by Nancy Carson
‘If you like,’ she agreed pleasantly. ‘Which way shall we go?’
‘Which way d’you fancy?’
She shrugged. It was hardly a decision worth making and not one she’d been expecting to make herself. ‘Oh, you decide.’
‘Downhill, eh? Towards Audnam and the fields. We’ll see what’s left of the sunset as we go.’ So they turned and set off at a tentative stroll.
A horse and buggy drove up towards Brierley Hill on the other side of the road, its wheels rattling over the uneven surface. The driver called a greeting to the lamp-lighter walking in the opposite direction, whose lantern was swinging from the ladder balanced over his shoulder. For the first few long moments neither Lucy nor Arthur could think of a word to say. The pause seemed ominous. Both realised it simultaneously and their eyes met with self-conscious, half-apologetic smiles.
‘What have you been doing today?’ Lucy asked, aware that maybe she ought to set some conversation in train.
‘I had to go to a churchyard in Pensnett and finish an inscription to a headstone,’ Arthur replied, thankful that Lucy had found something to say, for he was inexplicably tongue-tied. ‘I should’ve done it Saturday but I couldn’t.’
‘Oh? Why was that?’
‘’Cause I had the diarrhee bad. I was taken short.’
She burst out laughing.
‘It’s not that funny,’ he said, disappointed that she should appear to mock him so early on. ‘Haven’t you ever had the diarrhee?’
‘Even if I have I’m not about to tell you. But it isn’t the fact that you had the diarrhee I’m laughing at. I know you can’t help that. It’s just that …’
‘What?’
‘Well, the first time I saw you on Saturday night you had to run off afore you’d finished drying spilt beer off your trousers. I thought then as you’d been took short, and when I asked your mate what was the matter with you he said as how it was something you’d ate.’
He laughed with her, realising how ridiculous he must have seemed. ‘So you guessed?’
‘It doesn’t take a genius to fathom it out. I hope you’ve got over it now.’
‘Yes, thank the merciful Lord. I don’t want another bout like that in a hurry, I can tell you. I’ve had a bit of toothache today, though.’
‘Toothache? Maybe you’ll have to have it pulled.’
‘I’m hoping as it’ll go away of its own accord. I don’t fancy having it pulled. It’s one of them big teeth at the back. They can be murder to pull out, they reckon.’
‘Maybe it’s just neuralgia,’ she suggested.
They were approaching the canal bridge where Wheeley’s Glass House stood with its huge brick cone that shielded from view the furnaces belonging to the same company. Over the bridge, on the other side of the highway was Smith’s Pottery.
‘So tell me what it is you have to do to describe a headstone,’ Lucy said, not wishing to discuss Arthur’s unexciting ailments for fear there were more, but veering obliviously onto a subject which had the same potential to assign her to wool-gathering.
‘Inscribe, Lucy, not describe.’ Her error amused him and he smiled. ‘I have to cut the letters into the stone or slate.’
‘So you have to be able to read and write well?’
‘Oh, yes. But I went to school, see? Can you read, Lucy?’
‘Oh, yes, some. My father used to spend two shillings a week to send me to school when I was little. They taught me my letters. I can’t read big words easy, though. But I can count, and do sums. I’m hopeless at spelling though. Hopeless.’
‘Ah well, it isn’t so important for a woman to be able to read and write, is it?’ he said consolingly. ‘Except maybe to write down a list of stuff you need to buy for the house.’
‘I suppose not. All the same, it would be useful to be able to do it well.’
‘Got any brothers or sisters, Lucy?’
‘I got a sister – Jane – a bit older than me. She married a chap called Moses Cartwright. He was a soldier in the Crimea, but they sent him home ’cause he got wounded. He’d been stuck in some makeshift hospital for weeks at the front.’
‘No brothers then?’
‘Yes, four brothers. All wed. One of them lives in Canada, so we don’t see him any more. We don’t see the others very often either … Come to think of it, they might as well all live in Canada … And you’ve got a brother, haven’t you, Arthur? Any sisters?’
‘Just one brother … He’s wed to Magnolia—’
‘Magnolia?’
‘I know. It’s a funny name for a woman.’
Conversation promised to flow naturally at last. They crossed the road at Hawbush Farm and turned into the footpath that led over fields to an area called Buckpool and eventually to Kingswinford parish. But it was getting dark and they would not have been able to see where they were going, so they lingered at a stile. Lucy perched herself on the top bar while Arthur leaned against it. By this time they were easier in each other’s company, to Lucy’s relief and surprise, for she found she was enjoying herself and actually liking Arthur.
Arthur complained how he and his father were always at cross-purposes, how he was expected to do the more menial tasks of stonemasonry and not the more glamorous ones of designing and building graves. It was obvious to her how it irked him.
‘So why don’t you leave home and find lodgings? Then you’d be out of his way.’
‘I might. If I left home I’d have to leave the business as well, and that would show him good and proper.’
‘What about your mother? Do you get on with her?’
‘Oh, she’s all right. It’s just me father I can’t stand. I feel sorry for her having to put up with him.’
‘Is he that bad, Arthur?’
‘He’s a miserable old devil. It always seems to me that he’s tried to do without love in his life, and that’s what makes him so vile. It’s almost as if he’s made a little garden for himself, but if the family’s love is sunshine he’s certainly shaded himself from it. And he’s planted this garden with bitter herbs, not beautiful flowers, yet he believes it’s the whole world – that the whole world is like that. He’s pig ignorant, Lucy. He never says “That’s a good job you’ve done there, our Arthur”, or “I’ll pay you a bit extra for doing that, ’cause you was late getting back”. Oh, not him. He’s too tight. He wouldn’t give you the drippings off his nose.’
‘I don’t think I’d want the drippings off his nose,’ Lucy asserted, which made Arthur laugh. ‘You make him sound vile.’
‘He is vile.’
‘Have you ever courted anybody before, Arthur?’
‘Once. When I was about twenty. A girl from Brockmoor. There’s some pretty girls in Brockmoor. But we split up after about six months.’
‘And you never bothered since?’
‘I never met anybody I fancied since … till I met you the other night.’
Lucy was touched by his sincerity. ‘That’s a lovely thing to say, Arthur. So what was it about me that took your fancy?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t really know …’
‘There must have been something,’ she said, miffed that he could think of nothing.
‘What I mean is, you aren’t flashy,’ he was quick to add, realising he’d unwittingly said the wrong thing. ‘You’ve got such lovely eyes and such long eyelashes, though … and a lovely smile to match.’
Immediately Lucy was mollified. ‘You think I’ve got nice eyes? I think they’re a funny colour.’
‘I’ve never seen eyes such a lovely colour. You’ve got a decent figure as well … and you have a nice way with you. I took a fancy to you as soon as I saw you.’
‘I bet I’m not as pretty as that girl from Brockmoor, though,’ she fished, relishing his compliments that boosted her confidence.
‘She was only pretty, Lucy. But you’re beautiful.’
Lucy’s eyes twinkled in the half light. ‘That’s the nicest thing anybody ever said to me.’ She slid of
f the stile and planted a kiss tenderly on his cheek. ‘Thank you.’
In return he put his hand on her shoulder and touched her. It was the first time he had touched her in that way and his emotion was too pure for desire, too respectful for sensuality. ‘You kissed me,’ he said with astonishment.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she replied, returning to her perch.
‘Lord, no.’
Another awkward pause developed and Lucy realised that maybe she had been hasty, indecorous in kissing him, a regular churchgoer, when she hardly knew him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, relieving the tension. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I bet you think I’m a proper strumpet. I’m not, though, Arthur. Honest I’m not.’
‘Oh, I liked it, Lucy. I don’t think you’re a strumpet at all. You can do it again if you like.’
‘I’d better not,’ she replied with a laugh that to him sounded like a silver bell tinkling.
The last of the daylight had all but gone and a full moon was already high, sailing through wispy clouds. In the distance they could hear a locomotive puffing tiredly on its arduous journey up the incline towards the Brettell Lane and Round Oak stations.
‘Tell me about your father,’ Arthur suggested, eager to learn what he could that might give him an inkling as to why his own father evidently didn’t admire the man. ‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s lovely and I love him,’ Lucy answered simply. ‘He’s kind, he cares for us all. He wouldn’t do anybody a bad turn – he’d rather help somebody.’
‘What’s he do for a living?’
‘He’s a shingler at the New Level ironworks. D’you know, Arthur, every time it’s payday he buys me a little present? It might only be a quarter of cough drops, but he always brings me something.’
‘That’s being thoughtful,’ Arthur agreed, and realised that here was a way he too could enhance his standing with Lucy. ‘He sounds the dead opposite of my father … What about your mother?’
‘Oh, she’s a bit fussy. We only live in a little cottage, but it always has to be spick and span. She’d have a fit if she saw a silverfish in our house. Our clothes always have to be spruce as well. She’d have another fit if I went out in something that looked dirty or shabby.’
‘Well, every time I’ve seen you, Lucy, you look nice,’ Arthur remarked. ‘So she must be a good influence.’
‘I just hope I can be like her if I ever get married.’
‘I hope, Lucy – if I ever get married – I’ll be lucky enough to pick a wife like that.’
Whatever was being implied, however inadvertently, and whatever was being likewise perceived, seemed to put paid to their conversation entirely and they remained unspeaking for long embarrassed seconds, until Lucy thought of something to say to divert them.
‘Can you ride a horse, Arthur?’
‘After a fashion. It isn’t my favourite method of transport though. Awkward, stupid animals, horses. I don’t feel comfortable on a horse. Not since I fell off and broke a rib.’
‘You didn’t!’
‘I did.’
‘Well, you’re a real knight in shining armour and no mistake,’ she laughed, ‘falling off your horse.’ It was just like him to do that, she thought.
‘I’d rather drive our cart and have the nag in front of me. The worst he could do is take fright.’
‘You drive a cart?’
‘Course I do. It’s what we lug our stone and masonry around with.’
‘I fancy riding on a cart. I’ve never ridden on a cart in me life.’
‘Honest?’
‘Honest.’
‘Maybe one of these days I’ll take you for a ride.’
‘Mmm, I’d like that, Arthur … You ain’t got a carriage, have you, by any chance?’
‘A carriage? God’s truth, who d’you think we are? Lords of the manor?’
‘I was only wondering. It doesn’t matter. A cart will do. As a matter of fact, a cart will do nicely … I’m getting off this stile, Arthur. I got pins and needles in my bum … Shall we carry on walking?’
‘If you like. Let’s walk to Stourbridge. It’s light enough with the moon as bright as it is.’
So they walked to Stourbridge and back, chattering away, getting to know each other in the process. On the way, Arthur claimed he was parched and they stopped at the Old Crown Inn on Brettell Lane before he returned Lucy home. They stood on the corner of Bull Street, within sight of the Piddocks’ cottage, but at a respectful distance.
‘I’ve really enjoyed tonight, Lucy, talking and walking with you,’ he said sincerely. ‘How about you?’ In the scant moonlight he discerned her smile.
‘Yes, so have I.’
‘Can we meet again then?’
‘If you want,’ she agreed. ‘When?’
‘How about tomorrow?’
‘I help out at the Whimsey tomorrow.’
‘Well, I could come and walk you back after.’
‘My dad will walk me back. We’ll have to leave it till a night when I’m not working.’
‘When’s that?’
‘Thursday.’
‘That’s the night of my bible class.’
‘Oh.’
‘But I could meet you later.’
‘How much later?’
‘Just after nine, say.’
‘My mother wouldn’t let me out that late. She reckons I should be abed by then.’
‘What if I call for you?’
‘And let you meet my mother?’ He saw the look of doubt in her eyes. ‘I don’t know, Arthur. I haven’t told her about you.’
‘What then?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘How about Saturday afternoon? Or Sunday?’
‘Saturday afternoon I sometimes go to Dudley with my friend Miriam. I could meet you Sunday afternoon though.’
‘It’s a long time to wait, Lucy. Nearly a week. I’ll have forgot what you look like by Sunday.’
She shrugged again. ‘Maybe your toothache will have gone by then.’
‘It’s gone already,’ he said brightly. ‘Maybe I’ll come to the Whimsey one night when you’m working. Just to say hello.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s up to you.’
‘You don’t sound very bothered,’ he suggested.
‘I just don’t see the point. I won’t be able to walk home with you. Not with my father there.’
‘But I’ll see you Sunday at any rate, Lucy. Does three o’ clock suit?’
‘Yes. And thanks for asking me out, Arthur.’
She sounded sincere, he thought, and was encouraged. ‘It’s been my pleasure …’ He grinned like a schoolboy. ‘And thank you for the kiss earlier. I shan’t be able to sleep for thinking about it.’ He turned and went on his way, euphoric.
Arthur could not help himself. So taken was he with Lucy Piddock that he could not sleep properly at night for thinking about her. He fought the urge, but found it impossible to keep away from the Whimsey any longer, where he knew she would be. He would have gone on the Tuesday, the evening after their first tryst, but had the sense to realise that he might appear too keen. If he’d had even more sense he would have known he should keep away altogether and let Lucy wonder why he hadn’t been nigh, let her watch the door every night to see if the next customer entering would be him. But Arthur was unacquainted with the foibles of young women and how to better gain their interest. So, on Wednesday evening at about nine o’ clock, just two nights after their outing, he sauntered into the taproom, his heart a-flutter, aching to see again this delightful girl who had turned his world upside down.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Lucy remarked when she saw him standing at the bar waiting to be served.
‘Hello, Lucy.’ He grinned amiably, but was deflated by what he perceived as aloofness in her greeting. ‘A pint please.’
She held a tankard under the tap of a barrel and placed it, full and foaming, on top of the bar before him. ‘What brings you here?’
He handed her tuppence ha’penny. ‘Well, I’ve a right to come in here if I’m of a mind,’ has answered defensively. ‘But the real reason I came was to see you.’
‘But you can see I’m working, Arthur. I thought I wasn’t seeing you till Sunday.’
‘I just wanted to come and say hello.’ He smiled again perseveringly.
Lucy turned and afforded a polite smile to her next customer, however, a young man who had a confident bluster about him. Arthur leaned on the bar and lifted his tankard to take a drink, watching her and the young man. Her blue eyes seemed even wider by the glow from the lamps that hung from the ceiling, and that look of ethereal gentleness and perilous vulnerability they exuded wrung his heart with longing and a desire to be her guardian angel for eternity. This was how true love felt, this delightful yet sickening feeling that filled his breast, that made his heart hammer inside and his head swim with emotions. It was a sensation that neutralised all physical, gastronomic hunger, save for his raging hunger for her love. He felt no physical lust, no carnal desire for her, for to engage in such activities would be to violate her, and how could he violate somebody so soft and gentle, so innocent and susceptible? Even if she were to consent, which was unlikely.
Lucy smiled coyly at the young man with the confident bluster and he made some comment to her, which Arthur was fortunately unable to hear through the high ambient noise. Then the man turned to his mate who was standing behind him and made a gesture that signified a dark and dangerous lust for the girl. Arthur was incensed, indignant and utterly resentful of the man for having elicited an innocent smile from Lucy with his contrived ingenuousness. He prayed silently that she was not gullible and unable to see through it. Yet what could he do? He was not a fighting man. And even if he was, he was not certain of his standing yet with Lucy. He had no prior claim on her, save for this searing love he felt that so far had not been entirely reciprocated, nor yet showed many encouraging signs. This, he realised for the first time in his life, was how it felt to be jealous, and it was not a feeling he enjoyed.
Nobody else was clamouring to be served just then and Lucy turned to Arthur, moving along the bar to stand closer to him and so obviate the need to shout. ‘How’s your toothache, Arthur?’
