I’m keen that we cast the part of Pocahontas right.’
‘Pocahontas?’ Kate queried, wide-eyed.
‘Pocahontas was a beautiful Red Indian princess who lived in the seventeenth century, Kate … Can I call you Kate?’
‘Oh, yes. Course.’
‘Good. Thank you … I was about to say … I would be very grateful if you could attend.’
‘Thank you, Mr Osborne, I will. What time should I get here?’
‘Oh, we don’t meet here. We meet in the Drill Hall—’
‘Why don’t you call for me on the way, Kate?’ Harriet suggested helpfully. ‘You could walk up with me and our Priss.’
‘Oh, right,’ Kate beamed. ‘Could I?’
‘Course. It’s always best, I think, if you can go somewhere strange with somebody you know. Especially the first time.’
‘Then that’s settled,’ said Murdoch Osborne with a triumphant grin. ‘I shall look forward to seeing you then.’
Clara Stokes, although adamant about not leaving her fireside in the evenings, was often faced with no alternative during the day. Her family, not unreasonably, expected to be fed, and not every morsel of food was delivered to the lock-keeper’s cottage. So she had to make trips to Brierley Hill High Street for meat and provisions, for fruit and the fresh vegetables her husband could not grow himself.
Sometimes, they would be given a rabbit, a wood pigeon, or even a pheasant, any of which would make a cheap yet perfectly acceptable dinner. A bunch of beetroots or a bag of freshly dug potatoes often arrived with the compliments of a neighbour, but you could never depend on it. In fact, if you waited for somebody to donate something like that, just when you needed it, you’d go hungry. It was a perverse principle which dictated that such offerings were only ever presented when the larder was full, never empty. Naturally, Will Stokes would return the favour whenever possible; his rhubarb was coveted for its flavour and gentle but very definite powers to relieve the Buckpool and Wordsley constipated, and his kidney beans were noted for their tenderness and delicate taste when in season. Most neighbours, as well as many of the boat families, would trade food in this way at some time.
It was the second Thursday in May and a fine sunny morning when Clara Stokes set out on her walk to Brierley Hill, shopping basket in one hand and gallon can in the other to hold the lamp oil they needed. The clatter and smoke of industry was all around her. Carts, conveying all manner of finished goods and raw materials, drawn by work-weary horses, passed in either direction, the drivers nodding to her as they progressed. Small children with runny noses, too young yet for school, were as mucky as the dirt in which they scrabbled; poorly clad and often even more poorly shod.
Clara went first to the cobbler to pick up a pair of Will’s shoes that had been in for resoling.
‘I heeled ’em an’ all,’ the bespectacled shoe mender informed her. ‘It’s on’y an extra tanner, but it’ll save yer bringin’ ’em again to be done in another six weeks.’
Clara smiled at his enterprise and paid him one shilling and ninepence, the cost of the repair. Next she visited the ironmongery of Isaiah Willetts, who filled her gallon can with lamp oil after she’d bought candles, washing soda and a bar of coal tar soap. She passed the drapery, mourning and mantles shop of Eli Meese, avoiding glancing into the window lest old Eli himself spotted her and she had to stop and talk. So that she could buy elastic, since Will’s long johns were hanging loose around his waist and needed new to make them grip him comfortably again, she visited the haberdashery store a little further along the street. At the greengrocer’s she bought a cabbage, onions, carrots, parsnips, spuds and a cauliflower, by which time she was laden down, and she hadn’t been nigh the butcher’s yet.
Of course, there was a queue at the butcher’s. But at least she could rest her basket on the sawdust-covered floor, along with her gallon can and the sundry brown carrier bags she’d acquired. Murdoch Jeroboam Osborne, in his white, blood-flecked cow gown and navy striped apron, greeted her warmly as soon as she entered, and she watched him chop off the heads of various fowl, a hare and several rabbits, until it was her turn to be served.
‘A quart of chitterlings, please, Murdoch,’ Clara requested familiarly.
‘A quart of chitterlings coming up, my princess,’ Murdoch repeated with an amiable grin. ‘How’re you today, Clara my treasure, ha?’
‘Aching from carrying all this stuff,’ she replied, nodding in the direction of the purchases at her feet. ‘Who’d be a woman fetching and carrying this lot?’
Murdoch smiled sympathetically and turned around to scoop up a quantity of chitterlings, which were pigs’ intestines that had been washed and cooked and were a tasty delicacy. ‘Have you got e’er a basin to put ’em in?’ he enquired.
‘Not today, Murdoch. Can you lend me summat?’
‘I’ve got a basin in the back, my flower. Just let me have it back next time you come, ha?’
‘Course I will.’
‘I’ll go and rinse it out.’ He returned after a minute with the basin and filled it with the chitterlings. ‘Anything else, my flower?’
‘Will fancies a bit of lamb for his Sunday dinner.’
‘Leg or shoulder, ha?’
‘Shoulder’s tastiest, I always think, don’t you?’ Clara asked.
‘Just as long as it ain’t cold shoulder, ha?’ He winked, and Clara chuckled as he set about carving a section of shoulder. ‘By the way, Clara, I was glad to see as your daughter’s decided to join the Amateur Dramatics Society,’ he added, while he worked. ‘She’ll make a fine little actress. Nice-looking girl, ain’t she, ha?’
‘For Lord’s sake, don’t tell her so. She’s already full of herself.’
‘Gets it off her mother – the good looks I mean,’ he commented warmly, heedless of the other women queuing behind her. ‘I don’t mean the being full of herself bit, ’cause you ain’t full of yourself, are you, Clara, ha?’
Clara tried to pass off his compliment with a dismissive giggle. She always felt a warm glow talking to Murdoch Osborne, for they’d known each other years, and he made her feel like a young girl again. ‘Oh, you do say some things, Murdoch.’
‘I mean it an’ all.’
‘I bet you say it to all your customers.’
Murdoch Osborne grinned waggishly. ‘For all the good it ever does me … Here’s your shoulder of lamb …’ He held it up for her to inspect. ‘Does that look all right?’ Clara scrutinised it briefly then nodded her approval. ‘Anythin’ else, my flower?’
‘I’d better take four nice pieces of liver for our tea. And I’ll have two pounds of bacon, as well.’
She watched
