Poppy's Dilemma Page 8

  Dandy Punch scoffed at her apparent naivety. ‘You don’t strike me as being that daft, Sheba. I want her for me woman. I want her to keep me bed warm.’

  ‘I ain’t going with him,’ Poppy shrieked in panic from the stone sink where she was scraping potatoes. ‘Don’t let him, Mom. I’d rather go on tramp. I’d rather end up in the workhouse.’

  ‘But, Poppy, it’d mean we could stop here, me and the kids, till your daddy came home,’ Sheba reasoned. ‘I wouldn’t have the worry o’ going on tramp and missing him coming the other way. We might never see him again. We could end up in the workhouse.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ Poppy insisted. ‘I’d rather go in the workhouse. I’d rather die.’ The thought of Dandy Punch mauling her in his stinking bed and slobbering all over her filled Poppy with a sickening revulsion. ‘And you should be ashamed, Mother – prepared to let me go to him just to save yourself.’

  Sheba quickly weighed up her daughter’s comments. She caught the eyes of Dandy Punch and could not resist a defiant smile. ‘She’s right, you know. I should be ashamed. I don’t think she fancies you that much, by the sound of it, Dandy Punch. I ain’t got the right to sacrifice her. She’s got notions of her own.’

  Dandy Punch looked somewhat embarrassed. ‘Well, it’s your last chance,’ he said, trying to recover his composure. ‘And if your daughter can’t see the benefit to her as well as to yourself, then she needs a good talking to, and a clip round the ear to boot, for being so stupid.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think she’s stupid,’ Sheba said. ‘Just particular.’

  ‘In that case …’ He coughed importantly in an effort to redeem some of his ebbing prestige. ‘In that case, I’ll be along this afternoon with the bailiffs—’

  ‘Hang on, Dandy bloody Punch …’ Tweedle Beak spoke. He arose from his chair and walked over to Sheba’s side. ‘I’m glad as I waited and listened, and watched you mek a bloody fool o’ yerself, Dandy Punch, lusting after this innocent young wench here. D’yer really think as a young madam like that is likely to be enticed by some dirty, pot-bellied ode bugger like thee? An’ any road, I’m an employee o’ the company and there’s nothing in the rules what says as I cor be the tenant, if I’ve a mind.’ He felt in his trouser pocket and drew out a handful of gold sovereigns which he handed to the timekeeper. ‘Pick the bones out o’ that lot and gi’ me the change I’m due. I pay the rent here from now on. I’m the tenant in this hut, so write my name in your blasted book … And Sheba here is my woman, if anybody wants to know.’ He put his arm around her shoulders proprietorially. ‘Does anybody say different?’

  Tweedle Beak looked at Sheba and their eyes met. It seemed to Poppy that her mother’s silence was consent enough.

  Poppy went out that afternoon. She avoided Dudley town and its hordes of people; she avoided The Wheatsheaf with its navvies on their Saturday afternoon randy. She wanted to be alone, to think over just what her mother had let herself in for. Deep in thought, she headed towards Cinder Bank, walking the route she and Robert Crawford had taken on their ride. The hot June sun was on her face, but it did not warm her. She sat on a stile and, with her head in her hands, pondered the prospect of lying in the bed next to her mother and hook-nosed Tweedle Beak. For, despite her tender years, Poppy was canny enough to realise that Tweedle had not done what he had done out of charity; he would claim his rights over her mother that night. Sheba must have known, too. She must have been well aware. Poppy tried not to think about the grunting antics that would be performed with a vengeance as Tweedle drunkenly asserted his manhood and his possession of her mother, but mental images of them invaded her mind. The disturbing reality would arrive soon enough.

  She reached out and snatched a stalk of twitch grass. Absently, she split the stem with her fingernail and felt the moist sap oozing between her finger and thumb. Poppy had imagined that her mother was grieving over the absent Lightning Jack, but perhaps she wasn’t. Perhaps she, too, was just yet another woman of easy virtue. Perhaps even she was hungry for a man by this time. Poppy’s respect for her mother was under siege. What sort of example was the woman setting? Would it be easy for her to submit so readily to such a man? Was virtue so easily corrupted? Was Sheba really so corruptible that she could rashly sell her own body to Tweedle Beak for the price of a few weeks’ rent, and Lightning Jack due back at any moment? Poppy was confusing herself with all these questions which she could not answer. Maybe Sheba had sacrificed herself to protect her from the clutches of Dandy Punch.

  Her thoughts turned to Minnie. Minnie was easy; her skirt would be up in a trice for no more than a manly smile and a glass of beer. Why were some women like that? Why did they lack self-respect? Why did they cheapen themselves so? It made no sense. They were no better than the men. They were just as bad, just as depraved.

  It then occurred to Poppy that maybe her father wasn’t coming back. Maybe he’d used the threatened appearance before the beak and the prospect of transportation as an excuse to get away from a woman he’d been itching to leave for some time. Maybe his promise to return was just empty words. Maybe he’d already found a woman before he left and had sloped off with her. Men did that sort of thing. Maybe Sheba realised it. Even Poppy had known of several who had absconded, never to be heard of again.

  So Lightning Jack could surely expect no better from Sheba. He knew the system. He was aware Sheba could not remain in a hut without him. He must also have known her sexual appetite; after all, she was not particularly old – only thirty-one – even though she looked older. Lightning must have known that some other hungry, healthy navvy would seize the opportunity to bed his woman in his absence. The trouble was, his absence suggested he did not care.

  Chapter 6

  After an hour or so of trying to make sense of this latest disturbing conundrum, Poppy ambled dejectedly back to the conglomeration of miserable huts that were a blight, even on the ravaged, slag-heaped, chimney-bestrewn landscape around Blowers Green. The sun was hiding behind a bank of grey clouds, depriving the scene even of the joy of colour. As she entered the compound, hungry, for she had not felt like eating after what had occurred, she caught sight of Robert Crawford’s boneshaker leaning against the side of the hut that the foremen used as an office. She turned away, disappointed with Robert over his failure to seek her out after their dinner-time ride, which seemed ages ago. He must be avoiding her, so why give him the satisfaction of thinking that she wanted to see him?

  But as she was about to enter her own hut, he came out of the foremen’s and espied her. He called her name and she lost her resolve. His smile, to her delight, did not give the impression that he was sorry to see her – rather that he was decidedly pleased to. They walked towards each other, her smiling eyes glued on his, and they met in the open space at the centre of the encampment.

  ‘Poppy, how grand to see you,’ Robert greeted. He was wearing his usual top hat and frock coat, and his watch chain hung impressively across his waistcoat. ‘Have you heard from your father yet?’

  Poppy shook her head, saddened to be reminded. ‘No, Robert, and I’ve got the feeling he ain’t coming back.’

  ‘Oh? Why on earth would you think that?’

  ‘Well, ’cause he ain’t shown up yet. He’s had plenty time now.’

  ‘But I’m certain he will, Poppy,’ he said, trying intently to reassure her. ‘Any number of things might have conspired to delay him. Maybe he’s found lucrative employment and wants to make the most of it.’

  ‘Lucrative?’ she queried wearily. ‘You don’t half use some funny words, Robert.’

  He smiled his apology, feeling mildly chastised for using words that he should have realised were beyond her knowledge. ‘It means well-paid, gainful.’

  ‘Gainful or not, he ain’t come back.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll send for you soon.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be soon enough,’ Poppy said wistfully. ‘He’s too late already.’

  ‘Too late? What do you mean?’

&n
bsp; Poppy shook her head and averted her eyes. ‘Oh, nothing …’ She felt too ashamed to tell him what had transpired between her mother and Tweedle Beak and the certain consequences of it.

  ‘You must miss him, Poppy,’ Robert said kindly.

  She nodded and tried to push back tears that were welling up in her eyes. ‘Yes, I miss him, Robert. I love him.’

  ‘There, there …’ He took her hand in consolation but held it discreetly at her side, so that such intimate contact was hidden from view by the folds of her skirt. ‘Please don’t cry, Poppy. I have such a vivid recollection of you laughing and being so happy that I can’t bear to see you crying with sadness.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She sighed and wiped an errant tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. She forced a smile and Robert gazed into her watery eyes.

  ‘You have such a lovely smile,’ he said sincerely. He squeezed her hand before he let go of it. ‘Your smile is your fortune, believe me. I remember how you flashed me a smile the very first time I saw you. I asked myself then, why was I so rewarded with such a lovely smile when I was accompanying such an unpleasant policeman on such a thoroughly unpleasant task?’

  ‘Oh, I could tell you wasn’t like the bobby,’ Poppy said. ‘Besides, you had the good manners to take your hat off when you came in our hut. Even I know it’s good manners for a man to doff his hat in somebody’s house.’

  ‘I’m happy that it pleased you … that you even noticed.’

  ‘There’s not much I miss, Robert …’

  He laughed at that. ‘And I believe you. But I’m glad I’ve seen you, Poppy. I’ve been meaning to seek you out. There’s something I wanted to suggest …’

  ‘What?’ she asked, and felt her heart beating faster.

  ‘Well … Last time we met, you told me that you regret not having had the opportunity of an education …’

  ‘It’s true,’ she agreed, puzzled.

  ‘Well … Poppy …’ He fidgeted uneasily, not sure how to word what he wanted to say without her reading into it more than he meant. And then he found the simple words. ‘How would you react, if I offered to give you lessons in reading and writing?’

  ‘In reading and writing?’ she repeated incredulously, surprise manifest in her face.

  ‘Yes. I think I could easily teach you to read and write. If you wanted to, that is.’

  Her tears were quickly forgotten and she chuckled with delight at the thought. ‘Robert, I don’t know what to say, honest I don’t … D’you really mean it? I mean, d’you know what you’re letting yourself in for? I mean, what if I’m too stupid?’

  He laughed dismissively at that, partly because he was amused that she should harbour such an absurd notion, partly because he wished to disguise this illogical lack of poise he sometimes felt when he was with her, even though she was way below his station. ‘Oh, you’re very bright, Poppy,’ he reassured her. ‘You’d learn very quickly. So what do you say? Do you agree?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I agree, Robert. And thank you. There’s nothing I’d like more. But when would we start?’

  ‘Well, why don’t we start tomorrow?’

  ‘That soon?’

  ‘Yes, why not? Can you meet me tomorrow?’

  ‘When I’m through with me work. But where would we go?’

  ‘Ah! I haven’t quite worked that out yet. But if you could meet me somewhere, we could find a quiet spot where I could first teach you your alphabet.’

  Poppy looked up at the sky unsurely. ‘Even if it’s raining?’

  ‘Yes. Even if it’s raining.’

  ‘So where should I meet you?’

  ‘Perhaps as far away from this encampment as possible,’ he suggested. ‘To protect your reputation, of course.’

  ‘My reputation?’ she scoffed. ‘Yours, more like.’

  He was not surprised by the astuteness of her remark, but he let it go. ‘Do you know the ruins of the Old Priory?’

  Poppy shook her head.

  ‘Do you know St Edmund’s church at the far end of the town, past the town hall and the market?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Meet me there.’

  ‘All right. Will three o’clock be all right?’

  ‘Three o’clock will be fine.’

  Poppy smiled excitedly. ‘I’ll bring a writing pad and a blacklead.’

  That encounter, and the prospect of another meeting tomorrow, lifted Poppy from her depression. She felt honoured that Robert Crawford was prepared to spend time with her, teaching her to become literate. Did it mean he was interested in her, that he wanted to woo her? The possibility excited her. He must like her, anyway. That much was obvious. Else he wouldn’t have offered to do it. Now, she had to scrounge some money from her mother again, to enable her to go into Dudley to buy a writing pad and her own blacklead.

  Some of the black spoil that had been excavated from the Dudley Tunnel at the northern end had been deposited over an area known as Porter’s Field. The sloping elevation that ensued, having been duly compacted, was considered a suitable site for a fair. That Saturday evening in June, Minnie Catchpole decided that the fair that was being held there might provide her and Poppy Silk with some interesting diversions while Dog Meat and his new friend Jericho proceeded to get drunk.

  The two girls entered the fair, looked about them excitedly and drank in the lively atmosphere. Traders had set out their stalls on both sides of the broad corridor of the entrance, and misspelled notices advertised their wares. Everything was available, from the finest leather saddlery and boots, through chamber pots, to sealing wax. An apothecary was telling a crowd around him about the benefits of using his balsam of horehound and aniseed for the treatment of coughs and colds, and of Atkinson’s Infants’ Preservative, recommended for those children liable to diarrhoea or looseness of the bowels, flatulence and wind. A herbalist was evidently doing good business in blood mixtures, sarsaparilla compound, piles ointments, healing salve, toothache cure, pills for gout and diuretic pills. A little further on, if you were hungry, you could enjoy a bowl of groaty pudding for tuppence, made from kiln-dried oats, shin of beef and leeks. If that didn’t suit, liver faggots and grey peas were a tasty alternative, as was the bread pudding known as ‘fill-bally’, made from stale bread, suet and eggs, and sweetened with brown sugar and dried fruit.

  Poppy’s curiosity inclined her to spend a halfpenny to see a woman who was supposed to be the fattest woman on earth, until a miner emerged from the tent and declared, ‘There’s one a sight fatter ’n ’er up Kates Hill.’ Elsewhere, a man was grinding a barrel organ; his monkey, on a long lead, was jumping from one person to another collecting small change in a tin mug. A crowd had gathered around a stall where they were invited to part with money to ‘find the lady’. Poppy was astounded that she herself never got it right, confident that she had followed the card diligently as it was switched from one place to another in an effort to confound.

  In a large tent a company of actors was performing, and not far from that stood a beer booth around which men were gathered in various states of inebriation. A couple of young men in rough clothing called to Poppy and Minnie to join them and, predictably, Minnie couldn’t help but be drawn. Poppy had little alternative but to follow. These lads were the worse for drink, but Minnie played up to them and they plied both girls with a mug of beer each. Poppy, to Minnie’s eternal frustration, was reticent about getting too involved, but Minnie showed no such inhibitions as she willingly accepted another mug of beer and giggled at their lewdness.

  Inevitably, Poppy was showing little interest in the attention and bawdy suggestions from the lad with whom she seemed to be stuck. She was not impressed with anybody who did not recognise the folly of getting too drunk and, besides, her earlier meeting with Robert Crawford was still fresh in her mind. Compared to Robert Crawford, this buffoon, who remained doggedly at her side as she was trying to make her escape, was as nothing.

  ‘Come with me over the fields,’ he slurred, unwilling to
concede defeat.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ Poppy replied earnestly, looking behind to check whether Minnie was following.

  ‘But I bought yer a mug o’ beer.’

  ‘It don’t mean you bought me.’

  ‘Oh? Come more expensive than that, do yer?’

  Poppy remained sullenly silent, wishing fervently that the young man would go away.

  ‘Got a bob on yerself, ain’t yer, for a navvy’s wench?’ he said scornfully.

  ‘What makes you think you’re any better than me?’ she asked, indignant at his insinuation.

  ‘What’s up wi’ yer?’ he goaded. ‘Yer mate’s game. Come on, let’s goo over the fields an’ have some fun.’

  Thinking that intimate bodily contact might render him irresistible, he put his arm around her waist and drew her to him. When Poppy wriggled in an effort to get away, he held on to her tightly, causing her to wriggle more.

  ‘Leave me be,’ she said angrily.

  ‘Poppy! Is this chap bothering you?’ To Poppy’s utter surprise, it was Jericho who spoke.

  ‘Jericho! Where did you spring from?’

  ‘Me and Dog Meat just got here. I watched you walking down here. Is this chap bothering you?’

  ‘Why do chaps always think you’re keen to go off with them?’ she complained.

  Even as she spoke, Jericho had the young man by the lapels of his jacket and flung him to the floor. He dived on him, hurling abuse, fists flying, while the poor victim tried in vain to protect his face from Jericho’s vicious blows. Soon, a crowd gathered round and their vocal encouragement added fuel to Jericho’s ardour. There was nothing better than a fight to inflame the passions of a crowd, especially when most had been drinking. To his credit, Dog Meat could see which way this fight was going and, fearing a murder, he grabbed hold of Jericho and managed to pull him away.

  ‘You’ll kill the little bastard.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to do,’ Jericho rasped, resisting Dog Meat’s restraining hold.

  ‘No! You’ve hurt him enough. Use your brains. Leave him be. Leave him be.’