boatman. A rodney at that.’

‘It’s coming into contact with ’em like she does,’ Algie responded defensively. ‘Being a lock-keeper’s daughter and all that, I reckon. Mind you, some of the boat families are all right. I see a family called the Binghams occasionally. They’re decent folk. Most of them are.’

‘You must make Kate see sense, Algie.’

‘She won’t take any notice of me. You know what it’s like between brothers and sisters.’

‘Then I’ll have a word with her when I see her – discreetly, of course.’

He considered Marigold and how Kate might reveal his secret desire for the girl, a mere boatman’s daughter, if she thought Harriet was poking her nose into her liaison with Reggie Hodgetts. ‘No, don’t,’ he blurted earnestly. ‘It wouldn’t do any good. Our Kate’s too headstrong to take any notice of anybody. She’d only resent you for it. She’d think you were meddling.’

‘All right, if that’s what you think, Algie.’

They arrived at the door of the old red-brick hulk of St Michael’s Church which stood loftily at Brierley Hill’s highest point, sensing at once the cool reverential ambience as they entered. Harriet bid a pleasant good evening to the sidesman who handed her a hymn book, and made her way to the family’s regular pew on tiptoe, so that her heels did not echo off the cold hard floor. Algie followed in her wake.

When the service finished the congregation gathered outside by the light of a solitary gas lamp installed above the main door; a collection of nodding bonnets, top hats and fawning smiles, all content in their self-righteousness. Some merely drifted away into the night in a random procession while others tarried, determined to elicit recognition from or conversation with the vicar, or even the curate. By now there was a chill in the air as the Meese women and Algie lingered outside waiting for the head of the family. When Eli Meese rejoined them he announced that he was going to the Bell Hotel for his customary two pints of ale, which would give him an appetite for his supper. He would be about an hour.

‘I take it as you’ll see me girls and me wife home safe and sound, young Algie?’ Eli said patronisingly as he parted.

‘Course I will, Mr Meese.’

Actually, it had occurred to Algie to leave the company of Harriet and the rest of the Meeses as soon as the service was over, with the idea of seeking Marigold again; her father was likely to be in the Bottle and Glass for the evening getting pie-eyed, so why not take advantage? But to make an unusually early departure, on whatever flimsy excuse he could quickly invent, would only draw comment and speculation after he had gone, especially when he had given Eli his undertaking to see the family home safely. So, as they ambled down the path through the churchyard to the road, he decided to exercise discretion, to remain patient and wait till Marigold’s next passage through the lock at Buckpool.

While the others walked on ahead, Priss attached herself to Algie and Harriet.

‘I thought the sermon tonight was a bit of an unwarranted rebuke to us all,’ she commented airily. ‘The vicar’s wrong about God being just, you know. I hardly think He’s just at all, not all the time anyway. I’ve come to the conclusion that He is often unjust. Look how so many good and kind people suffer, while too many evil rogues prosper. What did you think of the sermon, Algie?’

‘Me? I didn’t listen to it.’

‘Algie was daydreaming as usual, Priss,’ Harriet said with measured scorn.

‘I was contemplating more earthly things,’ he replied.

‘Oh, but you shouldn’t of a Sunday,’ she reproached. ‘Anyway, what earthly things?’

Actually, he’d been contemplating Marigold Bingham; her smooth skin, her fine complexion, her beautiful face and her delicious figure. She’d been the cause of a troublesome disturbance in his trousers during the sermon as he’d allowed himself to imagine her lying warm and playful with him in some soft feather bed. He could hardly admit as much to Priss or Harriet, though.

‘I was thinking about the bike I’m going to buy,’ he fibbed judiciously.

‘Can you afford a bike?’ Priss queried, sincerely doubting it. ‘Surely they cost a fortune?’

‘I’ve been saving up for months. Now I’ve got enough money to buy one.’

‘But a bike? Couldn’t your money be more wisely spent?’

‘On what?’

‘Well, you’re two-and-twenty now. The same as me. And our Harriet is only two years younger. Have you not considered the future?’

‘Priss!’ Harriet hissed indignantly, digging her sister in the ribs with her elbow as they walked.

‘Don’t prod me, Harriet … I only mean to say that if you are contemplating marriage, then it would be far more sensible to save your money, rather than buy a bike.’

‘Who says we’re contemplating marriage?’ Algie remarked clumsily. ‘We’ve never discussed marriage, have we Harriet?’

‘You’ve never discussed it with me.’ There was a catch in her voice, which suggested antagonism at the lack of any such conversation.

‘I just assumed …’

‘Assume nothing, Priss,’ Harriet said with resignation. ‘Algie obviously has other priorities … and so have I, come to that.’

Eli Meese, Harriet’s father, having risen from humble beginnings as the son of a house servant, had embarked on his road to fortune buying bolts of cloth and selling them in lengths to whoever would buy. He viewed this as a means of escaping the pits and the ironworks. His first enterprise involved the purchase of two thousand yards of flannelettes at tuppence ha’penny a yard, which he sold at fourpence ha’penny a yard from market stalls in several of the local towns. Business prospered and he rented a shop in Brierley Hill as a permanent base. Soon afterwards, he met and married Mary, from whom his daughters inherited their uninspiring faces and would, in time, also manifest her stoutness. When their first child, Priscilla, was born he bought the building which was still home and workplace to him and his family. Eli was proud of being a self-made man. He had raised himself from obscurity to his present position, one of considerable standing in the community. He had made money a-plenty and, as money always commands influence, so Eli grew to be a man of some consequence in Brierley Hill, being not only churchwarden at St Michael’s but Guardian and Justice of the Peace as well. In his social elevation he sought to do his best for his daughters, and ensured that each received as decent an education as he could reasonably afford at the Dudley Proprietary School for Girls, to and from which they took the tramcar every day.

Eli was not entirely comfortable with the thought that his second daughter, easily the most appealing of those of marriageable age, could feasibly end up with the inconsequential son of a lock-keeper. He had hoped she would have set her sights higher, but was wily enough to realise that to forbid the liaison would only serve to launch it into more perilous waters, the consequences of which could be devastating and too painful to contemplate. In time, Harriet’s superior education would reveal itself to both of them, and Algernon Stokes would come to recognise his social and mental inferiority – and so would she. Meanwhile, he tolerated Algernon without actually encouraging him at all. Besides, Algernon’s father, Will, used to be Eli’s regular playmate in those far off days of mutual impoverishment. The lad’s mother, Clara, too … Indeed, when Clara was a young filly and Eli was a young buck with a weather eye for a potential mate, she had been a feast to the eye and a definite target. The trouble was, she was too preoccupied with his rivals and would have nothing to do with him. So he had to content himself eventually with Mary, who he’d put in the family way. Mary would never fetch any ducks off water. Her plainness, though, had proved an advantage in one respect, Eli pondered; she was never attractive enough to appeal to anybody else, which ensured her fidelity. On reflection, perhaps he had been too hasty in agreeing to marry her. The acquisition of wealth had made him much more appealing to other women – better-looking women – he’d noticed over the years.

Such were the ruminations, contemporary and nostalgic, of Eli Meese as he supped alone in the saloon of the Bell Hotel sucking at his clay pipe, his head enveloped in an aromatic cloud of blue smoke. Because he was an important citizen and a Justice of the Peace, few of the lesser locals these days considered themselves socially fit to sup in the same room with him. One man, however, walked into the hotel some little time after Eli, greeted him as an equal, and asked if he would allow him to buy him a drink.

Eli grinned in acknowledgement. ‘A pint of India pale, please, Murdoch.’

Murdoch Jeroboam Osborne paid for the drinks and took them over to the table where Eli was sitting. ‘You was deep in thought when I walked in, ha, Eli? Summat up?’

Eli swigged the last inch of beer that remained of his first helping, then sighed as if deeply troubled. ‘What d’yer mek o’ Will Stokes’s lad, Murdoch?’

Murdoch pulled a stick of tobacco from his pocket and began cutting it into workable pieces with his penknife as he pondered the question. ‘Can’t say as I know him that well, but he seems a likeable enough lad. Ain’t he a-courtin’ your Harriet? I’ve seen him a time or two come to meet her from the Drill Hall after our rehearsals, ha?’

‘Between me and thee, Murdoch, that’s what’s troubling me. I ain’t so sure he’s quite up to the mark, if you get me drift.’

Murdoch laughed. ‘I seem to recall as his mother was well up to the mark at one time, ha? Still is, if you want my opinion.’

Eli grinned conspiratorially. ‘Aye, you’m right there and no mistake. Proper little poppet, was Clara Bunn. Many’s the time I’ve wished …’

‘And the daughter takes after her,’ Murdoch remarked with a twinkle in his eye.

‘Ain’t set eyes on e’er a daughter so far’s I know,’ Eli replied. ‘But is that right? Another poppet? Like her mother was, eh, Murdoch?’

‘The image.’

‘I ain’t surprised. D’you see anything of Clara these days?’

‘Calls in me shop regular.’ Murdoch began rubbing the pieces of tobacco between the palms of his hands to render it into shreds. ‘If there’s e’er a boiling fowl or a rabbit spare I generally let her have it cheap. She’s grateful for that. I’ve always had a soft spot for Clara.’

‘She could’ve done a sight better for herself,’ said Eli, secretly meaning that she could have had him if she’d played her cards right. He gazed blandly into the clear golden depths of his beer. ‘She could’ve had the pick of the chaps in Brierley Hill – and beyond, but she settled for Will Stokes. Who’d have thought it at the time, eh? Will was never gunna be anything but a lackey to the Stourbridge Canal Company.’

‘Oh, Will’s a decent enough chap, but we can’t all be businessmen, Eli, ha?’ Murdoch scratched his chin, then took his pipe from his pocket and filled it with the shredded tobacco. ‘You got your drapery and I got me butchery. But it ain’t in everybody … So do I conceit as you ain’t too keen on young Algernon’s attentions to your Harriet, ha?’

‘I got no intention of encouraging it, Murdoch, let’s put it that way. She can do better for herself.’

‘Is she took with the lad?’ Murdoch struck a match and lit his pipe, his head quickly shrouded in waves of pungent smoke as he sucked and blew to get it to draw.

‘I wouldn’t like to say as she’s took with him. It’s hard to say for definite. But these attachments have a way of creeping up on folk. ’Specially these young uns what don’t know their own minds. I’m afeared that afore I know it, he’ll be telling me as he’s got to marry her and asking for me blessing. I don’t want to be asked for me blessing.’

‘Aye, well when she’s one-and-twenty – and that can’t be too far yonder – he won’t even need to ask, will he, Eli, ha? If he wants the wench he’ll just do it. Anyroad, I reckon as she could do worse. A lot worse, ha? The lad’s young, he’s working as far as I know. He might mek summat of hisself yet.’

‘Well,’ pondered Eli, lifting his fresh glass of beer, ‘’tis to be hoped … Got any more o’ that baccy, Murdoch? Me pipe’s gone out.’

As he walked along the towpath alongside his horse, Seth Bingham whittled a toy top from a piece of wood for his children. All that remained was to find a strong switch from which to make a whip to set it spinning. He could imagine their delighted faces when he presented it to them and showed them later that day how it worked.

Marigold jumped down onto the towpath from the butty, where she had left Rose, her younger sister, in charge of the tiller. They were approaching the flight of locks at Dadford’s Shed, on the way back from Kidderminster, and would soon be outside the lock-keeper’s cottage where Algie Stokes lived. She began walking alongside Seth, ready to run on and open the locks ready for the ascent.

‘What you makin’, Dad?’

‘A whip ’n’ top.’

‘A whip ’n’ top? For the little uns?’

‘It’ll keep ’em occupied while we’m moored up.’

‘Will it spin?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘Course it’ll spin, when I’ve made a whip for it.’

‘But it’ll want painting, won’t it?’

‘It’d look better painted, I grant yer,’ Seth agreed. ‘But let’s see if it spins all right first. If it does, we can soon paint it.’

‘I’ll paint it,’ Marigold offered. ‘With the kids. But it might be an idea to make more than one, you know, Dad. They’ll want a whip ’n’ top a-piece once they see it.’

Seth laughed. ‘I daresay they will, but they might have to wait.’

Seth continued whittling a second or two more, when neither spoke.

‘Have you got some pennies for the lock-keeper, Dad?’ Marigold asked, breaking the pause. ‘I’ll run on and make sure we can get through ’em all, and pay Mrs Stokes.’

Seth felt in the pocket of his trousers and fished out a handful of change. ‘Here,’ he said inspecting it. ‘And fetch me an ounce of baccy from the Dock shop while you’m at it.’

Marigold rushed to the lock. No other narrowboat was heading towards them from the opposite direction to occupy the lock and impede their progress. Rather, the last narrowboat through the locks had come from the opposite direction so all the levels would be set for them to enter without waiting for them to empty. She opened the first lock, while Seth led the horse towards it, then made her way to the Dock shop, where she bought her father’s ounce of baccy and put it in the pocket of her skirt.

She glanced back, saw their horse boat, the Sultan, entering the lock, and waved cheerily to Seth. She opened the next lock, then hurried to the next, amiably passing the time of day with a couple of the workmen from the dry dock that lay in an adjacent arm of the canal. A dog, from one of the rows of terraced cottages, joined her as she headed for the next lock, and she stooped down to fuss it.

‘Hello, Rex,’ she cooed, having become familiar with the animal over the years. She stroked it under the chin and it looked up at her with round, trusting eyes. ‘I ain’t got nothing for you this time. But next time, I’ll bring you some bones to chew on … I promise I will.’ The dog seemed to understand, and returned with its tail swinging, seemingly happy with the pledge, to the cottage he’d come from.

She reached the lock situated outside the lock-keeper’s cottage and she was aware of her heart pounding. What if Algie was there? What if he hadn’t gone to work and he was at home? She would see him again. It would be lovely to see him again so soon. Before she opened the lock, she crossed it to get to the cottage on the other side and climbed the steps to the garden and the back door. She tapped on the door and waited, scanning the well-tended garden and its crop of spring flowers that were blooming like an array of bright lamps. The door opened, and Clara Stokes greeted her, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Hello, young Marigold.’

‘Hello, Mrs Stokes,’ she replied deferentially. ‘We’m just coming up through the locks. Can I pay you?’

‘Course you can, my flower.’ Clara held out her hand and Marigold dropped the pennies into it. ‘Ta.’

‘I was just looking at your flowers, Mrs Stokes,’ Marigold said, turning round to admire them again. ‘Them choolips am really pretty. I would’ve thought they’re a bit early, though, wouldn’t you?’

Clara was making out a chit for the payment, but looked up to appreciate the tulips with her. ‘Yes, they’re grand, aren’t they? They are a bit early, like you say. Mind you, we’ve had some nice weather to bring ’em on.’

‘Me mom likes choolips. They’m her favourite flower. And those are a lovely colour.’

‘How is your mom?’ Clara enquired.

‘She’s well, thank you, Mrs Stokes. It’s her birthday tomorrow. I’d love to be able to give her some choolips. Would you sell me some, Mrs Stokes?’

Clara smiled. ‘I’ll do better than that – I’ll give you some to take to her. Let me get a pair of scissors to cut them with.’

‘Are you sure?’ Marigold queried, calling after her as Clara left the scullery for the sitting room. ‘I’d just as soon pay you for ’em.’

‘They cost nothing to grow, Marigold,’ Clara called back. ‘I’ll charge nothing for them. I just hope they give your mom a bit of pleasure.’

Marigold smiled gratefully. ‘That’s ever so kind. Thank you ever so much, Mrs Stokes.’

Clara stepped back inside the room with her scissors, and Marigold followed her up the garden path.

‘How’s Algie?’ she asked, with becoming shyness. ‘Is he at work today?’

‘Oh, he’s at work all right,’ Clara replied, diligently picking out the best tulips and laying them on the ground as she snipped them. ‘Earning his corn. At least it keeps him from under my feet.’

‘I was talking to him Sunday,’ she volunteered. ‘We went a walk afore he went to church.’

‘Yes, he said so.’

‘Did he?’ Marigold sounded pleased with this revelation. ‘He’s nice, your Algie.’

‘I daresay he’d be pleased that you think so,’ Clara replied non-committally.

‘Does he go to church every Sunday?’

‘Most. Only the evening service, though.’

Marigold felt herself blush, and was glad that Mrs Stokes was bending down with her back towards her, unable to witness it. She wanted to mention that girl called Harriet whom Algie had told her about, but had no wish to sound as if she was prying. ‘I suppose Mr Stokes is out and about on the canal somewhere?’ she suggested, to deflect any further focus from herself.

‘He’s checking the locks. You’ll very likely see him as you go by … There … that’s about a dozen blooms.’ Clara gathered the cut tulips from the ground and stood up. ‘I’ll wrap them in a bit of newssheet, eh?’

‘That’s ever so kind, Mrs Stokes, really,’ Marigold said, following Clara back towards the cottage.

‘Come inside while I do it.’

Marigold followed her inside, into the little scullery. She noticed the blackleaded range, pristine and shiny, with the fire burning brightly and a copper kettle standing on the hob. In front of the hearth lay a podged rug, made from old material, the colours and textures of the cloth organised into an appealing pattern. A scrubbed wooden table had four chairs around it, and beneath the window was a stone sink. There was little enough room to move, but to Marigold, used only to the tight confines of the narrowboats’ cabins, it was enormous.

She watched while Clara wrapped the tulips in a sheet of newspaper and asked again if she could pay for them, but Clara only refused with a reassuring smile. ‘Take them, young Marigold,’ she said kindly. ‘Your mother will like them.’

‘That she will, Mrs Stokes. Thank you ever so much.’

‘You’re welcome. Give your mother my best wishes, won’t you?’

‘Oh, I will …’ She did not move, hesitating at the door, and Clara looked at her enquiringly.

‘Is there something else, Marigold?

‘Yes … Will you tell Algie I called, please, Mrs Stokes? He said to ask you to. Will you give him my best wishes?’

Clara smiled knowingly. She did not dislike this slip of a girl. ‘Course I will.’

On the afternoon of the following Saturday after he’d finished work, Algie purchased his bicycle, a Swift, made in Coventry. His intention was to ride it all the way back from the shop in Dudley, stopping at the Meese home on the way to show Harriet; he reckoned she’d still be working in their shop. At Holly Hall, however, a mile away, the chain came off, which gave him a nasty jolt since he was pedalling hard, trying to see how fast he could make it go. As a result, he banged his crotch awkwardly against the crossbar, making him wince with the sheer agony of it. With little alternative but to try and ignore the pain, he dismounted, glad of the opportunity to bend down and nurse his crotch as he replaced the oily chain carefully around the cogs. The job done and the pain slowly receding, he continued on his way, more gingerly this time. He would have to adjust the chain properly when he got home.

‘Oh, I say,’ Harriet exclaimed with approval when she saw the bicycle. ‘Can I have a go on it?’

‘Yes, but mind how far you’re going.’ He was afeared that the chain might come off again, and had visions of walking miles trying to retrieve both the machine and Harriet if that happened. ‘And don’t get the wheels stuck in the tramlines, else you’ll be off.’

Harriet cocked her leg over the saddle, in what was for her, a most unladylike but forgivable manner. She set off from the kerb shakily, emitting a girlish scream of apprehension. ‘I won’t go far,’ she yelled over her shoulder.

Algie watched with a grin as she rode no more than a hundred yards in the direction of Dudley, then turned around with a series of inelegant wobbles. She didn’t have the confidence to use the pedals and merely scooted with her long legs astride the crossbar, the hem of her skirt unavoidably hoisted to an immodest height so untypical of her.

‘I’ll get arrested with my skirt up like this,’ she said, laughing, as she returned to his side. ‘No wonder girls don’t ride these contraptions.’

‘All you need is to wear a pair of trousers instead of a skirt,’ he suggested with a measure of practicality.

‘Don’t be a goose,’ she scoffed. ‘Who ever heard of such a thing!’

‘Well, I think it’s a good idea. These machines can be just as useful for women as for men …’ The comment was prompted by what Marigold had said about cycling ahead of the narrowboats to open the lock gates. ‘But you women won’t benefit unless you change your attitude.’

‘What attitude?’

‘Your attitude to what you’re prepared to wear. Trousers, for instance. Women used to wear trousers when they worked in the mines.’

‘Some women that worked in the mines wore nothing at all, I’ve been told,’ Harriet responded with scorn. ‘But you won’t find me going about with no clothes on. Anyway, can you imagine what I’d look like?’

‘Lord, I daren’t even begin to think about it, Harriet …’

‘Seen the Binghams lately, Dad?’ Algie asked one day on his return from work. ‘I ain’t seen ’em for a fortnight.’

Will Stokes looked at his son with a wry smile. ‘They ain’t been a-nigh, Son, not since that day your mother laid bare me tulip patch. Still got your eye on young Marigold, have yer?’

Algie smiled. He was able to admit such things to his father. He was able to talk to him about anything. ‘Could be,’ he answered with a wink. ‘Would you blame me?’

‘Nay, she’s a bonny wench, our Algie. I can understand you being interested. But if you seriously want her, don’t lead young Harriet on, that’s my advice. It ain’t fair. She’s a decent young madam is Harriet, and I’m sure she wouldn’t do that to you. So be straight with her.’

‘Oh, I intend to be, Dad. Once I’m sure of me standing with Marigold. I got no intention of two-timing her.’

Will shook his head. ‘If you got no serious intentions for young Harriet, you should tell her straight, Marigold or no Marigold.’

‘I know, Dad, but I don’t want to burn all my bridges … Not yet …’

On the Wednesday night, that last day in April, Algie accompanied his sister Kate to the town hall, which had been hired by the Brierley Hill Amateur Dramatics Society for two performances that week of two plays; My First Client, a farce, and a comedy called You Know What. Both had the audiences guffawing with laughter.

After the show, Harriet returned from backstage and formally introduced Kate Stokes to Murdoch Osborne, the society’s leading light and principle organiser.

‘Me and Miss Stokes are already partly acquainted, ha?’ Murdoch said pleasantly. ‘Her mother’s a regular customer of mine, and I see Miss Stokes most days on her way to work at Mills’s cake shop, ha, Miss Stokes? I can see a definite resemblance to your mother, you know … and that’s a compliment, ha?’

Kate blushed becomingly. ‘Thank you, Mr Osborne.’

‘Now then. Harriet here tells me as you might be interested in joining our little theatre group.’

‘I never thought about it before, but I think I’d like to try it,’ Kate replied coyly, imagining receiving the audience’s applause and appreciation, as rendered so enthusiastically for tonight’s star, Miss Katie Richards.

‘Have you been involved in drama before?’

‘Never, but I’m a quick learner. I learn poetry ever so quick. I would soon learn me words, I’m sure. I’d really like to try me hand at it.’

Murdoch Osborne was watching her, fascinated by her large, earnest brown eyes. ‘You’re a very pretty girl and no mistake, Miss Stokes … and we’re fortunate to be blessed with so many lovely girls in our Little Theatre.’ He glanced at Harriet for a look of approval at his flattery. ‘We start casting and rehearsing next Wednesday for our next production, a play entitled The Forest Princess, set in North America. I’m keen that we cast the part of Pocahontas right.’

‘Pocahontas?’ Kate queried, wide-eyed.

‘Pocahontas was a beautiful Red Indian princess who lived in the seventeenth century, Kate … Can I call you Kate?’

‘Oh, yes. Course.’

‘Good. Thank you … I was about to say … I would be very grateful if you could attend.’

‘Thank you, Mr Osborne, I will. What time should I get here?’

‘Oh, we don’t meet here. We meet in the Drill Hall—’

‘Why don’t you call for me on the way, Kate?’ Harriet suggested helpfully. ‘You could walk up with me and our Priss.’

‘Oh, right,’ Kate beamed. ‘Could I?’

‘Course. It’s always best, I think, if you can go somewhere strange with somebody you know. Especially the first time.’

‘Then that’s settled,’ said Murdoch Osborne with a triumphant grin. ‘I shall look forward to seeing you then.’