Читать книгу A Country Girl - Nancy Carson - Страница 9

A high-flying, three-quarter moon afforded ample light by which Algie and Marigold retraced their steps to Buckpool. The occasional drunken shouts from some inebriate or other, lurching in the streets nearby, interrupted the evening’s stillness, but could hardly intrude on the euphoria and tenderness they both felt at their newly established accord. It was nearing ten o’ clock when they returned hand-in-hand to the brace of narrowboats tied up in the canal basin. Marigold had promised her mother she would be back by that time, for there was still work to be done, preparing for tomorrow’s early departure. When they reached the narrowboats, the stove pipe of the Sultan was exhausting a near vertical column of smoke that rose up in the moonlight like some spectral genie just released from a tall lamp.

‘So what time shall I see you at Kidderminster tomorrow night?’ Algie asked, taking her hands as they stood facing each other, in readiness for parting.

‘Let’s say half past seven.’

‘But what if you don’t moor up there?’

‘Then we’ll be back this way in the afternoon.’

‘Come and knock on our door and let my mother know then, eh? When I get back from work she’ll tell me where you’ll be. Then I’ll just ride till I find you. If you don’t show up, I’ll know you’re between here and Kidderminster, and I’ll find you.’

Her eyes crinkled into an appealing smile. ‘Just mind you don’t take another look in the cut …’ She turned around to see if her mother was there waiting, having heard them return. ‘I’d better go, Algie,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow … all being well.’ She stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his lips, lingering a couple of seconds, then let go of his hands and went.

Algie stood watching her as she skipped lightly into the cabin of the Sultan and disappeared. He sighed, smiling contentedly to himself. He had won the affection of Marigold Bingham, and she was a treasure. He exulted in the thought without conceit, merely content that a girl as pretty as she could be the least bit interested in him. It had been a wonderfully eventful day, but he’d had no inkling at all that it would turn out this way when he’d woken up that morning.

Marigold …

Lovely little Marigold Bingham.

She was a cut above the other narrowboat girls he’d seen, the most divine incarnation of delectability, worth giving up Harriet Meese for. He’d admired her from a distance for so long. Now she’d promised to be his girl and he could scarcely believe it. And he had to wait unending hours before he could see her again tomorrow.

He turned to go, back to the lock-keeper’s cottage under the road bridge. First, though, he would go to the garden shed by way of the back gate, to check that his bicycle was all right and locked away from thieves. There would be sufficient light from the moon to see if there were any globules of water still clinging or dripping from it after its ducking, which he ought to wipe dry and so save the machine rusting before he went to bed.

As he approached, he heard what sounded to him like the muffled sobs of a girl – it might even be a child – evidently in some distress. He halted in his tracks to listen more intently, his heart pounding at the sudden discovery and the anticipation of just what he might have stumbled across. The whimpers were coming from behind the shed. If it was somebody hurting a child, or even a woman, he’d kill the culprit. He looked about him for a stick or suitable implement with which to thrash him, but could see none in the darkness.

Stealthily he crept towards the shed, praying that no twig would crack underfoot to give away his presence and rob him of the element of surprise. Then, as he reached the corner he peered around it circumspectly. A man was pressing a young woman against the shed. By the pale reflected moonlight he could see that her skirts were up, her pale, slim thighs a visible contrast to the dark material of her skirt and her black stockings. The man’s hands were grasping her backside, and he was thrusting into her energetically. Her arms were around his neck, but she could have been endeavouring to push him away; a subtle difference in attitude that Algie could not discern in the dimness. To his horror, he could just make out that his sister Kate was on the receiving end of all this physical endeavour.

Algie was not sure how he should react as he watched incredulously. Was Kate a willing party to this, or had she been forced? Her anguished cries suggested she was not enjoying the experience, that the rogue was hurting her. Then, he realised the rogue was none other than Reggie Hodgetts, that vile son of a rodney boatman whom he knew she had been seeing. Well, Algie did not like Reggie Hodgetts anyway. He and his family were the scum of the canal network. Best to assume Kate was a victim here.

He rushed at the man, knocking him over. ‘You vile bastard!’ he rasped. ‘What d’you think you’re doing to my sister? I’ll kill you, you bloody turd.’

At such a savage and unexpected interruption, Reggie was too shocked to know what had hit him. One second he was ecstatically coupled to his worthy companion, whom he saw whenever his work brought him her way, the next he was on the ground beneath an unexpected, mad assailant.

‘Algie!’ Kate hissed indignantly, trying to pull her brother off poor Reggie, and desperate that they should not wake her mother and father who were sure to be wrapped up in bed by this time, though not necessarily asleep yet. ‘Leave him be, leave him be. What’s got into you, you stupid fool?’

‘I’ll kill the sod.’ Algie took a swipe at Reggie and caught him high on the cheekbone with a resounding crack.

‘Leave him be, Algie, for God’s sake!’

‘Why should I? He deserves all he’s getting, treating you like that. I won’t have you treated like an animal, Kate. You’re my sister.’

By this time, Reggie had oriented himself to this unanticipated situation and wriggled his arms free while his adversary was discussing him with the girl. He traded an equivalent punch to Algie’s mouth, which sent him reeling.

‘Who does he think he is, your mad brother?’ Reggie fizzed as he got up from the ground, his manhood suddenly deflated, dangling limp in the cool night air, his anger all at once frothing over like a bottle of ginger beer violently shaken. ‘I’ll teach him not to part a man from his pleasure.’ He lurched after Algie and grabbed him by the lapels.

‘Stop it, you two!’ Kate urged in a hoarse whisper, but desperate to be heeded.

Reggie was just about to throw another punch at Algie, when Kate grabbed his arm. ‘Stop it, the pair of you!’

‘He attacked me, the bastard,’ Reggie protested vehemently.

‘I’ll kill him,’ Algie rasped, his indignation overwhelming his apprehension. ‘Just—’

‘Stop it!’ Kate placed herself between them, stumbling over a line of potato shoots.

Both men seemed to calm down. Reggie surreptitiously checked his flies to ascertain if any material damage had been occasioned to his courting tackle during the scuffle.

‘You’ll waken the dead, you pair,’ Kate added, perceiving that the worst of the incident was passed. ‘Algie, do us all a favour and clear off, and in future don’t be such a damn fool. Next time mind your own business.’

‘But he—’

‘Yes, I know …’

‘But you—’

‘But me what?’

‘He was hurting you.’

‘Clear off, Algie,’ she repeated impatiently. ‘And go and wipe your mouth. Your lip’s bleeding, by the looks of it.’

‘My lip?’ He put his fingers gingerly to his mouth, then inspected the ends in the moonlight for signs of blood. ‘You’ve split my lip, you swine,’ he complained to Reggie, his indignation surfacing again.

‘Serves you right. Come near me again and I’ll knock seven bells out o’ yer.’

It was all about to flare up again. Kate placed herself between her brother and her clandestine lover once more.

‘Go, Algie … clear off. I’ll see you inside.’

Algie turned to go, his shoulders hunched in humiliation at having perceived the situation between Kate and Reggie so wrongly. ‘If I catch you here again, Reggie bloody Hodgetts, I’ll do the same,’ he said as a parting shot, trying to salvage some credibility.

‘Balls!’ rasped Reggie, determined to have the last, meaningful word.

Once inside, Algie stood on the hearth looking into the mirror by the light of an oil lamp at his bleeding lip. He didn’t like the look of the cut and tried to stem the bleeding by dabbing it with a rag moistened with cold water. If it hadn’t healed sufficiently by tomorrow night his ability to engage Marigold in some earnest spooning would be seriously impaired.

Kate eventually returned, shutting the door behind her grumpily.

‘You article!’ she scoffed in an angry, grating whisper, trying to keep her voice down so as not to arouse her mother and father. ‘In future, if you ever see me with a man, whoever it is, just don’t poke your nose.’

‘I thought he was hurting you,’ Algie muttered defensively. ‘I thought you didn’t want his … his … attentions. I thought he was raping you.’

‘Raping me!’ she gibed. ‘You idiot.’

‘I was trying to protect you.’

‘I don’t need your damned protection. A fat lot you know about women …’

Algie turned round to face her. ‘I always had the feeling you might be a bit loose, our Kate, but I never reckoned you were that much of a slut. Couldn’t you find somebody with a bit more about him than Reggie Hodgetts? He’s the scum of the earth. He stinks. I swear I could smell him.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ Kate replied sulkily.

‘Can’t you see it? What if he’s put you in the family way and you have to marry him? Would you like to spend the rest of your days living on his filthy narrowboat with no room to swing a cat?’

‘Don’t be stupid, Algie,’ she protested, but calming down. ‘I’d never marry him. I ain’t in love with him, am I?’

‘Then what’s the big attraction?’

She turned away, reluctant to answer that it was sexual pleasure, for fear of debasing herself further in her brother’s estimation. Instead, she lifted the kettle off the hob, checked to see if there was water in it, and then lifted it onto a gale hook over the dying fire so it could boil.

‘Tell me, our Kate, what’s the big attraction?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes. It does matter. He’s a nothing. He’s lower than slime in a duck pond.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Algie, ’cause I shan’t be seeing him no more.’

He welcomed this unexpected nugget of information. ‘That’s a bit sudden, eh? Are you sure?’

‘I ought to know.’

‘So it’s done some good, my parting you? Was it your decision or his?’

Kate made no reply.

‘At first I thought I’d have to fetch a crowbar and prise you apart,’ Algie continued derisively. ‘Aren’t there no decent chaps at the Amateur Dramatics Society you could take up with, if you’re that desperate? Don’t nobody decent ever come into the bakery shop?’

Kate didn’t answer and they remained silent for some minutes. She went to the brewhouse to swill out the teapot.

‘D’you want a cup of tea?’ she asked, a little more civilly, when she came back inside.

‘I might as well. Is my mouth still bleeding?’ He dabbed his lip again and inspected the rag for blood.

‘No, but it’s swelling up … And it serves you right.’

‘I can’t believe you’re such a trollop, Kate,’ he commented, still preoccupied with what had occurred. ‘My own little sister.’ He shook his head to emphasise his disdain. ‘I’d never have thought it of you.’

‘Leave it be, Algie.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because you’re being stupid. What about if the boot was on the other foot?’

‘Well it ain’t, is it?’

‘How should I know? Haven’t you ever tried your luck with Harriet Meese?’

‘Oh, I’ve tried,’ he admitted. Then he saw an opportunity to belittle his sister further. ‘But she wouldn’t let me. And you know why? ’Cause she’s a lady, not a trollop. She’s got something about her. She deserves respect for it.’

‘She’s a stuck-up cat. Anyroad, I can’t see young Marigold Bingham being as stuck-up, I’ll say that for her. So when you get your way with her, just consider whether she’s a trollop, eh?’

‘Leave Marigold out of this.’

‘How can I, when you’ve been with her most of the day? Have you had your way with her already?’

‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘Exactly my point, our Algie.’

‘For your information, Marigold ain’t a trollop,’ he added in the girl’s defence. ‘And like I say, it’s nothing to do with you what me and Marigold do.’

‘Likewise, what me and Reggie were doing had got nothing to do with you,’ Kate riposted. ‘But it didn’t stop you interfering.’

‘I’m going to bed,’ Algie announced grumpily. ‘I don’t see the sense in stopping up and arguing with you … trollop!’

Algie had eaten and gone to work by the time Kate went down for breakfast. She was employed as an assistant in the shop at Mills’s Bakery in Brierley Hill High Street, and didn’t have to be there until eight. She had not slept well, preoccupied all night at being discovered with Reggie Hodgetts, and her sudden plunge in Algie’s already low esteem. Maybe she was a trollop. She’d never looked at it like that before; she’d never had to because she’d never been found out before. But if it was all done in private then what did it matter to anybody else? It was simply that she enjoyed the physical contact of men; the exhilaration, and all those sweet sensations. When Algie had pondered it all a little longer, when he was more familiar with the ways of women and the world, he might work it out for himself. It pained her to admit it to herself, but yes, she must be a trollop in his estimation and, if he thought it, so might the rest of the world. The encounter tonight must not become common knowledge for fear of her losing her reputation.

A significant thought struck her: polite society, on the brink of which she was now poised – by virtue of being invited to join the Brierley Hill Amateur Dramatics Society – would recognise her as such if they rumbled her, or if word got out. Let’s hope that Algie would not be so indiscreet as to mention it to Harriet Meese.

As she walked to work that morning, she pondered this sudden fragility of her reputation and how she could protect it. Perhaps she should call and see Harriet at the drapery shop during her dinnertime, and preclude any possibility of the girl believing anything that Algie might reveal about her. But how could she do that without making Harriet suspicious?

Well, she thought she knew a way …

Dinnertime rolled round. Kate put on her bonnet and made her way in the warm sunshine to Meeses’ shop. As she opened the door a bell tinkled, triggered by the door parting company with its frame. Bolts of cloth by the score, in hundreds of colours and patterns, lined the walls of the shop edgeways, restricting space, while others were stacked on the counter. The place was a pomander exuding the dry, musty smell of cotton.

In seconds, Harriet, relieving her father who had gone to the Bell that dinnertime for his customary ale, was at the counter in the mistaken belief that she had a customer to attend to. ‘Kate! How nice of you to call,’ she said, wearing a smile of apprehension. Kate could only be bearing bad news of Algie.

‘Hello, Harriet—’

‘Is anything the matter?’ she blurted anxiously. ‘Is Algie all right? Oh, I do hope you haven’t called to tell me he’s met with an accident …’

Kate smiled sweetly to reassure her. ‘Oh, no, nothing like that.’

‘Then is he all right? I hardly slept last night, I’ve been so worried since he didn’t show up for church.’

‘You needn’t have bothered, you poor dear,’ Kate responded, a look of disdain for her brother upon her face. ‘It’s him I’ve come to talk to you about.’

‘So what happened to him?’

‘Nothing … If I were you, Harriet,’ she said in a whisper of conspiracy as she leaned towards her, ‘I wouldn’t bother my head over our Algie ever again.’

‘Why? What’s he done?’ Her face bore a look of intense apprehension.

‘Well, for ages, it’s been my opinion that he cares not tuppence for you, or for anybody else for that matter, other than himself. And yesterday proved it. He spent all day and all evening with another girl.’

Harriet’s expression was one of surprise and incredulity. She put her hands to the counter to steady herself. ‘Are you sure, Kate?’

‘Oh, quite sure, Harriet. I can even tell you the girl’s name – Marigold Bingham.’

‘Do I know her?’

‘You? I’d think it unlikely. She’s the daughter of a boatman on the cut. A common little piece if you want my opinion. But then, that’s what some men want, I reckon – girls who they think are easy. I thought you ought to know, Harriet.’

‘Well,’ said Harriet, not sure how to respond, her eyes misty with tears, ‘it’s not exactly the sort of news I welcome, or had expected … But I would have thought that if Algie was tired of me he would have had the common courtesy to tell me himself.’

‘Yes, you’d take such simple consideration for granted, wouldn’t you?’

‘I take it then, that he has sent you to do his dirty work, Kate.’

Here was a further opportunity to condemn Algie in Harriet’s eyes, and Kate embraced it wholeheartedly. ‘Well, yes he has, as a matter of fact.’ She lowered her eyes, feigning shame. ‘And I certainly don’t admire him for it. I told him, “Do your own dirty work,” I said. But he begged and pleaded. He said he couldn’t face you, but that he recognised as you ought to know.’

‘I see,’ Harriet answered sadly.

‘But when I thought about it, Harriet, I decided to come and see you anyway. I would’ve, whether he asked me to or not. You see, I’m really doing it for your benefit, not his. He doesn’t deserve a decent, respectable girl like you, and to my mind you’re well rid of him. Just forget him, Harriet.’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘You can do so much better for yourself.’

Harriet sighed profoundly and brushed an errant tear from her cheek. ‘To be frank, Kate, you’re not the first person to have said so,’ she said dolefully. ‘And you, his own sister, now saying it. Maybe I should take heed.’

‘I know him better than anybody, Harriet. He’s not worth wasting your time on, believe me. I don’t think he could ever remain faithful to one woman. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women.’

Harriet slumped down on the stool that stood behind the counter and sighed. ‘I’m deeply disappointed in him, you know, Kate. I would never have thought—’

‘I would’ve thought one of the chaps in the society would have suited you much better than our Algie, you know,’ Kate suggested, provocatively turning the focus of their conversation. ‘Ain’t there nobody there who interests you?’

Harriet shrugged. ‘I hadn’t thought about it. I’m not the type of girl to go flirting with all the men anyway. I’m really quite shy.’

‘Best way and no mistake,’ Kate agreed with a nod. ‘Saves trouble in the long run.’

‘And you, Kate?’

‘Me? I ain’t particularly interested in men, although I try and be pleasant to ’em all. As long as nobody reckons it’s flirting, ’cause I ain’t a flirt neither, you know. Us girls have our reputations to consider.’

So the subject of Algie Stokes was soon dropped, in favour of a discussion about the Brierley Hill Amateur Dramatics Society, its personnel, and the new play, rehearsals for which were due to start that week, now that the cast had been decided upon. They discussed each of the characters in turn.

‘I’m so glad you were picked for the part of Pocahontas, Kate,’ Harriet remarked generously, trying hard to push from her mind all thoughts of her erstwhile swain. ‘I think you’ll do it justice.’

‘Oh, I intend to. Although I ain’t had much experience at this acting lark, I reckon I shall make a decent fist of it. And how about you, Harriet?’

‘Oh, I am content with the role of Mistress Alice. I don’t have too many lines to learn.’

Late that afternoon, the Binghams passed through the locks at Buckpool. Marigold tried to persuade her father to moor up for the night in the winding basin close to the lock-keeper’s cottage. Seth smiled indulgently, aware that his daughter had become attached to Will Stokes’s lad, and that she would relish the opportunity to walk with him that fine spring evening before they had to move on. He recalled those days years ago when he was courting her mother, who was a landlubber then; how they had both looked forward to the days when he would moor up in Brierley Hill and they could spend tender moments together before he moved on again for more weeks of travelling. But for all his sentimentality and regard for Marigold’s love life, he had to get as far along the canal as he could. And while there was still daylight left …

‘We’ll moor up at Parkhead Locks by the tunnel,’ he said, knowing full well they could go no further that day. Parkhead was close to the entrance of the Dudley Tunnel and he had no intention of loading up with bars from the ironworks close by and travelling through that night. It would have to wait till tomorrow. ‘Young Algie’ll be able to bike it if he wants to see you, it ain’t far – unless he falls in the cut again.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ Marigold said with an appreciative smile, at once excited by the prospect of seeing Algie again. ‘I’ll go an’ pay the toll and ask his mother to let him know. Have you got some loose change?’

He felt in his trouser pocket and coins jingled. ‘Here …’

She crossed the lock to the cottage, and Clara answered the door.

‘You making pastry, Mrs Stokes?’ Marigold greeted amiably, seeing Clara’s arms floured up to her elbows.

‘I’m making a cheese, onion and tater pie for their tea,’ Clara confirmed. ‘Come in if you want to.’

Marigold smiled gratefully and entered. ‘I brought the toll money.’ She handed it to Clara.

‘Ta, my love … Remind me to give you your chit when my hands are clean … Are you mooring up close by?’

‘Parkhead Locks tonight, me dad says. He wants us to get to the ironworks so we can load up first thing in the morning.’

‘You’ll be going through the tunnel tomorrow then?’

Marigold nodded.

When they’d done asking each other how everybody was, Clara commented, ‘I can never get over how a family the size of yourn can manage to be so comfortable living on a narrowboat. You must be under one another’s feet all the time.’

Marigold laughed. ‘Oh, it ain’t so bad, Mrs Stokes. We got all we need and we do spread out between the two boats.’

‘I know, but there’s all the stuff you have to carry as well.’ Clara said, rolling out a ball of pastry. ‘All your clothes, tools, a mangle, a dolly tub and what have you.’

‘Oh, that reminds me, Mrs Stokes … me mom wants to do a bit o’ washing while we’re moored up. Can we use your tap in the brewhouse for some clean water? She asked me to ask you. There ain’t a pump at Parkhead Locks. We can fill some buckets and the tin bath if you don’t mind.’

‘Course I don’t mind. Course you can, my flower. Shall you be helping her with the washing?’

Marigold nodded emphatically, as if there could be no other way. ‘We each help her all we can. We’ve all got our jobs to do. But she says I can still see your Algie after, if we get it done in time and hung out to dry. Will you tell him, please, Mrs Stokes, as we’ll be moored up at Parkhead Locks when he comes back from work?’

‘Course I’ll tell him,’ Clara said. ‘Have you got time for a cup o’ tea?’

‘That’s ever so kind, but I’d better not,’ Marigold replied, regretting the lost opportunity to get to know Algie’s mother better. ‘The sooner we get on, the sooner we’ll be finished. You wouldn’t believe how black your clothes get carrying coal, like we’ve been doing last trip. I daresay we’ll have to get in the tin bath as well, while we’ve got it out, heating buckets o’ water up.’

Clara smiled. ‘As long as you’ve got a tarpaulin to put round you, eh? You don’t want no peeping Toms.’

‘Oh, we got a tarpaulin, all right.’

Clara dried her hands and wrote out the promised chit, which she handed to Marigold. ‘I’ve made some jam tarts already this afternoon. Would you like to take some for the family?’

‘Oh, if you can spare them,’ Marigold said, and Clara found a paper bag to put them in.

‘There’s seven there. One a-piece.’

Marigold took them gratefully and rewarded Clara with a smile. ‘That’s ever so kind, Mrs Stokes. Thank you ever so much. They’ll love these.’

‘Well, go and fill your buckets, my flower, and I’ll see you next time you’re this way.’

‘I hope it’ll be soon, Mrs Stokes.’

On his ride home from work, Algie decided that he must call on Harriet Meese to explain his absence last night and to tell her he wished to end their courtship, unaware that Kate had already done so. He turned over in his mind the things he would say, mentally rehearsing them, imagining her replies and reactions. He was not looking forward to it, but it had to be done. It was for Harriet’s own good, too, for it would release her, make her available to somebody more deserving of her refined qualities.

It was not that Algie didn’t like Harriet. He liked her well enough, he respected her. She was exactly the sort of girl he should court seriously, exactly the sort of girl he should marry. He could hardly conceive of her ever going against his wishes, of her ever doing anything without his consent. She would be eternally faithful and loyal, raise his children faultlessly, and seldom, if ever, be shrewish. If only he could have fallen in love with her … But he had not fallen in love with her, nor ever would. It might have helped if she’d been blessed with a pretty face. But she had not, and that would never change either, and so her face, the foremost obstacle to her potential to fascinate, remained irresolvable. He regarded her as cold and aloof, as shying away from physical contact, but in this Algie was mistaking her instilled chastity for frigidity. Anyway, he did not enjoy kissing her at all; she had a faint, furry moustache that really put him off. On those occasions when he had kissed her he’d imagined he could feel it tickling him; hardly a pleasant sensation, and he could not foresee having to endure that for the rest of his virile manhood. He could not imagine fulfilling his marital bedtime duty without wishing he were fulfilling it with somebody else. In any case, as she grew older she was bound to become stout – you only had to look at her mother to see how the daughter would turn out …

It was best that he ended it, he reassured himself. He had the perfect reason now. He had found a girl he wanted, a girl he liked, with whom he would be less half-hearted.

Algie rode on, assiduously avoiding getting his wheels trapped in the tramlines as he was jolted over the cobbled surface. Between Queen’s Cross and Brierley Hill town it was mostly downhill, save for a slight uphill gradient at Holly Hall, which was hardly likely to trouble him. He coasted to a halt at Meeses’ drapery shop and leaned his bicycle against the stone window sill.

The bell chinked with reliable monotony as he thrust the door open and there, facing him over the bolts of cloth that adorned the counter, was the stern, fat, uncompromising countenance of Eli Meese. Eli rose from his stool at sight of Algie, bridling like a frenzied bull that had been goaded by the proverbial red rag.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’d like to see Harriet, please, Mr Meese.’

‘Oh, yes?’ He nonchalantly scratched his fat backside, partly for effect, partly because it itched. ‘The trouble is, our Harriet don’t want to see you.’

‘Oh? Why not?’

‘’Cause you’m a bad un, that’s why.’ Eli looked Algie squarely in the eye. ‘I know all about you and your shenanigans. I know you was off with some slattern from the cut last night when our Harriet was here waiting for yer like the true soul she is, mythered to death over yer ’cause yo’ hadn’t showed up and she knows no better. I waited with her an age meself, like a mawkin, till I could see as you was never gunna show your ugly fizzog. I’m churchwarden, you know …’ He prodded his chest importantly with his forefinger. ‘And I tek me responsibilities serious. Not to be hindered by the likes of you.’ With consummate contempt, he wagged the same forefinger at Algie. ‘So from now on, I forbid you to see our Harriet. Besides, you’m neither use nor ornament. Her can do better for herself, can our Harriet, than a ne’er-do-well like you as’ll never mek anythin’ of himself. So bugger off, lad, and if I ever see or hear of you sniffing round our Harriet again, I’ll draw blood, so help me.’ The bull swelled up threateningly and seemed to snort. ‘Now sod off!’

Algie considered that to retreat while he was still standing was his best option.

‘Will you just tell her I called, Mr Meese?’ he said feebly, opening the door to make his ignominious exit, which made the bell chink annoyingly again.

‘I’ll tell her all right, have no fear. I’ll tell her what I’ve just told you an’ all.’

Outside in the warm early evening air, Algie blew out his lips, perplexed, which hurt the fragile split that he’d acquired last night. As he cocked his leg over his bicycle to ride away, feeling ever so humble, he gently touched the wound and looked at his fingers circumspectly to see whether there was blood on them. There was, and he rode away, nursing it.

How in God’s name had the Meeses found out that he had been with Marigold last night? News travels fast in communities like Brierley Hill, but surely never that fast. It would never have occurred to Algie that his own sister was the culprit.

Anyway, he had better things to contemplate. He had Marigold to see. He wondered if the Binghams had passed through Buckpool yet, or whether they were still stuck in Kidderminster. Either way, he would ride along the canal’s towpaths till he found her. And he would wallow in her warm, newly won affection …