The Railway Girl
‘But, Father, I’ve arranged to meet somebody and I’m not going to let them down. Anyway, where’s he live, this perishing George Parsons?’
‘Pensnett. Near to Corbyn’s Hall. I’ll tell you the address.’
‘But I shan’t have time to go there.’
‘Damn me!’ Jeremiah exclaimed huffily. ‘After that stupid sodding blunder you made last week …’ He shook his ruefully. ‘After all I do for you, and you can’t run one little bloody errand for me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, our Arthur. Anyroad, it’s firm’s money. It’s for your own benefit as it’s collected. When I’m dead and gone …’
‘Tell me the damned address then,’ Arthur said with exasperation. It was typical of his father to spoil whatever he’d planned. ‘I ought to charge you commission for debt-collecting.’
Jeremiah told him the address and Arthur went downstairs disgruntled. If it took longer than he thought he was certain to miss Lucy. So he bolted his Sunday dinner and left the house without even having any pudding, losing no time in putting a hastily formed plan into effect. He didn’t want to give Lucy the impression that he didn’t care or that he was unreliable. Already the ground was slipping from under his feet where she was concerned. He must not make matters worse by any perceived disregard for her.
Corbyn’s Hall was a couple of miles away, too far to walk there and back in the time allowed. The only answer was to go on horseback. He harboured a distinct dislike of riding and horses. Or was it merely a dislike of their own wretched horses? He seemed to hold no sway with them, even when he drove the cart. But the weather was fine for a ride and, at a steady trot, he should be there and back in the three-quarters of an hour that was left before he was due to meet Lucy.
The equestrian stock of Jeremiah Goodrich and Sons, stonemasons and sepulchral architects, comprised two sturdy but ageing mares whose terms of reference suggested that they generally hauled the cart, for they were seldom ridden. They were the equine embodiment of lethargy, artfulness developed over years, and not a little spite. Arthur took down a set of reins from the stable wall and forced the bit into the mouth of one of the mares, called Quenelda. She was the older and scruffier of the two, but usually the most co-operative, a quality Arthur had taken into account. Quenelda’s mane sprouted only in places, like sparse tufts of grass poking through a neglected pavement. He coaxed the horse outside and mounted without a saddle, since he didn’t have time to find it and tack up. But the horse’s sharp-edged back and broad girth elicited concern for his manhood and the potential for damage to it.
Seated on the horse, he looked around him pensively, first gazing towards Withymoor, then across the valley to Audnam and Stourbridge in the opposite direction to that which he must go. His fingers clutched the reins tensely as a barge and attendant bargee glided as one along the Stourbridge Canal, drawn by a hack almost as unattractive as his own. The bargee was singing some unsavoury ditty as he headed for the Nine Locks where doubtless he would get his belly, and his wife’s, filled with ale.
Arthur pulled on the rein. ‘Gee up, Quenelda!’ As the horse turned around he looked up the yard and onto the Delph in anticipation.
But Quenelda had ideas of her own. Sunday was her day of rest, and long years of experience had led her to recognise it. If man did not work on the Sabbath, then she did not work on the Sabbath either. The mare thus made her way back to the stable with no regard for Arthur who was tugging manfully at the reins. Passing through the stable door, Arthur was not quick enough to duck, by dint of the alcohol he had consumed, and ended up banging his head and acquiring a nasty cut across his eyebrow. Angry and frustrated, he got down from the horse and dabbed the cut with the rag from his pocket.
‘Listen, you,’ he snorted impatiently, punching the animal hard on the nose, ‘we’d better sort out who’s gaffer here.’ He grabbed a stick for good measure and led the horse out again. When he mounted Quenelda she made for the stable once more. ‘The other way, you varmint.’
Arthur hit the mare on the rump with the stick, pulling hard on the reins. He succeeded in turning her around, but she veered again crab-fashion towards the stable. Cursing bitterly, he lashed at the horse’s rump once more. As far as Quenelda was concerned this was the limit. She reared up on her hind legs in an attempt to unseat him. Arthur saved himself by grabbing one of the tufts of mane and gripping his legs tightly around her belly. It was a war of wills. For what seemed like an eternity Arthur clung on while Quenelda was bent on throwing him off. While he could hold on to her sparse mane Arthur felt secure enough … but his hands were becoming sweaty with the exertion, and the tuft was becoming slippery. He lost his grip.
It became desperate. Quenelda reared up high and whinnied, beating the air with her front hoofs. Arthur snatched at the mane, held on and righted himself just in time, as much to save messing up his best Sunday clothes as to avoid hurting himself more.
‘You won’t get the better of me,’ he rasped determinedly. ‘Enough of your vile behaviour.’
The mare spun round and round on her hind legs and Arthur caught sight of their conjoined shadow spinning beneath him. But he had no time to study the aesthetics of shadow dancing, for his legs had become tired and weak, aching inexorably from perpetually pressing into Quenelda’s sides for grip. He lost hold and, as he became unseated, he felt his body twist around violently while the mare bucked and pranced with all the vigour of a whirlwind. In frantic desperation he reached out and grabbed what he thought was the patchy mane to save himself from falling to the ground and hurting himself. In that same instant, the mare was under the impression that she had at last thrown her rider and returned all four feet to the ground. Arthur quickly realised that his position on the horse was quite unorthodox as he clutched its tail. Then he beheld his mother emerging from the scullery wiping her hands on a towel.
‘Th’oss’ll think yo’m saft, sitting the wrong road round.’
‘I don’t care much what it thinks.’
‘What yer doing with her?’
Arthur sighed with impatience at having to explain. ‘I’m trying to teach her the gentle art of wrestling, Mother,’ he answered with measured sarcasm. His collar was agape from the tussle and his waistcoat had parted company with his trousers, leaving his shirt half hanging out.
‘Couldn’t you find ne’er a saddle?’
‘I thought I hadn’t got time to look.’
‘Hold on …’ Dinah went into the stable and came back lugging an old mildewed saddle. ‘Get down.’
He got down.
‘Put this hoss back in the stable and fetch out the other un.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause this’n’s took umbrage at thee, that’s why. Yo’ll do no good with this’n today.’
‘Oh.’ Arthur did as he was told and emerged from the stable leading Roxanne, an equally tatty mount.
‘Now fasten this saddle on her,’ Dinah said. ‘Roxanne won’t mind you trying to ride her. I’ll help you, shall I?’
‘I’d be obliged.’
Together, they saddled up Roxanne and Arthur mounted the mare, but gingerly. To his immense relief, this mare made no fuss and actually responded to his signal to go. He rode out of the yard and was on his way.
They did the journey to Pensnett at a steady trot that shook Arthur’s dinner and his beer about somewhat. He contemplated the tussle with Quenelda. He had stuck doggedly to the task of making the mare see who was master. Horses were like women. If only he could apply the same resolve to women. If only he could apply it to Lucy.
Chapter 6
Lucy Piddock waited and waited for Arthur Goodrich to show up. She reckoned she’d been waiting a good quarter of an hour before she realised it was futile to wait any longer. Evidently she’d put him off with her indifference when he walked her home on Wednesday. Well, who would have thought it? Yet who could blame him? If she returned home now and had to tell her folks that King Arthur – as her father had started calling him – had not turned up she would be a laughing stock. Jane would say that it served her right for being dissatisfied with him just because he didn’t have the looks of a god. So would her mother. Her father would think it the funniest thing out and would guffaw for the rest of the afternoon and possibly into the night as well.
It was a dirty trick, not turning up when you’d arranged to meet somebody. All morning she’d worked hard, getting her domestic chores done while her mother was at the Baptist chapel, so that she could spend the afternoon with him. Well, he obviously didn’t deserve it, the charlatan. All the time this Arthur must have been stringing her along …
But she remembered his words on Wednesday night, that he believed he’d found his perfect mate in her. It was a gloriously tender moment and, if she was honest with herself, it had registered in her heart. She’d thought about those words a lot, his sincerity, his reserve. Of course, after what she’d said to everybody, it would be hard to say now that she’d changed her mind about Arthur, but he had definitely gone up in her estimation. It was a pity he was not going to show up now to reap the benefit.
So she waited a little longer, hurt and disappointed. Yet the longer she waited, the more the hurt and disappointment diminished and were replaced by agitation. If he had the gall to turn up now after keeping her waiting so long, all he would get would be her scorn. She adjusted her shawl ready to cross the road back to Bull Street, determined to wait no longer.
As she looked up the hill towards the church she spied a mangy horse going at a tidy canter, the rider waving his hat like a lunatic. She could hear him calling something, warning everybody that the animal had taken fright and he had lost control, she supposed. But, as he got closer, she could see that the madman was none other than Arthur Goodrich. Torn between her pique at having been kept waiting for so long and a natural curiosity that must be satisfied as to what the hell he was up to, she stood waiting for him to reach her, unsure quite how she should behave towards him now.
‘Whoa!’ he yelled and there was a clatter of hoofs on the cobbles as the forlorn mare scraped to a halt. Arthur was out of breath. ‘Sorry I’m late, Lucy.’
‘It’s too late to be sorry,’ she replied, deciding to manifest her scornful side. ‘I’m going back home.’
‘Oh, wait, Lucy.’ He sounded irritated and impatient at what he deemed unreasonableness. ‘If you knew the trouble I’ve had you’d be very understanding. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I’ve gone through hell and high water to get here on time.’
‘You didn’t get here on time.’
‘I know that. But I still went through hell and high water.’ He dismounted and stood before her. ‘I had to run an errand for my old man. He’s bad abed.’
‘What’s up with him?’ she asked indifferently.
‘God knows. With any luck it’ll be terminal.’
‘I thought you didn’t like riding horses,’ she said, softening.
‘I don’t. I loathe and detest the bloody things. Damned stupid animals. But if I’d walked I’d never have got here.’
‘What’ve you done to your eyebrow? It’s cut and bleeding.’
‘I know.’ He put his fingers to it gingerly.
‘Let me have a look at it.’
Obediently he bent his head forward and she inspected the wound, putting her gentle fingers to his temples. He felt a surge of blood through his body at her warm touch.
‘I think it’ll be all right,’ she said softly. ‘It needs a smear of ointment on it. How did you do it?’
‘I banged my head on a lintel.’
‘Banged your head on a lintel?’ she repeated, incredulous. ‘You aren’t that tall.’ He explained in detail how it had happened and her pique melted away with her peals of laughter. ‘I’ve never known anybody like you for getting in the wars,’ she said. ‘It’s one calamity after another with you.’
‘So do you forgive me, Lucy … for being late?’
‘Oh, I suppose so.’
‘I won’t do it again.’ He sniffed audibly.
‘You’ve got a cold.’
‘I know. A stinker.’ He snivelled again to emphasise the fact.
‘So where are you taking me? And is the horse going to play gooseberry?’
‘If it’s all the same to you, Lucy, we’ll take the horse back together and put her in the stable. After cricket practice last evening I went rabbit shooting over Bromley, and there’s a brace of the little buggers I want to give you for your mother. They’ll make a fine dinner.’
She smiled appreciatively. ‘That’ll please her. Thank you, Arthur. I’ll give one to our Jane.’
As they made their way towards the Goodrich’s house and yard Lucy explained about the poverty in which Jane and her new husband lived, on account of his handicap.
‘She’s a brave girl, marrying somebody lame like that,’ Arthur commented, leading the horse by its halter.
‘She loves him,’ Lucy conceded. ‘But I’d think twice about marrying a cripple.’ She shuddered at the thought. ‘I don’t think I could do it.’
‘But he’s a hero, Lucy. He was fighting for queen and country. He has to be admired. And your Jane is his just reward for his self-sacrifice. Besides, love overcomes all.’
They arrived at the yard and Arthur tacked down while Lucy looked about her at the separate stacks of both cut and unhewn stone, the slabs of marble and slate, the various urns and vases that would end up adorning graves.
She patted Roxanne’s long, dappled face. ‘He’s a scruffy devil in’t he, this horse?’
‘He’s a mare, Lucy.’ Arthur grinned with amusement at her failure to recognise the fact.
‘He’s still a scruffy devil, mare or no. Don’t nobody ever groom him?’
‘You can come and do it, if you’re so concerned.’
‘Would I get paid?’
‘By my old man?’ Arthur lifted the saddle off the mare and turned to take it into the stable. ‘You’d be lucky to get a kind look,’ he said over his shoulder and pointed resentfully to an upstairs window. ‘You’d have to catch him on one of his better days, and they’re few and far between.’
He backed the mare into the stable, made sure she was settled and emerged into the sunshine to shut the door behind him with a self-satisfied grin on his face.
‘That Quenelda was a bit fidgety when I went in there just,’ he said smugly. ‘She knows I ain’t standing no more messing off her. Come on, Lucy, let’s go in the house. You can meet my mother.’
‘D’you think I should?’
‘Yes, course. I want her to meet you.’
It was a large house compared to the tiny cottage that Lucy and her family lived in, but it was by no means grand. Her own mother would have a fit if she walked into this hallway and saw all the clutter, the unswept flags, and the dust that lay like a dulling film over the wooden furniture. Lucy felt like taking a duster and a tin of wax polish to everything to freshen it up, to try and eliminate the dusky smell that pervaded the place.
They found Dinah in the parlour peeling an apple into her lap, a tumbler of whisky with easy reach. Her mouth dropped open when she saw a pretty girl at her son’s side.
‘Mother, this is Lucy. Lucy’s my girl, and I brought her home so you could meet her.’
‘I wish to God I’d a-knowed yo’ was bringing a wench back here,’ Dinah admonished. She rose from her seat, grabbing the apple peel to save it falling on the floor. ‘I’d have put me a decent frock on and done me hair. He never tells me nothing, you know … Did he say your name was Lucy?’
Lucy nodded and smiled uncertainly, afraid that Arthur had not chosen a good moment to present her to the unprepared and disorderly Mrs Goodrich.
‘Never mind about your frock, Mother,’ Arthur said. ‘We ain’t come to see you in a mannequin parade. We’ve come to get a couple o’ them rabbits what me and our Talbot shot yesterday. I said I’d give a couple to Lucy for her mother.’
‘Do I know your mother, Lucy?’ Dinah asked trying to show an interest in this vaguely familiar face. She put down the apple, together with its cut peel and the knife she was using, on top of a news sheet that lay on the table beside her.
‘No, but you used to know her father,’ Arthur replied for her, with a look of devilment.
‘Oh? Who’s your father, then?’
‘Haden Piddock.’
‘He used to be sweet on you, didn’t he, Mother?’ Arthur was grinning inanely.
‘Haden Piddock … By God, that was a long time ago.’
Lucy noticed the instant softening in Mrs Goodrich’s eyes as she recalled the lost years. Maybe, all those years ago, there had been a spark of something between her father and this woman. She could hardly conceive of him giving her a second glance now, but she might have been a pretty young thing once. It was such a shame, Lucy thought, that age and the years eventually robbed everybody of any gloss and sparkle, which was generally at its brightest around the age of twenty … in women anyway. Some men never sparkled at all though. You only had to look at Arthur …
‘Well, fancy you being Haden’s daughter. I tek it as you’m the youngest.’
‘That’s right, Mrs Goodrich.’
‘Well, why don’t you stop and have a drop o’ summat to drink? I got a nice bit o’ pork pie on the cold slab an’ all, as I’m sure you’d enjoy. It was made from one o’ Mrs Costins’s pigs up the Delph … and you look as if you could do with feeding up a bit.’
‘No, we ain’t stopping, Mother,’ Arthur reasserted. ‘We’ve only come to get the rabbits. But Lucy can come another Sunday, eh, Lucy?’
Lucy nodded politely. ‘Yes, I’d like to.’
Arthur went to the brewhouse and returned with four rabbits wrapped in old newsprint. ‘There’s two for your mother and two for your Jane,’ he said proudly.
‘How many did you shoot?’ Dinah asked, as if he might be giving too many away.
‘Eighteen. Me and Talbot had nine apiece.’
‘It’s very kind of you, Arthur,’ Lucy said sincerely. ‘Thank you. My mother and sister will be ever so pleased.’
Arthur smiled, delighted that he’d earned some esteem from his girl. ‘Come on, we’ll go and deliver ’em now, eh?’
‘I can see now why he was in such a rush to get out afore,’ Dinah said, looking judiciously at Lucy. ‘’Cause he’d arranged to see you, young Lucy. He was getting into a tidy pickle with that cantankerous old mare we’n got when he knew he’d got to run an errand for his father.’
‘How is Mr Goodrich?’ Lucy enquired. ‘Arthur tells me he’s bad a-bed. What’s the matter with him?’
‘Mrs Costins’s pig,’ Dinah replied matter-of-factly. ‘He had some pork yesterday. So sure as he touches a bit o’ pork it’s all over with him. When I went to fetch his plate after his dinner I swear as he was praying to the Lord, asking Him to ease his suffering.’
‘He should be ashamed troubling the Lord of a Sunday afternoon for the sake of a bit o’ wind,’ Arthur remarked acidly, ‘when a dose of bicarbonate of soda would set him straight.’
‘I’ll tek him some up after,’ Dinah said.
‘No, let him suffer.’
‘Our Arthur’s got no respect for his father, you know, Lucy. Am you sure you won’t stop and have a bit o’ pork pie? It’s beautiful. I doubt whether I ever med better. I’m sure as the good Lord must’ve bin in the oven with ’em a-Friday when they was a-baking.’
‘I told you, Mother, we’re going now.’
Dinah gazed at her visitor critically. ‘But look at the wench, our Arthur, her could do with feeding up a bit. A bit o’ me pork pie would do her the world o’ good. Am yer sure yo’m all right, young Lucy? You look pale to me, an’ all.’
‘I feel perfectly well, Mrs Goodrich—’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it. Mind you, I’ve heard it said as pale folk am often the healthiest, though they mightn’t be the handsomest … But it’s better to be healthy than handsome, I always say. Mind you, him upstairs is neither … Shall I cut a piece o’ me pie to take to your father? He could have it for his snap tomorrow at work.’
‘That would be ever so kind, Mrs Goodrich …’
‘So this is Arthur,’ Hannah Piddock said, standing up to welcome the young man who had seen fit to start stepping out with her youngest daughter. She looked him up and down circumspectly. ‘Well, he ain’t as bad looking as you made him out to be, our Lucy. I expected somebody with a face like a bag o’ spanners.’
‘I never said any such thing,’ Lucy at once countered, embarrassed that her mother should have been so tactless as to repeat in front of Arthur what she had said.
Arthur looked first at Lucy, then at her mother, and grinned sheepishly. ‘I know I’m no oil painting, Mrs Piddock. I couldn’t blame Lucy for saying so.’
‘Arthur’s given us some rabbits, Mother. Haven’t you, Arthur? Two for us and two for our Jane.’
‘And there’s plenty more where they came from,’ he said stoutly. ‘My brother and me often go shooting ’em over Bromley.’
‘That’s ever so kind, Arthur. Why, our Jane will be ever so grateful an’ all.’
‘It’s no trouble, Mrs Piddock. I understand her husband can’t work. I’m glad to help out.’
He looked about him. The room was tiny with a small cast iron range in which a coal fire burned brightly, a polished coal scuttle stood to one side. The mantel shelf above was edged with pristine white lace. On it stood two small crock urns, one at each end, and in the middle a sparkling mirror hung. In front of the hearth was a wooden settle with chenille covered squabs neatly placed. A rocking chair was set beside it turned in towards the fire, and in it dozed Haden Piddock after his drinking spree at the Whimsey. Under the window that looked out onto the street stood a small square table covered in a lace-edged cloth, and three chairs set around it. All modest and unassuming, but its unsullied cleanliness and cosiness struck Arthur. Nothing was out of place, and it all looked invitingly spruce and bright, unlike his own home.
‘Arthur’s mother’s sent some of her fresh pork pie for me father’s snap,’ Lucy said.
‘That’s very thoughtful of her, Arthur. Be sure to thank her for me.’
‘I will, Mrs Piddock.’
‘That’s a stinking cold you’ve got there, young Arthur. Let me give you a drop of hot rum with some sugar in it.’
Arthur grinned with appreciation. ‘That sounds too good to miss, Mrs Piddock.’
‘Well, one good turn … And I warrant as it’ll make you feel better.’
Haden woke himself up with a sudden rasping snort, and looked about him, disorientated for a few seconds. ‘Well, I’m buggered,’ he said and rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s King Arthur …’
‘He’s a king and no two ways, Haden,’ Hannah declared. ‘He’s bought us some rabbits for a stew, and his mother’s sent yer a lovely piece o’ pork pie for your snap.’
‘His mother, eh?… What’s that he’s a-drinking?’
‘Hot rum and sugar.’
‘I thought I could smell rum. I’ll have some o’ that, an’ all, our Hannah.’
On the afternoon of the last Saturday in September Lucy Piddock and Miriam Watson decided to treat themselves. They took the train to Wolverhampton to visit the shops, a rare and exciting excursion. The journey took them through the Dudley Tunnel, when all was suddenly converted to blackness. The insistent rumble and click-clack of the iron wheels, traversing the joints of the iron track, took on a gravitas that was not only unheeded in daylight but augmented by the close confines of the tunnel. The two girls clutched each other for reassurance, lest they were each suddenly ravished by one of the occupying male passengers, even though they looked such ordinary and harmless men by the light of day.
‘Lord, I hope this thing don’t come to a stop while we’m in here,’ Miriam whispered. ‘What if the roof fell in and half of Dudley was to come crashing down on us?’
‘You’re full of pleasant thoughts,’ Lucy murmured. ‘I wish you wouldn’t say such things. You scare me.’
‘What if one o’ these Johnnies here jumped on we?’
‘I thought you liked men.’