by Nancy Carson
‘I’ve cut you some bread to go with this, my lad,’ his mother, Dinah, said as she placed a bowl of groaty pudding and hefty chunks of a loaf before him at the scullery table. ‘It’ll help bung yer up.’
‘’Tis to be hoped,’ Arthur said miserably, repeating the supplication he’d made perched on the seat of the Pensnett privy. He wore an exaggerated look of pain on his face to elicit his mother’s sympathy.
‘Your father’s feeling none too well either.’ She returned to the mug of beer she’d neglected while serving Arthur’s dinner, and took a gulp.
Arthur dipped a lump of bread into the stew-like morass. ‘But I bet he ain’t got the diarrhee, has he? You can’t imagine what it’s like being took short in a graveyard with the diarrhee and no privy for miles.’
‘There’s ne’er a privy at the cricket pitch neither, but that ain’t going to stop you playing cricket there this afternoon by the looks of it,’ Dinah remarked astutely. ‘’Tis to be hoped as you’m well enough to knock a few runs without shitting yourself.’
‘’Tis to be hoped,’ Arthur said again and grinned, thankful that his family were not so high-faluting that they could not discuss such delicate matters in plain English at the scullery table. ‘I’m nursing meself so as I can play cricket this afternoon.’
‘I wish I’d got the time to nurse meself,’ Dinah said, and took another swig of beer. ‘I’m certain sure as I’ve sprained me wrist humping buckets of coal up from the damn cellar.’
Arthur contemplated that it did not prevent her from lifting a mug of beer, but made no comment. ‘I’d have fetched the coal up for you,’ he said instead and winced as if there were another twinge of pain in his gut. ‘You know I would.’
‘Never mind, you weren’t here.’
‘It’s just a pity Father’s too miserable to spend money employing a maid. You could have sent the maid to the cellar for coal.’
‘A maid? He’ll never employ a maid. He’s too mean.’
‘That’s what I just said.’
Arthur finished his dinner, fetched his bat from the cupboard under the stairs and walked steadily and circumspectly to the cricket field, looking forward to the game against Stourbridge Cricket Club with a mixture of eagerness and anxiety.
St Michael’s team lost the match. Arthur was the sixth man to bat, surviving the remaining batsmen who came after him. His team needed fifty-five runs to win and Arthur felt it was his responsibility to try and get those runs. But he experienced that dreaded loose feeling in his bowels again and had no option but to get himself run out when they still needed forty-eight, ending the team’s innings. It turned out to be a false alarm, and Arthur sincerely regretted having thrown the match.
‘I couldn’t run,’ he lamented to Joey Eccleston, with whom he had been batting at the end. They walked back together to the tent that was always erected on match days, to a ripple of applause from the attendant wives and sweethearts. ‘I had the diarrhee this morning and I was afeared to shake me guts up too much for fear it come on again.’
‘Well, we tried, Arthur,’ Joey said philosophically and patted his colleague on the back. ‘You especially. But we were no match for Stourbridge today. Next year, maybe. There’s always next year. Next year we’ll give ’em a thrashing … Coming for a drink after?’
‘No, I’m due an early night, Joe. I promised my mother. My guts are still all of a quiver. I got to get myself better for work on Monday. The old man’s already queer ’cause I didn’t finish my job off this morning. Maybe I’ll have a spot or two of laudanum to go to bed with.’
‘It won’t hurt you to come for a drink first. A drop of brandy or whisky would settle your stomach. You don’t have to stop out late. It’s been the last match of the season today. We’ll all be going. You can’t not come as well.’
They reached the tent and Arthur pulled off his old and worn batting gloves. ‘I suppose it’ll be regarded as bad form if I don’t go, eh, Joey?’
‘Sure to be. Anyway, you don’t want to be seen as some stick-in-the-mud, or that you’re mollycoddled.’
Arthur grinned matily. ‘Me mollycoddled? That’ll be the day.’
‘That’s settled then.’
‘So where are we going for a drink?’
‘We’ve settled on the Whimsey.’
The gentlemen of the church cricket team arrived at the Whimsey about eight o’ clock, as the last embers of sunset were finally extinguished. Those who were blessed with wives or lady friends allowed them to attend and they occupied a room they called the parlour and chattered animatedly with each other, while the men stood in three groups in the taproom and got on with the serious business of drinking and analysing their defeat.
The Whimsey had opened for business in 1815. It was situated a couple of hundred yards below St Michael’s church on the busy turnpike road where it was called Church Street. By the time Benjamin Elwell took it over in 1840 it was a well-established concern. Being a Saturday night the Whimsey was busy, and would get even busier. Already, the taproom was hazy with a blue mist of tobacco smoke from the men’s clay pipes, and noisy from the voices of folk trying to be heard over the chatter of their neighbours.
‘Pity you and Joey Eccleston couldn’t keep up your innings a bit longer, Arthur,’ James Paskin, the team captain, commented.
‘I’m sorry, James,’ Arthur answered guiltily, and took a quick slurp of his beer to avoid James’s eyes. ‘I was telling Joey – I had a bad bout of the diarrhee this morning and I was afeared of churning me guts up again on the cricket pitch, so I couldn’t run very well. I didn’t fancy being took short between the wickets.’
‘Good Lord, I didn’t realise,’ James said with concern. ‘In that case it was a valiant effort. Do you feel all right now?’
‘Still a bit queer, to tell the truth.’
‘Well, they beat us fair and square, Arthur. I didn’t have a very good innings myself, nor did old Dingwell Tromans.’
‘We’ll do better next season,’ Arthur said, although such optimism was normally alien to him.
Two youths at a table nearby had pulled the wings off two bluebottles and were betting which would fall off the edge of the table first. Arthur turned his back on such brutal triviality and gazed around the room pretending not to notice, determined not to give the impression that he condoned their puerility.
‘We might not have Dingwell Thomas next season,’ James Paskin was saying. ‘There’s talk of him emigrating to America. D’you think you could take on the job of wicket-keeper, Arthur?’
At that moment, a girl with dark hair, slender and wearing a white apron, was slowly moving in his direction as she collected used tankards and crocks from the tables. She was not excessively pretty but, for Arthur, there was something powerfully alluring about her classic good looks and reserved demeanour. She possessed the most appealing, friendly smile, but also a look of shyness that struck a distinctly harmonic chord within Arthur, a sort of instant empathy. He watched her, fascinated, waiting to see her face again as she leaned forward to pick up more tankards. Then, just before she reached him, she turned and made her way back towards the counter, swivelling her body tantalisingly to avoid bumping into customers.
‘Sorry, James, what was you saying?’
‘About you having a go at wicket-keeping next season.’
‘Oh … I wouldn’t mind giving it a try … I’ve done a bit of wicket-keeping in the past, but I wouldn’t say I was as good as Dingwell. But with a bit of practice, you never know …’
Suddenly Arthur was aware of a commotion behind him. Two dogs, one large, old and lethargic, the other a small, young and animated terrier, were snarling at each other under a table. The owner of the small dog lurched forward to grab it and knocked over his table in the process, sending several tankards of ale flying. They wetted not only the flagged floor but poor Arthur’s good pair of trousers, and the coat of one other man. At once the indignation of the man, who was unknown to Arthur, was high, but mostly,
it seemed, at losing his beer. Arthur, however, was largely unperturbed, realising it was merely an accident.
‘I’ll get thee another, Enoch, as soon as I’n gi’d me blasted dog a kick,’ the offender said to his peeved acquaintance, righting the table. He went outside, taking his dog with him, its little legs dangling as he held it by the scruff of its neck.
The owner of the other dog managed to pacify his more docile animal, allowing it to lap beer from his tankard, and it resumed lying quietly at his feet, in a rapture of mild intoxication. Ben Elwell, who disliked such disruptive outbursts in his public house, was over in a flash to investigate, but the flare up had already died down. He saw the pool of beer frothing on the floor and called for a mop and bucket, and the slender girl with the dark hair and the white apron re-appeared to clean it up.
‘Here, I’n got beer all down me coot,’ the man named Enoch told the girl. ‘Hast got summat to rub me down with afore it soaks through to me ganzy?’
‘I’ll bring you a cloth when I’ve mopped this up, Mr Billingham,’ the girl answered apologetically. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’
As she cleaned, the owner of the offending terrier returned. ‘I swear, I’ll drown the little bastard in the cut if he plays up again,’ he muttered, and asked who else’s beer he’d knocked over. He duly went to the bar to make reparations.
‘Fun and games, eh?’ James Paskin remarked to Arthur.
‘That beer went all over my trousers, you know, James. I’m soaked through.’
‘Ask the girl for a cloth.’
‘Think I should?’
‘Course.’
‘I could catch a chill with wet trousers.’
‘It ain’t worth taking the risk, Arthur. Quick, before she goes.’
Arthur hesitated but, just as the girl was about to go, he plucked up his courage and tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, miss …’ She turned her head and he saw by the light of the oil lamp hanging overhead that her face was made beautiful by wide eyes which were the most delicate shade of blue, full of lights and expressions. ‘I … I got soaked in beer as well … Would you mind bringing a cloth for me?’
Had it been any of the regulars she would have taken the request with a pinch of salt, knowing it was an attempt at flirting, to get her to wipe their trousers. But there was something in the earnest look of this man that made her realise he was not preoccupied with such triteness. So she nodded and smiled with decorous reserve.
‘I haven’t seen her before,’ Arthur remarked. ‘She’s quite comely.’
‘Fancy her, do you?’
Arthur grinned self-consciously. ‘Like I say, she’s quite comely. She seems to have a pleasant way with her. Don’t you think so, James? But I expect a wench like that is spoken for already. Is it the landlord’s daughter, do you know?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. I’ve not seen her in here before. Not that I’m stuck in here every night of the week, you understand.’
The girl returned and handed a towel to Enoch Billingham, apologising again for his being drenched. Then she turned to Arthur …
‘You wanted a towel as well, sir?’
‘Thank you …’
‘Shall I hold your beer while you wipe your trousers?’ she asked pleasantly.
‘Thank you …’ He began swabbing the spreading wet patch on his trouser leg, feeling suddenly hot. Just as suddenly he felt his bowels turn to water again and knew that he must make another rapid exit. With intense agony he held himself, noticing at the same time that at least the girl was not wearing a wedding ring.
‘What’s your name?’ he managed to ask. ‘I ain’t seen you in here before.’
‘Lucy,’ she said.
‘You live local?’
‘Bull Street.’
‘Funny I’ve never seen you before.’ Arthur was trying manfully to maintain a look of normality.
‘Why, where do you live?’ Lucy asked pleasantly.
‘The Delph.’
‘Fancy. Just up the road.’
Arthur was effecting some severe internal abdominal contortions coupled with heroic buttock clenching, in an effort to maintain not only his composure, but his self respect and his eternal reputation. He was desperate to keep the girl talking as long as he could, to try and find out more about her, but he was even more desperate to win the battle against his wayward bowels. It was a battle he was losing ignominiously, however, for without doubt he had to go.
‘Yes, just up the road … You’ll have to excuse me, Lucy …’ He turned and fled.
‘What’s up with him?’ Lucy enquired of James.
‘Something he ate, I think,’ James replied, being as discreet as he knew how. ‘He’s had a problem all day, I believe.’
Lucy chuckled. ‘Poor chap. Well, he’ll find nowhere to relieve himself that way.’
Chapter 3
Sunday was another lovely September day, a day when women kept open their front doors and sat on their front steps, gossiping with like-minded neighbours. They peeled potatoes and shelled peas which they would have with a morsel of meat for their dinners when their menfolk staggered back from the beer houses. Lucy strolled to the water pump carrying a pail. Bobby the sheepdog ambled wearily but proprietorially beside her, ignoring other animals that pointed their snouts at him and sniffed. Lucy tarried a minute or two with most of the women, pleased to comment on what beautiful weather they were blessed with, but said nothing of the dismal slag heaps and factory yards that rendered the immediate landscape squalid and colourless.
‘It’s a pity there ain’t no fine houses with well-tended gardens in this part of Silver End,’ she commented to one woman known as Mother Cope, who was smoking a clay pipe as she tearfully skinned onions in her lap. ‘’Cause the flowers, specially the roses, would still be in full bloom, and a sight to behold on a day like this.’
‘If you want to see flowers, my wench,’ Mother Cope replied, withdrawing her pipe from between her toothless gums, ‘I daresay as there’s a bunch or two in the churchyard you could gaze at, on the graves o’ the well-to-do.’
Lucy returned to the house with her pail full of water and poured some into a bowl to give to Bobby, before using more to boil vegetables. At about three o’ clock her father returned hungry from the Whimsey and the three sat down to their dinner.
‘I reckon Ben Elwell could’ve done with your help again this morning, wench,’ Haden remarked to his daughter.
‘I’ve got too much to do here helping Mother of a Sunday,’ Lucy answered. ‘But he’s asked me to work tonight.’
‘Ar, well, there’ll be some beer shifted tonight an’ all, if the weather stops like this. Folk like to tek their beer into the fresh air and watch the world go by.’
‘I only wish they’d bring back their beer mugs when they’ve done, instead of leaving them lying around for me to collect.’
‘I reckon you’ve took to this public house working a treat, our Lucy,’ Haden said with a fatherly grin. ‘Her’s took to this public house working, you know, Hannah. Who’d have thought it, eh?’
‘Just as long as she keeps away from all them rough toe rags,’ Hannah replied.
‘Oh, they ain’t all rough, Mother. There’s a lot of decent, respectable men that come in for a drink. One or two even buy me a drink now and again.’
‘As long as nobody expects any favours in return.’
She felt like saying that if there was somebody she liked the look of she might be tempted, but kept it to herself. ‘D’you know anybody who lives down the Delph, Father?’
‘The Delph? Why?’
‘I just wondered. Somebody came in last night who I’d never seen before in me life, and he said he only lived down the Delph. You’d think you’d know everybody who lived close by. That’s all. This chap was with a crowd that played cricket for the church, so Mrs Elwell said.’
‘Lord knows who that might be. Fancy him, do yer?’ Haden winked at Hannah.
‘Not particularly,’ Lucy protes
ted. ‘I only said it ’cause I think it’s weird not ever knowing somebody, even by sight, who lives so close to us.’
As Sunday progressed Arthur Goodrich’s self-willed bowels seemed to settle down. He attended matins at St Michael’s during the morning with his mother, and they circumspectly sat in a pew at the back, lest he should have to dart out during the service. Mercifully, he was untroubled by any such need.
His brother Talbot came for tea with Magnolia and their small son Albert. The extended family, Jeremiah included, once more crossed the threshold of St Michael’s for evensong. It was dark but warm when they finally emerged into the open air, and bats flitted in whispers between the tree tops overhead. Dinah and Jeremiah stopped to chat with some of the other parishioners by the light of a solitary gas lamp that hung over the main door, while the vicar, the Reverend Ephraim Wheeler, bid everybody a good evening with a shake of the hand and a benign smile, and looked forward to seeing them again next Sunday.
‘I’m going for a drink afore we go home,’ Talbot declared to Magnolia who was holding young Albert’s hand as the lad stood beside her. ‘I’ll see you back at Mother’s. Are you coming with me, our Arthur?’
‘I think I got the piles,’ Arthur answered ruefully. ‘Me backside’s that sore.’
Talbot rolled his eyes. ‘It’s because of the squits, Arthur. What ailments shall you be sporting tomorrow, I wonder?’
‘It’s your liver,’ Magnolia stated sagely to her brother-in-law. ‘It’s what comes of eating kickshaws and other such muck. See as your mother gives you a dose of dandelion tea or summat. Or soda and nitre’s good for you every now and again. That’ll sort yer. It’ll help to keep your system cool.’
‘Me system’s already cool,’ Arthur replied morosely. ‘That’s the trouble. It’s working in draughty graveyards what does it. How can you keep in good humours if you’m always cutting and blacking letters in draughty graveyards, sitting on cold graves? I wonder I don’t get pneumonia in me backside.’