Читать книгу The Sweeping Saga Collection: Poppy’s Dilemma, The Dressmaker’s Daughter, The Factory Girl - Nancy Carson - Страница 18

The silence inside St Thomas’s church overwhelmed Poppy. The clack of her clogs on the hard tiled floor rang off the walls and around the huge stone pillars that supported the gallery and the high, vaulted roof as she followed Robert up the centre aisle and into a front pew facing the choir stalls. She sat down beside him and looked in wonder at the painting on glass that filled the east window above the altar.

‘What’s that picture?’ she asked in a whisper, for to speak in her normal voice would be an unwarranted intrusion on the church’s cool tranquillity. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘The Ascension,’ Robert answered. ‘Christ risen.’

‘Oh,’ she said and nodded.

Robert had picked up a copy of the Book of Common Prayer from the rear of the church as they entered. He opened it up and handed it to her with an affectionate smile.

‘See if you can make sense of this, Poppy.’ He pointed to a block of text that looked inordinately daunting to her eyes. ‘Read it out to me.’

She studied the text for a few seconds, then, garnering her confidence to try, she began reading very slowly, building up the words as best she could, ‘Our Father … which – art – in – heeven …’

‘Heaven,’ Robert corrected.

‘Oh. Heaven … But I thought an e and an a together said ee, like in bean.’

‘Not always, Poppy. There’s no rule.’

She tutted diffidently. ‘So what’s that next word?’

‘Hallowed.’

‘What’s it mean?’

‘Revered … Respected … Admired.’

‘Oh … Hallowed – be – thy – name – Thy k – kin – king – dom – come – Thy – will – be – done – on … What’s that word, Robert? It’s a hard one.’

‘Earth,’ he said, with unending patience.

She looked at him intensely and nodded, then returned to the book. She read it through to the end, taking her time, meticulously trying to construct the words from the letters and combinations she had already learnt.

‘What’s this word, Robert?’

‘Amen. It means “so be it”.’

‘Then why don’t it just say “so be it”, instead of “Amen”?’

‘Because it’s either a Latin or Greek or Hebrew word that means so be it. When you say a prayer you generally start it with the words “Our Father”, and end it with “Amen”.’

‘So it’s a sort of rule, then?’

‘Yes. Or rather, a sort of convention … I must say, you read that very well. I know it was slow, but speed comes with practice. The more you read, the easier you’ll recognise words, and the faster you’ll become. You’ll also learn a great deal from reading. It’s the gateway to all knowledge.’

‘Is that all there is to praying then?’

‘You are supposed to word your prayer to suit whatever it is you’re praying for.’

‘So if I wanted to pray to God to send me some new boots, what would I say?’

Robert smiled to himself. ‘That would depend on what size you took.’

‘Size four, I think.’

‘God needs to know, you see. So you would say a prayer to God asking for some boots and tell him what colour, size, et cetera … It’s normal to kneel while praying to demonstrate our humility, but we won’t bother with that rigmarole. Humility is such an aggravating attribute. It’s just as easy to pray sitting down … And a sight easier on the knees. Now put your hands together and close your eyes – like this …’

She did as he bid.

‘Ready to say your prayer?’

‘Yes,’ she said and took a deep breath. ‘Our Father, please let me have a pair of dainty black boots with ’lastic sides … size four should do it … Amen.’ She opened her eyes and turned to Robert. ‘Do you think it’ll work?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Oh, I doubt it. It’s not considered good practice to pray for material things. Only spiritual. For instance, why don’t you say a prayer for your father and perhaps your mother?’

‘How? Will you say a prayer to show me how?’

‘I’ll try. But please remember, Poppy, I’m not an ordained priest and I haven’t the command of religious language like priests have. But I will try, and hope it doesn’t sound trite. Here goes … Hands together now, eyes closed …’ Poppy peeped at him and thought how very solemn but how very handsome he looked. ‘Our Father … we commend the soul of the dearly departed Jack Silk unto Thy care and protection. Please receive him, Lord, into the bosom of Thy tender mercy and forgive him his trespasses. We pray also for Sheba Silk and Poppy Silk and the rest of his family left behind, who grieve over his passing. Comfort them and nurture them with Thy eternal strength and goodness … Amen.’

Poppy was moved. A tear trembled on her eyelash and rolled down her cheek, but she checked herself from weeping. ‘That was beautiful, Robert,’ she breathed. ‘I shall never forget what you said. It was beautiful.’

He turned to her and smiled with all his affection manifest in his eyes. ‘Does it make you feel a little uplifted?’

‘Oh …’ She pondered the question for a second or two. ‘In a funny way, yes. I don’t feel half so sad as what I did before. I s’pose it’s knowing that our Father which art in heaven will look after me dad now … Oh, I don’t feel half so sad, Robert. Thank you.’

He could have hugged her. He wanted to hug her. He wanted to take her in his arms and never let her go. But he was in God’s House and such shenanigans would only be frowned on and ultimately punished by that good and bounteous God who totally disapproved of bodily contact between man and woman unless they were bound in matrimony.

Poppy turned her face to him and pursed her lips without inhibition. Without thinking, he met them with his own and they kissed. It was not a lingering kiss, little more than a peck, but it was so natural, so unpretentiously given, that it quite took his breath away. Never had he known such unstinting warmth from another person.

‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked. ‘When you leave here, I mean?’

She shrugged girlishly. ‘Go home, I ’spect. I got some work to do yet. That new chap who come – you know, my dad’s mate, Buttercup – he wants me to wash his shirt and things. I promised I would.’

‘Have you had much to do with him?’

‘Not yet. But I like him. He seems like me dad … kind and easy to get along with. I hope he stays with us awhile.’

‘I … er … I bought you this, Poppy …’ Robert felt in his pocket and fished out a little parcel. ‘I thought it appropriate. I do hope you like it.’

‘What is it?’

‘Open it, and you’ll see.’

‘Robert, thank you, whatever it is. I don’t get presents very often.’ She opened the parcel. ‘Oh, it’s a book,’ she said, delighted.

‘Written by a young woman,’ he said. ‘It’s called Pride and Prejudice. My aunt, who used to be a teacher – I told her about you, by the way – informs me that it gives a good insight into English life and manners. You might find it difficult reading at first, so don’t be disheartened. Persevere and it should be worth it. You’ll soon be reading quite quickly.’

‘Oh, I’ll try and read some tonight and I’ll let you know how I get on.’

‘Good …’ He smiled. ‘You know, Poppy, I think we ought to go now. Would you still like to resume your reading and writing lessons, then?’

‘Yes … Course.’

‘So shall we meet on Monday at my office, after the works have finished?’

‘Oh, yes, please, Robert.’

Meanwhile, Sheba was in the living room working alone. The children were out playing, and Tweedle Beak was at The Wheatsheaf grinning and bearing it, as were the rest of the hut’s usual contingent. Except for Buttercup. He left the dormitory where he had been fiddling and entered the living room, where he believed Sheba was on her own.

‘Still hard at it, Sheba?’

‘Is it ever any different?’

‘I reckon not. Where’s young Poppy? Has she gone out to play and left her mother to do all the work?’

‘I don’t begrudge the wench some enjoyment, Buttercup. It’s my guess as she’s gone to meet that engineer what’s learning her to read. She’s got a soft spot for him, and no two ways. Trouble is, she’s gunna be let down with such a bang. She’s set her sights way too high.’

Buttercup pulled a chair from under the table and sat down. ‘Fill we a tankard o’ beer, eh, Sheba?’

‘Oh? Ain’t you going to The Wheatsheaf with the others?’ She took the key from her pocket and unlocked the barrel.

‘I can goo theer anytime. Besides, there’s no sense in getting lagged out o’ thy mind on beer all the time. I’d rather tek the time to talk … if yo’ve a mind to talk to me, Sheba.’

‘I’m content enough to stop and talk.’ Sheba filled a tankard and handed it to him.

‘Ta, my wench. Bist havin’ one theeself? I’ll treat thee.’

‘That’s decent of you, Buttercup. Thanks, I will.’ She took a tumbler from a cupboard and filled it with beer. ‘Here’s to you.’

‘Here’s to thee … And here’s to Poppy an’ all, whether or no her’s set her sights beyond her.’

Sheba sat down at the opposite side of the table. ‘The trouble with our Poppy, Buttercup, is that she’ll have no truck with any o’ the young navvies. She’s made it plain she don’t want to end up a navvy’s woman.’

‘The wench has got some sense,’ Buttercup remarked. He took a slurp of beer and wiped his chin.

‘But that Jericho keeps on coming round after her. Maybe you’ve noticed. He seems decent enough, but our Poppy’s heart’s set elsewhere, I can see that.’

‘Jericho, eh?’ Buttercup rubbed his whiskers thoughtfully, reminded of the incident in the tunnel. ‘I bain’t altogether sure as that Jericho deserves her, any road, Sheba. He’s a bit wayward that one, wun’t thee say so?’

‘Always up to fighting, they reckon. But then, so am a good many. They fight over the daftest things. All of ’em.’

Buttercup nodded. He took another quaff of beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Then let’s hope Poppy keeps him at a distance … And theeself, Sheba?’

‘Me?’

‘Aye … And Tweedle Beak? How dost thou fare together?’

‘Me and Tweedle?’ Sheba shrugged. ‘He ain’t no Lightning Jack, but …’

‘But what?’

‘Well, that’s the top and bottom of it, Buttercup. He ain’t Lightning Jack Silk …’

‘But yo’m content to lie with him?’

‘Content? What choice have I got?’

‘Oh, I bain’t judging thee, Sheba,’ Buttercup said kindly. ‘Let him as is without sin cast the fust stone, as they say …’ The stem of Buttercup’s clay pipe was sticking out of the pocket of his moleskin jacket. With a sigh, he withdrew it and placed it carefully on the table while he cut a knob of tobacco from a stick he pulled out of another pocket. ‘But if thou bistn’t content, thou’st got no choice at all if he babbies thee, Sheba, my wench.’ He failed to meet her eyes while he rubbed the knob of tobacco between the palms of his hand to break it into shreds. ‘No chance at all.’

‘Ah … Well that’s another problem, you see, Buttercup …’ Their eyes met and Sheba’s expression was one of candour. She trusted this man. He had been a good mate of Lightning Jack’s, and Jack had always been a good judge of a man’s character. She smiled tentatively, and lowered her eyes like a young girl as he tried to read her mind.

While he filled his gum-bucket, it struck Buttercup how little more than a girl Sheba was. Lightning, by his own confession, had taken her as a fourteen-year-old, hardly more than a child. By the time she was fifteen she’d had Poppy. She could be no more than thirty or thirty-one now, he estimated. She was still comely enough, even though she’d had several children, even if the ceaseless grind of navvy life and moving from one encampment to another had taken its toll. No wonder Tweedle Beak had intervened to save her from a life on tramp. She was eminently beddable still.

‘Art thou already in the family way with him then?’ Buttercup asked, lighting his pipe.

‘Not with Tweedle. I’m carrying Jack’s child.’

Buttercup grinned, his pipe held horizontal between his teeth. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Does Tweedle know?’

Sheba shook her head. ‘Soon enough he will … when me belly gets bigger.’

‘So dost thou intend to let him think it’s his?’

Sheba uttered a laugh of derision. ‘Do you think he’s that daft? He’ll work out soon enough that it ain’t.’

‘And then what?’

Sheba shrugged. ‘Aye, then what? You tell me.’

Buttercup sucked on his gum-bucket and blew a cloud of smoke into the room. ‘Well, who knows, Sheba? I reckon ’tis a decision thou must make some time soon.’

‘Oh, I reckon the decision’s made already, Buttercup. I’ll not pass off this child as Tweedle Beak’s, although it did occur to me to do it. I’m too proud that it’s Lightning Jack’s.’

Buttercup beamed and his eyes crinkled into creases that Sheba found mightily attractive. ‘Good for thee, Sheba,’ he said. ‘I can’t abide that Tweedle Beak meself. Let’s have a drink on it, eh? Pour us another, my wench.’

Poppy tripped back to Rose Cottage feeling light and breezy compared to how she felt earlier. So she was going to meet Robert again on Monday. Once more they would be alone together in his office. Would he ask her to sit on his lap again and smother her in those delicious kisses that made her toes curl? The spectre of the girl to whom he was promised rose up and plagued her thoughts. Best not think about her. Pretend she didn’t exist. If only Robert could escape her clutches. Maybe he would, for Poppy sensed his fondness for herself, despite their class difference. And, like he’d said before, class difference was not an insurmountable barrier if you had the will to overcome it.

She saw that Buttercup was seated at the table smoking his gum-bucket and grinning, a full tankard of beer in front of him. Her mother was sitting opposite, also drinking beer and smiling contentedly. Poppy noticed how, at her entrance, they immediately fell silent for an awkward second or two, until Buttercup greeted her cordially.

‘Well, talk o’ the devil … Here her is, that sprightly young filly o’ thine, Sheba.’

‘What’s that you’re carrying?’ Sheba asked.

Poppy raised the book in her hand. ‘Oh … a book. Robert gave it me to read.’

‘Thou canst read then, eh?’

‘Somebody I know is learning me.’

‘That young engineer chap I mentioned,’ Sheba said.

‘Robert Crawford,’ Poppy informed her for the umpteenth time.

‘Can’t say as I know him yet,’ Buttercup said. ‘But it’s a fine thing, bein’ able to read an’ write. Keep it up. It’ll stand thee in good stead. But, tell me, wench … in all the excitement of learning to read, hast thou forgot about washing me shirt?’

‘No.’ Poppy felt herself blushing, not sure if he was mocking. ‘That’s why I’ve come back early. To wash your shirt, and anything else that needs a good wash.’

‘Good lass.’ He stood up, took off the garment and threw it onto another chair close by. ‘Thy fairther, God bless him, always said thou was a good little lass. He always said thou would’st mek somebody a splendid wife.’

‘Just as long as he ain’t a navvyman … Is there some hot water, Mother?’

‘Should be.’ She turned to Buttercup. ‘See? I told you as much. She’ll have no truck … Are you going out tonight, our Poppy?’

Poppy picked up Buttercup’s shirt and shrugged as she made her way over to the stone sink. ‘I don’t know. It depends whether Minnie wants me to. Or even Jericho.’

‘What if neither is about?’ Buttercup asked.

‘Then I’ll stop in and start to read me book. It’s wrote by a young woman, Robert says. He says I’ll like it.’

‘Robert says so, eh?’ Sheba flashed a knowing look at Buttercup. ‘Well, if Robert says so, you can bet you will …’

That warm summer’s evening, Poppy went to Hawthorn Villa to call for Minnie.

‘You’ve just missed her, my flower,’ Ma Catchpole informed her. ‘Her went out half hour ago.’

‘Is she likely to be long? I mean has she gone out with Dog Meat for the night?’

‘That drunken bugger? No, Dog Meat went up the Grin and Bear It as usual. He must be in truck up to his arsehole, the money he spends on beer. Leastwise, I doubt if anybody’s saft enough to lend it him.’

‘Well, if she comes back soon, send her round for me, would you, Mrs Catchpole?’

‘I’ll tell her as you’ve bin after her, young Poppy.’

Poppy ambled back towards Rose Cottage disconsolately, disappointed that her friend had not called for her. Saturday nights they always went out together while Dog Meat went drinking. Maybe Minnie had sloped off to see some young beau she’d met. Maybe even that local lad again, called Tom. Often had she sung Tom’s praises. Poppy picked up a stick from the ground and sat on the front step of the hut, scratching letters in the dust.

Then she remembered her book. She could make a start on that. If she could read only the first page she would be mightily proud of herself. She would have achieved something. Back inside the hut she picked up her book and took it into the bedroom. She plumped up her pillow and, still dressed, lay on the bed and opened the book to the first page of the story. Slowly, carefully, she built up each word.

‘Chapter One. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife …’ Goodness! Did that apply to Robert as well? He was surely in want of a wife … It was wonderful how it all made sense. Already Poppy was spellbound. She could hardly wait to complete the next sentence. She read for ages and fell asleep fully dressed, only to wake fully dressed next morning, her brother and sisters having failed to disturb her when they retired to bed.

On Monday, after the works had shut for the night, Poppy skipped along to the house the company had occupied, which served as offices. Gingerly, she climbed the linoleum-clad stairs to Robert’s office and, to her great relief, saw him sitting at his desk, which was, as usual, covered in maps and diagrams. He turned and smiled to greet her when he heard her footsteps.

‘Poppy! I thought you weren’t coming.’

‘Am I late?’ she queried. ‘I’m not surprised. There was a lot of the men about. I waited till they’d all cleared off, then waited a bit longer.’

‘Sensible,’ he said. ‘We don’t want tongues wagging, do we?’

Poppy shrugged. It would make no odds to her if they did. Indeed, too many folk already knew that Robert Crawford was teaching Poppy Silk to read for it to remain a secret for long. But she understood that he wished for greater discretion.

‘I brought my book,’ she said. ‘I’ve been reading it. I love it.’

He smiled warmly. ‘Good. Read some to me. Let me hear how you are faring.’

She sat in the chair beside him and read the first page while he listened and prompted from time to time, watching the wonderfully animated expressions on her face and in her crystal clear eyes. As she spoke the words, he was captivated again by the beautiful sensuous shapes her lips adopted, and he ached inside for her. It struck him then that love can be the most wondrous thing, but it can also be the most torturous if the object of your love is forbidden.

After a few minutes she stopped reading and looked up at him with wide, questioning eyes.

‘Your reading has improved immensely, Poppy,’ he said. ‘Already you are reading faster than you were before. But perhaps we should concentrate on some spelling and punctuation. Do you have your writing book with you?’

She fished in the pocket of her skirt, withdrew it and placed it on the desk.

‘Just a few of the more difficult words you’ve come across … acquaintance …’

‘What’s an acquaintance, Robert?’

‘A friend,’ he answered patiently. ‘Not necessarily a close friend, but somebody whom you know. Somebody with whom you are acquainted.’

She nodded her understanding.

‘So write acquaintance down, Poppy …’ He spelled it out for her and she methodically inscribed it in her steadily improving hand. ‘Now daughter … extraordinary … considerable … neighbourhood …’

Poppy wrote down many words, and did it with a zeal for learning that could not fail to impress Robert Crawford. He went on to explain the rudiments of punctuation: full stops, commas, inverted commas, colons, semicolons, question marks. Poppy nodded thoughtfully as each was explained, as she absorbed the knowledge like a sponge absorbs liquid.

‘You have done extremely well,’ he said. ‘You are learning much quicker than I ever imagined you would.’

‘Am I?’ she replied with a gratified smile that turned into a blush.

‘And I have a small gift for you, to mark my recognition of the hard work you have put into your efforts. Efforts which are quite voluntary, and thus the more laudable.’

‘Laudable?’

‘Praiseworthy, Poppy. Deserving.’

‘Then why didn’t you say praiseworthy or deserving, instead of lordabubble? Anyway, what sort of gift have you got for me? Another book?’

‘No …’ He leaned forward and stretched out to retrieve a parcel of brown paper and string that lay under his desk near his feet. ‘Here …’ He smiled, eager to see her response. ‘I want to watch your expression as you open it …’

‘What is it?’ She looked at him with a mixture of apprehension and delight as she took the parcel from him.

‘You’ll see.’

Eagerly she undid the knots in the string and discarded it, then set about carefully unwrapping the box. It had a lid, which she lifted it a little and then let fall again to prolong the pleasure of anticipation. Robert watched her, as excited as she was, urging her to reveal the contents. She removed the lid and gasped.

‘Robert! Oh, Robert, it’s a pair of dainty black boots with ’lastic sides. Oh, thank you, thank you. How can I thank you enough?’

‘Well … a kiss would suffice.’

‘Oh, I’ll give you a hundred kisses – a thousand.’

She leaned forward with her typical lack of inhibition and their lips met. Their arms went about each other in tentative desire … Tentative, because each was aware of the forbidden nature of their fervour. She withdrew her lips with profound reluctance and regret, and rested her forehead on his chest, unable to quieten the sincere love she felt for him.

‘Oh, Robert …’ she breathed, her voice so strained with emotion that she needed no further words.

He hugged her tight and nuzzled his cheek against her lush, fair hair. Why did he torture himself so? Why indeed did he torture her? It was so obvious even to him that she was head over heels. It must be correspondingly obvious to her that he was equally besotted. Yet what remedy did they possess? How could they possibly satisfy their love?

‘Shall I try on the boots?’ she said, sensitive to his dilemma and not wishing to augment the pain by prolonging it.

‘Of course … You see, Poppy …’ He swallowed hard in his effort to regain his composure. ‘Your prayer for a pair of boots has been answered.’

‘I know,’ she said, sitting down again and slipping her clogs off. She looked him squarely in the eye. ‘And when I go to bed tonight, I’m going to say another prayer, if it’s that easy to get what you want …’