by Nancy Carson
‘You didn’t have to do that, Marigold,’ Clara said, touched by her thoughtfulness, ‘but it’s very kind of you. Thank you. It’s a lovely thought. Algie will enjoy having eggs for his breakfast in the morning, especially since it’s you that’s brought ’em. So will Mr Stokes.’
‘Did you hear about Algie falling in the cut this morning, and taking our horse with him?’
Clara laughed. ‘He told me all about it. I can just picture it.’
‘The silly devil,’ Kate chimed in with scorn. ‘I suppose he was acting the goat.’
‘It was an accident, Kate,’ Marigold said gently, immediately coming to Algie’s defence. ‘He couldn’t help it. It could’ve been much worse than it was, but it was an accident. Nobody was hurt, thank goodness. Him and me dad just took a look in the cut with the horse, and got wet.’
‘And now they’re celebrating the fact in the public, I suppose,’ Kate replied.
‘I hope so,’ Marigold said. ‘It’s just a pity our poor horse can’t be there with ’em as well. I think he deserves a drink after what he’s been through.’
Washed, dried and wearing his Sunday best suit, Algie Stokes left the Bottle and Glass after imbibing more beer than he was used to, in his endeavour to redeem himself in the eyes of Seth Bingham. He stepped unsteadily round the back of the public house, and winced at the bright afternoon sunshine that lent a dazzling sparkle to the canal’s murky water. He headed at once for the pair of narrowboats moored abreast of each other in the basin. The Odyssey was furthest from him.
‘Marigold!’ he called.
Marigold emerged from the Sultan. She stooped down to say goodbye to her mother, who was below in the cabin. She saw that Algie was wearing his best Sunday suit, his silver Albert stretched across his waistcoat.
‘How did you get on with me dad?’ she asked, clambering out of the narrowboat onto the towpath.
‘We’re the best of mates,’ Algie affirmed, with a misplaced sense of pride that amused her.
With an unspoken consensus they headed towards Wordsley, the direction he had taken at the beginning of his eventful ride that morning. Serenity enveloped them, a sort of reverential Sunday silence, punctuated only by the trickling songs of blackbirds. On other days such wistful and lovely birdsong went unheard, muffled by the intense throb of industry. Ducks and geese basked at the edge of the canal and a pen sat with propriety and elegance on a huge nest overlooked by the Dock shop.
‘How many drinks did you have to buy him?’ Marigold enquired.
‘Two.’
‘No wonder he’s the best o’ mates with you.’
‘He bought me one back as well.’
‘So you’ve had three pints?’
‘No, four, to tell you the truth. Somebody else bought us one besides. I never drink that many as a rule. ’Specially of a Sunday dinnertime.’
Marigold gasped. ‘Your hold must be awash. I wonder you can still stand.’
‘Oh, I can still stand all right.’ He teetered exaggeratedly, pretending to be more unsteady than he really was. ‘I don’t think I can walk very straight though.’ The sweet sound of her laughter appealed greatly to him and he focused his admiring eyes on her.
‘Then it’s a good job you ain’t riding your machine, else you’d be taking another look in the cut.’
‘I was intending to give you a ride on it,’ he said with a broad grin. ‘Shall I go and fetch it?’
‘Not on your nellie. Not if you’ve had four pints o’ jollop and you keeps plaiting your legs. Look at you, you’m all over the place.’ She chuckled again good naturedly at his seeming unsteadiness.
‘When we come back, I mean.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘How come it’s been so long since you came this way?’ he asked. ‘I thought you’d be through our lock well before today.’
‘I told you, we had work that took us up to Cheshire. It’s a good earner to Cheshire and back to Birnigum, ’cause we generally loads up wi’ salt for the return.’
‘So you ain’t seen that chap in Kidderminster either?’
‘Course not.’
‘I bet you got your eye on somebody in Cheshire, though, eh?’
‘Me?’ she queried, with genuine surprise. ‘Course I haven’t.’
He was teasing her, but something in her voice suggested she was taking him seriously, and convinced him she was telling the truth. ‘I’d be surprised if nobody was interested in you, Marigold.’
‘Why?’ she fished, an expectant smile lighting up her lovely face.
‘Well, I mean … Somebody as pretty as you?’
‘Oh, I ain’t that special, Algie,’ she protested pleasantly, with no hint of coquetry. ‘I’m just ord’n’ry. Anyroad, what about you? I bet you’ve been seeing that Harriet.’
He shrugged non-committally.
‘I bet you have,’ she persisted.
‘There’s nothing serious between me and Harriet. I told you.’
‘I bet you’ll be going to church with her tonight again, whether or no.’
It was true, worse luck; Harriet was expecting him, and there was no sense in denying it. ‘Not if you agree to come out with me tonight, I won’t.’ He looked at her again to discern her reaction.
‘All right,’ she agreed, returning his look with a distinct twinkle in her eye. If she refused, then he would certainly spend the evening with this Harriet, and she must prevent that happening. ‘I’ll come out with you tonight, if you like. You’ll have sobered up by then, tis to be hoped …’
They walked along the towpath in a companionable silence for a moment or two, each considering the implications of what they had said. Algie casually kicked a loose stone and it plopped into the canal. He would have to give Harriet an explanation for failing to show up for church. But he was not sorry. It would afford him the opportunity to make the break from her as honourably as he could, as his father had said he should. Such a break from Harriet would be to their mutual benefit, freeing her to accept the advances of other young men, more deserving of her.
‘How far are we going?’ Marigold asked.
‘Not far, eh?’ Algie replied. ‘I’m tired. All that buggering about in the cut.’
‘Oh, well, you can bet it’s nothing to do with the beer you’ve had.’ Marigold glanced at him sideways with a knowing look, with no hint of recrimination, then burst out laughing at his peeved expression.
‘I can take my beer, you know,’ he replied sheepishly. ‘It’s the mucking about in the cut that’s done me in. I just hope I haven’t caught a chill. Anyway, let’s get off the towpath by Dadford’s Shed … There …’ He pointed to a huge new timber construction named after Thomas Dadford Junior who had supervised the building of the canal more than a century earlier. ‘We can go over the bridge there to the fields at the back of the sand quarry and have a sit down.’
‘If you like,’ she agreed. ‘I don’t fancy walking far. I got some new second hand boots on as I got from Penkridge Market the other day, and they’m a bit tight. I need to break ’em in afore I walk a long way in them.’
It was a short walk from Dadford’s Bridge and the wharf of the Glassworks, along a back way called Mill Street and then Water Lane, where they passed the sand quarry Algie had mentioned before the lane dwindled to a footpath. Marigold was surprised to find herself at a lovely quiet spot, nestling between steep hillocks and sandstone crevices, out of sight of the quarry, the glassworks and the rest of civilisation. A small and very clear stream rippled idyllically between clusters of young trees. Wafts of almond-scented gorse rose to meet them as they stepped over the soft grass, like velvet beneath their feet.
‘Let’s sit down here,’ Algie suggested. He sat himself on the ground with his arms around his knees and looked up at Marigold who was still standing. He held his hand out to her. ‘Come and sit beside me, Marigold. I thought you said your boots were hurting you.’
She did as he bid compliantly and with an inherent daintiness. Algie tugg
ed at a stalk of grass, one end of which he put between his teeth. In the distance a cuckoo made its wilful call, while a pair of young rabbits bobbed about playfully close by. Marigold drew his attention to them.
‘Ain’t they beautiful?’
‘They’re all right in a stew,’ he quipped, deliberately taunting her. ‘I reckon there’s too many uncooked rabbits knocking about.’
She responded by giving him a playful tap on the arm. ‘Tell me about Harriet.’
‘What d’you want to know?’
She shrugged. ‘How long you’ve been seeing her, what she’s like …’
‘She ain’t that interesting,’ he replied dismissively.
‘She can’t be that bad if you see her regular.’
‘I told you, it’s nothing serious. We aren’t courting proper.’
‘So how long have you known her?’
He shrugged. ‘About two years.’
‘Two years and it ain’t serious? It’s time she got the hint … Unless you’ve just been stringing her along.’
He shrugged again, but made no reply.
‘So you don’t love her?’
‘Love her?’ he repeated, disparaging the notion with overstated disdain. ‘If I loved her I wouldn’t be here with you. That doesn’t mean to say I don’t like her, though.’
‘But not enough to wed.’
‘Any chap would be a fool to marry a girl he doesn’t love, don’t you agree?’
‘Course.’
‘It wouldn’t do Harriet much good either, would it?’
She shook her head. ‘I suppose not. Does she work?’
‘Yes. For her father, in his drapery shop.’
‘Drapery shop?’ Marigold repeated in awe. ‘Oh, I’d like to work in a drapery shop. I bet she’s got some nice clothes.’
He took the stalk of grass out of his mouth and turned to her. ‘I’d rather not talk about Harriet,’ he said softly. ‘I reckon you’re a lot more interesting.’
The comment elicited a shy smile and she lowered her lids.
‘You know what I’d like to do?’ he said, as if confiding a great secret.
‘What?’
‘I’d like to kiss you.’
‘You must be drunk.’
‘I never felt more sober in my life.’
‘Get away with you,’ she chuckled. ‘You’ll be asleep in a minute. Me dad always nods off when he’s had a drink.’
‘I’ve never felt more wide awake. I want to kiss you, Marigold.’
She offered her cheek, teasing him.
‘On the lips, you nit,’ he said with a boyish grin.
She looked into his eyes earnestly for a few seconds, wondering whether to accede to his request. For Marigold this was a momentous step. As he leaned towards her in anticipation, she slowly tilted her face to receive his kiss. His lips felt soft and cool on hers, as gentle as the fluttering of a butterfly, a sensation she enjoyed.
‘Wasn’t too bad, was it?’
She focused on her new boots to avert her eyes. ‘No, it was nice,’ she answered softly. ‘It was really nice …’Cept I can smell the beer on your breath.’
‘Never mind that. Kiss me again.’
She lifted her face to his once more and their lips brushed this time in a series of soft, gentle touches. Marigold’s heart was pounding hard.
‘You kiss nice,’ he said softly.
‘Nicer than Harriet?’
‘A lot nicer than Harriet. Harriet ain’t got kissing lips like you. Her lips are too thin. When you kiss her they feel as if they’re worked by springs. I ain’t that struck on kissing a set of springs.’
‘So you reckon I’ve got kissing lips?’
‘For certain.’ He smiled with tenderness.
‘I bet you’ve kissed loads of girls.’
‘Not really …’
‘A lot, I bet,’ she suggested.
He allowed her to believe it. It could do no harm. ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘Have you kissed lots of chaps?’
‘Me? No … Only Jack from Kidderminster.’
‘Who kisses the best?’ he enquired. ‘Me or him?’
‘Dunno,’ she answered shyly.
‘Does he kiss you like this …’ Algie put his arm around her, and his lips were on hers with an eager but exaggerated passion.
She turned her face away. ‘Algie, it’s not so nice when you kiss me that hard. You hurt me mouth. It’s much nicer when you do it gentle. Gentle as a butterfly … Butterfly kisses.’
‘Sorry … Like this, you mean?’
He resumed kissing her tenderly again.
‘That better?’
‘Yes, that’s much nicer. I don’t reckon as you’ve kissed that many girls if you think they like it done hard.’
‘I never tried to kiss anybody that hard afore, to tell you the truth. There’s nobody I ever wanted to kiss that hard.’
She glanced into his eyes briefly with a shy smile.
‘Will you be my girl?’
She picked a daisy from the grass at her side before she answered, and twizzled it pensively between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Will you give up Harriet if I say yes?’
‘Course I will. Will you give up that Jack in Kidderminster?’
She hesitated and Algie imagined she was torn which way to jump. Perhaps he was rushing things.
‘Well?’
‘I dunno, Algie …’ she replied with a troubled look.
‘What’s to stop you?’
She sighed deeply. ‘I do like you, Algie …’
‘But?’
‘Well … I can’t say as I know you that well yet. How do I know you won’t still see Harriet behind me back? I mean, if we keep going to Cheshire and Birnigum and back it might be weeks afore I see you again. I don’t see the sense in promising to be yourn if you’m still gonna see that Harriet behind me back while I’m away.’
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ he asserted, trying to sound as convincing as he could. ‘Anyway, if you keep going to Cheshire you won’t see Jack either, so you might just as well decide to pack him up as hang on to him. ’Specially if you got me. I could ride to Kidderminster on my bike to see you if you were moored up there the night. You wouldn’t end up having nothing to do. As a matter of fact, I could ride to see you at lots of places if I knew where you intended to moor up nights.’
‘I dunno, Algie …’
‘Is it because you love Jack, then?’
‘No, it’s because I ain’t sure of you.’
‘Do you still want to see me tonight?’
‘Course, if you still want to,’ she said quietly.
The Meese household, with the exception of their maid and the cook, whose afternoon off it was, had assembled in the parlour. Harriet sat in an upholstered chair expectantly while Priss was perched on its arm, awaiting the imminent arrival of Algie Stokes.
‘He’s very late,’ remarked Priss, twiddling her gloved thumbs impatiently. ‘I don’t think we should wait any longer. He’ll see you in church, Harriet, I’m sure, if he’s coming at all.’
Eli shuffled impatiently, and donned his hat. ‘I’m hanged if I’m going to wait around any longer for that ne’er-do-well. As churchwarden I have a responsibility to be at church in good time.’
‘Yes, please go on, Father,’ Harriet urged. ‘All of you. Except you, Priss, if you don’t mind. I’d rather you wait to walk with me in case he doesn’t show up. I do hope he hasn’t had an accident on that bicycle of his.’
‘He’ll get no sympathy from me if he has,’ Eli said self-righteously. ‘Right, come on, you lot. Let’s go. We’ll see Priss and Harriet at the church with Lover Boy, if he ever deigns to show his face.’
In a swish of satin skirts, the younger Meese girls and their mother left the house and walked down the entry behind Eli in an orderly, if chattering, single file. Emily, the third daughter, eighteen, closed the door behind them with a wave, a smile and a flurry of audible footsteps as she ran to catch them up.
‘What if he has had an accident, Priss?’ Harriet speculated fretfully.
‘Well, it would hardly surprise me. But how will you know? You can’t walk all the way to their cottage tonight to find out. Anyway, we can afford to wait ten more minutes yet. He might show up.’
‘Yes, he might,’ Harriet sighed. ‘But it’s unlike him to be late. You can normally set your clock by him. He’s normally so punctual that Mr Bradshaw could write his timetable by him.’
‘Except there’d be a printing error for today’s times,’ Priss commented airily. ‘But you know what a palaver Father makes of getting to church early. You’d think he was the vicar instead of the churchwarden, the fuss he makes.’
‘Maybe Algie has had an accident and his fob watch got broken, and he doesn’t know the time … Maybe we should invite him to tea of a Sunday in future. Then he’ll be here ready, fob watch or no.’
‘Steady on, Harriet,’ Priss said. ‘That’s taking things a bit too far. But I suppose it depends how serious you are about him. Personally, I wouldn’t shed any tears over him. It’s not as if he’s serious about you. Besides, has it ever crossed your mind that you could do better for yourself? I’ve noticed how the curate looks at you …’
Harriet shrugged. ‘Oh, no, Priss, the curate admires you.’
Priss sighed and smiled sadly. ‘I only wish he did.’
‘I had a feeling you liked him like that, Priss.’
Priss felt herself blushing. ‘Oh, I’d be very good for him,’ she said candidly. ‘I’d make an excellent clergyman’s wife, you know. But I bet he thinks we’re dreadfully plebeian, being a family of drapers.’
‘At least we’ve got gas and water laid on, Priss. Anyway, I suspect it would be rather dull being married to the curate,’ Harriet speculated. ‘Living with him would be like taking board and lodgings in the church.’
‘Oh, I don’t agree. The curate is an ideal sort of person to marry, with his high principles and conscientiousness.’
‘Yes, you could sit up in bed with him at night and discuss Constantine the Great’s contribution to Christianity,’ Harriet suggested. ‘Or the relevance of the Book of Revelations to the Second Coming. That would be very stimulating, and be sure to beget you lots of offspring.’