by Nancy Carson
Arthur agreed, and Cyril poured him an ample measure. They talked about work on the church of St Mary Redcliffe, about their craft, and how Arthur’s partnership with Talbot was proceeding. While they conversed, their words becoming more slurred, Arthur’s mind began to wander, his thoughts as ever these days turning to Isabel Dempster and their delicious love-making sessions. He knew better than to mention her to Cyril, however. Close friend as Cyril was, he was still Dorinda’s brother, and blood was materially and metaphorically thicker than water. But Isabel would not go away, and Arthur decided it was time he went to bed anyway so he could contemplate her undisturbed, and maybe even dream about her, in the quiet and privacy of his bedroom. So they finished their drinks and retired unsteadily with a lamp each to light their way.
Arthur undressed himself tottering about, inebriated. But persistent thoughts of Isabel had cursed him with a serious erection that would have been admirable at the appropriate time. He stood naked, eyeing it by the glow of the oil lamp, and pushed it down speculatively with the palm of his hand. But it sprang back again with the resilience of some defiant, erotic jack-in-the-box. Arthur looked inanely around the room for something to flick into the air with it, but saw nothing, so he put on his nightshirt. The protuberance, shrouded beneath the material, stuck out majestically before him. When he half closed his eyes it was the bow of a clipper, and he was seeing it from the top of the foremast.
He blew out the lamp, pulled back the sheets and blankets and flopped falteringly into bed, still contemplating Isabel. There he lay for a full half hour or more, wide awake despite the drink. His troublesome erection showed no signs of subsiding. Of course he could masturbate, but such self-gratification was not only wicked in the extreme and almost certainly injurious to the health, but it was impolitic as a guest in somebody else’s house; he knew from experience that ejaculation was difficult to control from a directional aspect, especially in the dark, unless smothered in some sort of absorbent material, his nightshirt, for instance.
So he decided to creep along the landing to Dorinda’s bedroom. She, after all, had not yet had the benefit yet of his sexual expertise, and it was time she had.
He swayed from side to side along the landing conscious of, but ignoring, the creaking floor boards that might easily have given him away. In the darkness he found the door and tried the knob. It turned with a metallic clunk and the door sprung ajar. Breathing rather heavily by this time in anticipation of a sublime first coupling with his beautiful and deserving sweetheart, he closed it behind him, and the same metallic clunk registered that it had shut properly. The fullish moon shed an appreciable amount of light into the room and he could see Dorinda asleep in bed, her hair loose and flowing over her pillow like an inky flood. She was angelically beautiful in the silvery light. The décolletage of her fashionable nightgown gave a tantalising glimpse of the soft curve of her throat and her creamy breasts, and he imagined how delightful it would be to nuzzle his face in their spongy smoothness.
Stealthily, he slid into bed beside her, anxious not to alarm her. Slowly, he inched his way towards her, and could feel the enticing warmth of her body radiating towards him. While she had been sleeping, her nightgown had ridden up, so that when his thigh came into contact with the bare flesh of her long legs his head was throbbing with the promise of the sensual delights that were now his for the taking. His hand ventured to her bare thighs and luxuriated in the silky sleek feel of smooth, feminine skin slightly moist from her natural perspiration. Encouraged, he roamed smoothly upwards and reached her mound of soft hair. She stirred, turned towards him and sighed, and his heart pounded with anticipation. He lifted his nightshirt so that the hem was around his chest, to better appreciate her body when hers was likewise up around her breasts at their coupling. Then he leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth, such a gentle sensual kiss.
She opened her eyes and emitted a piercing scream. There was a man in her bed. She screamed again.
‘It’s all right,’ he whispered. ‘It’s only me.’
‘You?’ she shrieked. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing in my bed, for goodness sake?’
‘I mean to make love to you.’
‘You what? I never heard anything so scandalous. Have you no shame? Have you no regard for my honour? Get out at once.’
‘Shh! You’ll wake everybody up.’
‘I don’t know what’s got into you, Arthur Goodrich,’ she pronounced, her tone a mixture of alarm and anger. ‘Ever since you’ve returned to Brierley Hill you’ve changed for the worse. Please get out of my bed and go back to your own this instant.’
But it was too late. The door opened and an oil lamp flickered, illuminating the concerned face of Dorinda’s father.
‘What the devil’s going on in here?’ he rasped, seeing Arthur leaning on his elbows in his daughter’s bed. ‘For goodness sake! Arthur, how dare you abuse my hospitality by behaving like this, by sneaking about in my house and invading my daughter’s bed.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Chadwick.’
Mrs Chadwick loomed large and wide behind him, a ship in full sail in her white nightgown. ‘Oh, my goodness gracious!’ she uttered in panic. ‘It’s Arthur … Oh, Lord! Has he penetrated her, John?’
‘’Tis to be hoped not indeed. How dare you abuse my hospitality,’ he ranted again, ‘and my daughter to boot!’
‘I never touched her, I swear, although I admit it was my intention.’
‘What if he’s made her pregnant?’ Catherine Chadwick shrilled, overwhelmed with angst. ‘Oh, my goodness.’ She threw her arms up in her anguish. ‘The shame! The shame!’
‘I never touched her,’ Arthur repeated, his voice a high-pitched whine. ‘I swear, I never touched her.’
‘I’ll never be able to live this down,’ Mrs Chadwick whined with intensifying melodrama.
‘Arthur,’ John Chadwick pronounced ominously, ‘I am going to have to ask you, in view of your abominable behaviour and your thoughtlessness in compromising my daughter, to either marry her at the earliest opportunity, or leave my house forever, never to darken my doorstep again. Perhaps you would like to return to your room and stay there till morning, when we shall decide what is to be done.’
‘Has the maid heard anything, do you think, John?’
‘It is to be hoped not indeed, my dear. Because if she has, there can be only one outcome to this fiasco … And I’m not so sure anymore that I relish the prospect of Arthur Goodrich as a son-in-law, having manifested such overbearing disrespect.’
Arthur slept little that night. As the effects of the alcohol wore off he grew ashamed of what he had done. He was full of remorse, having never intended to show any disrespect to his hosts, who had always treated him with the utmost kindness. Indeed, they had welcomed him almost as one of the family. He would offer his sincere and abject apologies for his drunken behaviour to John and Catherine Chadwick, and for the suffering he had caused them. As for poor, innocent Dorinda, he owed it to her to formally request her hand in marriage after all, if she would still deign to have him.
Grossly unsettled, he arose early, washed and shaved in cold water and went downstairs. He could hear the maid at work. She entered the room and set about lighting a fire where he was sitting preoccupied, absently turning over the pages of a county journal.
‘Morning, Jenny.’
She bobbed a neat curtsy. ‘Mornin’, Mr Goodrich.’ She spoke with a pleasant Gloucestershire burr. ‘It’s a chilly one this mornin’, don’t you reckon?’
‘In more ways than one,’ he commented wryly, and returned to the journal while Jenny raked out the ashes from last night’s fire and laid another.
‘Did you sleep well, Jenny?’ he asked.
She looked at him askew from under her mobcap. ‘Oh, aye, sir, I always d’sleep well. Runs in my family to sleep well, so it does. My father, God rest his soul, worked on a collier, but he often used to miss the sailing for want of waking up in time. He could never get his back of
f the bed. My mother reckoned as he nailed himself to it somehow.’
Arthur nodded his understanding.
It was a dull morning with dark rolling clouds that threatened rain. Jenny lit the fire, and held a draw tin to it then, when she was satisfied it was well alight, she left the room. Presently, John Chadwick came down and Arthur was charged again with apprehension at what faced him.
‘Good morning, Arthur,’ he said stiffly. ‘I trust you slept well after your nocturnal adventure?’
‘I didn’t sleep at all, Mr Chadwick.’
John Chadwick raised his eyebrows scornfully. ‘And little sympathy you’ll get from me.’
‘I’m truly sorry for what happened last night, Mr Chadwick,’ Arthur admitted contritely. ‘Truly, I am. I had too much to drink, and in my inebriation I mistakenly believed I was entitled to something that clearly I’m not … not yet anyway. But nothing happened. Believe me, Mr Chadwick, nothing at all happened. It frightened Dorinda the moment I slipped into bed beside her. That’s why she screamed out.’
‘All the same …’ John looked at him squarely. ‘You intended to take a liberty with my daughter. And would no doubt have done so, had we not intervened, possibly using rape as your method—’
‘No, never,’ Arthur protested vehemently. ‘I’d never stoop to that.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it. But so far I only have your side of the story. I am interested to hear what Dorinda has to say on the matter.’
‘She’ll tell you the same as me, sir.’
‘I sincerely hope so … Do you love my daughter, Arthur?’ John Chadwick asked after a brief and chilly pause.
‘Er … Yes, sir. I suppose I do, sir.’
‘You suppose you do?’
‘Yes … I do. Course I do.’
‘Do you respect her?’
‘Course I do.’
‘Then why did you see fit to violate her?’
‘I was drunk, Mr Chadwick. I told you … And I didn’t violate her. I only thought to violate her.’
Suddenly, there was a powerful scream from upstairs. There was no mistaking Dorinda’s frantic shrieks, familiar after last night’s dismal episode. John and Arthur rose from their chairs at once and looked with alarm at each other. They heard her footsteps as she rushed down the wooden stairs in her bare feet, still howling in a wild panic. She entered the room. Her hair was unkempt, her face bore a look of horror. She looked at Arthur with wild, angry eyes.
‘I am covered in fleabites,’ she caterwauled. ‘Thanks to you, Arthur Goodrich, I am literally covered in fleabites, and shall be scarred forever …’
Chapter 26
At two o’ clock on Thursday October 5th, Arthur and Talbot made their way together to the Bell Inn to attend the further adjourned inquiry into the cause of the late railway accident near Brettell Lane. As usual, it was held before T. M. Phillips, Esq., Coroner, and the jury. Mr Sherriff the general manager, Mr Adcock the secretary, and Mr Wilson the engineer, all of the Oxford Worcester and Wolverhampton Railway were present, along with other notables, legal advisers and church ministers. The verdict was due, and was awaited with considerable interest in Brierley Hill.
The Coroner called upon Frederick Cooke, the guard, and enquired if he had any statement to make about his evidence, which had been read over to him.
Cooke replied that he had no other statement to make.
The coroner then proceeded to sum up, and directed the jury to the evidence of the various witnesses which had been brought before them. He read over the depositions of the witnesses, describing the excursion, the accident, and the causes which led to it, and the various expert opinions given.
‘Now, gentlemen, that is all the evidence that has been presented before you at this enquiry. I must beg of you to divest your minds of anything that you may have heard out of this room, and return your verdict only on such evidence as has been taken on oath before me.’ The coroner rambled on in his legalese, then went on to say, ‘Almost all the scientific men agree in thinking that if Cooke had applied his brake in a proper manner when the carriages separated at Round Oak Station, he would have stopped the train and prevented the collision, and avoided the deaths of the several persons who are the subject of this enquiry. If you believe that Cooke could have stopped the train in the ordinary performance of his duty on that occasion, and did not do so, Cooke would be guilty of manslaughter. It is for you, gentlemen, to consider what is your verdict. You have heard the evidence, and if there is any question you want to ask me, I shall be happy to answer you. Perhaps you would like to consider your verdict in a clear room?’
Several of the jury agreed that they should, so the coroner and jury then retired at four o’ clock. Two and a half hours later, they returned.
‘What is your verdict?’ the Coroner enquired.
The Foreman stood up. ‘We are unanimously of the opinion that a verdict of manslaughter be returned against Frederick Cooke.’
There was a murmur of resignation at the outcome among those attending before Frederick Cooke, the guard, was called.
‘Frederick Cooke,’ the Coroner said when the man appeared, regarding him over the top of his spectacles. ‘The jury, after carefully considering the evidence in this case, has returned a verdict of manslaughter against you. Therefore you stand committed.’
Cooke stood stock still, head bowed, accepting his fate.
In the streets afterwards excitement prevailed. A number of people had lingered for hours before the end of the inquest, evidencing their deep and abiding interest in the result. Arthur and Talbot, along with others who had attended, made for the taproom of the Bell Hotel to quench their thirsts, and chew over the day’s events.
It was in the middle of November when Lucy Piddock decided to risk a trip to St Barnabas’s churchyard in Wednesfield Heath to place some flowers on Dickie Dempster’s grave. One of the patrons at the Whimsey, George Bakewell, a keen rose-grower, had boasted that he still had some that were in bud and Lucy asked if she could buy a bunch. She collected them on Saturday afternoon, before catching the train to Wolverhampton.
The weather was bleak, but she was prepared to suffer it to pay a final homage to the man she had loved and lost. As she rode in the train her mind was full of Dickie again and the times they had shared. Lucy had come to accept his fate and hers, and was largely at peace with herself and the world. The heartbreak of losing her love had been mollified, the anger she’d felt over being cheated and used had been quelled. Dickie had brought her misery, but he had also brought her joy – albeit temporarily. But his most useful legacy was that of inducing her to ponder the hard realities of loving and living, which finally brought her to her senses. Now she realised the mistakes she had made, the immaturity of which she was guilty, her blind impetuousness and defiance of everybody’s advice and goodwill. It was this gift in particular which she wanted to thank him for now. Placing flowers on his grave was something she would do only once, a token not just of her gratitude, but of the love she’d given him. It would undeniably be a test of her strength also.
She stepped from the train at Low Level station and walked past the bench she used to sit on while waiting for Dickie. It was a poignant moment. As she left the shelter of the station’s blue brick hulk she readjusted the shawl around her shoulders and made for the omnibus that would take her to Wednesfield Heath. She took a seat and placed the bunch of roses on her lap, hoping she could remember the way to the church when she’d alighted. Soon, she heard the scrape of horses’ hoofs and felt the omnibus lurch forward on its way.
Finding the church and its graveyard presented no problem, but Lucy struggled to recall exactly where the grave was located. She scanned the churchyard to get her bearings and believed she had a notion of where it might be. As she made her way along the rough earth path towards it, past the monumental graves of the expired wealthy, she could see a workman who seemed to be digging a grave for some less affluent soul. On Saturday afternoons many people had to work.
As she got closer she could see that it was no ordinary workman. His stance and the way he moved were agonisingly familiar; it was Arthur Goodrich, whom she had not seen for some weeks. What was he doing here?
She was in two minds whether to go on or run away. What would he think of her, after all that had been said, if he realised she had come all this way to put flowers on the grave of a man who had caused her so much misery? Then he turned, and saw her.
‘Lucy!’ he called amiably. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
He smiled that unassuming smile of his, which had the combined but contradictory effects of putting her at her ease and making her heart flutter. Only Arthur could do that. She smiled back and waved, and approached him with a quickening step.
‘What brings you out here on a cold day like this? Come to pay your respects to Dickie?’
Rumbled, she held the bunch of roses she was carrying defiantly in front of her. When she first saw him she’d half-hidden them under her shawl, but now they usefully disguised her growing belly.
‘I came to lay these on his grave,’ she admitted.
‘You’ll be able to in a minute or two,’ he said with no hint of condemnation for what he might perceive as sentimentality. ‘I’ve all but finished it. Your Moses, and Shadrak Beardsmore, that other chap we’ve got working for us, brought the grave over here this morning on the cart and put it together. I was just putting the finishing touches to the inscription.’
‘You been cutting the letters on it?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Yes.’
‘Fancy.’
‘I know. It’s ironic, don’t you think, that I, who thought I’d progressed beyond cutting letters, should be carving the inscription on the grave of the chap who pinched my woman.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ she said. ‘I’m just a bit surprised it should be you, when there must be perfectly good monumental masons in Wolverhampton who could do the job.’
‘But Mrs Dempster asked me to do it, when she knew I was a monumental mason.’
