ever so kind, Mrs Stokes, really,’ Marigold said, following Clara back towards the cottage.
‘Come inside while I do it.’
Marigold followed her inside, into the little scullery. She noticed the blackleaded range, pristine and shiny, with the fire burning brightly and a copper kettle standing on the hob. In front of the hearth lay a podged rug, made from old material, the colours and textures of the cloth organised into an appealing pattern. A scrubbed wooden table had four chairs around it, and beneath the window was a stone sink. There was little enough room to move, but to Marigold, used only to the tight confines of the narrowboats’ cabins, it was enormous.
She watched while Clara wrapped the tulips in a sheet of newspaper and asked again if she could pay for them, but Clara only refused with a reassuring smile. ‘Take them, young Marigold,’ she said kindly. ‘Your mother will like them.’
‘That she will, Mrs Stokes. Thank you ever so much.’
‘You’re welcome. Give your mother my best wishes, won’t you?’
‘Oh, I will …’ She did not move, hesitating at the door, and Clara looked at her enquiringly.
‘Is there something else, Marigold?
‘Yes … Will you tell Algie I called, please, Mrs Stokes? He said to ask you to. Will you give him my best wishes?’
Clara smiled knowingly. She did not dislike this slip of a girl. ‘Course I will.’
On the afternoon of the following Saturday after he’d finished work, Algie purchased his bicycle, a Swift, made in Coventry. His intention was to ride it all the way back from the shop in Dudley, stopping at the Meese home on the way to show Harriet; he reckoned she’d still be working in their shop. At Holly Hall, however, a mile away, the chain came off, which gave him a nasty jolt since he was pedalling hard, trying to see how fast he could make it go. As a result, he banged his crotch awkwardly against the crossbar, making him wince with the sheer agony of it. With little alternative but to try and ignore the pain, he dismounted, glad of the opportunity to bend down and nurse his crotch as he replaced the oily chain carefully around the cogs. The job done and the pain slowly receding, he continued on his way, more gingerly this time. He would have to adjust the chain properly when he got home.
‘Oh, I say,’ Harriet exclaimed with approval when she saw the bicycle. ‘Can I have a go on it?’
‘Yes, but mind how far you’re going.’ He was afeared that the chain might come off again, and had visions of walking miles trying to retrieve both the machine and Harriet if that happened. ‘And don’t get the wheels stuck in the tramlines, else you’ll be off.’
Harriet cocked her leg over the saddle, in what was for her, a most unladylike but forgivable manner. She set off from the kerb shakily, emitting a girlish scream of apprehension. ‘I won’t go far,’ she yelled over her shoulder.
Algie watched with a grin as she rode no more than a hundred yards in the direction of Dudley, then turned around with a series of inelegant wobbles. She didn’t have the confidence to use the pedals and merely scooted with her long legs astride the crossbar, the hem of her skirt unavoidably hoisted to an immodest height so untypical of her.
‘I’ll get arrested with my skirt up like this,’ she said, laughing, as she returned to his side. ‘No wonder girls don’t ride these contraptions.’
‘All you need is to wear a pair of trousers instead of a skirt,’ he suggested with a measure of practicality.
‘Don’t be a goose,’ she scoffed. ‘Who ever heard of such a thing!’
‘Well, I think it’s a good idea. These machines can be just as useful for women as for men …’ The comment was prompted by what Marigold had said about cycling ahead of the narrowboats to open the lock gates. ‘But you women won’t benefit unless you change your attitude.’
‘What attitude?’
‘Your attitude to what you’re prepared to wear. Trousers, for instance. Women used to wear trousers when they worked in the mines.’
‘Some women that worked in the mines wore nothing at all, I’ve been told,’ Harriet responded with scorn. ‘But you won’t find me going about with no clothes on. Anyway, can you imagine what I’d look like?’
‘Lord, I daren’t even begin to think about it, Harriet …’
‘Seen the Binghams lately, Dad?’ Algie asked one day on his return from work. ‘I ain’t seen ’em for a fortnight.’
Will Stokes looked at his son with a wry smile. ‘They ain’t been a-nigh, Son, not since that day your mother laid bare me tulip patch. Still got your eye on young Marigold, have yer?’
Algie smiled. He was able to admit such things to his father. He was able to talk to him about anything. ‘Could be,’ he answered with a wink. ‘Would you blame me?’
‘Nay, she’s a bonny wench, our Algie. I can understand you being interested. But if you seriously want her, don’t lead young Harriet on, that’s my advice. It ain’t fair. She’s a decent young madam is Harriet, and I’m sure she wouldn’t do that to you. So be straight with her.’
‘Oh, I intend to be, Dad. Once I’m sure of me standing with Marigold. I got no intention of two-timing her.’
Will shook his head. ‘If you got no serious intentions for young Harriet, you should tell her straight, Marigold or no Marigold.’
‘I know, Dad, but I don’t want to burn all my bridges … Not yet …’
On the Wednesday night, that last day in April, Algie accompanied his sister Kate to the town hall, which had been hired by the Brierley Hill Amateur Dramatics Society for two performances that week of two plays; My First Client, a farce, and a comedy called You Know What. Both had the audiences guffawing with laughter.
After the show, Harriet returned from backstage and formally introduced Kate Stokes to Murdoch Osborne, the society’s leading light and principle organiser.
‘Me and Miss Stokes are already partly acquainted, ha?’ Murdoch said pleasantly. ‘Her mother’s a regular customer of mine, and I see Miss Stokes most days on her way to work at Mills’s cake shop, ha, Miss Stokes? I can see a definite resemblance to your mother, you know … and that’s a compliment, ha?’
Kate blushed becomingly. ‘Thank you, Mr Osborne.’
‘Now then. Harriet here tells me as you might be interested in joining our little theatre group.’
‘I never thought about it before, but I think I’d like to try it,’ Kate replied coyly, imagining receiving the audience’s applause and appreciation, as rendered so enthusiastically for tonight’s star, Miss Katie Richards.
‘Have you been involved in drama before?’
‘Never, but I’m a quick learner. I learn poetry ever so quick. I would soon learn me words, I’m sure. I’d really like to try me hand at it.’
Murdoch Osborne was watching her, fascinated by her large, earnest brown eyes. ‘You’re a very pretty girl and no mistake, Miss Stokes … and
