by Nancy Carson
When she returned home, Lucy saw that her mother was not there and made straight away for her little bedroom that overlooked fields towards Audnam and Wordsley. She laid her shawl neatly over the bedrail, placed her bonnet on a chair, and took off her boots. As she eased herself onto her bed and lay down her mind was filled with little incidents which had occurred while she and Dickie had been together, many of which had amused her at the time, though now they seemed so trivial. She stared blankly at the whitewashed ceiling and wished with all her heart that she could turn back the clock.
In one of the drawers of a chest was a small albumen print of Arthur, mounted in a brass frame. He’d given it to her when he’d had his likeness taken early on in their courtship, mistakenly thinking she might cherish it. Ever since, however, it had lain in the drawer forsaken and unseen. She got up from her bed and retrieved it, gazed at the photograph through misty eyes for a long time, then clutched it to her and lay down again. She started weeping once more, but this time whispering Arthur’s name to herself. When the flood of tears abated she fell into a light but troubled sleep.
Hannah came in and roused her. Tentatively she asked her if she wanted any dinner. When she saw her distressed state she put her motherly arms around her to console her, and succeeded in making her worse.
‘I knew from the beginning as that Dickie Dempster was a scoundrel,’ she said. ‘Your father couldn’t abide him either.’
‘I’m not crying over Dickie,’ Lucy retorted through her tears. ‘I’ve done crying over him.’
‘Well, and I’m glad you’m done with it so soon, our Lucy.’
‘I’m crying over the damage as I’ve done to everybody, the hurt I’ve caused, by being drawn in by him. I’ve been such a fool, Mother. Such a fool …’ She sobbed again, and Hannah gently stroked her daughter’s hair. ‘You can’t imagine how I feel, Mother … I’m bereaved because I’ve lost the man I really did love, but I hate him for what he’s done, and I’d like to punch him on the nose. And yet he isn’t here to punch …’ She screwed her eyes up and clenched her fists in anger and frustration. ‘And I feel so riled and so foolish … Everybody must be talking about me behind my back.’
‘Sticks and stones,’ Hannah consoled. ‘Even if they are, it don’t matter none. But I don’t think as folk am talking about you – not nastily. I think they feel your pain. There’s very few of us go through life without making big mistakes. It’s how we learn our lessons. And the bigger the mistakes, the better we learn not to repeat them.’
‘Well, if folk aren’t talking about me now, they soon will be,’ Lucy said, drying her eyes and sighing, ready for her big confession.
Hannah looked at Lucy warily, half dreading, half expecting what was about to break.
‘I’m carrying Dickie’s child, Mother.’
Of course, Hannah had already considered the undesirable possibility. She had carefully thought through the problems and consequences of such an eventuality so, to some extent, she was prepared for this admission. She looked at her daughter with sympathy and understanding, and gave her a squeeze. ‘I wondered if you were.’
Lucy was expecting a tirade of calumny and revilement from her mother, but all she saw in her eyes was compassion and understanding. ‘Aren’t you going to rant and rave at me, and tell me what an evil whore I am?’
Hannah took her daughter’s hand and stroked the back of it. ‘Why should I do that, our Lucy?’
‘Because of what folk will say. Because of what your friends at the chapel will say, especially behind your back.’
Hannah sighed. ‘Sticks and stones again. Folk can say what they’d a mind, but you’re my daughter, and ’cause you’re me own flesh and blood I shall always be here to look after you … And woe betide anybody who has the effrontery to say anything about you, either to me face or behind me back.’
Lucy smiled her astonished thanks. ‘Oh, Mother, it’s such a weight off my mind to hear you say that. But what about my father? Will he feel the same as you?’
‘Don’t think as we ain’t talked about it happening, our Lucy … Your father will be no different to me. There but for the grace of God would be a damned good many young wenches, and some not so young. Your bad luck, our Lucy, is that you’ve got ne’er a fellow to make an honest woman of you.’
‘Nor am I ever likely to get one,’ Lucy replied. She picked up the picture of Arthur again and studied it for a second or two. ‘I had my chance with him …’ she nodded at the frame. ‘But I let him go, certain that my contentment lay with Dickie Dempster … Oh, I do wish I could turn back the clock, Mother …’
‘Yes, it’d be a handy skill to own if you could do it. Just think of all the clocks you’d be turning back. You’d have a full time job going round to everybody’s houses, turning back their clocks so as they wouldn’t fall into the same traps as they fell in afore.’
‘I could put an advertisement in the Brierley Hill Advertiser,’ Lucy grinned, warming to the welcome absurdity. It made such an enlivening change to say daft things after all the weight of grief and anguish of the last few days. ‘I’d make a fortune putting folk back on the right track by turning their clocks back to a point in their lives just afore they made a big mistake.’
Hannah smiled, having allowed Lucy to indulge in her nonsense. ‘But in this life there’s no turning back clocks, our Lucy. Clocks can only move forward, and we have to move forward with ’em. You’ll have to move forward with your child, when it’s born. It’ll re-shape your life and no two ways, but you won’t resent it for a minute. You’ll love it, the same as any mother loves her child, whoever the father is. And we’ll be behind you, your father and me.’
‘Oh, how can I thank you, Mother?’ Lucy beseeched. ‘I’ve been dreading telling you I was carrying for fear you chucked me out.’
‘Why would we want to chuck out our own daughter at a time when she most needs us? Who in their right mind could be so heartless?’
‘It just makes everything so much easier to bear, knowing that you don’t condemn me.’
At the inquest the next day the jury heard evidence from the guards. Frederick Cooke was named as the head guard on the excursion to and from Worcester. There was much technical evidence about the state and quality of the shackles that had broken and why passengers had been allowed to travel in the guards’ vans. Cooke himself then gave evidence for some considerable time before the inquest was again adjourned to the following week.
Arthur resumed his working at the business of which he was now an equal partner. He and Talbot agreed to retain the trading style of Jeremiah Goodrich & Sons, Monumental Masons and Sepulchral Architects, since it was already well established and recognised as such. At once Arthur wanted to advertise in the local news sheets for a skilled letter cutter and an apprentice. Within a week they had employed Shadrak Beardsmore, a Gornal man who gladly walked the three miles there and back every day. Shadrak would be the person sent on letter cutting expeditions to cold and remote churchyards, in lieu of Arthur.
Arthur was delighted to renew his friendship with Moses Cartwright, and was pleased to learn that Moses too was making headway with his masonry skills. In his more idle moments he had watched Talbot at work and picked up some of his techniques and was allowed to apply them on straightforward tasks. Arthur believed Moses had a latent gift and began to encourage him, calling him over to watch how he performed certain things.
‘You and the new apprentice can learn together, when he arrives,’ Arthur suggested as he washed his hands after a day’s work.
‘Aye, as long as he’s the one to brew the tea and not me,’ Moses replied. ‘Unless the poor bugger has only got one leg like me, and then we’ll do turns,’ he added with typical good humour.
‘Talking about folks with one leg, Moses, have you seen much of Lucy?’
‘Why? She ain’t got one leg now, has she? She hadn’t last time I looked.’
Arthur grinned tolerantly. ‘I mean, that Dickie Dempster she was courting
would’ve had one leg if he’d survived the accident. That’s what reminded me to ask about Lucy.’
‘Lucy seems to be getting over things well enough. But him! I couldn’t abide him.’ Moses shuffled agitatedly on his crutch. ‘Our Jane used to insist on us pair visiting me sick aunt in Priestfield of a Wednesday night, just so as young Lucy and that dirty bastard Dickie bloody Dempster had got somewhere warm to do their courting.’
‘Well, that was thoughtful of her.’
‘Oh ar, it was thoughtful as regards Lucy and him, but he warn’t very bloody thoughtful in return – he only ever thought of hisself. Why, when I used to get into bed of a Wednesday night it was still warm from them pair … And still bloody wet sometimes.’
‘You mean … they used to go to bed together?’
‘No two ways about it.’
‘Lucy?’
‘Course Lucy. Who d’you think?’
‘With Dickie Dempster?’
‘Course with Dickie Dempster. You know when somebody’s bin in your bed, Arthur.’
‘I never thought she was like that.’
Moses gave a hollow laugh. ‘I tek it as you never poked the wench then …’
‘No, I never did any such thing. I never thought she was like that, so I didn’t press my luck. I don’t think she—’
‘Pity, that’s all I can say. What did I tell you that time we talked about it? I said if you didn’t start poking her somebody else would. And I was right, ’cause that Dickie was poking her up hill and down dale.’
‘I don’t think I want to know any more, Moses. Spare me the details.’
‘That’s a tasty bit o’ fluff you got now though, Arthur, eh? That piece from Bristol. I hope as you’m poking her. I bet she’s a heap o’ fun between the sheets, eh?’
‘Oh, she’s a heap of fun,’ Arthur repeated absently, neither confirming nor denying the suggestion.
‘Christ, you could make a pig o’ yourself with her, I’ll be bound.’
It was unlike Moses to show disrespect, but Arthur could forgive him easily enough, for he didn’t believe he meant any. It was just his way, his camaraderie, no doubt the kind of talk that went on between soldiers in the Crimea when they were all billeted together. Arthur should have resented his loose talk, especially when it was about Dorinda, but his thoughts were on what he’d just learnt. So he just smiled absently and took his leave of Moses, preoccupied with mental images of Lucy in bed with Dickie Dempster.
Chapter 24
Dearest Arthur,
I considered it best to wait a day or two before writing, to punish you after your little outburst while we were walking to Temple Meads. I do hope you have calmed down by now and are duly ashamed of the appalling way you spoke to me. You upset me so much I cried nearly all the way back home in that hansom. Indeed Mother was convinced we had fallen out for good, I was so upset. I know how much that dreadful accident has affected you and I can understand why, having myself seen it happen and heard the horrid crash. But I do think you should consider my point of view from a perspective that does not involve the accident. I fail to see what not wanting to have children has to do with a railway crash, so I am giving you the benefit of the doubt because I think it has affected your powers of reasoning. To say that my not wishing to go through childbirth is trivial compared to what those poor accident victims suffered is not a fair comparison. I choose not to have children if we ever get married; those poor people did not choose to be involved in that accident. That is the difference.
I suppose I am presupposing a great deal here again though, since of course you haven’t yet asked me to marry you, even though we have talked about it a number of times. I’ve a good mind to break with convention entirely and ask you, but my mother would castigate me for being a hussy, and I suspect that you would offer a whole host of excuses; that you are too busy with the new partnership or you have an inquest to attend or a cricket match to play in. Frankly, I don’t see why you have to attend any more inquests since you gave your evidence at the first one, and surely the cricket season is coming to an end now that the nights are drawing in so.
It has crossed my mind to give you an ultimatum – that we make arrangements to get married by this time next year at the latest. Although I agreed to your going into partnership with Talbot, it is a peculiar sort of courtship we must endure because of it. I see no point in us remaining eighty or ninety miles apart when we can be together. Anyway, it’s something we can discuss when you come to stay with us the Saturday after next. Of course, I hope the partnership works out well. It will provide such a stable base for our future prosperity together.
Tomorrow I am going riding with my friend Bunty Fisher who I was at school with, whom you have not met. My mother said that she would like to come too, but I told her there isn’t a horse in the county that could bear her weight for more than a few minutes at a time, and I thought it best that she relinquishes all such vain notions at once and concentrates on her household duties. She seemed to quite take the hump at that. Clearly, one cannot speak one’s mind without somebody getting all upset about it, which I deem to be very immature on the part of some people, namely Mother.
Cyril says that Mr Pascoe is looking for another stonemason to fill the vacancy you created when you left. But it is such a skilled craft, I know, and I doubt whether he will fill it quite as quickly as he would like. Of course it means extra work for Cyril, but with the nights drawing in now he cannot usefully work very late. I mean, it would be terrible if he chipped the nose off Saint Peter or St Paul as they lurk petrified above the main door, just because it was too dark to see what he was doing. Mr Pascoe would have something to say about that, I’m sure.
I must close now, Arthur. Mother is about to call us to table for our meal and my father must have already changed and put on his good shoes, for I can hear him clumping around upstairs. I await your letter with longing and hope you will be able to write to me by return of post. I am so looking forward to seeing you again (even though I have been so angry with you in your absence), and to giving you a long juicy kiss under our porch, so please hurry to me and let’s make up.
Your ever-loving and long suffering sweetheart,
Dorinda.
Arthur wasted no time in visiting Isabel Dempster to discuss with the young widow her requirements for a grave for her late husband. He decided that Saturday afternoon after work might be an appropriate time. He would strip down to the waist and wash, thoroughly spruce himself up and generally sweeten himself in readiness, and be in time to get the five past two to Wolverhampton. He had mentioned nothing as yet to Talbot about his plan to bear the cost himself until such time as Mrs Dempster could afford to pay; once her compensation had been settled.
Rather than waste money on a hansom, he took the first omnibus to Wednesfield Heath station and sniffed the robustly disagreeable aromas that emanated from the neighbouring night soil lagoon. From there, he walked to Frederick Street. The weather was not much to shout about, dull and dreary, but the high winds had eased since the day of Dickie’s funeral.
Isabel Dempster, wearing a plain but becoming black day dress, was talking to a neighbour in the back yard when he arrived and was quick to explain who Arthur was, to allay at once the possibility of any mischievous and speculative gossip. Evidently she was pleased to see him and invited him in at once. She explained that the children were at her mother’s again, and sat beside him on the settle.
‘I’ve brought some drawings for a few graves so you can see the sort of designs I thought might be suitable,’ he began, and reached down for the case he had taken with him, to get them out and show her.
‘I’m deeply indebted to you, Arthur,’ she said sincerely, and leaned over towards him in anticipation of having a peep at them.
Arthur opened out a detailed sketch he’d done. ‘This would look very impressive in polished black granite with gold lettering …’ She shuffled along the settle and inspected the drawing over his shoulder, her shoulder fam
iliarly touching his from behind, her bosom pressing into his upper arm. Arthur found her warmth and proximity not only very disconcerting, but also extremely pleasant … as was the spontaneity of his erection. ‘It could be just as effective in white marble with blackened letters, though,’ he struggled to utter with any conviction. ‘Course, if you preferred something less extravagant …’
She turned her face to him and smiled, her eyes sparkling, attractive creases at the corners of her smooth lips. ‘Oh, yes, something a bit less extravagant I think, Arthur. After all, why should I reward Dickie with such a handsome tombstone after the way he treated me and all his other women?’
‘That’s your prerogative,’ he replied, stumped for any other reply.
‘Well, don’t you think so?’ she asked. ‘I mean, if it was your wife who’d been killed and you knew she’d been having affairs with various men, and you couldn’t be sure that the children she’d had were yours or somebody else’s, wouldn’t you think twice about spending a fortune on her grave?’
‘If I knew it for certain, I suppose I would be a bit reluctant.’
‘I would, too, Arthur. And if, as a result of her love affairs, she withdrew her favours from you at bed time as well, would you not be even more inclined to have her encased in a grave that was less than flamboyant?’
‘I’m sure I would.’
‘Then you understand how I feel …’
‘I think I do,’ he agreed.
‘Oh, Arthur, I truly feel that I can confide in you, that I can discuss anything with you … Anything … My innermost feelings.’
‘I’m very flattered, Isabel.’
‘Dickie and I never could discuss intimate things. That’s how it was, because of his affairs. He only wanted me between his affairs. My children were conceived on such occasions as that. Now that he’s gone … now that he’s dead and buried, I feel as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and it’s such sweet relief.’ She linked her arm through his as they sat together and his erection pushed insistently against the material of his trousers, mercifully hidden beneath his drawing. ‘For the only time ever in my life I feel free … You know, Arthur, I began to resent so much his other women that I used to shrink at his touch. I just couldn’t bear him to touch me. Now that’s not the kind of woman I am. Such a pattern of behaviour is contrary to the way God made me. I’m a loving and passionate woman, you know, Arthur, given the chance to show it with a man I can love and respect.’
