by Nancy Carson
‘I take it as you’ll see me girls and me wife home safe and sound, young Algie?’ Eli said patronisingly as he parted.
‘Course I will, Mr Meese.’
Actually, it had occurred to Algie to leave the company of Harriet and the rest of the Meeses as soon as the service was over, with the idea of seeking Marigold again; her father was likely to be in the Bottle and Glass for the evening getting pie-eyed, so why not take advantage? But to make an unusually early departure, on whatever flimsy excuse he could quickly invent, would only draw comment and speculation after he had gone, especially when he had given Eli his undertaking to see the family home safely. So, as they ambled down the path through the churchyard to the road, he decided to exercise discretion, to remain patient and wait till Marigold’s next passage through the lock at Buckpool.
While the others walked on ahead, Priss attached herself to Algie and Harriet.
‘I thought the sermon tonight was a bit of an unwarranted rebuke to us all,’ she commented airily. ‘The vicar’s wrong about God being just, you know. I hardly think He’s just at all, not all the time anyway. I’ve come to the conclusion that He is often unjust. Look how so many good and kind people suffer, while too many evil rogues prosper. What did you think of the sermon, Algie?’
‘Me? I didn’t listen to it.’
‘Algie was daydreaming as usual, Priss,’ Harriet said with measured scorn.
‘I was contemplating more earthly things,’ he replied.
‘Oh, but you shouldn’t of a Sunday,’ she reproached. ‘Anyway, what earthly things?’
Actually, he’d been contemplating Marigold Bingham; her smooth skin, her fine complexion, her beautiful face and her delicious figure. She’d been the cause of a troublesome disturbance in his trousers during the sermon as he’d allowed himself to imagine her lying warm and playful with him in some soft feather bed. He could hardly admit as much to Priss or Harriet, though.
‘I was thinking about the bike I’m going to buy,’ he fibbed judiciously.
‘Can you afford a bike?’ Priss queried, sincerely doubting it. ‘Surely they cost a fortune?’
‘I’ve been saving up for months. Now I’ve got enough money to buy one.’
‘But a bike? Couldn’t your money be more wisely spent?’
‘On what?’
‘Well, you’re two-and-twenty now. The same as me. And our Harriet is only two years younger. Have you not considered the future?’
‘Priss!’ Harriet hissed indignantly, digging her sister in the ribs with her elbow as they walked.
‘Don’t prod me, Harriet … I only mean to say that if you are contemplating marriage, then it would be far more sensible to save your money, rather than buy a bike.’
‘Who says we’re contemplating marriage?’ Algie remarked clumsily. ‘We’ve never discussed marriage, have we Harriet?’
‘You’ve never discussed it with me.’ There was a catch in her voice, which suggested antagonism at the lack of any such conversation.
‘I just assumed …’
‘Assume nothing, Priss,’ Harriet said with resignation. ‘Algie obviously has other priorities … and so have I, come to that.’
Eli Meese, Harriet’s father, having risen from humble beginnings as the son of a house servant, had embarked on his road to fortune buying bolts of cloth and selling them in lengths to whoever would buy. He viewed this as a means of escaping the pits and the ironworks. His first enterprise involved the purchase of two thousand yards of flannelettes at tuppence ha’penny a yard, which he sold at fourpence ha’penny a yard from market stalls in several of the local towns. Business prospered and he rented a shop in Brierley Hill as a permanent base. Soon afterwards, he met and married Mary, from whom his daughters inherited their uninspiring faces and would, in time, also manifest her stoutness. When their first child, Priscilla, was born he bought the building which was still home and workplace to him and his family. Eli was proud of being a self-made man. He had raised himself from obscurity to his present position, one of considerable standing in the community. He had made money a-plenty and, as money always commands influence, so Eli grew to be a man of some consequence in Brierley Hill, being not only churchwarden at St Michael’s but Guardian and Justice of the Peace as well. In his social elevation he sought to do his best for his daughters, and ensured that each received as decent an education as he could reasonably afford at the Dudley Proprietary School for Girls, to and from which they took the tramcar every day.
Eli was not entirely comfortable with the thought that his second daughter, easily the most appealing of those of marriageable age, could feasibly end up with the inconsequential son of a lock-keeper. He had hoped she would have set her sights higher, but was wily enough to realise that to forbid the liaison would only serve to launch it into more perilous waters, the consequences of which could be devastating and too painful to contemplate. In time, Harriet’s superior education would reveal itself to both of them, and Algernon Stokes would come to recognise his social and mental inferiority – and so would she. Meanwhile, he tolerated Algernon without actually encouraging him at all. Besides, Algernon’s father, Will, used to be Eli’s regular playmate in those far off days of mutual impoverishment. The lad’s mother, Clara, too … Indeed, when Clara was a young filly and Eli was a young buck with a weather eye for a potential mate, she had been a feast to the eye and a definite target. The trouble was, she was too preoccupied with his rivals and would have nothing to do with him. So he had to content himself eventually with Mary, who he’d put in the family way. Mary would never fetch any ducks off water. Her plainness, though, had proved an advantage in one respect, Eli pondered; she was never attractive enough to appeal to anybody else, which ensured her fidelity. On reflection, perhaps he had been too hasty in agreeing to marry her. The acquisition of wealth had made him much more appealing to other women – better-looking women – he’d noticed over the years.
Such were the ruminations, contemporary and nostalgic, of Eli Meese as he supped alone in the saloon of the Bell Hotel sucking at his clay pipe, his head enveloped in an aromatic cloud of blue smoke. Because he was an important citizen and a Justice of the Peace, few of the lesser locals these days considered themselves socially fit to sup in the same room with him. One man, however, walked into the hotel some little time after Eli, greeted him as an equal, and asked if he would allow him to buy him a drink.
Eli grinned in acknowledgement. ‘A pint of India pale, please, Murdoch.’
Murdoch Jeroboam Osborne paid for the drinks and took them over to the table where Eli was sitting. ‘You was deep in thought when I walked in, ha, Eli? Summat up?’
Eli swigged the last inch of beer that remained of his first helping, then sighed as if deeply troubled. ‘What d’yer mek o’ Will Stokes’s lad, Murdoch?’
Murdoch pulled a stick of tobacco from his pocket and began cutting it into workable pieces with his penknife as he pondered the question. ‘Can’t say as I know him that well, but he seems a likeable enough lad. Ain’t he a-courtin’ your Harriet? I’ve seen him a time or two come to meet her from the Drill Hall after our rehearsals, ha?’
‘Between me and thee, Murdoch, that’s what’s troubling me. I ain’t so sure he’s quite up to the mark, if you get me drift.’
Murdoch laughed. ‘I seem to recall as his mother was well up to the mark at one time, ha? Still is, if you want my opinion.’
Eli grinned conspiratorially. ‘Aye, you’m right there and no mistake. Proper little poppet, was Clara Bunn. Many’s the time I’ve wished …’
‘And the daughter takes after her,’ Murdoch remarked with a twinkle in his eye.
‘Ain’t set eyes on e’er a daughter so far’s I know,’ Eli replied. ‘But is that right? Another poppet? Like her mother was, eh, Murdoch?’
‘The image.’
‘I ain’t surprised. D’you see anything of Clara these days?’
‘Calls in me shop regular.’ Murdoch began rubbing the pieces of t
obacco between the palms of his hands to render it into shreds. ‘If there’s e’er a boiling fowl or a rabbit spare I generally let her have it cheap. She’s grateful for that. I’ve always had a soft spot for Clara.’
‘She could’ve done a sight better for herself,’ said Eli, secretly meaning that she could have had him if she’d played her cards right. He gazed blandly into the clear golden depths of his beer. ‘She could’ve had the pick of the chaps in Brierley Hill – and beyond, but she settled for Will Stokes. Who’d have thought it at the time, eh? Will was never gunna be anything but a lackey to the Stourbridge Canal Company.’
‘Oh, Will’s a decent enough chap, but we can’t all be businessmen, Eli, ha?’ Murdoch scratched his chin, then took his pipe from his pocket and filled it with the shredded tobacco. ‘You got your drapery and I got me butchery. But it ain’t in everybody … So do I conceit as you ain’t too keen on young Algernon’s attentions to your Harriet, ha?’
‘I got no intention of encouraging it, Murdoch, let’s put it that way. She can do better for herself.’
‘Is she took with the lad?’ Murdoch struck a match and lit his pipe, his head quickly shrouded in waves of pungent smoke as he sucked and blew to get it to draw.
‘I wouldn’t like to say as she’s took with him. It’s hard to say for definite. But these attachments have a way of creeping up on folk. ’Specially these young uns what don’t know their own minds. I’m afeared that afore I know it, he’ll be telling me as he’s got to marry her and asking for me blessing. I don’t want to be asked for me blessing.’
‘Aye, well when she’s one-and-twenty – and that can’t be too far yonder – he won’t even need to ask, will he, Eli, ha? If he wants the wench he’ll just do it. Anyroad, I reckon as she could do worse. A lot worse, ha? The lad’s young, he’s working as far as I know. He might mek summat of hisself yet.’
‘Well,’ pondered Eli, lifting his fresh glass of beer, ‘’tis to be hoped … Got any more o’ that baccy, Murdoch? Me pipe’s gone out.’
As he walked along the towpath alongside his horse, Seth Bingham whittled a toy top from a piece of wood for his children. All that remained was to find a strong switch from which to make a whip to set it spinning. He could imagine their delighted faces when he presented it to them and showed them later that day how it worked.
Marigold jumped down onto the towpath from the butty, where she had left Rose, her younger sister, in charge of the tiller. They were approaching the flight of locks at Dadford’s Shed, on the way back from Kidderminster, and would soon be outside the lock-keeper’s cottage where Algie Stokes lived. She began walking alongside Seth, ready to run on and open the locks ready for the ascent.
‘What you makin’, Dad?’
‘A whip ’n’ top.’
‘A whip ’n’ top? For the little uns?’
‘It’ll keep ’em occupied while we’m moored up.’
‘Will it spin?’ she asked doubtfully.
‘Course it’ll spin, when I’ve made a whip for it.’
‘But it’ll want painting, won’t it?’
‘It’d look better painted, I grant yer,’ Seth agreed. ‘But let’s see if it spins all right first. If it does, we can soon paint it.’
‘I’ll paint it,’ Marigold offered. ‘With the kids. But it might be an idea to make more than one, you know, Dad. They’ll want a whip ’n’ top a-piece once they see it.’
Seth laughed. ‘I daresay they will, but they might have to wait.’
Seth continued whittling a second or two more, when neither spoke.
‘Have you got some pennies for the lock-keeper, Dad?’ Marigold asked, breaking the pause. ‘I’ll run on and make sure we can get through ’em all, and pay Mrs Stokes.’
Seth felt in the pocket of his trousers and fished out a handful of change. ‘Here,’ he said inspecting it. ‘And fetch me an ounce of baccy from the Dock shop while you’m at it.’
Marigold rushed to the lock. No other narrowboat was heading towards them from the opposite direction to occupy the lock and impede their progress. Rather, the last narrowboat through the locks had come from the opposite direction so all the levels would be set for them to enter without waiting for them to empty. She opened the first lock, while Seth led the horse towards it, then made her way to the Dock shop, where she bought her father’s ounce of baccy and put it in the pocket of her skirt.
She glanced back, saw their horse boat, the Sultan, entering the lock, and waved cheerily to Seth. She opened the next lock, then hurried to the next, amiably passing the time of day with a couple of the workmen from the dry dock that lay in an adjacent arm of the canal. A dog, from one of the rows of terraced cottages, joined her as she headed for the next lock, and she stooped down to fuss it.
‘Hello, Rex,’ she cooed, having become familiar with the animal over the years. She stroked it under the chin and it looked up at her with round, trusting eyes. ‘I ain’t got nothing for you this time. But next time, I’ll bring you some bones to chew on … I promise I will.’ The dog seemed to understand, and returned with its tail swinging, seemingly happy with the pledge, to the cottage he’d come from.
She reached the lock situated outside the lock-keeper’s cottage and she was aware of her heart pounding. What if Algie was there? What if he hadn’t gone to work and he was at home? She would see him again. It would be lovely to see him again so soon. Before she opened the lock, she crossed it to get to the cottage on the other side and climbed the steps to the garden and the back door. She tapped on the door and waited, scanning the well-tended garden and its crop of spring flowers that were blooming like an array of bright lamps. The door opened, and Clara Stokes greeted her, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Hello, young Marigold.’
‘Hello, Mrs Stokes,’ she replied deferentially. ‘We’m just coming up through the locks. Can I pay you?’
‘Course you can, my flower.’ Clara held out her hand and Marigold dropped the pennies into it. ‘Ta.’
‘I was just looking at your flowers, Mrs Stokes,’ Marigold said, turning round to admire them again. ‘Them choolips am really pretty. I would’ve thought they’re a bit early, though, wouldn’t you?’
Clara was making out a chit for the payment, but looked up to appreciate the tulips with her. ‘Yes, they’re grand, aren’t they? They are a bit early, like you say. Mind you, we’ve had some nice weather to bring ’em on.’
‘Me mom likes choolips. They’m her favourite flower. And those are a lovely colour.’
‘How is your mom?’ Clara enquired.
‘She’s well, thank you, Mrs Stokes. It’s her birthday tomorrow. I’d love to be able to give her some choolips. Would you sell me some, Mrs Stokes?’
Clara smiled. ‘I’ll do better than that – I’ll give you some to take to her. Let me get a pair of scissors to cut them with.’
‘Are you sure?’ Marigold queried, calling after her as Clara left the scullery for the sitting room. ‘I’d just as soon pay you for ’em.’
‘They cost nothing to grow, Marigold,’ Clara called back. ‘I’ll charge nothing for them. I just hope they give your mom a bit of pleasure.’
Marigold smiled gratefully. ‘That’s ever so kind. Thank you ever so much, Mrs Stokes.’
Clara stepped back inside the room with her scissors, and Marigold followed her up the garden path.
‘How’s Algie?’ she asked, with becoming shyness. ‘Is he at work today?’
‘Oh, he’s at work all right,’ Clara replied, diligently picking out the best tulips and laying them on the ground as she snipped them. ‘Earning his corn. At least it keeps him from under my feet.’
‘I was talking to him Sunday,’ she volunteered. ‘We went a walk afore he went to church.’
‘Yes, he said so.’
‘Did he?’ Marigold sounded pleased with this revelation. ‘He’s nice, your Algie.’
‘I daresay he’d be pleased that you think so,’ Clara replied non-committally.
‘Does he go to church every Sunday?’
‘Most. Only the evening service, though.’
Marigold felt herself blush, and was glad that Mrs Stokes was bending down with her back towards her, unable to witness it. She wanted to mention that girl called Harriet whom Algie had told her about, but had no wish to sound as if she was prying. ‘I suppose Mr Stokes is out and about on the canal somewhere?’ she suggested, to deflect any further focus from herself.
‘He’s checking the locks. You’ll very likely see him as you go by … There … that’s about a dozen blooms.’ Clara gathered the cut tulips from the ground and stood up. ‘I’ll wrap them in a bit of newssheet, eh?’
‘That’s ever so kind, Mrs Stokes, really,’ Marigold said, following Clara back towards the cottage.
‘Come inside while I do it.’
Marigold followed her inside, into the little scullery. She noticed the blackleaded range, pristine and shiny, with the fire burning brightly and a copper kettle standing on the hob. In front of the hearth lay a podged rug, made from old material, the colours and textures of the cloth organised into an appealing pattern. A scrubbed wooden table had four chairs around it, and beneath the window was a stone sink. There was little enough room to move, but to Marigold, used only to the tight confines of the narrowboats’ cabins, it was enormous.
She watched while Clara wrapped the tulips in a sheet of newspaper and asked again if she could pay for them, but Clara only refused with a reassuring smile. ‘Take them, young Marigold,’ she said kindly. ‘Your mother will like them.’