Nancy Carson - Poppy’s Dilemma

‘Yes … was. I’m having no more lessons. I don’t see the point. I can read now.’ She was grossly overstating her ability, but had no wish to enlighten Sheba as to the real reason.

‘That chap Jericho called round after you.’

‘What for?’

‘How the hell should I know? But I can guess. He’s a handsome buck, and no mistake.’

‘If only looks was everything.’

Sheba smiled to herself. ‘Oh, and what would you know about that?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say as Tweedle Beak was handsome,’ Poppy replied, with a shrug. ‘Would you?’

‘It might help if he was …’

Poppy laughed. There was a pause in their conversation while she put her writing pad in her drawer to save getting it mucked up. ‘What yer gunna do about Tweedle when me father comes home?’

‘Tweedle will just be one o’ the lodgers again.’

‘Providing me dad can get his old job back, you mean.’

‘Even if he can’t, it wouldn’t make any difference. We’d just go on tramp till he found another.’

‘So it is me father you love, and not Tweedle?’ She regarded her mother earnestly. ‘Oh, tell me it is, Mother.’

‘Aye, it’s your father I love.’

‘But what about if he comes back and finds you already pregnant wi’ Tweedle’s brat?’

Sheba bit the thread she was sewing with, severing it, and rested the crumpled shirt in her lap. ‘Oh, well,’ she said, looking intently into Poppy’s eyes, ‘I’m already pregnant. But it’s with your dad’s child. I knew I was carrying afore he went away.’

Poppy smiled happily. It was the best news she’d had in ages. ‘Does Tweedle know?’

Sheba shook her head. ‘Neither does your father.’

‘But you let Tweedle Beak into your bed just the same?’

‘To save us going on tramp and missing your father. As well as all the other reasons. It was the only thing I could do.’

‘But that makes you no better than a whore, Mother,’ Poppy said, more with concern than with any disrespect.

‘All women are whores, our Poppy. We sell that soft place we’ve got between our legs for whatever we want back in return, be it money, protection or just pleasure. It’s a ticket for whatever we want, whatever we need.’

‘What about love?’

Sheba smiled knowingly. ‘Aye, it’s a ticket for love as well. But there’s a difference. You don’t sell it for love, our Poppy. You give it away free. But always be aware of the likely consequences.’

Poppy went to bed that night before her mother and Tweedle, with a great deal on her mind. She was relieved to hear her mother’s confession that it was Lightning Jack she loved, and not Tweedle Beak. Poppy could forgive Sheba her horizontal exploits now that she knew that it was merely an expedient device to protect them all. She was pleased also to learn that she was carrying a child, especially that there was no question but that it was her own father’s child. It was a sort of insurance that when Lightning Jack returned – which, pray God, would be soon – Tweedle would simply fade into the background of navvies from whence he came, and things would revert to normal. No doubt Lightning Jack would thank Tweedle Beak for looking after his woman while he had been away. It was the way of the navvies.

Inevitably, Poppy’s thoughts turned to Robert Crawford and she relived that delectable half-hour in his arms, feeling his lips upon hers. She compared his gentleness and consideration to Jericho’s ill-bred roughness, recalling the time when Jericho had been fighting naked and, naked, took her in his arms afterwards, rubbed himself lustfully against her and expected her to go willingly behind the hut with him. Did she really want Jericho’s violent, slobbering kisses, his clumsy fondling, now she had tasted Robert’s succulent lips?

Poppy recalled how wet she had felt between her legs while she and Robert were in each other’s arms. She was wet now thinking about him. She pulled up her nightgown carefully so as not to disturb her sisters asleep in the same bed, and stroked herself to actually feel it on her fingers. It was wickedly pleasant to rub yourself there. Gently she continued, lying with her eyes shut, her mouth open receiving Robert’s luscious kisses. With the other hand she fondled her breasts, arousing her small pink nipples, and imagined him to be doing it. She hugged herself, making believe it was Robert’s warm, affectionate embrace that was making her hot, before rotating her thoughts to imagine she was actually feeling his smooth, firm flesh. ‘Oh, I love you, Robert,’ she mouthed silently. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ As the pleasurable sensations intensified in her groin, she turned her face into the pillow, sure that her insides were melting, disintegrating, but with such toe-curling intensity. The urge to cry out was strong, but she merely took a gasp of air and sighed with disbelief at the extraordinary wild sensation that had come to overwhelm her.

The door opened. Tweedle Beak and her mother appeared, silhouetted against the light of an oil lamp, with Little Lightning hovering in the background holding it. Little Lightning spoke and his mother told him to hush and dowt the flame, lest he wake the others. In the darkness, they all undressed and clambered into bed as silently as they could. It was not long before Poppy heard the faint rustle of sheets yielding to movement and the gentle creak of the iron bedstead, as Tweedle settled with unaccustomed restraint into what had become his regular nightly exercise.

Poppy smiled to herself.

During the weeks that she got to know Robert Crawford, Poppy had become acquainted with the regularity of his comings and goings on the construction site. But work was moving along the trackbed away from the encampment towards Brierley Hill, and she could not always be certain lately that he would be where she thought he might be. In an endeavour to ‘accidentally’ bump into him as he left his office one dinner time, she tarried between the foreman’s hut and Shaw Road, then between the tommy shop and the road. It was the first Thursday in July and the weather had turned, so that you could have been forgiven for thinking it was April, with all the showers alternating with the sunshine that shimmered blindingly off the wet mud.

While she drifted from one point to another, scanning the area for sight of Robert, she saw another man walking towards her. He was unmistakably a navvy, with a bright yellow waistcoat, a moleskin jacket, a quirky cap, and well-worn moleskin trousers with knee-straps to stop the rats running up his legs. He wore odd boots as well, one the colour of dried blood, the other a light tan. Poppy did not know him, so assumed he had been on tramp and was seeking work. As he entered the encampment he touched his cap and smiled amiably. He reminded her strangely of her father, except that he looked older.

She heard the sound of wheels chattering over the road surface and Robert appeared from the top of the hill, riding his machine. Her heart went into her mouth, for she had not the slightest idea what she might say to him. She just wanted to see him, to talk with him, to try and glean whether this unfulfilled love was as painful for him as it was for her. Robert had been on her mind so much these last few days and nights that she was becoming preoccupied. If only he hadn’t told her how he felt. If only he had kept his feelings and his hands – and his kisses – to himself, they could have gone on as they had hitherto, teacher and pupil, friends who merely harboured admiration and respect for each other at arm’s length, who kept their ardour unspoken and under control. But his confession that he was taken with her, and then his frustrating but tantalising self-restraint, had only fuelled her interest and desire the more. She was hooked, yet she understood that hooking her was not what he had intended. What she did not know was that Robert Crawford had also of late adopted the habit of either perambulating or riding – ostensibly in connection with his work – Poppy’s likely routes.