Poppy's Dilemma Page 15

  ‘In that, he was no different to any of the others,’ Robert suggested. ‘But I sense he was more considerate than most.’

  ‘He was,’ she agreed. ‘He was a decent man although he wasn’t religious. He used to take the mickey out of anybody from the billycock gang who came to preach to the men—’

  ‘Poppy, what’s the billycock gang, for goodness sake?’ Robert asked.

  ‘Preachers. Those who used to come every so often to try and change the men in their ways and convert them to Christianity.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Christianity, Poppy,’ Robert said, turning to look at her. ‘And in times of grief such as yours, I believe it can be a great comfort.’

  ‘Honest?’ She regarded him earnestly. ‘How?’

  ‘Well, I’m not particularly religious myself. I’ve had religion forced down my throat far too long for it to have any appeal now. But I do believe it helps to pray sometimes.’

  ‘I don’t know how to pray. I wouldn’t know what to say. I don’t reckon there’s much to all that claptrap anyhow.’

  ‘Well, you could try it. Why not give it a try and reserve judgement until you have.’

  ‘Would you teach me how to pray, Robert?’

  ‘I’m not qualified, Poppy. I’m not a priest.’

  ‘But you can give me an idea what to do and what to say. If you go to church regular, you must have an idea.’

  It was a God-given opportunity to see her again. Of course he must grasp it. He was emotionally torn, of course he was, but he could not just dismiss this delightful waif, who looked up to him for help and guidance with those exquisite blue eyes. As well as being drawn to her irrevocably, he felt obliged to help her, obliged to guide her. Continuing to plague himself in the doing might well end in disaster, but it was a course he had no choice but to pursue. There was something about this girl that he could not abandon. She had got under his skin and was proving impossible to remove.

  ‘Then why don’t you meet me tomorrow at the church and we’ll go inside and I’ll try and teach you,’ he suggested.

  ‘But tomorrow’s Saturday. Not Sunday?’

  ‘You don’t want to go when all the regular churchgoers are about, do you?’

  ‘No, I s’pose not,’ she answered with a shrug.

  ‘Tomorrow then. One o’clock outside St Thomas’s.’

  ‘The one with the spire?’

  ‘Yes, the one with the spire, at the top of the hill there.’ He stopped walking. ‘Are you feeling better now, Poppy?’

  ‘A bit, thank you.’

  ‘Good. Maybe we should head back now.’

  She nodded her agreement and looked at him longingly. ‘And thank you again for your note, Robert. It was a lovely thought.’

  ‘I’m just happy you were able to read it.’

  She smiled self-consciously. ‘Oh, every word.’

  ‘That shows how well and how easily you learned.’

  Poppy blushed at his compliment that meant so much to her. ‘I liked learning to read and write. But I still have such a lot more to learn, don’t I?’

  ‘If you really wanted to, perhaps we could resume your lessons.’

  ‘Oh, I’d really like to, Robert … as long as you … if you don’t mind, I mean … If I wouldn’t be taking up too much of your time.’

  ‘I’ve rather missed teaching you, Poppy,’ he said candidly and smiled. ‘You’re a model pupil, you know. Not that I’m any great shakes as a teacher …’

  ‘Oh, I think you’re a good teacher, Robert. I wouldn’t have anybody else teach me.’

  He smiled again and looked into her eyes. ‘You seem much brighter now. I told you it helps to get things off your chest by sharing your problems. Do you still want to meet me tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she reassured him, not about to let such an opportunity pass. ‘I ain’t never been in a church before.’

  ‘Never? Well, I hope you don’t grow too fond of it. I’d hate it to change you. I like you fine the way you are.’

  Chapter 11

  The silence inside St Thomas’s church overwhelmed Poppy. The clack of her clogs on the hard tiled floor rang off the walls and around the huge stone pillars that supported the gallery and the high, vaulted roof as she followed Robert up the centre aisle and into a front pew facing the choir stalls. She sat down beside him and looked in wonder at the painting on glass that filled the east window above the altar.

  ‘What’s that picture?’ she asked in a whisper, for to speak in her normal voice would be an unwarranted intrusion on the church’s cool tranquillity. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘The Ascension,’ Robert answered. ‘Christ risen.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said and nodded.

  Robert had picked up a copy of the Book of Common Prayer from the rear of the church as they entered. He opened it up and handed it to her with an affectionate smile.

  ‘See if you can make sense of this, Poppy.’ He pointed to a block of text that looked inordinately daunting to her eyes. ‘Read it out to me.’

  She studied the text for a few seconds, then, garnering her confidence to try, she began reading very slowly, building up the words as best she could, ‘Our Father … which – art – in – heeven …’

  ‘Heaven,’ Robert corrected.

  ‘Oh. Heaven … But I thought an e and an a together said ee, like in bean.’

  ‘Not always, Poppy. There’s no rule.’

  She tutted diffidently. ‘So what’s that next word?’

  ‘Hallowed.’

  ‘What’s it mean?’

  ‘Revered … Respected … Admired.’

  ‘Oh … Hallowed – be – thy – name – Thy k – kin – king – dom – come – Thy – will – be – done – on … What’s that word, Robert? It’s a hard one.’

  ‘Earth,’ he said, with unending patience.

  She looked at him intensely and nodded, then returned to the book. She read it through to the end, taking her time, meticulously trying to construct the words from the letters and combinations she had already learnt.

  ‘What’s this word, Robert?’

  ‘Amen. It means “so be it”.’

  ‘Then why don’t it just say “so be it”, instead of “Amen”?’

  ‘Because it’s either a Latin or Greek or Hebrew word that means so be it. When you say a prayer you generally start it with the words “Our Father”, and end it with “Amen”.’

  ‘So it’s a sort of rule, then?’

  ‘Yes. Or rather, a sort of convention … I must say, you read that very well. I know it was slow, but speed comes with practice. The more you read, the easier you’ll recognise words, and the faster you’ll become. You’ll also learn a great deal from reading. It’s the gateway to all knowledge.’

  ‘Is that all there is to praying then?’

  ‘You are supposed to word your prayer to suit whatever it is you’re praying for.’

  ‘So if I wanted to pray to God to send me some new boots, what would I say?’

  Robert smiled to himself. ‘That would depend on what size you took.’

  ‘Size four, I think.’

  ‘God needs to know, you see. So you would say a prayer to God asking for some boots and tell him what colour, size, et cetera … It’s normal to kneel while praying to demonstrate our humility, but we won’t bother with that rigmarole. Humility is such an aggravating attribute. It’s just as easy to pray sitting down … And a sight easier on the knees. Now put your hands together and close your eyes – like this …’

  She did as he bid.

  ‘Ready to say your prayer?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said and took a deep breath. ‘Our Father, please let me have a pair of dainty black boots with ’lastic sides … size four should do it … Amen.’ She opened her eyes and turned to Robert. ‘Do you think it’ll work?’ she asked eagerly.

  ‘Oh, I doubt it. It’s not considered good practice to pray for material things. Only spiritual. For instance, why don’t you say a
prayer for your father and perhaps your mother?’

  ‘How? Will you say a prayer to show me how?’

  ‘I’ll try. But please remember, Poppy, I’m not an ordained priest and I haven’t the command of religious language like priests have. But I will try, and hope it doesn’t sound trite. Here goes … Hands together now, eyes closed …’ Poppy peeped at him and thought how very solemn but how very handsome he looked. ‘Our Father … we commend the soul of the dearly departed Jack Silk unto Thy care and protection. Please receive him, Lord, into the bosom of Thy tender mercy and forgive him his trespasses. We pray also for Sheba Silk and Poppy Silk and the rest of his family left behind, who grieve over his passing. Comfort them and nurture them with Thy eternal strength and goodness … Amen.’

  Poppy was moved. A tear trembled on her eyelash and rolled down her cheek, but she checked herself from weeping. ‘That was beautiful, Robert,’ she breathed. ‘I shall never forget what you said. It was beautiful.’

  He turned to her and smiled with all his affection manifest in his eyes. ‘Does it make you feel a little uplifted?’

  ‘Oh …’ She pondered the question for a second or two. ‘In a funny way, yes. I don’t feel half so sad as what I did before. I s’pose it’s knowing that our Father which art in heaven will look after me dad now … Oh, I don’t feel half so sad, Robert. Thank you.’

  He could have hugged her. He wanted to hug her. He wanted to take her in his arms and never let her go. But he was in God’s House and such shenanigans would only be frowned on and ultimately punished by that good and bounteous God who totally disapproved of bodily contact between man and woman unless they were bound in matrimony.

  Poppy turned her face to him and pursed her lips without inhibition. Without thinking, he met them with his own and they kissed. It was not a lingering kiss, little more than a peck, but it was so natural, so unpretentiously given, that it quite took his breath away. Never had he known such unstinting warmth from another person.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked. ‘When you leave here, I mean?’

  She shrugged girlishly. ‘Go home, I ’spect. I got some work to do yet. That new chap who come – you know, my dad’s mate, Buttercup – he wants me to wash his shirt and things. I promised I would.’

  ‘Have you had much to do with him?’

  ‘Not yet. But I like him. He seems like me dad … kind and easy to get along with. I hope he stays with us awhile.’

  ‘I … er … I bought you this, Poppy …’ Robert felt in his pocket and fished out a little parcel. ‘I thought it appropriate. I do hope you like it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Open it, and you’ll see.’

  ‘Robert, thank you, whatever it is. I don’t get presents very often.’ She opened the parcel. ‘Oh, it’s a book,’ she said, delighted.

  ‘Written by a young woman,’ he said. ‘It’s called Pride and Prejudice. My aunt, who used to be a teacher – I told her about you, by the way – informs me that it gives a good insight into English life and manners. You might find it difficult reading at first, so don’t be disheartened. Persevere and it should be worth it. You’ll soon be reading quite quickly.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll try and read some tonight and I’ll let you know how I get on.’

  ‘Good …’ He smiled. ‘You know, Poppy, I think we ought to go now. Would you still like to resume your reading and writing lessons, then?’

  ‘Yes … Course.’

  ‘So shall we meet on Monday at my office, after the works have finished?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please, Robert.’

  Meanwhile, Sheba was in the living room working alone. The children were out playing, and Tweedle Beak was at The Wheatsheaf grinning and bearing it, as were the rest of the hut’s usual contingent. Except for Buttercup. He left the dormitory where he had been fiddling and entered the living room, where he believed Sheba was on her own.

  ‘Still hard at it, Sheba?’

  ‘Is it ever any different?’

  ‘I reckon not. Where’s young Poppy? Has she gone out to play and left her mother to do all the work?’

  ‘I don’t begrudge the wench some enjoyment, Buttercup. It’s my guess as she’s gone to meet that engineer what’s learning her to read. She’s got a soft spot for him, and no two ways. Trouble is, she’s gunna be let down with such a bang. She’s set her sights way too high.’

  Buttercup pulled a chair from under the table and sat down. ‘Fill we a tankard o’ beer, eh, Sheba?’

  ‘Oh? Ain’t you going to The Wheatsheaf with the others?’ She took the key from her pocket and unlocked the barrel.

  ‘I can goo theer anytime. Besides, there’s no sense in getting lagged out o’ thy mind on beer all the time. I’d rather tek the time to talk … if yo’ve a mind to talk to me, Sheba.’

  ‘I’m content enough to stop and talk.’ Sheba filled a tankard and handed it to him.

  ‘Ta, my wench. Bist havin’ one theeself? I’ll treat thee.’

  ‘That’s decent of you, Buttercup. Thanks, I will.’ She took a tumbler from a cupboard and filled it with beer. ‘Here’s to you.’

  ‘Here’s to thee … And here’s to Poppy an’ all, whether or no her’s set her sights beyond her.’

  Sheba sat down at the opposite side of the table. ‘The trouble with our Poppy, Buttercup, is that she’ll have no truck with any o’ the young navvies. She’s made it plain she don’t want to end up a navvy’s woman.’

  ‘The wench has got some sense,’ Buttercup remarked. He took a slurp of beer and wiped his chin.

  ‘But that Jericho keeps on coming round after her. Maybe you’ve noticed. He seems decent enough, but our Poppy’s heart’s set elsewhere, I can see that.’

  ‘Jericho, eh?’ Buttercup rubbed his whiskers thoughtfully, reminded of the incident in the tunnel. ‘I bain’t altogether sure as that Jericho deserves her, any road, Sheba. He’s a bit wayward that one, wun’t thee say so?’

  ‘Always up to fighting, they reckon. But then, so am a good many. They fight over the daftest things. All of ’em.’

  Buttercup nodded. He took another quaff of beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Then let’s hope Poppy keeps him at a distance … And theeself, Sheba?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Aye … And Tweedle Beak? How dost thou fare together?’

  ‘Me and Tweedle?’ Sheba shrugged. ‘He ain’t no Lightning Jack, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, that’s the top and bottom of it, Buttercup. He ain’t Lightning Jack Silk …’

  ‘But yo’m content to lie with him?’

  ‘Content? What choice have I got?’

  ‘Oh, I bain’t judging thee, Sheba,’ Buttercup said kindly. ‘Let him as is without sin cast the fust stone, as they say …’ The stem of Buttercup’s clay pipe was sticking out of the pocket of his moleskin jacket. With a sigh, he withdrew it and placed it carefully on the table while he cut a knob of tobacco from a stick he pulled out of another pocket. ‘But if thou bistn’t content, thou’st got no choice at all if he babbies thee, Sheba, my wench.’ He failed to meet her eyes while he rubbed the knob of tobacco between the palms of his hand to break it into shreds. ‘No chance at all.’

  ‘Ah … Well that’s another problem, you see, Buttercup …’ Their eyes met and Sheba’s expression was one of candour. She trusted this man. He had been a good mate of Lightning Jack’s, and Jack had always been a good judge of a man’s character. She smiled tentatively, and lowered her eyes like a young girl as he tried to read her mind.

  While he filled his gum-bucket, it struck Buttercup how little more than a girl Sheba was. Lightning, by his own confession, had taken her as a fourteen-year-old, hardly more than a child. By the time she was fifteen she’d had Poppy. She could be no more than thirty or thirty-one now, he estimated. She was still comely enough, even though she’d had several children, even if the ceaseless grind of navvy life and moving from one encampment to another had taken i
ts toll. No wonder Tweedle Beak had intervened to save her from a life on tramp. She was eminently beddable still.

  ‘Art thou already in the family way with him then?’ Buttercup asked, lighting his pipe.

  ‘Not with Tweedle. I’m carrying Jack’s child.’

  Buttercup grinned, his pipe held horizontal between his teeth. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Does Tweedle know?’

  Sheba shook her head. ‘Soon enough he will … when me belly gets bigger.’

  ‘So dost thou intend to let him think it’s his?’

  Sheba uttered a laugh of derision. ‘Do you think he’s that daft? He’ll work out soon enough that it ain’t.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Sheba shrugged. ‘Aye, then what? You tell me.’

  Buttercup sucked on his gum-bucket and blew a cloud of smoke into the room. ‘Well, who knows, Sheba? I reckon ’tis a decision thou must make some time soon.’

  ‘Oh, I reckon the decision’s made already, Buttercup. I’ll not pass off this child as Tweedle Beak’s, although it did occur to me to do it. I’m too proud that it’s Lightning Jack’s.’

  Buttercup beamed and his eyes crinkled into creases that Sheba found mightily attractive. ‘Good for thee, Sheba,’ he said. ‘I can’t abide that Tweedle Beak meself. Let’s have a drink on it, eh? Pour us another, my wench.’

  Poppy tripped back to Rose Cottage feeling light and breezy compared to how she felt earlier. So she was going to meet Robert again on Monday. Once more they would be alone together in his office. Would he ask her to sit on his lap again and smother her in those delicious kisses that made her toes curl? The spectre of the girl to whom he was promised rose up and plagued her thoughts. Best not think about her. Pretend she didn’t exist. If only Robert could escape her clutches. Maybe he would, for Poppy sensed his fondness for herself, despite their class difference. And, like he’d said before, class difference was not an insurmountable barrier if you had the will to overcome it.

  She saw that Buttercup was seated at the table smoking his gum-bucket and grinning, a full tankard of beer in front of him. Her mother was sitting opposite, also drinking beer and smiling contentedly. Poppy noticed how, at her entrance, they immediately fell silent for an awkward second or two, until Buttercup greeted her cordially.