by Nancy Carson
‘Payday might be all right for you, old mate,’ Dog Meat said, ‘but it ain’t gunna mek a scrap o’ difference to me.’
‘What d’ye mean by that, Dog Meat?’
Dog Meat hoicked his pick and shovel onto his shoulder as if they were a pair of rifles. ‘I mean I already owe too much in truck to Treadwell’s and on me scoresheet at The Wheatsheaf. By the time everybody’s had what I owe there’ll be sod all left.’
‘Don’t drink so much,’ Jericho advised plainly. ‘Don’t spend all your money on drink.’
‘A man has to have a drink, Jericho. Christ, the work we do, we need a drink after it to numb the aches and pains.’
‘I have no bother with aches and pains,’ Jericho said.
‘Aye, well, maybe you’m a fitter man than me.’
‘I like a glass or two of ale, but I don’t drink so much as you, Dog Meat … Tell me, do you get any succour from the Catchpoles? Apart from sleeping with their daughter, I mean …’
‘For all the use she is lately.’ Dog Meat emitted a scornful laugh. ‘For a wench o’ sixteen you might expect her to be a bit more lively in bed. Lately she’s like a log …’
Jericho gave him a sideways glance that conveyed no hint of guilt. ‘Aye, well, maybe it’s you, Dog Meat. Mebbe you’re too fuddled at night to do anything. Mebbe you’re going at it too much like a pig at a tater. Mebbe you need to hone your skills a bit.’ He was aware of the truth of it from Minnie.
‘D’you want to borrow Minnie again, Jericho?’ Dog Meat enquired sincerely. ‘Maybe you could rekindle some flame in her for me.’
‘I reckon not, Dog Meat. Oh, I don’t mean she ain’t worthy. She’s a fine-looking wench and plenty to grab hold of, I grant ye. But I had me fill—’
‘I could do with the money, Jericho …’
‘And couldn’t we all?’ Jericho pulled up his collar. The drips down his neck were cold now to his skin, which was already cooling.
‘Any fear of a loan then?’
‘I never loan money, Dog Meat. Don’t believe in it. Ask Tipton Ted Catchpole for a sub if you’re that desperate.’
‘Tipton Ted? He wouldn’t give me the drippings off his nose. I even have to provide me own vittles. Which reminds me … I got sod all to eat for me dinner tonight.’
‘Well, steal something.’
‘If you’ll help me, Jericho …’
Jericho nodded.
They were ambling through a shallow cutting. Just behind them stood the newly erected bridge that carried the road to Pedmore and Lye Waste. Woodside was a smattering of cottages and workshops, huddled in a warren of short, narrow streets. The two young men turned back to the bridge and scaled the embankment.
‘Now what?’ said Dog Meat.
‘Mebbe there’s a corner shop … Hark … Can you hear what I can hear?’
Dog Meat cocked an ear. The raucous cackle of a hen elicited a grin as he imagined tender plump chicken for his dinner that night with a mound of boiled potatoes. The sound originated some distance from the top of the cutting, so they followed it. It led them along a bending narrow lane at the end of which lay a fenced field that housed a pig sty, a hen house and, at its furthest point, a cottage. The pigs evidently enjoyed having the run of the field, judging by the black mud they had churned up where they had been rooting. A score of hens pecked at the ground, overseen by a proud, strutting cock.
Jericho looked about him for signs of human life. All seemed quiet, save for the snorts of the pigs and the clucking of the hens.
‘I’ll nip across and pick up one o’ them chickens,’ Dog Meat said.
‘And how many dinners will yer get off that?’
‘Tonight’s.’
‘Well, think on, Dog Meat.’ Jericho tapped his temple with his forefinger. ‘If you could pick up a young pig it’d feed you for a few nights.’
Dog Meat looked at his workmate and grinned. ‘Roast pork. D’yer think Ma Catchpole would roast it for me?’
‘Aye, especially if you promised her a bit for herself. And if you gave some to Minnie, it might put you back in her good books.’
Dog Meat was convinced. ‘Help me catch that little bugger, eh, Jericho?’ He pointed to a small pig that was rooting in the mud, remote from the rest of its family.
‘Mebbe we should wait till it’s dark,’ Jericho suggested. ‘Somebody might see us and tell the police.’
‘That’s all well and good, Jericho, but if it’s dark I won’t be able to see the bloody pig. Any road, there’s nobody about, look.’
‘Suit yourself.’
They clambered over the picket fence that was lined with chicken wire and, in the rain, crept stealthily up behind the young pig. When both men were within two yards of it, the pig turned around with a squeal and scampered off, turning away from them.
‘Bugger!’ Dog Meat cried, and turned to follow it.
The pig began rooting again in a fresh spot and seemed to settle down. Once more, Dog Meat and Jericho inched towards it, a step at a time. Once more, the pig turned and scarpered.
‘Stun it with a brick,’ Jericho advocated, and himself picked up a half house-brick that lay close by. The pig found another spot where he hoped for some uninterrupted rooting, and Jericho hurled the brick. He missed, merely succeeding in splattering the animal with mud, provoking it to move on again.
‘Dive on it, Jericho,’ Dog Meat urged in a hoarse whisper. ‘It’s the only way.’
‘You dive on it,’ Jericho replied. ‘It’s you as wants it.’
‘Might as well dive on a sunbeam. Tricky little bugger this, eh? Why don’t I just get a fowl?’
‘Nay, go for the big prize,’ Jericho encouraged. ‘It’ll be worth it. Just dive on it.’
Dog Meat dived. Just as he was about to smother the pig it let out a frightened shriek, wriggled free and scurried smartly away. Dog Meat was face down in the sticky black mud where the pig had been standing. Jericho laughed aloud as Dog Meat, recovering from his prone position, sat covered in treacly goo and reached down for his boot, which he took off and hurled at the pig resentfully, missing the animal again.
The commotion had, by this time, alerted the occupiers of the cottage that stood at the far end of the field that something was amiss. A window opened and a man’s voice called, ‘What the bloody hell d’yer think yo’m up to?’
‘Christ! Get me boot, Jericho!’
‘Well, you ain’t about to get the pig now,’ Jericho responded.
‘Bloody, buggering, brilliant idea o’ yourn,’ Dog Meat moaned, standing on one leg in the mud. ‘Fetch me me boot quick, afore that bloke gets here. He might have a gun.’
A huge pig, that Jericho estimated must be at least a quarter of a ton in weight, trotted towards them from the far end of the field, splattering dabs of mud behind him.
‘Aye up!’ Jericho yelled. ‘Sod the bloke and his gun. The biggest bloody pig you’ve ever seen in your life has spotted us. Quick, Dog Meat, run – else that’s what you’ll end up as – bloody dog meat.’
Dog Meat turned to look and saw the great, grotesque animal bearing down on him, great swathes of fat shuddering around him as he ran. The navvy struggled to upright himself and began hopping desperately through the mud. ‘Where’s me bloody boot? Get it for me, Jericho.’
But Jericho was striding through the mud towards the sturdy fence over which they had climbed in the first place to get into the field. When he reached it he turned to look at Dog Meat lurching towards him on one leg, the vast pig angrily looming ever closer.
‘Run, Dog Meat, you daft bugger,’ Jericho shouted. ‘Never mind bloody hopping. You’ll never make it.’
Dog Meat heeded the advice and threw himself headlong over the fence just as the pig got its snout to his damp rump. He rolled over and shook his head, taking a second to get his bearings and to decide whether or not he was hurt. He sat up then, his hat skew-whiff, a disgruntled expression on his mud-bespattered face. The sight of him amused Jericho and he guffawed.
‘Remind me never to heed any of your damned advice again, Jericho,’ Dog Meat muttered truculently. ‘Christ, you coulda got me killed. And I’ve still got no dinner.’
‘Aye, and you’ve thrown a shoe, into the bargain.’
‘And a new pair is gunna cost me even more money.’
The next evening, Dandy Punch and two others ambled over to The Wheatsheaf with the men’s wages, as they did at the end of every month. Two hundred men awaited them outside, each tormented by a raging thirst that none but a few were able to satisfy before the money was doled out. As each envelope was handed over, the recipient inspected it, counted it and generally muttered his irritation at how much had been deducted as owing.
‘This ain’t right,’ Tweedle Beak complained to Waxy Boyle as he counted his wages. ‘But how the hell am I to prove it? Now I got me score to settle with Toby Watson. Trouble is, I’m never sober when he gets me to put me mark on it.’
‘Neither is anybody else,’ Waxy said. ‘He fiddles everybody blind. Come on, let’s slake our thirsts.’
As the first of the newly but temporarily enriched navvies trickled into The Wheatsheaf, Toby Watson, the landlord, handed the scores to each man that owed him money and they settled. Then they were entitled to take a tankard of beer from the dozens that had already been poured, and which lined the top of the counter in anticipation of the rush.
Tweedle Beak and Waxy sat on abutting wooden settles in the corner of the room at an iron-legged table. Many other navvies would cram in with them, complain about their lot and get drunk. Sure enough, they were soon joined by Windy Bags and Crabface Lijah. Crabface carried a cribbage board and a box of dominoes as well as his frothing tankard. Windy Bags counted his wages and slipped the money into one of his pockets before shuffling the dominoes that he had laid face down on the table. Brummagem Joe appeared, sat beside him and asked if he could join in the game.
‘We need another,’ Crabface declared. ‘D’you want to play, Tweedle?’
‘Count me in,’ Tweedle responded.
They settled into the first game and were joined at the table by Jericho and Dog Meat. Next to arrive was Buttercup. He drew up a stool, filled his gum-bucket, lit it and watched the game of dominoes with interest, occasionally needling Tweedle Beak with sharp comments. Already there were eight men sitting around the table. The room was filling up, not only with men but with tobacco smoke, and it was growing noisy. Soon it would become rowdy. A further group from Hawthorn Villa occupied the adjacent table, including Tipton Ted, and others with names like Masher, Green Gilbert, and Fatbuck. Dandy Punch, who had done his job of paying everybody, soon joined them.
Jericho went to the bar and appropriated two more drinks for himself and Dog Meat. When he returned he narrated the story of their encounter the day before with the oversized boar. The men found it funny and the story was passed on to the next table and the next, and Dog Meat became the butt of several jokes, to his annoyance and humiliation. The room was so crowded by this time that men were standing around between the stools and tables. Jericho thrust past them to get to the bar again, and once more returned with beer for himself and Dog Meat.
‘He’s a good mate to thee, Dog Meat,’ Buttercup remarked sarcastically. ‘He keeps getting up and fetching thy beer, and I ain’t sid thy hand in thy pocket yet.’
‘All me wages have gone in what I owe, Buttercup,’ Dog Meat replied ruefully. ‘I had a bit left over but that’s gone now I’ve settled me score with Toby. It’s why I was trying to steal me dinner afore we met that bloody great pig.’
‘Nipped thy arse, did it?’
‘Would’ve, if I hadn’t got over the fence in time.’
Jericho, seeing Dog Meat and Buttercup in conversation, turned to Tweedle Beak. ‘I could do with a word, Tweedle. Just the two of us.’
‘You’d best say what you’ve got to say here, lad. I ain’t shifting from here whilst I’m in the middle of a game o’ dominoes. I’ll lose me seat. What’s up?’
‘I, er … I’ve been meaning to ask for a while now, but …’
‘But what? Spit it out, lad.’ He scanned the dominoes he held secretively in both hands
‘I, er … Well, the truth is … I want young Poppy. Now as you’re the breadwinner o’ that family and seeing as how Sheba’s carrying your bab, I look to you, Tweedle, to tell me what you’ll take for the wench.’
‘Money, you mean?’
‘Aye,’ Jericho replied assertively. ‘To jump the broomstick. Ever since I clapped eyes on her, I knew as she was the one for me, the one I been waiting for. How much would you want for me to take her off your hands?’
Tweedle Beak placed a domino at the end of the line that zigzagged across the table and chuckled. ‘Yo’m a dark hoss,’ he said with a knowing look. ‘I know yo’ was sniffin’ round the wench a while ago, but then I reckoned as your interests was diverted elsewhere.’ He winked at Jericho. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’
‘Well, what do you say, Tweedle? How much? If it ain’t an unreasonable amount, you can have the money tonight. I ain’t short. How about thirty bob?’
‘Thirty bob?’ Tweedle scoffed. ‘No, the wench is worth more than thirty bob. At least twice that much.’
‘Three pounds?’ Jericho queried. ‘That’s a bit steep. There ain’t much of her, you know.’
‘Yo’ either want her or yo’ don’t.’
Ears pricked up at this conversation and one nudged another to draw attention to it.
‘I bet there’s many a single chap here who’d willingly gi’ me three pounds for Poppy Silk.’
‘Hear that?’ Windy Bags said, looking up from his dominoes and nudging Crabface Lijah. ‘Tweedle’s about to sell young Poppy.’
Those at the next table also looked expectantly at Tweedle.
‘What’s the bidding?’ Dandy Punch asked, with sudden interest.
‘The wench is on offer at three pounds,’ Buttercup said nonchalantly. ‘Any advance?’
‘I’ll give yer three pounds ten, Tweedle,’ Dandy Punch responded. ‘Aye, and more.’
‘Will you bollocks!’ Jericho protested. ‘The wench is mine. I asked first … All right, Tweedle … Four pounds. Four pounds and she’s mine, eh?’
‘I’d give you five pounds if I thought I could have her,’ the Masher said, a quiet young navvy who dressed almost as flamboyantly as Dandy Punch.
Jericho rummaged in his pocket for money. ‘Here, Tweedle … Here’s a sovereign. Have this as a down payment. I’ll pay you the other four pounds later.’
‘Nay, lad,’ Tweedle said, refusing to accept the money. His enterprising brain could see the potential here for making a handsome kill. ‘Nay, lad, there’s many an interested party here. Poppy Silk goes to the highest bidder …’ He pondered a moment. ‘Better still, let’s have a lottery … Let every man interested pay me a couple of quid, say, and I’ll put his name into a hat. But first let’s spread the word around. I want as many as possible to take part. Fair chances for everybody who’s interested.’
Buttercup drew on his pipe looking unconcerned, but he was seething inside. He resented Tweedle Beak anyway, but encouraging the men to draw lots for poor Poppy Silk was despicable. He nudged Jericho. ‘I would have thought Tweedle Beak would’ve offered thee a bit more consideration,’ he said loudly for all within earshot to hear. ‘Especially in view o’ the circumstances.’
‘What circumstances, Buttercup?’
‘Well, I mean, in view o’ the fact that he was in the tunnel giving that young Eliza a good seeing to who he picked up from The Bush at the top o’ Bumble Hole Road, at the same time as thou was in there giving young Minnie Catchpole the benefit. I’d have thought he’d want it kept quiet.’
Jericho and Tweedle Beak were both shocked into silence, a hush that rapidly spread as the implications were noted. They looked at each other suspiciously while the others looked expectantly towards Dog Meat, expecting a fight to flare up. But there was no sign of a fight, not
between Dog Meat and Jericho at least.
Tweedle Beak stared with burning animosity at Buttercup. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ he rasped, wagging his finger animatedly at Buttercup. ‘You’m a bloody troublemaker, you. I knew you was sodding trouble the minute I cast eyes on yer.’ He turned angrily to Jericho. ‘And you, Jericho, you young bastard. I thought we agreed not to tell anybody about that. Now you’ve told bloody Buttercup. Now the bloody world knows.’
‘I ain’t told nobody,’ Jericho protested, his face reddening. ‘I ain’t breathed a word to nobody. I wouldn’t, would I, if I intended asking you for Poppy.’
‘Well, it must’ve come from thee, Tweedle,’ Buttercup suggested mischievously. ‘Thou wast the only bugger who knew about it. Typical of a man in his cups.’
‘What’s this about him being in the tunnel wi’ my daughter?’ Tipton Ted said with rising indignation, thumbing at Jericho. ‘Dog Meat, do you know aught about this?’
‘Nothing, Ted,’ Dog Meat lied. ‘But I’ll get to the bottom of it when I see Minnie.’
‘You ought to bost his yed,’ Tipton Ted goaded. ‘Bost his yed in. Goo on … What’s wrong wi’ yer?’
Tweedle raised his hands and called for order. ‘Listen, lads, listen. We’m veering off the point here,’ he said, perceiving that his chance to make money from Poppy was slipping away. ‘Let’s get back to the business in hand. Who wants to buy a lottery ticket for young Poppy Silk?’
‘The way I see it,’ Buttercup calmly interjected, ‘nobody’s got the right to set up a lottery to draw for young Poppy. Least of all thee, Tweedle Beak, seeing as how her rightful father’s dead and buried.’
‘I’ll say again, Buttercup,’ Tweedle Beak retorted acidly. ‘What’s it got to do with you? Keep your nose out of my business … or risk having it spread across your face.’
Buttercup smiled. Unperturbed, he picked stray crumbs of tobacco from his waistcoat pocket and stuffed them into the bowl of his gum-bucket that had since gone out. ‘That snout on thy ugly fizzog would be a tidy sight bent about a bit, an’ all, Tweedle, eh? Just don’t push thy luck wi’ me, you parrot-faced wreck.’ He emptied his tankard and stood up. ‘Go on, fix thy lottery. I wouldn’t expect a louse like thee to pay any mind to what the young wench herself wanted, ’cause that’s the sort of vile shit thou bist. But, if yo’ insist it’s thy business and nobody else’s, then get on with it and we’ll see how much good it does thee.’ He left, to seek a less polluted atmosphere.