The Lock-Keeper's Son Read online

  NANCY CARSON

  A Country Girl

  Copyright

  Published by MAZE

  A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by MAZE 2017

  Copyright © Nancy Carson 2017

  Cover design © Debbie Clements 2017

  Nancy Carson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008173548

  Ebook Edition © August 2017 ISBN: 9780008134877

  Version: 2017-07-20

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Author’s Note

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  By the Same Author:

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  ‘Aye up, the Binghams are coming through the lock,’ Kate Stokes cried provocatively, knowing it would rouse Algernon, her brother, from his sun-induced reverie.

  As soon as she’d heard the clip-clop of a horse’s hoofs and attendant voices, Kate had rushed to peer over the garden fence to see who was on the towpath of the canal which ran alongside. There was some personal motive in this, too – it could have been Reggie Hodgetts. Till that moment, she had been stooping down to tend their father’s vegetable patch, creating the illusion that she was a homely girl, which she patently was not. She was, however, extraordinarily pretty but with a tongue like a whip, and her relationship with Algernon was, at best, thorny.

  Algernon had seemed unflappable as he leant against the back door of the lock-keeper’s cottage where the siblings lived with their mother and father. His face was sedately and serenely turned upward to receive the warmth of the spring sun. But, on hearing the news that the Binghams were coming through the lock, his heart missed a beat and he was at once stirred into a renewed vigour. The Binghams, you see, had a particularly lovely daughter, and he duly rushed to the fence to join Kate to gain sight of her. Sure enough, he spotted Seth Bingham leading his strong little horse as it pulled their pair of narrowboats towards the lock gates.

  Kate flashed a knowing look at her brother. ‘I thought that might get you going.’

  ‘Why should the Binghams get me going?’ he protested, feigning indifference. ‘You were pretty quick off the mark yourself … to see if it was the Hodgettses, I reckon.’

  ‘The Hodgettses ain’t due past here till Tuesday.’

  ‘No, but you sprang up quick enough, just in case it was that scruff Reggie,’ Algernon countered. ‘So you’ll just have to wait till Tuesday, won’t you, before you can go gallivanting off with him?’ He glanced at his sister disdainfully. ‘Reggie Hodgetts ain’t much of a catch, is he?’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Kate replied, at once rallying. ‘You’re interested enough in Marigold Bingham, the daughter of a scruffy boatman. I’ve seen you. Every time she comes a-nigh you’re up, ogling after her. You can’t keep your eyes off her.’

  Algernon – who answered more readily to Algie – replied calmly, ‘She’s different. She looks nice. She’s got something about her. I’d like to see her without her working clothes on.’

  ‘Pooh, I bet you would, you dirty sod—’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I mean I’d like to see her in her Sunday best—’

  ‘Huh!’ Kate exclaimed suspiciously. ‘I know what you mean. And you’m already a-courting Harriet Meese … You ought to be ashamed.’

  ‘Ashamed?’ he protested defensively. ‘Why should I be ashamed? I ain’t promised to Harriet Meese.’

  ‘You could do worse.’

  ‘And you could do better,’ Algie replied, as he scanned the towpath opposite for sight of Marigold.

  ‘Oh, well,’ remarked Kate loftily, ‘We all know Harriet’s face ain’t up to much.’

  ‘Neither is yours,’ Algie responded with brotherly disparagement. He would never let Kate believe he considered her nice-looking.

  Kate reacted by bobbing her tongue at Algie, but he ignored her and watched the progress of the Binghams. Hannah Bingham, Seth’s wife, was at the tiller, steering the horse boat, the leading one of the pair which they used for their work. Hannah, he perceived, was not like the usual boatwomen. For a start, he had an inkling that she was not narrowboat born and bred. She did not wear the traditional bonnet of the boatwomen, which fell in folds over their shoulders and back, like a ruched coal sack, and which was about as appealing. She had large, soulful dark eyes, and was blessed with high cheekbones; a handsome woman still, who must have been a rare beauty in her youth. The Binghams seemed a cut above many of the boat families. Their boats were spruce and shining, and always looked freshly painted with the colourful decorations that were traditional among their kind. They obviously took care. They stood out.

  A child was crawling at Hannah’s feet, tethered with a piece of string to prevent him falling into the canal. Various other sons and daughters, all youngsters, watched the proceedings, scattered randomly aboard the second narrowboat which they towed, known as the butty. A lark hopped about in a bamboo cage, set between tubs of plants which stood like sentries on top of the cabin.

  ‘I can’t see Marigold,’ Algie complained. ‘Is she there?’

  ‘There …’ Kate pointed impatiently. ‘Opening the sluice. Hidden by the hoss …’

  He shifted along the fence and caught sight of Marigold Bingham bending over the mechanism, a windlass in her hand as she deftly opened the sluice that let water into the lock. Her dark, shining hair was pinned up, giving an elegant set to her neck. Algie was glad she never seemed to wear those hideous bonnets either. He waited, his eyes never leaving her until he was blessed with a rewarding glimpse of her lovely face. She walked jauntily back towards the boat swinging her windlass, the breeze pressing her thin dress against her body, outlining her youthful figure and slender legs. She patted the horse as she went
, and Algie basked in the sunshine of the smile that was intended for her father.

  ‘How do, Mr Bingham!’ Algie called amiably, rather to draw Marigold’s attention than Seth’s. ‘And you, Mrs Bingham.’ He touched the peak of an imaginary cap as a mark of respect.

  Seth Bingham turned around and addressed himself to Algie, whose face was bearing a matey grin as he peered over the lock-keeper’s garden fence. ‘How do, young Algie. It’s a fine day for it and no mistake.’

  ‘Mooring up here for the night, Mr Bingham?’

  ‘Soon as we’m through the lock, if there’s e’er a mooring free,’ the boatman replied. ‘It is Sunday, lad, after all’s said and done.’

  ‘God’s day of rest, they say.’

  Seth scoffed at the notion. ‘For some, mebbe.’

  To Algie’s delight, Marigold flashed him a shy smile of acknowledgement. He saw a hint of her mother in her lovely face.

  ‘How do, Marigold.’

  ‘Hello, Algie.’ She answered coyly, avoiding his eyes further as she stepped onto the butty.

  Their strong little horse took the strain, stamping on the hard surface of the towpath to gain some purchase as it hauled the first narrowboat, the horse boat, slowly into the lock. Steadily, surely, the narrowboat, lying low in the water under the burden of its cargo, began to inch forward away from the side of the canal. Marigold had nimbly jumped aboard and was at the tiller of the butty now, waiting for her turn to enter the lock.

  Algie watched, unable to take his eyes off her. She was as statuesque as the figurehead of some naval flagship, but infinitely more lovely. Her back was elegantly erect, her head, which he beheld in profile now, was held high, showing her exquisite nose to wonderful advantage. He reckoned Marigold was about eighteen, though he did not know it for certain. For years he’d kept an assessing, admiring eye on her, catching occasional glimpses as she passed the lock-keeper’s cottage. In the last three years he’d noticed how her looks and demeanour had really blossomed. It was as if he’d been patiently watching the petals of a slow-blooming rose unfurl into flawless beauty. She stood out from the other boatmen’s daughters; always had. In fact, she stood out from all the other daughters of men, boatmen’s or not. She was endowed with a natural grace where others seemed ungainly. If girls like Marigold, who lived and worked on the canals, hadn’t escaped to work in the factories by the time they were eighteen, it was generally because they were wed to a boatman, some by the time they were sixteen. Yet there was never anything or anybody to suggest that Marigold was spoken for. Maybe Seth was too protective of her, realising her worth, saving her for somebody with finer prospects. It would not surprise him.

  ‘You look a picture today, Marigold,’ Algie called, giving her a wink. ‘In your Sunday best, are you?’

  She smiled shyly and shook her head as the butty slid forward. ‘Just me ornery working clothes, Algie,’ she answered in a small but very appealing voice.

  ‘Then I’d like to see you in your Sunday best. I was just saying to our Kate—’

  ‘Algie! Kate!’ Clara Stokes, their mother, was calling from the back door. ‘Your dinners are on the table. Come on, afore they get cold.’

  Algie rolled his eyes in frustration that his attempt to get acquainted with the girl, his intention to flatter her a little, was being thwarted at such a critical moment. ‘I gotta go, Marigold. Me dinner’s ready. See you soon, eh?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  He hesitated, aware that Kate was already making her way across the garden to the cottage. ‘Are you due down this cut next Sunday, Marigold?’ he asked when Kate was out of earshot, endeavouring to sound casual.

  ‘Most likely Tuesday, on the way back from Kidderminster.’

  ‘That’s a pity. I’ll be at work Tuesday. I shan’t see you.’

  Marigold smiled dismissively. It was hardly of grave concern to her. Yet she wondered if his questioning her thus meant he was interested in her. The thought at once ignited her interest in him and she looked at him with increasing curiosity through large blue eyes, hooded by long dark lashes.

  ‘So when shall you pass this way again on the way to Kiddy?’ he persisted.

  ‘Dunno,’ she replied, and he noticed that she blushed. ‘We might not be going to Kiddy for a while. We might be going up again’ Nantwich or Coventry. It depends what work me dad picks up.’

  ‘Course …’ He sighed resignedly. Yet her blush somehow uplifted him, and he wallowed in the wondrous thought that he might appeal to her too. But he had to go. His dinner was on the table. ‘Ta-ra, then, Marigold. See you sometime, eh?’

  She smiled modestly and nodded, and Algie strolled indoors for his Sunday dinner, disappointed.

  ‘Our Algernon’s keen on that Marigold Bingham, our Mom,’ Kate said over the dinner table.

  ‘You mean Hannah Bingham’s eldest?’

  Kate nodded, unable to speak further yet because of a mouthful of cabbage. She chewed vigorously and swallowed. ‘Fancies her, he does.’

  ‘He’d be best advised to keep away from boat girls,’ Clara commented with a warning glance at her only son. ‘Anyroad, what’s up with Harriet Meese?’

  ‘Nothing’s up with Harriet Meese as I know of,’ Algie protested. ‘I just think as Marigold Bingham’s got more about her than the usual boat girls.’

  ‘Fancies her rotten, he does,’ Kate repeated, with her typical sisterly mischief.

  ‘So what?’ he said, irritated by her meaningless judgement of him and of his taste in girls. ‘There’s nothing up with fancying a girl, is there, Dad? It ain’t as if I’m about to do anything wrong.’

  ‘Just so long as you don’t.’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ Algie muttered inaudibly under his breath.

  Will Stokes was, for the moment, more concerned with cutting a tough piece of gristle off his meat than heeding the goading remarks of his daughter. ‘Oh, she’s comely enough, I grant yer,’ Will remarked, looking up from his plate, the gristle duly severed. ‘But looks ain’t everything. Tek my advice and stick with young Harriet. Harriet’s a fine, respectable lass. She’ll do for thee. Her father’s in the money an’ all, just remember that.’

  ‘Money that’ll never amount to much if she’s got to share it with six sisters, come the day,’ Clara commented, as a downside.

  ‘Well, our Kate can talk, going on about me and Marigold Bingham,’ Algie said, aiming to turn attention from himself. ‘She often wanders off with that Reggie Hodgetts off the narrowboats …’

  Kate gasped with indignation and blushed vividly at what her brother was tactlessly revealing. She gave Algie a kick in the shins under the table.

  Noticing her blushes, Will eyed his daughter with suspicion. ‘’Tis to be hoped you behave yourself, young lady, else there’ll be hell to pay – for the pair o’ yer.’

  ‘Course I behave meself,’ she protested, glancing indignantly at Algie. ‘You don’t think as I’d do anything amiss, do you, Dad?’

  ‘I should hope as you got more sense.’ He wagged his knife at her across the table in admonishment. ‘Else I’ll be having a word with young Reggie Hodgetts. You’ve been brought up decent and respectable, our Kate. Tek a leaf out o’ your mother’s book, that’s my advice. There was never a more untarnished woman anywhere than your mother. That’s true, ain’t it, Clara?’

  ‘I had to be,’ Clara replied, conscientiously trimming the rim of fat off the only slice of roast pork she’d allowed herself. ‘Else me father would’ve killed me.’

  Algie pondered his mother, trying to imagine her as a young woman being courted by his father. She had been a fine-looking young girl then, he knew it for a fact. For a woman of forty-two, she still held on to her looks and figure remarkably well. It was obvious from whom Kate had inherited her looks and figure, which the local lads found so beguiling.

  He finished his dinner quietly, deeming it politic to add nothing more to that mealtime conversation. His thoughts were still focused on young Marigold Bingham.
He’d noticed her blushes as she’d spoken to him and he wondered … Algie was in no way conceited, and he rejoiced in the thought that maybe he had aroused her interest. If so, it was the greatest event of his life so far. Damn his dinner being ready at exactly the moment when he was about to get to know her a little better. Right now she and the rest of the Binghams would be moored in the basin outside. So frustratingly close …

  So conveniently close …

  There was a knock on the door. One of Seth Bingham’s younger children had come to pay the toll for passing through the locks. Algie waited. His mother moved to clear away the gravy-smeared plates, cutlery, pots and pans, which she stacked in an enamelled bowl. When she and Kate were in the scullery washing them, and his father was sitting contentedly in front of the parlour fire with his feet up and his eyes shut, attempting his Sunday afternoon nap, Algie silently and surreptitiously made his exit …

  Although Algernon Stokes was twenty-two and a man, yet still he was a boy. Or, more correctly, a lad. His view of the world had not yet been tainted by its artificiality and pretence, so he lived life, and looked forward to what it offered, with a naïve enthusiasm that emanates only from youth. He was largely content. His upbringing had been conscientiously accomplished by a strict yet fair father’s influence, endorsed and abetted by his mother, although she still followed him around the house dutifully tidying up behind him. His sister Kate was tiresome, though, a bit of an enigma to Algie, and a nuisance to boot. Algie was utterly fascinated with girls in general, yet absolutely not with Kate in particular.

  He had drifted into a sort of half-hearted courtship with a girl called Harriet Meese, only because she had shown an interest in him in the first place, an interest which flattered him enormously. She was not his ideal, however, hence his half-heartedness. His ideal girl was beautiful of face and figure, utterly desirable and unresisting, even prepared to risk ruin by submitting to his sexual endeavours; qualities he believed he might find in Marigold Bingham. Many young men his own age were married, some had even fathered children already, and Algie envied their access to the sensual pleasures they must all enjoy in their marital beds, for such pleasures had always been denied Algie. The thought of spending the rest of his life in celibacy horrified him, but from his point of view, it looked as if he was destined to, unless he could nurture some girl who appealed to him physically, and who would be unreservedly willing. Thus, he had become preoccupied with finding a solution. It boiled down to this: he was twenty-two already, but he hadn’t lived. Therefore, he might as well still be seven.