by Nancy Carson
‘That she will, Mrs Stokes. Thank you ever so much.’
‘You’re welcome. Give your mother my best wishes, won’t you?’
‘Oh, I will …’ She did not move, hesitating at the door, and Clara looked at her enquiringly.
‘Is there something else, Marigold?
‘Yes … Will you tell Algie I called, please, Mrs Stokes? He said to ask you to. Will you give him my best wishes?’
Clara smiled knowingly. She did not dislike this slip of a girl. ‘Course I will.’
On the afternoon of the following Saturday after he’d finished work, Algie purchased his bicycle, a Swift, made in Coventry. His intention was to ride it all the way back from the shop in Dudley, stopping at the Meese home on the way to show Harriet; he reckoned she’d still be working in their shop. At Holly Hall, however, a mile away, the chain came off, which gave him a nasty jolt since he was pedalling hard, trying to see how fast he could make it go. As a result, he banged his crotch awkwardly against the crossbar, making him wince with the sheer agony of it. With little alternative but to try and ignore the pain, he dismounted, glad of the opportunity to bend down and nurse his crotch as he replaced the oily chain carefully around the cogs. The job done and the pain slowly receding, he continued on his way, more gingerly this time. He would have to adjust the chain properly when he got home.
‘Oh, I say,’ Harriet exclaimed with approval when she saw the bicycle. ‘Can I have a go on it?’
‘Yes, but mind how far you’re going.’ He was afeared that the chain might come off again, and had visions of walking miles trying to retrieve both the machine and Harriet if that happened. ‘And don’t get the wheels stuck in the tramlines, else you’ll be off.’
Harriet cocked her leg over the saddle, in what was for her, a most unladylike but forgivable manner. She set off from the kerb shakily, emitting a girlish scream of apprehension. ‘I won’t go far,’ she yelled over her shoulder.
Algie watched with a grin as she rode no more than a hundred yards in the direction of Dudley, then turned around with a series of inelegant wobbles. She didn’t have the confidence to use the pedals and merely scooted with her long legs astride the crossbar, the hem of her skirt unavoidably hoisted to an immodest height so untypical of her.
‘I’ll get arrested with my skirt up like this,’ she said, laughing, as she returned to his side. ‘No wonder girls don’t ride these contraptions.’
‘All you need is to wear a pair of trousers instead of a skirt,’ he suggested with a measure of practicality.
‘Don’t be a goose,’ she scoffed. ‘Who ever heard of such a thing!’
‘Well, I think it’s a good idea. These machines can be just as useful for women as for men …’ The comment was prompted by what Marigold had said about cycling ahead of the narrowboats to open the lock gates. ‘But you women won’t benefit unless you change your attitude.’
‘What attitude?’
‘Your attitude to what you’re prepared to wear. Trousers, for instance. Women used to wear trousers when they worked in the mines.’
‘Some women that worked in the mines wore nothing at all, I’ve been told,’ Harriet responded with scorn. ‘But you won’t find me going about with no clothes on. Anyway, can you imagine what I’d look like?’
‘Lord, I daren’t even begin to think about it, Harriet …’
‘Seen the Binghams lately, Dad?’ Algie asked one day on his return from work. ‘I ain’t seen ’em for a fortnight.’
Will Stokes looked at his son with a wry smile. ‘They ain’t been a-nigh, Son, not since that day your mother laid bare me tulip patch. Still got your eye on young Marigold, have yer?’
Algie smiled. He was able to admit such things to his father. He was able to talk to him about anything. ‘Could be,’ he answered with a wink. ‘Would you blame me?’
‘Nay, she’s a bonny wench, our Algie. I can understand you being interested. But if you seriously want her, don’t lead young Harriet on, that’s my advice. It ain’t fair. She’s a decent young madam is Harriet, and I’m sure she wouldn’t do that to you. So be straight with her.’
‘Oh, I intend to be, Dad. Once I’m sure of me standing with Marigold. I got no intention of two-timing her.’
Will shook his head. ‘If you got no serious intentions for young Harriet, you should tell her straight, Marigold or no Marigold.’
‘I know, Dad, but I don’t want to burn all my bridges … Not yet …’
On the Wednesday night, that last day in April, Algie accompanied his sister Kate to the town hall, which had been hired by the Brierley Hill Amateur Dramatics Society for two performances that week of two plays; My First Client, a farce, and a comedy called You Know What. Both had the audiences guffawing with laughter.
After the show, Harriet returned from backstage and formally introduced Kate Stokes to Murdoch Osborne, the society’s leading light and principle organiser.
‘Me and Miss Stokes are already partly acquainted, ha?’ Murdoch said pleasantly. ‘Her mother’s a regular customer of mine, and I see Miss Stokes most days on her way to work at Mills’s cake shop, ha, Miss Stokes? I can see a definite resemblance to your mother, you know … and that’s a compliment, ha?’
Kate blushed becomingly. ‘Thank you, Mr Osborne.’
‘Now then. Harriet here tells me as you might be interested in joining our little theatre group.’
‘I never thought about it before, but I think I’d like to try it,’ Kate replied coyly, imagining receiving the audience’s applause and appreciation, as rendered so enthusiastically for tonight’s star, Miss Katie Richards.
‘Have you been involved in drama before?’
‘Never, but I’m a quick learner. I learn poetry ever so quick. I would soon learn me words, I’m sure. I’d really like to try me hand at it.’
Murdoch Osborne was watching her, fascinated by her large, earnest brown eyes. ‘You’re a very pretty girl and no mistake, Miss Stokes … and we’re fortunate to be blessed with so many lovely girls in our Little Theatre.’ He glanced at Harriet for a look of approval at his flattery. ‘We start casting and rehearsing next Wednesday for our next production, a play entitled The Forest Princess, set in North America. I’m keen that we cast the part of Pocahontas right.’
‘Pocahontas?’ Kate queried, wide-eyed.
‘Pocahontas was a beautiful Red Indian princess who lived in the seventeenth century, Kate … Can I call you Kate?’
‘Oh, yes. Course.’
‘Good. Thank you … I was about to say … I would be very grateful if you could attend.’
‘Thank you, Mr Osborne, I will. What time should I get here?’
‘Oh, we don’t meet here. We meet in the Drill Hall—’
‘Why don’t you call for me on the way, Kate?’ Harriet suggested helpfully. ‘You could walk up with me and our Priss.’
‘Oh, right,’ Kate beamed. ‘Could I?’
‘Course. It’s always best, I think, if you can go somewhere strange with somebody you know. Especially the first time.’
‘Then that’s settled,’ said Murdoch Osborne with a triumphant grin. ‘I shall look forward to seeing you then.’
Chapter 3
Clara Stokes, although adamant about not leaving her fireside in the evenings, was often faced with no alternative during the day. Her family, not unreasonably, expected to be fed, and not every morsel of food was delivered to the lock-keeper’s cottage. So she had to make trips to Brierley Hill High Street for meat and provisions, for fruit and the fresh vegetables her husband could not grow himself.
Sometimes, they would be given a rabbit, a wood pigeon, or even a pheasant, any of which would make a cheap yet perfectly acceptable dinner. A bunch of beetroots or a bag of freshly dug potatoes often arrived with the compliments of a neighbour, but you could never depend on it. In fact, if you waited for somebody to donate something like that, just when you needed it, you’d go hungry. It was a perverse principle which dictated that such offerings were only
ever presented when the larder was full, never empty. Naturally, Will Stokes would return the favour whenever possible; his rhubarb was coveted for its flavour and gentle but very definite powers to relieve the Buckpool and Wordsley constipated, and his kidney beans were noted for their tenderness and delicate taste when in season. Most neighbours, as well as many of the boat families, would trade food in this way at some time.
It was the second Thursday in May and a fine sunny morning when Clara Stokes set out on her walk to Brierley Hill, shopping basket in one hand and gallon can in the other to hold the lamp oil they needed. The clatter and smoke of industry was all around her. Carts, conveying all manner of finished goods and raw materials, drawn by work-weary horses, passed in either direction, the drivers nodding to her as they progressed. Small children with runny noses, too young yet for school, were as mucky as the dirt in which they scrabbled; poorly clad and often even more poorly shod.
Clara went first to the cobbler to pick up a pair of Will’s shoes that had been in for resoling.
‘I heeled ’em an’ all,’ the bespectacled shoe mender informed her. ‘It’s on’y an extra tanner, but it’ll save yer bringin’ ’em again to be done in another six weeks.’
Clara smiled at his enterprise and paid him one shilling and ninepence, the cost of the repair. Next she visited the ironmongery of Isaiah Willetts, who filled her gallon can with lamp oil after she’d bought candles, washing soda and a bar of coal tar soap. She passed the drapery, mourning and mantles shop of Eli Meese, avoiding glancing into the window lest old Eli himself spotted her and she had to stop and talk. So that she could buy elastic, since Will’s long johns were hanging loose around his waist and needed new to make them grip him comfortably again, she visited the haberdashery store a little further along the street. At the greengrocer’s she bought a cabbage, onions, carrots, parsnips, spuds and a cauliflower, by which time she was laden down, and she hadn’t been nigh the butcher’s yet.
Of course, there was a queue at the butcher’s. But at least she could rest her basket on the sawdust-covered floor, along with her gallon can and the sundry brown carrier bags she’d acquired. Murdoch Jeroboam Osborne, in his white, blood-flecked cow gown and navy striped apron, greeted her warmly as soon as she entered, and she watched him chop off the heads of various fowl, a hare and several rabbits, until it was her turn to be served.
‘A quart of chitterlings, please, Murdoch,’ Clara requested familiarly.
‘A quart of chitterlings coming up, my princess,’ Murdoch repeated with an amiable grin. ‘How’re you today, Clara my treasure, ha?’
‘Aching from carrying all this stuff,’ she replied, nodding in the direction of the purchases at her feet. ‘Who’d be a woman fetching and carrying this lot?’
Murdoch smiled sympathetically and turned around to scoop up a quantity of chitterlings, which were pigs’ intestines that had been washed and cooked and were a tasty delicacy. ‘Have you got e’er a basin to put ’em in?’ he enquired.
‘Not today, Murdoch. Can you lend me summat?’
‘I’ve got a basin in the back, my flower. Just let me have it back next time you come, ha?’
‘Course I will.’
‘I’ll go and rinse it out.’ He returned after a minute with the basin and filled it with the chitterlings. ‘Anything else, my flower?’
‘Will fancies a bit of lamb for his Sunday dinner.’
‘Leg or shoulder, ha?’
‘Shoulder’s tastiest, I always think, don’t you?’ Clara asked.
‘Just as long as it ain’t cold shoulder, ha?’ He winked, and Clara chuckled as he set about carving a section of shoulder. ‘By the way, Clara, I was glad to see as your daughter’s decided to join the Amateur Dramatics Society,’ he added, while he worked. ‘She’ll make a fine little actress. Nice-looking girl, ain’t she, ha?’
‘For Lord’s sake, don’t tell her so. She’s already full of herself.’
‘Gets it off her mother – the good looks I mean,’ he commented warmly, heedless of the other women queuing behind her. ‘I don’t mean the being full of herself bit, ’cause you ain’t full of yourself, are you, Clara, ha?’
Clara tried to pass off his compliment with a dismissive giggle. She always felt a warm glow talking to Murdoch Osborne, for they’d known each other years, and he made her feel like a young girl again. ‘Oh, you do say some things, Murdoch.’
‘I mean it an’ all.’
‘I bet you say it to all your customers.’
Murdoch Osborne grinned waggishly. ‘For all the good it ever does me … Here’s your shoulder of lamb …’ He held it up for her to inspect. ‘Does that look all right?’ Clara scrutinised it briefly then nodded her approval. ‘Anythin’ else, my flower?’
‘I’d better take four nice pieces of liver for our tea. And I’ll have two pounds of bacon, as well.’
She watched him slice the bacon and the liver expertly, and wrap it. When he’d bundled all her purchases together in newspaper, he took his blacklead pencil from behind his ear and tallied it up, writing the amounts on the corner of the wrapping. Clara watched, trying to discern the upside-down amounts, then paid him. He handed the package to her, but Clara had no room in her bags for anything else.
‘I’ll struggle with this lot.’
‘Tell you what,’ Murdoch said, not oblivious to her difficulty and keen to curry favour, ‘why don’t you let me deliver that lot to you later?’
‘That’s ever so kind of you,’ Clara answered with a grateful smile, ‘but I shall need the liver for our tea.’
‘Then just take the liver and whatever else you need, and let me deliver the rest.’
‘I don’t want to put you out, Murdoch,’ she said, as he pulled out the parcel of liver and handed it to her.
‘It’s no trouble. Now give us the rest o’ your tranklements.’
She handed him the stuff she didn’t need and kept the bag containing the vegetables and the liver she’d just bought.
‘There you go. I hate to see a lady struggle. Soon as I’ve shut the shop, I’ll have a ride over to your house and deliver this little lot.’
‘I’m that grateful, Murdoch.’
‘Think nothing of it. Enjoy the rest o’ your day, and I’ll see yer later.’
It was just turned half past six when Murdoch delivered Clara’s shopping. The magical aroma of liver and onions still lingered in the air as Will Stokes answered the door to him.
‘By God, that smells good, Will,’ Murdoch commented. ‘I’ve brought the shopping. Your missus was struggling to carry it all when she left me shop, so I offered to bring it.’
‘She told me,’ Will replied, and took the basket and a carrier bag from him. ‘And it’s very decent of yer, Murdoch. Fancy a cup o’ tea while you’m here?’
‘I could be tempted. I’d be lying if I said otherwise.’
‘Come on in then.’
Murdoch entered and Will led him into the small parlour. Clara and Kate were at the stone sink in the scullery, but ceased their chores as soon as they realised Murdoch Osborne was a guest.
‘Thank you for delivering me things, Murdoch,’ Clara said when she saw him. ‘It’s service you don’t expect these days.’
‘No trouble at all.’
‘Our Kate, put the kettle on,’ Clara suggested. ‘Let’s make Murdoch a nice cup o’ tea. Can I get you something to eat, Murdoch?’
‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Clara, ha?’
‘One good turn deserves another,’ Clara responded, while Kate went out to fill the kettle and Murdoch’s eyes followed her. ‘I bet as you’ve had nothing all day.’
‘It’s true enough.’
‘Well, I can imagine how it is for a man who ain’t been widowed long. It must be hard for yer, Murdoch, since your poor wife passed on, but you need to look after yourself.’
‘Oh, I don’t go without, Clara.’
‘Well, let me get you something to eat. What d’you fancy? It’s
a pity all the liver’s gone – it was beautiful, by the way … I could always fry you bacon and eggs …’
‘Bacon and eggs?’ Murdoch said with a smile of enthusiasm, directing his comment to Will Stokes. ‘What more could a man ask for but bacon and eggs and a bit o’ fried bread, ha?’ Will noticed how Murdoch cunningly added the fried bread to the meal. ‘But only if it’s no trouble, Clara.’
‘I told you, it’s no trouble.’
‘You’re a lucky chap, Will, having a wife who’s handy with the frying pan.’
‘I’m reminded of it every day, Murdoch,’ Will answered dismissively.
Kate returned and hung the kettle on a gale hook over the fire. It spat and hissed as a few drips of water fell into the burning coals.
‘So how’s our Kate shaping up in this here amateur dramatics group?’ Will enquired as Clara set about frying Murdoch’s treat.
‘Oh, she’ll do very nicely, Will. I’ve got her to agree to play the part of Pocahontas in our next play.’
‘Poker who?’
Murdoch guffawed. ‘Pocahontas. A celebrated Red Indian princess from the Americas who became a Christian and married an English chap. She was very beautiful, if recorded history’s to be believed. Kate’s got the right sort of colouring and figure for the part, I reckon, ha? She read it well an’ all, when we tried her out for it.’
‘I’m glad to hear as she’s some use for summat,’ Will remarked dryly. ‘Even if it is only acting up.’
Kate, who had been preening herself in the mirror, turned round and shot daggers at her father, who she felt had not only never understood her, but had signally failed to realise her latent talents as well.
‘Oh, I reckon she’ll be a valuable asset to us,’ Murdoch affirmed. ‘We’ve been lacking a wench with your Kate’s qualities.’
‘What qualities am they then?’
‘Good looks, a certain grace …’
‘Gets it off her mother and no two ways,’ Will said.
‘I wouldn’t argue with that, Will …’
At that, Algie appeared and stood in the scullery doorway wiping his hands on a towel.