by Nancy Carson
Poppy peered through the crowd and tried to catch a glimpse. ‘They must be mad,’ she uttered, and turned to go.
‘He’s got a tidy doodle on him and no mistake,’ Minnie remarked, her eyes sparkling with the reflected light of oil lamps from the hut. ‘Have you seen it?’
‘No, neither do I want to,’ Poppy answered with pious indignation.
But the fight was taking a decisive turn and Poppy continued watching, her natural curiosity getting the better of her. One of the men was down in the mud, prone, and showed no signs of getting up yet awhile. The victor stood over the loser, the muscles of his back clear and defined like live eels wriggling under his skin. He rubbed his hands together, then gave his victim a final kick between the legs. The men began to disperse, discussing the finer points of the scuffle, acknowledging that the winner was a fine fighter, as strong as an ox. Poppy saw that it was indeed Jericho. She turned her back on him and walked away, but he had seen her and called after her, ignoring Minnie.
‘Did you see me beat that vermin?’ he asked excitedly, breathing hard as he caught up with her. His face was unmarked by the fray; only his body had a patch or two of caking mud stuck to it, matted in the dark hairs of his broad chest.
‘I don’t understand what there was to fight about,’ Poppy said indifferently and walked on, determined not to look at him.
‘That spunkless article had got two pillows and I hadn’t got a one,’ he said, following her. ‘So I lifted it off his bunk and put it on mine. He didn’t take kindly to it, so I offered to fight him for it.’
He walked beside her for a while, unabashed by his nakedness, and grabbed hold of her, twisting her round to face him. ‘Kiss me, Poppy,’ he said and his eyes were intensely penetrating, even in the dimness of the night. He thrust his hands inside her mantle and pulled it open. As he drew her to him she could instantly feel the warmth of his body, hot from his exertion, urgently pressing against hers with only the thin cotton of her nightgown between them. As he sought her lips and found them, she felt him harden almost at once, insistent, pressing against her warm belly. For a few seconds she thrilled to the sensation, pleased that she was having such a rousing effect on him.
‘You got nothin’ on under your coat except your nightdress,’ he commented excitedly as he cupped her small bottom in his huge hands. ‘Come with me round the back o’ the hut.’
Poppy pulled herself away from him and wiped her mouth. ‘I will not,’ she said fervently. ‘Don’t think I’m like other navvy wenches, Jericho, ’cause I’m not. Who do you think you are anyway, coming here and thinking I’m going to fall at your feet?’
He looked at her for a few seconds, uncertain how to react, and Poppy was afraid he might strike her for her disaffection. At last he grinned at her. ‘Oh, playing hard to get, eh? Saving yourself for that Crawford, are you? Well, I don’t mind playing that game. You’ll be worth the wait and you’ll taste all the sweeter for it …’ He displayed himself lewdly, cupping himself in both hands … ‘And so will I …’
Poppy turned and ran back to the hut.
She found it difficult to sleep that night, tossing and turning on the feather mattress till it became lumpy. Images of Jericho, naked in the darkness, invaded her mind. Good thing it had been dark. She knew exactly what Minnie saw in him, with his raw good looks, his thick, dark curls and his muscular body that showed not one ounce of fat. But he was arrogant. He knew women fancied him. Women would be there for the taking, wherever he went. But not her. Not Poppy. Oh, he expected her to be like all the others – easy meat. But he had not met anybody like her before. She was not about to be beguiled by the likes of him. Besides, he was just another navvy. Imagine being his devoted woman, sharing his bed at night, bearing his children, yet never sure that he was not bedding some other woman he’d duped with diverting half promises and the prospect of unbounded pleasuring.
So she turned her thoughts to Robert Crawford … Robert Crawford, that gentle soul who was not so high and mighty that he would wilfully pass her by and fail to acknowledge her, even though she was only a navvy’s daughter. He’d called her ‘Miss Silk’. He’d shown her respect and she enjoyed his courtesy. He was so friendly, so easy to talk to. He had no side on him, and yet … His eyes were so bright and alert, and they had been warm on her. Maybe he liked her too, but it could never be as much as she liked him. She would be fooling herself if she allowed herself to believe otherwise. But she wished that he would kiss her. Not roughly, like Jericho, who had stolen a hard slobbering kiss, but warmly, lovingly, with a gentle, sensitive, understated passion that would make her toes curl.
Poppy eventually fell asleep with Robert Crawford in her thoughts. Her dream that night was different from any other dream she had ever experienced. It was not the dream of a child, nor even of a young girl, but of a woman – arousing, stimulating, startling and vividly erotic. It involved herself and two men, both naked, one of whom was riding a two-wheeled machine akin to a hobby horse. She was sitting on the crossbar of the machine in the arms of the naked Robert Crawford, her face against his neck as she nestled in his arms, the wind rippling through her hair, the street flashing past in a blur as they sped down it. And then they fell off the machine into soft long grass and tumbled head over heels. Her skirt was up over her bodice and he was crawling towards her, a look of concern on his beautiful face. ‘Are you all right, Miss Silk?’ he asked, just as Minnie had said he would, but so tenderly. She nodded, smiling as she realised she was naked from the waist down. He scrambled to get on top of her and kissed her lovingly, yet hungrily, and she felt him enter her, so sweetly, so gently, that she hoped the moment would last forever. But in her dream she was also aware of this other naked man, huge, rough and threatening. He came into view and lifted Robert bodily from her and took his place, hurting her, thrashing inside her like some frantic fish caught in a net. She awoke momentarily, tried to exorcise Jericho from her mind and return to Robert … But Robert had gone …
Lightning Jack and Bilston Buttercup had reached the sweeping curve of Chipping Campden’s High Street on the day they anticipated. They enquired as to the proximity of the railway line and the Mickleton tunnel but the locals, who seemed very respectable, did not seem kindly disposed towards them. Eventually, they were directed out of the village on a north-easterly path. They came to the railway track bed under construction and followed it until it came to a dead end. Lightning Jack speculated that the tunnel workings must be over the hill that lay before them. It was not long before they saw the mountains of spoil, the shaft with its steam engine, and a small shanty town of dilapidated huts. A navvy directed them to a ganger who set them on.
Both men had exhausted their money, mainly on beer, but they were amply fed and watered that evening by the resident navvies, with typical navvy hospitality. Their lodgings were in a hut similar to that which Lightning had left behind at the Blowers Green encampment. The same ganger who had employed them, called ‘Swillicking Mick’ because of the vast amounts of beer he was reputed to drink, operated it.
They ate that evening in the common living room of the hut with the others, enjoying cuts from a massive piece of beef and mounds of potatoes from a huge pot that hung over the fire. The only windows, each immediately either side of the solitary door, were stuck in the middle of the room’s longest wall. The kitchen was located opposite a stack of beer barrels. It was home from home.
Swillicking Mick kept them amply supplied with beer. ‘Pay me when you get paid, lads,’ he said. ‘I’ll not rob thee for it. I brew it meself so it works out cheaper than the stuff from the tommy shop.’
‘It’s decent stuff an’ all,’ Lightning commented. ‘Pour us another if it’s cheap.’
Swillicking Mick’s woman, wearing a leather belt from which hung the keys to the locked beer barrels, duly poured Lightning another and made a note of it in a little book that she withdrew from the pocket of her apron.
‘There’s no decent beer shop hereabouts, so a few on us
have begun brewing our own,’ Mick informed them. ‘Course, you can always tramp into Campden. A good many do of a Saturday night. The beer houses want our trade, but the locals ain’t too fond o’ the rumpus we cause. Already they’ve put bars up at the windows o’ some o’ the properties, save ’em getting bost.’
‘The contractors don’t like you brewing your own beer, I’ll warrant,’ Buttercup ventured, nodding in the direction of the barrels. ‘’Specially if they ain’t taking a cut.’
‘Nor would the exciseman if he knew,’ Mick said with a wink. ‘The only problem is, I’m more inclined to sell me beer than work on the construction. So would all the others. It earns us a mint o’ money.’
Mick’s woman, Hannah, began clearing the things away and the men continued talking. There were nine or ten men in the room; it was getting noisier and the humour increasingly boisterous. Then there was a knock at the door; more customers for Swillicking Mick. A group of five or six ruffians entered, one of whom carried a fiddle and a bow. They bought beer, and the chap with the fiddle began playing a lively tune. Several of the men began dancing with each other, their boots hammering on the floorboards. Others were sitting on the floor playing cards, their poaching dogs alongside them, and they complained that the dancing would be understandable if there were women about. At that, the door opened again and half a dozen women and girls squeezed inside.
‘The women from the mill,’ Swillicking Mick remarked with a wink.
It was beginning to get crowded. The card-players cheered and got up from the dusty floor, to engage in a more interesting sport.
One of the women – she looked about thirty years old but was possibly younger – attached herself to Lightning.
‘I’ve not seen you before, have I, chuck?’ she said in her rural drawl.
‘Not unless you can see as far as Dudley,’ Lightning answered.
‘You do talk funny. Is that how they talk in Dudley?’
Lightning grinned inanely; the beer was having its effect. ‘They talk even funnier than me in Dudley. I come from Cheshire. But even Dudley folk don’t sound so weird as you with your quaint country twang. What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Jenny Sparrow. What’s yours?’
‘They call me Lightning Jack.’
‘Well, Jack, you look a big, strong chap to me, with your big, drooping moustaches. Spoke for, are ye?’
Lightning took a swig of beer and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘What’s it to you? Fancy your chances, do you?’
‘I’m not so ugly as to be discounted, am I, Jack?’
‘Ugly?’ he queried. ‘No, you’re a fine-looking wench, Jenny … And that’s a handsome bosom you’re flaunting.’
Jenny beamed. ‘Maybe you’d like to help yourself to a handful later?’
‘It depends what it’s gunna cost me.’
‘Oh, I don’t do it for money, Jack. I do it for love …’
Chapter 5
Waiting for Wednesday was, for Poppy, like waiting for her plum pudding at Christmas. As one o’clock approached, she tried hard to remain calm, anxious not to give her mother any hint at all that she was leaving her to do the cooking and the feeding of lodgers, just to meet a young man – and one above her station at that. Sheba would get to hear of it, no doubt. Somebody was bound to see them and report back. Nor would Sheba be pleased. But Poppy would handle that crisis when it arose …
She had taken the trouble to wash her hair the night before. She had cleaned her clogs and her fingernails. In the family’s overcrowded bedroom she’d stood at the washstand and enjoyed a thorough wash down, feeling fresh and confident after it. She had laundered her stockings, and inspected the clothes she intended wearing, which, to allay any suspicion, would have to be a working frock.
So, at five minutes to one, she took off her pinafore, tidied her hair and looked at herself briefly in the ancient, mildewed mirror that hung by a piece of string from a nail near the door. If only she had a more alluring frock to wear, but to change it and put on her best red one would have been to broadcast her intentions. So she resigned herself to the fact that she must make do. At least the frock she was wearing was clean. Poppy failed to realise that she looked good in whatever she wore. She was blessed with a beautiful face and a complexion as fair as her flaxen hair. She possessed a natural daintiness and elegance of movement which, had she been dressed in silks or velvets, would have been perceived as grace.
She put on her bonnet and slipped out without a word to her mother. The rain of Monday had ceased and the weather had changed for the better again, with sunshine and a gentle breeze. Thankfully, the mud of the encampment was drying out. Poppy walked towards Shaw Road at the intersection with the footpath where she was supposed to meet Robert, her heart thumping in anticipation. While she waited, first looking up Shaw Road for sight of him, then self-consciously at her clogs, she felt conspicuous, certain that the wary eyes of the encampment were on her and suspicious of what she was up to.
Before too long she heard the familiar clack-clack of the iron-rimmed wheels traversing the craggy surface of the road. She turned to see Robert hurtling towards her, a grin on his handsome face, and her heart lurched.
He’d remembered.
‘Have you been waiting long?’ he asked, when he came to a stop beside her. ‘Sorry if I kept you waiting. I was held up by Mr Shafto – you know, the sub-assistant – wanting some information about some measurements I’d taken.’
Poppy smiled at him brightly. ‘It don’t matter, Robert. I was a bit early … but I had to get out when the chance came.’
‘I presume, then, that you haven’t changed your mind about riding with me?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I ain’t changed me mind, but I was thinking about what might happen if we fell off,’ she said, vividly recalling her dream.
He shrugged. ‘We could, of course. It’s entirely possible. But if the fear of it puts you off, I’ll be extra careful that we don’t. It’s not as if you’re going to be an enormous weight to carry. You’re quite small really. Why don’t you get on?’
She stood close to him and turned around so that she could sit on the crossbar of his machine. It felt hard against her rump, like the bar of a gate.
‘You need to sit back a little bit further,’ Robert said, ‘so that the machine balances. And so that I can get my feet on the treadles.’
She pushed herself further on and felt the crossbar under her backside. Robert was steadying the handlebar and his right arm formed a barrier that she could lean against to prevent her toppling over backwards.
‘Are you ready? Lift your feet higher … no, higher … I have to reach the treadles. Don’t worry, I’ll hold you.’
He scooted off and, after a couple of initial wobbles, they began travelling in a commendably straight trajectory. The road was pitted and bumpy and the frame of the machine transmitted all those bumps to Poppy. Her very bones juddered, but it was exhilarating. The wind was in her hair and against her face as they gathered speed, and she heard herself shrieking with excitement. They hurtled underneath the new railway bridge and approached a grassy mound that vaguely marked the end of Shaw Road and the start of the undulating footpath to Netherton. As they rode over it, Poppy’s innards rolled over and seemed to reach her throat in an unbelievable sensation, making her whoop with delight. She was between Robert’s arms, holding on to him tightly while he steered the machine, conscious of his left leg rising and falling under her skirt as he controlled their speed with the treadles. The ground over the footpath seemed softer, with no hard bumps to bruise her bottom and the backs of her thighs more. She would not mind falling off now and rolling into the long grass at the side of the footpath with Robert …
But they did not fall off. They bowled past tiny cottages in desperate need of repair, past the Old Buffery Iron Works that glowed red at night-time, flaring the dark sky with an eerie crimson glow. They skimmed past the Iron Stone pit with its huffing, clanking steam eng
ine. Robert slowed down the machine as they reached the turnpike road from Netherton to Dudley at Cinder Bank, and carried on over fields. Just before they reached a fishpond, they stopped.
‘Well?’ Robert said. ‘Did you enjoy that?’
Poppy was breathless after the ride. ‘Oh, I loved it, Robert.’ She hooted with laughter, and with the back of her hand wiped away wind-induced tears that had traced a watery line across her flushed cheeks.
She sat on the crossbar pressed against him, still trapped between his arms, radiant with excitement. Robert looked at the delightful profile of her face. She was close enough for him to steal a kiss if he wanted, although he did not take advantage. Instead, he smiled with satisfaction at the few moments of joy he’d brought to this enigmatic girl, by giving her something as simple as a ride on his rudimentary two-wheeled machine.
Feeling Robert’s strong right arm protectively at her back, Poppy was loath to dismount, but she let her feet fall to the ground and eased herself forward. As she stood, her skirt brushing the side of the machine, she hoped Robert would invite her for another ride at some time.
‘Well, we have a long walk back,’ he commented, himself dismounting. He turned the two-wheeled contraption round and began pushing it in the opposite direction. ‘I’ve been working on a design for another machine,’ he said to Poppy as she ambled beside him. ‘Similar to this one but with a better means of propelling it forward. I’m convinced that something like it has immense commercial potential.’
She turned to him and smiled with admiration, uncertain of the meaning of the words ‘commercial’ and ‘potential’. If only she was educated. If only she had been given some schooling, she would be more able to talk with him on his level.
