Читать книгу The Sweeping Saga Collection: Poppy’s Dilemma, The Dressmaker’s Daughter, The Factory Girl - Nancy Carson - Страница 11

The womenfolk of the navvies tended to be as sober as their men were drunken. Many were navvy-born, spending their whole lives tramping from town to town, from one huddle of shanties to another. A few had been seduced into following some strapping, carefree, well-paid and handsome navvy who entertained them royally in an effort to impress as he was passing through their town or village. Navvy-born girls, who knew no other life, grew up early and adopted the habits and attitudes of the older women when as young as twelve or thirteen. They worked hard from early morning and into the night, cleaning huts and boots that were forever dirty by virtue of the work the men did. They bore the navvies’ children, nurtured them and brought them up as best they could, fretting over their health and well-being. Their particular kind of self-respect seldom extended to matrimony, however, save for their own version of it, which was solemnised by the couple jumping over a broomstick, and then consummating their union in front of as many drunken spectators as could be crammed into the room that housed their bed. Because Lightning Jack was a ganger, he was entitled to take lodgers into the hut he rented from the contractor. Sheba was therefore expected to keep the fire going, darn endless pairs of socks, do the washing, the mending, and the cooking for those paying lodgers.

Poppy and Minnie lived in similar circumstances in different huts that were essentially alike. They were obliged to help their mothers and did so, reliably and willingly. But like their mothers, they were no more than unpaid skivvies. Their rough way of life gave them insights into the goings-on between men and women from which girls in different circumstances would be thoroughly protected. These goings-on affected some more than others, although nothing ever shocked them for they were immune. Minnie, for one, was exhilarated by the sights and sounds of others engaged in sexual intercourse – sights and sounds that she often encountered – and these antics influenced her own lax attitude to sex. Sex was no remarkable phenomenon; it was a commonplace, everyday occurrence to which she attached no greater reverence than she did her other natural bodily functions, except that sex was mightily more pleasurable. Consequently, you might go out of your way to enjoy it.

Poppy, on the other hand, was somewhat differently affected. She preferred to postpone the fateful day or night when she would, for the first time, be expected to similarly indulge. And she had been remarkably adept in pursuing that goal. The thought of doing it on her ‘wedding night’ in front of a drunken, unruly mob did not suffuse her with either joyful or eager anticipation.

When they had finished their work that evening, Poppy brushed her fair hair, put on her coat and went out into the rain to call for Minnie. Already the ground of the encampment, which had been dry and dusty for weeks, was suddenly a quagmire and her clogs squelched in the mud as she picked her way through it. She reached Ma Catchpole’s hut, tapped on the door, opened it and put her head round. Minnie’s father, known as ‘Tipton Ted’, was supping a tankard of beer through his unkempt beard and sucking on his gum-bucket alternately as he sat soaking his feet in a bowl of hot water, his moleskin trousers rolled up to just below his knees. He greeted Poppy amiably and asked if she had any news of her father. She replied that she hadn’t.

Minnie then appeared from the little bedroom. She had made a special effort with herself and looked neat and tidy. Her face glowed shiny from the effects of soap and water and her dark hair hung down in tight ringlets under her bonnet.

‘I’m ready,’ she said to Poppy, and bid goodnight to her folks.

‘Where shall we go?’ Poppy asked when they were back outside in the rain.

‘Anywhere we can find shelter,’ Minnie replied, stepping into a mudbath at their front door. ‘Look at me boots already. This front door’s a muck wallow. Dog Meat and me dad will be moaning like hell tomorrow. It’ll be that hard to get the muck out of the wagons when it’s wringing wet and stuck together in a stodge.’

Instinctively, they walked towards the footpath and Shaw Road, stepping over black puddles in the half light.

‘Have you seen much of that Jericho since?’ Poppy enquired.

‘Yes, I took him some dinner on a tray. He’s got matey with Dog Meat already. They’m going to the Grin and Bear It together. I fancy going there and seeing ’em.’

‘You mean you fancy seeing this Jericho.’

Minnie nodded and smiled as she glanced at Poppy.

‘I met somebody today,’ Poppy coyly remarked.

‘Oh?’

‘An engineer who works for Treadwell’s. I reckon he’s about twenty-three.’

‘An engineer?’ Minnie sounded incredulous. ‘How did you meet him?’

‘When I was walking back from the tommy shop. He came past me riding a two-wheeled machine like a hobby horse. He recognised me. He’s the one I told you about who came to our hut with that vile policeman, when me father jacked off. Any road, he stopped to talk. He asked me if I’d heard from me father. He was ever so friendly, and he seemed kind – as if he really cared.’

‘What’s he look like?’ Minnie asked.

‘Ooh, handsome,’ Poppy said with a dreamy smile. ‘And he’s got such lovely, kind eyes. I really liked him, Minnie.’

‘You liked him? The likes of you have got no hope of getting off with somebody like an engineer, Poppy. Engineers am educated. Unless he just wants to get you down in the grass and give you one.’

‘He didn’t strike me as being like that,’ Poppy replied defensively. ‘He called me “Miss Silk”. Can you imagine? Me? Miss Silk?’

‘He definitely wants to give you one.’

Poppy shrugged. ‘He can if he wants. I’m game. I’m meeting him Wednesday. He’s going to give me a ride on his machine.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Minnie laughed, cynically. ‘Then when you both fall off, he’ll look into your eyes while you’m both lying there – you with your frock up round your neck – and ask, “Are you all right, Miss Silk?” then climb right on top of you. His little pego will be up you like a shot, like an eel wriggling up a stream.’

Poppy giggled girlishly. ‘You’ve got a vivid imagination, Min. But I don’t mind if he does. I told you, I really, really like him. I just hope he kisses me to death. Oh, I’d love to kiss them lips of his.’

Minnie whooped with joy. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when you was took with somebody, Poppy Silk.’

‘Nor me neither,’ Poppy answered. ‘But I can’t wait for Wednesday.’

The two girls arrived at The Wheatsheaf. On tiptoe, they peered through the window for sight of Dog Meat. The public house was heaving with those navvies who still had money to spend, as well as black-faced miners from the several pits that were dotted about the area, and iron workers with whom they enjoyed a friendly rivalry. Dog Meat spotted Minnie and Poppy, and went outside to fetch them in.

‘I’ll get yer a glass o’ beer apiece,’ Dog Meat said. ‘Go and talk to Jericho.’

Minnie glanced at Poppy and Poppy saw that Minnie’s face was flushed at the prospect of being with Jericho. Oh, that Minnie fancied Jericho all right.

Jericho was sitting at a cast-iron table, twisting a tankard of beer around with his fingers. He grinned when he saw Minnie, then beamed at Poppy.

‘Who’s this then?’ he said, in his strange accent. His eagerness to know Poppy was evident in his expression.

‘This is my mate Poppy,’ Minnie said.

‘I never seen so many pretty wenches on a job,’ Jericho said with a broad grin. ‘Rare beauties all of ye, and that’s the truth, so ’tis.’

‘Where are you from?’ Poppy asked, also fascinated by his piercing blue eyes.

‘From Chippenham. A good few days’ tramp. Ever been to Chippenham, Poppy?’

‘Not unless the railway runs through it.’

‘The Great Western runs right through it. I’ll take you to Chippenham some fine day. I’ll hire a carriage to take us from the station. A pretty girl like you should be treated like a lady. Nothing less than a carriage and pair would be good enough.’

Poppy smiled reticently, remembering Robert Crawford; inevitably comparing the two men.

‘Have you got a chap, Poppy?’ Jericho asked. ‘If not, I’m just the chap for you. We’d make a fine couple, you and me, eh?’

‘You’re wasting your time trying to butter Poppy up,’ Minnie said jealously, trying to dissuade this new resident away from her friend. ‘She’s already took with one of Treadwell’s engineers. What’s his name, Poppy, did you say?’

‘I didn’t say I was took with him,’ Poppy argued, aware of what Minnie was up to. ‘You said it. Not me.’

‘Only ’cause you am took with him, Poppy.’ Minnie turned to Jericho. ‘Less than ten minutes ago she told me she wouldn’t mind this engineer giving her one – and how she’s meeting him Wednesday and can hardly wait. What did you say his name was?’

Poppy sighed and looked archly at her slender fingers. ‘Robert Crawford.’

‘And he rides one o’ them two-wheeled machines what looks like an ’obby ’orse.’

‘What he built himself,’ Poppy added with pride. ‘’Cept for the wheels.’

‘Well, I can see I got some competition … Still …’ Jericho grinned with supreme confidence. ‘Competition never bothered me afore.’

Later that night, when they had returned to their huts and Poppy was in bed, she heard a commotion outside in the compound. Men’s cheering and jeering voices told her it must be a fight. The sounds of fists slapping against flesh and cracking against bone, the earnest grunts of men in a tussle, confirmed it. She sat up in bed, then threw back the blanket and dragged herself out. She found her slippers in the darkness, put her mantle on over her nightgown, and stepped outside to see who it was. The rain had ceased but mud was everywhere. Silhouetted by the feeble light that fell through the open door of Minnie’s hut, a group of men had gathered, encouraging the two men who were grappling each other. Poppy crept forward to see who was involved but, in the darkness, she could not be certain. She saw Minnie, who had also come out to watch, her head darting from side to side as she tried to see round the shoulders of big men in front of her.

Poppy tugged Minnie’s coat from behind. ‘Who’s fighting?’

‘Jericho and Chimdey Charlie.’

‘What are they fighting over?’

‘A pillow,’ Minnie replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. ‘And look … they’m as naked as the day they was born.’ She put her hand over her mouth in mock shock and giggled joyously. ‘He’s a strapping chap, ain’t he, that Jericho?’

Poppy peered through the crowd and tried to catch a glimpse. ‘They must be mad,’ she uttered, and turned to go.

‘He’s got a tidy doodle on him and no mistake,’ Minnie remarked, her eyes sparkling with the reflected light of oil lamps from the hut. ‘Have you seen it?’

‘No, neither do I want to,’ Poppy answered with pious indignation.

But the fight was taking a decisive turn and Poppy continued watching, her natural curiosity getting the better of her. One of the men was down in the mud, prone, and showed no signs of getting up yet awhile. The victor stood over the loser, the muscles of his back clear and defined like live eels wriggling under his skin. He rubbed his hands together, then gave his victim a final kick between the legs. The men began to disperse, discussing the finer points of the scuffle, acknowledging that the winner was a fine fighter, as strong as an ox. Poppy saw that it was indeed Jericho. She turned her back on him and walked away, but he had seen her and called after her, ignoring Minnie.

‘Did you see me beat that vermin?’ he asked excitedly, breathing hard as he caught up with her. His face was unmarked by the fray; only his body had a patch or two of caking mud stuck to it, matted in the dark hairs of his broad chest.

‘I don’t understand what there was to fight about,’ Poppy said indifferently and walked on, determined not to look at him.

‘That spunkless article had got two pillows and I hadn’t got a one,’ he said, following her. ‘So I lifted it off his bunk and put it on mine. He didn’t take kindly to it, so I offered to fight him for it.’

He walked beside her for a while, unabashed by his nakedness, and grabbed hold of her, twisting her round to face him. ‘Kiss me, Poppy,’ he said and his eyes were intensely penetrating, even in the dimness of the night. He thrust his hands inside her mantle and pulled it open. As he drew her to him she could instantly feel the warmth of his body, hot from his exertion, urgently pressing against hers with only the thin cotton of her nightgown between them. As he sought her lips and found them, she felt him harden almost at once, insistent, pressing against her warm belly. For a few seconds she thrilled to the sensation, pleased that she was having such a rousing effect on him.

‘You got nothin’ on under your coat except your nightdress,’ he commented excitedly as he cupped her small bottom in his huge hands. ‘Come with me round the back o’ the hut.’

Poppy pulled herself away from him and wiped her mouth. ‘I will not,’ she said fervently. ‘Don’t think I’m like other navvy wenches, Jericho, ’cause I’m not. Who do you think you are anyway, coming here and thinking I’m going to fall at your feet?’

He looked at her for a few seconds, uncertain how to react, and Poppy was afraid he might strike her for her disaffection. At last he grinned at her. ‘Oh, playing hard to get, eh? Saving yourself for that Crawford, are you? Well, I don’t mind playing that game. You’ll be worth the wait and you’ll taste all the sweeter for it …’ He displayed himself lewdly, cupping himself in both hands … ‘And so will I …’

Poppy turned and ran back to the hut.

She found it difficult to sleep that night, tossing and turning on the feather mattress till it became lumpy. Images of Jericho, naked in the darkness, invaded her mind. Good thing it had been dark. She knew exactly what Minnie saw in him, with his raw good looks, his thick, dark curls and his muscular body that showed not one ounce of fat. But he was arrogant. He knew women fancied him. Women would be there for the taking, wherever he went. But not her. Not Poppy. Oh, he expected her to be like all the others – easy meat. But he had not met anybody like her before. She was not about to be beguiled by the likes of him. Besides, he was just another navvy. Imagine being his devoted woman, sharing his bed at night, bearing his children, yet never sure that he was not bedding some other woman he’d duped with diverting half promises and the prospect of unbounded pleasuring.

So she turned her thoughts to Robert Crawford … Robert Crawford, that gentle soul who was not so high and mighty that he would wilfully pass her by and fail to acknowledge her, even though she was only a navvy’s daughter. He’d called her ‘Miss Silk’. He’d shown her respect and she enjoyed his courtesy. He was so friendly, so easy to talk to. He had no side on him, and yet … His eyes were so bright and alert, and they had been warm on her. Maybe he liked her too, but it could never be as much as she liked him. She would be fooling herself if she allowed herself to believe otherwise. But she wished that he would kiss her. Not roughly, like Jericho, who had stolen a hard slobbering kiss, but warmly, lovingly, with a gentle, sensitive, understated passion that would make her toes curl.

Poppy eventually fell asleep with Robert Crawford in her thoughts. Her dream that night was different from any other dream she had ever experienced. It was not the dream of a child, nor even of a young girl, but of a woman – arousing, stimulating, startling and vividly erotic. It involved herself and two men, both naked, one of whom was riding a two-wheeled machine akin to a hobby horse. She was sitting on the crossbar of the machine in the arms of the naked Robert Crawford, her face against his neck as she nestled in his arms, the wind rippling through her hair, the street flashing past in a blur as they sped down it. And then they fell off the machine into soft long grass and tumbled head over heels. Her skirt was up over her bodice and he was crawling towards her, a look of concern on his beautiful face. ‘Are you all right, Miss Silk?’ he asked, just as Minnie had said he would, but so tenderly. She nodded, smiling as she realised she was naked from the waist down. He scrambled to get on top of her and kissed her lovingly, yet hungrily, and she felt him enter her, so sweetly, so gently, that she hoped the moment would last forever. But in her dream she was also aware of this other naked man, huge, rough and threatening. He came into view and lifted Robert bodily from her and took his place, hurting her, thrashing inside her like some frantic fish caught in a net. She awoke momentarily, tried to exorcise Jericho from her mind and return to Robert … But Robert had gone …

Lightning Jack and Bilston Buttercup had reached the sweeping curve of Chipping Campden’s High Street on the day they anticipated. They enquired as to the proximity of the railway line and the Mickleton tunnel but the locals, who seemed very respectable, did not seem kindly disposed towards them. Eventually, they were directed out of the village on a north-easterly path. They came to the railway track bed under construction and followed it until it came to a dead end. Lightning Jack speculated that the tunnel workings must be over the hill that lay before them. It was not long before they saw the mountains of spoil, the shaft with its steam engine, and a small shanty town of dilapidated huts. A navvy directed them to a ganger who set them on.

Both men had exhausted their money, mainly on beer, but they were amply fed and watered that evening by the resident navvies, with typical navvy hospitality. Their lodgings were in a hut similar to that which Lightning had left behind at the Blowers Green encampment. The same ganger who had employed them, called ‘Swillicking Mick’ because of the vast amounts of beer he was reputed to drink, operated it.

They ate that evening in the common living room of the hut with the others, enjoying cuts from a massive piece of beef and mounds of potatoes from a huge pot that hung over the fire. The only windows, each immediately either side of the solitary door, were stuck in the middle of the room’s longest wall. The kitchen was located opposite a stack of beer barrels. It was home from home.

Swillicking Mick kept them amply supplied with beer. ‘Pay me when you get paid, lads,’ he said. ‘I’ll not rob thee for it. I brew it meself so it works out cheaper than the stuff from the tommy shop.’

‘It’s decent stuff an’ all,’ Lightning commented. ‘Pour us another if it’s cheap.’

Swillicking Mick’s woman, wearing a leather belt from which hung the keys to the locked beer barrels, duly poured Lightning another and made a note of it in a little book that she withdrew from the pocket of her apron.

‘There’s no decent beer shop hereabouts, so a few on us have begun brewing our own,’ Mick informed them. ‘Course, you can always tramp into Campden. A good many do of a Saturday night. The beer houses want our trade, but the locals ain’t too fond o’ the rumpus we cause. Already they’ve put bars up at the windows o’ some o’ the properties, save ’em getting bost.’

‘The contractors don’t like you brewing your own beer, I’ll warrant,’ Buttercup ventured, nodding in the direction of the barrels. ‘’Specially if they ain’t taking a cut.’

‘Nor would the exciseman if he knew,’ Mick said with a wink. ‘The only problem is, I’m more inclined to sell me beer than work on the construction. So would all the others. It earns us a mint o’ money.’

Mick’s woman, Hannah, began clearing the things away and the men continued talking. There were nine or ten men in the room; it was getting noisier and the humour increasingly boisterous. Then there was a knock at the door; more customers for Swillicking Mick. A group of five or six ruffians entered, one of whom carried a fiddle and a bow. They bought beer, and the chap with the fiddle began playing a lively tune. Several of the men began dancing with each other, their boots hammering on the floorboards. Others were sitting on the floor playing cards, their poaching dogs alongside them, and they complained that the dancing would be understandable if there were women about. At that, the door opened again and half a dozen women and girls squeezed inside.

‘The women from the mill,’ Swillicking Mick remarked with a wink.

It was beginning to get crowded. The card-players cheered and got up from the dusty floor, to engage in a more interesting sport.

One of the women – she looked about thirty years old but was possibly younger – attached herself to Lightning.

‘I’ve not seen you before, have I, chuck?’ she said in her rural drawl.

‘Not unless you can see as far as Dudley,’ Lightning answered.

‘You do talk funny. Is that how they talk in Dudley?’

Lightning grinned inanely; the beer was having its effect. ‘They talk even funnier than me in Dudley. I come from Cheshire. But even Dudley folk don’t sound so weird as you with your quaint country twang. What’s your name, by the way?’

‘Jenny Sparrow. What’s yours?’

‘They call me Lightning Jack.’

‘Well, Jack, you look a big, strong chap to me, with your big, drooping moustaches. Spoke for, are ye?’

Lightning took a swig of beer and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘What’s it to you? Fancy your chances, do you?’

‘I’m not so ugly as to be discounted, am I, Jack?’

‘Ugly?’ he queried. ‘No, you’re a fine-looking wench, Jenny … And that’s a handsome bosom you’re flaunting.’

Jenny beamed. ‘Maybe you’d like to help yourself to a handful later?’

‘It depends what it’s gunna cost me.’

‘Oh, I don’t do it for money, Jack. I do it for love …’