frigidity. Anyway, he did not enjoy kissing her at all; she had a faint, furry moustache that really put him off. On those occasions when he had kissed her he’d imagined he could feel it tickling him; hardly a pleasant sensation, and he could not foresee having to endure that for the rest of his virile manhood. He could not imagine fulfilling his marital bedtime duty without wishing he were fulfilling it with somebody else. In any case, as she grew older she was bound to become stout – you only had to look at her mother to see how the daughter would turn out …
It was best that he ended it, he reassured himself. He had the perfect reason now. He had found a girl he wanted, a girl he liked, with whom he would be less half-hearted.
Algie rode on, assiduously avoiding getting his wheels trapped in the tramlines as he was jolted over the cobbled surface. Between Queen’s Cross and Brierley Hill town it was mostly downhill, save for a slight uphill gradient at Holly Hall, which was hardly likely to trouble him. He coasted to a halt at Meeses’ drapery shop and leaned his bicycle against the stone window sill.
The bell chinked with reliable monotony as he thrust the door open and there, facing him over the bolts of cloth that adorned the counter, was the stern, fat, uncompromising countenance of Eli Meese. Eli rose from his stool at sight of Algie, bridling like a frenzied bull that had been goaded by the proverbial red rag.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’d like to see Harriet, please, Mr Meese.’
‘Oh, yes?’ He nonchalantly scratched his fat backside, partly for effect, partly because it itched. ‘The trouble is, our Harriet don’t want to see you.’
‘Oh? Why not?’
‘’Cause you’m a bad un, that’s why.’ Eli looked Algie squarely in the eye. ‘I know all about you and your shenanigans. I know you was off with some slattern from the cut last night when our Harriet was here waiting for yer like the true soul she is, mythered to death over yer ’cause yo’ hadn’t showed up and she knows no better. I waited with her an age meself, like a mawkin, till I could see as you was never gunna show your ugly fizzog. I’m churchwarden, you know …’ He prodded his chest importantly with his forefinger. ‘And I tek me responsibilities serious. Not to be hindered by the likes of you.’ With consummate contempt, he wagged the same forefinger at Algie. ‘So from now on, I forbid you to see our Harriet. Besides, you’m neither use nor ornament. Her can do better for herself, can our Harriet, than a ne’er-do-well like you as’ll never mek anythin’ of himself. So bugger off, lad, and if I ever see or hear of you sniffing round our Harriet again, I’ll draw blood, so help me.’ The bull swelled up threateningly and seemed to snort. ‘Now sod off!’
Algie considered that to retreat while he was still standing was his best option.
‘Will you just tell her I called, Mr Meese?’ he said feebly, opening the door to make his ignominious exit, which made the bell chink annoyingly again.
‘I’ll tell her all right, have no fear. I’ll tell her what I’ve just told you an’ all.’
Outside in the warm early evening air, Algie blew out his lips, perplexed, which hurt the fragile split that he’d acquired last night. As he cocked his leg over his bicycle to ride away, feeling ever so humble, he gently touched the wound and looked at his fingers circumspectly to see whether there was blood on them. There was, and he rode away, nursing it.
How in God’s name had the Meeses found out that he had been with Marigold last night? News travels fast in communities like Brierley Hill, but surely never that fast. It would never have occurred to Algie that his own sister was the culprit.
Anyway, he had better things to contemplate. He had Marigold to see. He wondered if the Binghams had passed through Buckpool yet, or whether they were still stuck in Kidderminster. Either way, he would ride along the canal’s towpaths till he found her. And he would wallow in her warm, newly won affection …
‘I’m hungry,’ Algie complained to his mother when he returned home. ‘Is tea ready?’
‘Your tea won’t be ready for another half hour,’ Clara replied, peering into the oven. Its cast-iron door closed with a reassuring clang, but the aroma of roasting cheese and onion had seeped out long before and filled the cottage with a tantalising aroma, making Algie feel even hungrier. Clara regarded him quizzically. ‘What’ve you done to your lip?’
‘My lip? Oh … I did it at work.’
‘It looks as though you’ve been fighting.’
‘Me, fighting? No, I walked into a brass rod somebody was carrying.’
‘You want to be more careful. You could’ve poked your eye out.’
‘How long’s my tea gunna be, Mother?’ he asked again, anxious to divert her from the topic lest he dig himself into a hole and let slip some clue that might reveal the sordid truth of how he’d really acquired his injury.
Clara began slicing a cabbage at the table. ‘It won’t get served till your father comes back from mending a lock gate by the dry dock.’
‘What’s up with it, then?’
‘Winding gear’s broken, he said. Why don’t you go and see if you can help him?’
‘But I’m starving hungry.’
‘Then have one of those jam tarts.’ She nodded at the tray on the table. ‘I’ve already given a few to Marigold.’
‘Marigold?’ He picked one out and took a bite. ‘She’s been here?’
‘She called to say they’d be moored up just beyond the Parkhead Locks.’
Algie beamed. ‘Good. That’s all I wanted to know.’
Clara gave him a knowing look. ‘Just mind what you’m up to with that young girl,’ she said.
‘Course I will,’ he said. ‘What d’you think I’m gunna do?’
‘I’m just afeared she might get too attached to you, and I wouldn’t want you to hurt her.’
‘Hurt her?’ he queried.
‘Yes, hurt her,’ Clara replied. ‘I wasn’t too keen on you seeing her at first, our Algie, but she’s won me over good and proper. She’s a lovely girl. Now … if you’re going to start seeing her regular, just be kind to her.’
What a strange thing for his mother to suggest, as if he was capable of being unkind. He shrugged at her apparent lack of understanding. ‘I don’t intend to hurt her, Mother. I think the world of her. I really like her. Can I have another jam tart?’
‘Help yourself.’ He turned around and took another. ‘What I mean is, Algie, Marigold has it hard enough on the cut. So does her mother, who was never brought up to live life on a narrowboat. It ain’t like living in a nice comfortable house with a warm hearth, soft feather beds and running water laid on, ’specially when that’s what you’ve been used to.’
‘Did
