Nancy Carson - The Railway Girl

‘No, church. He goes to St Michael’s.’

‘And what’s he look like, this chap?’

‘A bit ordinary. He seems to have some quaint ways about him as well, what I’ve seen of him so far. But he seems decent enough. He was wearing a nice clean collar on his shirt. At least he ain’t rough.’

‘Well, you don’t have to stick with him if you ain’t that fussed. But you did say as you’d go out with the first chap what asked you, even if he was “the ugliest sod on earth”, you said. Remember?’

Lucy laughed. ‘I know I did, but he ain’t that bad, thank God. At least I won’t be ashamed if somebody sees me with him. It’s just that I don’t think it’ll amount to much. I just don’t fancy him.’

‘Well, next time I see yer, don’t forget to tell me how you got on, eh?’

‘I won’t. Anyway, I’d better go. Me belly’s rumbling for want of something to eat.’

Arthur was particular about punctuality, but then he had a reliable watch in his fob pocket to assist him. Lucy, however, possessed no such device, and she was ten minutes late. Dusk was upon Brierley Hill and the sun, about to dip below the distant Shropshire hills, had daubed the western sky with intermingling hues of red, purple and gold that reflected in Lucy’s eyes, setting them aflame. Arthur was moved by the effect. The air was mild, and the musky, smutsy smell of industry encompassed them, but was barely noticed.

‘Have you been waiting long?’ she asked, an apology in her tone.

‘Only a minute or two,’ he replied with easy forgiveness. He smiled, happy and relieved that she had turned up at all, for he had set much store by this tryst.

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Well … Nowhere in particular, Lucy … I thought we might just go for a stroll. It’s such a grand night for a stroll.’

‘If you like,’ she agreed pleasantly. ‘Which way shall we go?’

‘Which way d’you fancy?’

She shrugged. It was hardly a decision worth making and not one she’d been expecting to make herself. ‘Oh, you decide.’

‘Downhill, eh? Towards Audnam and the fields. We’ll see what’s left of the sunset as we go.’ So they turned and set off at a tentative stroll.

A horse and buggy drove up towards Brierley Hill on the other side of the road, its wheels rattling over the uneven surface. The driver called a greeting to the lamp-lighter walking in the opposite direction, whose lantern was swinging from the ladder balanced over his shoulder. For the first few long moments neither Lucy nor Arthur could think of a word to say. The pause seemed ominous. Both realised it simultaneously and their eyes met with self-conscious, half-apologetic smiles.

‘What have you been doing today?’ Lucy asked, aware that maybe she ought to set some conversation in train.

‘I had to go to a churchyard in Pensnett and finish an inscription to a headstone,’ Arthur replied, thankful that Lucy had found something to say, for he was inexplicably tongue-tied. ‘I should’ve done it Saturday but I couldn’t.’

‘Oh? Why was that?’

‘’Cause I had the diarrhee bad. I was taken short.’

She burst out laughing.

‘It’s not that funny,’ he said, disappointed that she should appear to mock him so early on. ‘Haven’t you ever had the diarrhee?’

‘Even if I have I’m not about to tell you. But it isn’t the fact that you had the diarrhee I’m laughing at. I know you can’t help that. It’s just that …’

‘What?’

‘Well, the first time I saw you on Saturday night you had to run off afore you’d finished drying spilt beer off your trousers. I thought then as you’d been took short, and when I asked your mate what was the matter with you he said as how it was something you’d ate.’

He laughed with her, realising how ridiculous he must have seemed. ‘So you guessed?’

‘It doesn’t take a genius to fathom it out. I hope you’ve got over it now.’

‘Yes, thank the merciful Lord. I don’t want another bout like that in a hurry, I can tell you. I’ve had a bit of toothache today, though.’

‘Toothache? Maybe you’ll have to have it pulled.’

‘I’m hoping as it’ll go away of its own accord. I don’t fancy having it pulled. It’s one of them big teeth at the back. They can be murder to pull out, they reckon.’

‘Maybe it’s just neuralgia,’ she suggested.

They were approaching the canal bridge where Wheeley’s Glass House stood with its huge brick cone that shielded from view the furnaces belonging to the same company. Over the bridge, on the other side of the highway was Smith’s Pottery.

‘So tell me what it is you have to do to describe a headstone,’ Lucy said, not wishing to discuss Arthur’s unexciting ailments for fear there were more, but veering obliviously onto a subject which had the same potential to assign her to wool-gathering.

‘ Inscribe , Lucy, not describe.’ Her error amused him and he smiled. ‘I have to cut the letters into the stone or slate.’

‘So you have to be able to read and write well?’

‘Oh, yes. But I went to school, see? Can you read, Lucy?’

‘Oh, yes, some. My father used to spend two shillings a week to send me to school when I was little. They taught me my letters. I can’t read big words easy, though. But I can count, and do sums. I’m hopeless at spelling though. Hopeless.’

‘Ah well, it isn’t so important for a woman to be able to read and write, is it?’ he said consolingly. ‘Except maybe to write down a list of stuff you need to buy for the house.’

‘I suppose not. All the same, it would be useful to be able to do it well.’

‘Got any brothers or sisters, Lucy?’

‘I got a sister – Jane – a bit older than me. She married a chap called Moses Cartwright. He was a soldier in the Crimea, but they sent him home ’cause he got wounded. He’d been stuck in some makeshift hospital for weeks at the front.’

‘No brothers then?’

‘Yes, four brothers. All wed. One of them lives in Canada, so we don’t see him any more. We don’t see the others very often either … Come to think of it, they might as well all live in Canada … And you’ve got a brother, haven’t you, Arthur? Any sisters?’

‘Just one brother … He’s wed to Magnolia—’

‘Magnolia?’

‘I know. It’s a funny name for a woman.’

Conversation promised to flow naturally at last. They crossed the road at Hawbush Farm and turned into the footpath that led over fields to an area called Buckpool and eventually to Kingswinford parish. But it was getting dark and they would not have been able to see where they were going, so they lingered at a stile. Lucy perched herself on the top bar while Arthur leaned against it. By this time they were easier in each other’s company, to Lucy’s relief and surprise, for she found she was enjoying herself and actually liking Arthur.

Arthur complained how he and his father were always at cross-purposes, how he was expected to do the more menial tasks of stonemasonry and not the more glamorous ones of designing and building graves. It was obvious to her how it irked him.

‘So why don’t you leave home and find lodgings? Then you’d be out of his way.’

‘I might. If I left home I’d have to leave the business as well, and that would show him good and proper.’

‘What about your mother? Do you get on with her?’

‘Oh, she’s all right. It’s just me father I can’t stand. I feel sorry for her having to put up with him.’

‘Is he that bad, Arthur?’

‘He’s a miserable old devil. It always seems to me that he’s tried to do without love in his life, and that’s what makes him so vile. It’s almost as if he’s made a little garden for himself, but if the family’s love is sunshine he’s certainly shaded himself from it. And he’s planted this garden with bitter herbs, not beautiful flowers, yet he believes it’s the whole world – that the whole world is like that. He’s pig ignorant, Lucy. He never says “That’s a good job you’ve done there, our Arthur”, or “I’ll pay you a bit extra for doing that, ’cause you was late getting back”. Oh, not him. He’s too tight. He wouldn’t give you the drippings off his nose.’