The Railway Girl

by Nancy Carson

  ‘I see … So let me read the inscription …’

  He stepped aside, giving her a clear view.

  ‘“Richard Dempster born 28th October 1830, Died 31st August 1858 as the result of a tragic railway accident. Guard on the Oxford Worcester and Wolverhampton Railway, husband to Isabel, father to his children”.’ She looked at the verse carved below in smaller letters and began to recite it slowly.

  ‘“Life’s railway’s o’er, each station passed,

  Between death’s buffers I rest at last.

  Farewell dear friends and do not weep,

  In God’s guards’ van I’m safe, I sleep.”

  ‘It’s a good poem, Arthur,’ Lucy commented. ‘But don’t you think it’s a bit sarcastic?’

  ‘Not sarcastic, Lucy. Just slightly irreverent. I think he would’ve appreciated it.’

  ‘Maybe he would’ve. Who made it up?’

  ‘Isabel and me.’

  ‘Fancy Isabel asking you to do his grave,’ she remarked, emphasising Mrs Dempster’s Christian name and the obvious fact that he was on first name terms with her. ‘And helping her to compose his epitaph. You must have seen something of her over the past few weeks.’

  ‘Yes, course.’ He felt his colour rise.

  ‘How is Mrs Dempster? Is she bearing up?’

  ‘She’s bearing up very well. Much better than anybody thought she would. But then she has good reason not to grieve.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘I’ve only got to clean up the letters, Lucy,’ he said brightly. ‘Listen, I’ve got a bottle of tea in my bag. I daresay it’ll be cold as ice by now, but would you like to share it with me? You’re welcome to.’

  She smiled graciously. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Here, you might as well sit down on the grave.’ He made room by shifting his tranklements over, then took the bottle of tea from his tool bag and sat beside her. He drew the cork out. ‘There’s a tin mug in here somewhere …’ He ferreted around with his free hand. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again when he’d filled the mug and handed it to her. She drank the cold tea, smiling at him with her lovely eyes over the rim of the mug. ‘You have the rest,’ she said, handing it back, still more than half full.

  He took it and quaffed some of what remained. ‘I haven’t seen you for a bit, Lucy. Have you been keeping well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered, as if she wasn’t really sure. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m all right.’

  ‘How’s the new partnership with Talbot working out?’

  ‘Oh, it’s good. I’m glad we did it. We get on well. I’m much more content than I used to be?’

  ‘And how’s the beautiful Dorinda?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’ she queried with astonishment.

  ‘We sort of parted.’

  ‘Oh, Arthur, I didn’t know. I had no idea. Are you hurt? Are you upset?’

  ‘Upset? No.’ He laughed reassuringly. ‘It was for the best.’

  ‘What happened? Do you want to tell me?’

  ‘I sort of disgraced myself …’ He gave a mischievous chortle.

  ‘How?’

  He told her. He told her how he’d invaded her bed when he was drunk and was caught red-handed by her father. He made it sound hilariously funny, and Lucy chuckled.

  ‘It’s just your luck to do something like that and get caught,’ she said. ‘So then what happened?’

  ‘Well, because I’d compromised his daughter, Mr Chadwick said as I should either marry her or leave their house come morning, never to return.’

  ‘So you left?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t intend to. I was sorry for what I’d done, making a fool of myself and all. I intended to do the honourable thing and ask Dorinda to marry me, so that everybody would be satisfied. But, unbeknownst to me, I’d committed an even greater sin in Dorinda’s eyes. She came screaming down the stairs before breakfast covered in fleabites. She was adamant the fleas were off me and that I’d transferred them to her bed when I got in it. She called me all the names under the sun. Lord knows where I picked up fleas from, the train most likely, but I never got a fleabite anywhere. Anyway, she said what with that, and me sneaking into her bed in the middle of the night like some demented Casanova, she never wanted to see me again. So I packed my bag and left … And I haven’t heard from her since … Nor do I want to.’

  ‘And you’re not upset?’

  ‘No, I’m not that upset, Lucy. I was beginning to realise she wasn’t the girl for me. She said if we ever got married she never wanted children—’

  ‘I know, I heard her say it once.’

  ‘Well, if I ever get married, course I’ll want children. To be honest, it’s hard to see how you’d stop ’em, barring never coupling, and that wouldn’t do for me.’

  ‘Nor me either,’ Lucy agreed.

  He looked at her with added interest at that response, but made no comment.

  ‘Would you ever consider marrying a girl who’d already got a child?’ she asked experimentally.

  ‘It would depend.’ He was reminded of his discussion with Isabel on this very subject. ‘A widow, maybe,’ he hinted with a shrug. ‘Who can tell? A lot would depend on whether I could take to her children, I reckon.’

  She nodded but decided not to investigate the issue. Instead, there was a topic she did want to discuss. ‘Listen, Arthur … There’s something I want you to know … I’ve been meaning to tell you for ages …’

  ‘What?’ He swigged the rest of the tea. ‘Fancy a drop more?’

  ‘If you’ve got some left.’

  He poured the remainder of the contents of his bottle into the mug and handed it to her. She thanked him and drank.

  ‘So what do you want to tell me?’

  ‘Oh … that I’m … having a child …’ She lowered her eyes, unable to look at him.

  ‘You?’ he snorted disdainfully. ‘You’re carrying a child? Whose?’

  ‘Whose d’you think?’ she returned, indignant. ‘Dickie’s.’

  ‘Oh, Lord above!’ he exclaimed, and there was no mistaking the contempt in his tone. ‘So how far gone are you?’

  She shrugged. ‘Five months. Maybe six. I can’t be that certain.’

  ‘Are you showing yet?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘God’s truth, Lucy! Moses said you and Dickie had been using his and Jane’s bed. Well, that’s what you get for being so … so loose.’

  ‘I’m not loose, Arthur,’ Lucy protested. ‘I was in love. I did it for love, not because I’m a loose woman. I’m not a strumpet. You know I’m not … Wait till I see that Moses … telling you that …’

  ‘Do your folks know?’

  ‘They’re the only ones I’ve told, apart from you. I’d have a job to hide it from them. Yes, they know. Course they know.’

  ‘I bet your father’s pleased,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘Well, if Dickie had survived the accident, my father would’ve killed him anyway. So you’d still have been doing his grave … But Father’s been as good as gold to me. So has my mother. They’ll look after me.’

  ‘Hmm!’ he scoffed. ‘Then count your blessings. A good many wenches in the same position aren’t so lucky.’

  ‘I can’t help that … You disapprove, don’t you, Arthur?’

  ‘I thought you were different, Lucy. I always thought you were more virtuous.’

  ‘I’m only flesh and blood, Arthur,’ she said earnestly. ‘I’m no saint, nor have I ever pretended to be.’

  ‘You were a saint with me.’

  ‘Because I wasn’t in love with you then. I was in love with Dickie. Anyway, haven’t you ever done that sort of thing with a girl? I bet you have, a man of what? Twenty-seven? You’ve had plenty of time.’

  ‘It’s different for a man.’

  ‘But not for the girl? Aren’t girls allowed to have feelings or desires?’

/>   He thought about Isabel. Perhaps all women were the same as Isabel, blessed or cursed with those same feelings and desires. ‘Yes, course they are … I suppose.’

  ‘Well then …’

  ‘But it’s girls who bear the consequences, Lucy. God’s truth, I’m so angry with you.’

  ‘You’re angry?’ she queried.

  ‘No, angry’s the wrong word … I’m disappointed in you. I thought you had more about you than to let the likes of Dickie Dempster have his way … and him a married man.’

  ‘I can see there’s no point in talking to you,’ Lucy retorted, indignant. ‘I can see I shall get no sympathy from you.’

  ‘If it’s sympathy you want, yes, you’d better go and talk to somebody else.’

  She looked at his face, turned side-on to her, and saw that he was actually sulking. ‘You’re jealous.’ She grinned with pleasure at the realisation. ‘Arthur Goodrich, I do believe you’re jealous.’

  ‘Yes, all right, I’m jealous,’ he admitted, and his face reddened again. ‘Course I’m damned jealous. He got between your legs when I didn’t. Well, I’ll make sure I have the last laugh on him …’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Oh … nothing …’

  ‘Yes, you do. What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing, I told you.’ He threw away the dregs from the mug with annoyance, and stuffed it unceremoniously in his bag along with his empty tea bottle. ‘I’d better finish my letter cutting, then you can put your precious roses on the arsehole’s grave.’

  Lucy sat passively, mildly amused but gratified at his surprising attitude, while he silently blackened the last letters of the lengthy inscription. She decided to fetch water from the butt the church provided, while she waited for him to finish his work, returning just as he was sweeping away the chippings from the carved lettering. She put the grave vase on the grave and he, impatiently but out of an innate pride in his workmanship, lined it up by eye and centred it.

  ‘There,’ he muttered morosely. ‘Stick your roses in that. And when you’ve done it, I’ll dance around the bloody things.’

  She affected a look of disdain to disguise her amusement. ‘You wouldn’t be so disrespectful.’

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t I? I got no respect for him.’

  ‘You thought the sun shone out of his backside once,’ she said, and began arranging the roses as she leaned over the grave. ‘That time you were in trouble …’

  ‘That was then,’ he replied.

  He waited till she had stepped back, her task completed, then he stood on the grave and did a comical jig around the vase of roses, which elicited a wry smile from Lucy.

  ‘Is that how you have the last laugh?

  ‘It’s one way,’ he replied.

  ‘So do you feel better now?’

  He stepped down, took a deep breath and stood erect, smoothing his jacket with the palms of his hands. ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’ He smiled and smoothed his hair, his fit of pique rapidly receding.

  ‘Good. So now you’ve sweetened up a bit I’ll allow you to accompany me home, since we’re both going the same way.’

  ‘I’m not going home, Lucy,’ he was forced to admit.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I … um … Isabel Dempster’s expecting me,’ he stuttered. ‘So’s I can let her know the grave’s finished … She’s cooking me some dinner …’

  ‘Cooking you some dinner?’ Lucy queried, her eyes wide with sham mockery. ‘Well, fancy that … Is that another way you have the last laugh? Or are there even more ways that you wouldn’t want me to know about?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Lucy,’ he replied scornfully.

  ‘Oh, I bet you do, Arthur Goodrich. I bet you do.’

  ‘What is it to you anyway?’ he jibed. ‘You’ve had your fill of the Dempsters …’

  ‘And now you’re having yours, eh?’

  Lucy returned home to Brierley Hill alone. She had fulfilled her purpose. It was certain she had got over Dickie Dempster, because throughout the return journey her thoughts were focused entirely on Arthur. She’d been so delighted when she realised he was jealous, but despondent again at the thought that there had to be something going on between him and Isabel Dempster, especially in view of the fact that he had finished with that silly girl Dorinda. It was strange how she had never felt jealous of Dorinda, beautiful as she was, because the girl hadn’t seemed right for him. It was only ever a matter of time before he realised she was not for him. But she was jealous of Isabel. Isabel was dangerous. What if Arthur married Isabel and settled down with her and her two children? Dickie’s children. That would be the ultimate irony, the ultimate snub to herself, and the final straw in her hopeless quest for happiness.

  The problem was that now, with a belly growing ever larger, there was nothing she could do to entice Arthur away. Without the child she was carrying, she felt she would have had a chance. Furthermore, Isabel was a fine-looking woman and had obviously benefited from a decent education. Lord knows how the girl had ever got mixed up with Dickie anyway.

  Lucy finally and irrevocably accepted that with Arthur she had once had the most decent man imaginable, hers for the taking, but she had spurned him for the sake of a man who was marginally better looking, outwardly more confident, but with the integrity of a fox. What a fool she had been, and look how she was now paying the price. Everybody had warned her to steer clear of Dickie, but she had not listened, driven to that disastrous love affair just as surely as the birds in the trees are driven to build nests and mate in springtime. Everybody had told her she would never find a more honest and forthright man than Arthur Goodrich, but she had not listened. His quirkiness had not suited her, his little ailments had annoyed her, his finickiness at the table she had scorned. But where was his quirkiness now? What had happened to his petty ailments? There was no sign of them any longer. Always she had perceived him mistakenly. Never before had she seen how comical he could be, how unassuming he was, never boastful about the things he could do well. He was exceptional at his work, adept at cricket, as others had unfailingly informed her. He could be eloquent when the need arose, and he was not inhibited about showing his emotions, as his dancing on Dickie’s grave had proved. People shunned him, and her own father used to gently mock him, but only because they had not taken the trouble to get to know him. Her mother had seen the real Arthur, though, long before her father, long before she had seen it herself. Her mother had thought the world of him, recognising his virtues at once. Why had she not heeded her mother? Why had she not heeded Miriam Watson, her friend, when Miriam had told her she was a fool to look further than Arthur for a husband?

  Well, it was too late now. She had missed the finest opportunity ever to come her way. Fate would never smile upon her quite so benignly again. The life of an unmarried mother was the best she could hope for, albeit loved and supported by an understanding family. At least she was not so badly off as some. But her illegitimate child would always be a barrier to her meeting somebody else and getting wed. If only she had tried to overcome her immature prejudices over Arthur and stayed with him …

  The weeks and months passed, Christmas came and went, and 1859 ushered itself in with bitter cold weather. On Tuesday 22nd February, Lucy gave birth to a daughter. The child weighed seven and a half pounds, had very dark hair, and was instantly loved.

  Moses passed on news of the birth next morning and Arthur, when he had finished work, decided he would call on Lucy and pay his respects. He left work early and bought some expensive imported flowers from the florist in Brierley Hill, which he took with him, wrapped in a cone of brown paper. Hannah and Haden greeted him warmly and plied him with beer before he was allowed to go upstairs to see Lucy and her baby.

  He clumped ungainly up the twisting wooden stairs and found her in her tiny bedroom. The child was lying in a new crib bought by Hannah in anticipation a week before the event. Lucy had heard his voice downstairs when he arrived and sat up in bed now awaiting
him, putting a last stray hair back into place, smoothing it down and pinching her cheeks to add a bit of colour to them.

  ‘Lucy!’ he greeted warmly. ‘How d’you feel? Is the baby all right?’

  ‘The baby is so beautiful, Arthur,’ she replied softly. ‘I love her to bits. And I feel well too, considering. Thank you for coming to see us both.’

  ‘Did you have a hard time of it?’ He peered curiously into the crib, then sat on the bed beside her.

  ‘It was bad enough,’ she smiled serenely, ‘but I’m all right. Our Jane was a brick. She and Mother were here for the birthing.’

  ‘Moses gave me the news this morning.’

  ‘Have a peep at her,’ Lucy suggested. ‘See if you can see who she’s like.’

  He leaned forward and gently pulled down the baby’s swaddling to get a better look. ‘She’s like you,’ he beamed. ‘The spitten image … Well, that’s a relief. What are you going to call her? Have you decided on a name?’

  ‘Julia.’

  ‘Julia?’ he queried, incredulous.

  ‘Yes, Julia. Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes. I think it’s a fine name, Luce.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, it’s a name Dickie said he liked for a girl. He is her father, so I see no harm in choosing his favourite name for her. It’s the only relevance he’ll ever have to her now.’

  He smiled affectionately. How could he possibly inform her that Dickie’s daughter by Isabel was also called Julia? Not that it mattered particularly, but it might make her feel foolish and cause her to change her mind, when Julia was a good name after all. ‘It’s a lovely name,’ he conceded. ‘I think it suits her well. What does your father think of her?’

  ‘Oh, he’s in love with her. I’m sure he is. I know he’ll be like a father to her. She won’t need her real father with him about.’

  ‘It’s good to see you looking so well, so content.’

  ‘I feel content now. I’m glad it’s all over. I’m glad the baby’s all right. How have you been, Arthur? It’s been weeks since I’ve seen you.’

  ‘Me? I’m all right. Keeping busy. Plenty of work to keep me out of mischief.’

  ‘Talking of mischief, have you seen much of Isabel Dempster?’