can see now why he was in such a rush to get out afore,’ Dinah said, looking judiciously at Lucy. ‘’Cause he’d arranged to see you, young Lucy. He was getting into a tidy pickle with that cantankerous old mare we’n got when he knew he’d got to run an errand for his father.’
‘How is Mr Goodrich?’ Lucy enquired. ‘Arthur tells me he’s bad a-bed. What’s the matter with him?’
‘Mrs Costins’s pig,’ Dinah replied matter-of-factly. ‘He had some pork yesterday. So sure as he touches a bit o’ pork it’s all over with him. When I went to fetch his plate after his dinner I swear as he was praying to the Lord, asking Him to ease his suffering.’
‘He should be ashamed troubling the Lord of a Sunday afternoon for the sake of a bit o’ wind,’ Arthur remarked acidly, ‘when a dose of bicarbonate of soda would set him straight.’
‘I’ll tek him some up after,’ Dinah said.
‘No, let him suffer.’
‘Our Arthur’s got no respect for his father, you know, Lucy. Am you sure you won’t stop and have a bit o’ pork pie? It’s beautiful. I doubt whether I ever med better. I’m sure as the good Lord must’ve bin in the oven with ’em a-Friday when they was a-baking.’
‘I told you, Mother, we’re going now.’
Dinah gazed at her visitor critically. ‘But look at the wench, our Arthur, her could do with feeding up a bit. A bit o’ me pork pie would do her the world o’ good. Am yer sure yo’m all right, young Lucy? You look pale to me, an’ all.’
‘I feel perfectly well, Mrs Goodrich—’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it. Mind you, I’ve heard it said as pale folk am often the healthiest, though they mightn’t be the handsomest … But it’s better to be healthy than handsome, I always say. Mind you, him upstairs is neither … Shall I cut a piece o’ me pie to take to your father? He could have it for his snap tomorrow at work.’
‘That would be ever so kind, Mrs Goodrich …’
‘So this is Arthur,’ Hannah Piddock said, standing up to welcome the young man who had seen fit to start stepping out with her youngest daughter. She looked him up and down circumspectly. ‘Well, he ain’t as bad looking as you made him out to be, our Lucy. I expected somebody with a face like a bag o’ spanners.’
‘I never said any such thing,’ Lucy at once countered, embarrassed that her mother should have been so tactless as to repeat in front of Arthur what she had said.
Arthur looked first at Lucy, then at her mother, and grinned sheepishly. ‘I know I’m no oil painting, Mrs Piddock. I couldn’t blame Lucy for saying so.’
‘Arthur’s given us some rabbits, Mother. Haven’t you, Arthur? Two for us and two for our Jane.’
‘And there’s plenty more where they came from,’ he said stoutly. ‘My brother and me often go shooting ’em over Bromley.’
‘That’s ever so kind, Arthur. Why, our Jane will be ever so grateful an’ all.’
‘It’s no trouble, Mrs Piddock. I understand her husband can’t work. I’m glad to help out.’
He looked about him. The room was tiny with a small cast iron range in which a coal fire burned brightly, a polished coal scuttle stood to one side. The mantel shelf above was edged with pristine white lace. On it stood two small crock urns, one at each end, and in the middle a sparkling mirror hung. In front of the hearth was a wooden settle with chenille covered squabs neatly placed. A rocking chair was set beside it turned in towards the fire, and in it dozed Haden Piddock after his drinking spree at the Whimsey. Under the window that looked out onto the street stood a small square table covered in a lace-edged cloth, and three chairs set around it. All modest and unassuming, but its unsullied cleanliness and cosiness struck Arthur. Nothing was out of place, and it all looked invitingly spruce and bright, unlike his own home.
‘Arthur’s mother’s sent some of her fresh pork pie for me father’s snap,’ Lucy said.
‘That’s very thoughtful of her, Arthur. Be sure to thank her for me.’
‘I will, Mrs Piddock.’
‘That’s a stinking cold you’ve got there, young Arthur. Let me give you a drop of hot rum with some sugar in it.’
Arthur grinned with appreciation. ‘That sounds too good to miss, Mrs Piddock.’
‘Well, one good turn … And I warrant as it’ll make you feel better.’
Haden woke himself up with a sudden rasping snort, and looked about him, disorientated for a few seconds. ‘Well, I’m buggered,’ he said and rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s King Arthur …’
‘He’s a king and no two ways, Haden,’ Hannah declared. ‘He’s bought us some rabbits for a stew, and his mother’s sent yer a lovely piece o’ pork pie for your snap.’
‘His mother, eh?… What’s that he’s a-drinking?’
‘Hot rum and sugar.’
‘I thought I could smell rum. I’ll have some o’ that, an’ all, our Hannah.’
On the afternoon of the last Saturday in September Lucy Piddock and Miriam Watson decided to treat themselves. They took the train to Wolverhampton to visit the shops, a rare and exciting excursion. The journey took them through the Dudley Tunnel, when all was suddenly converted to blackness. The insistent rumble and click-clack of the iron wheels, traversing the joints of the iron track, took on a gravitas that was not only unheeded in daylight but augmented by the close confines of the tunnel. The two girls clutched each other for reassurance, lest they were each suddenly ravished by one of the occupying male passengers, even though they looked such ordinary and harmless men by the light of day.
‘Lord, I hope this thing don’t come to a stop while we’m in here,’ Miriam whispered. ‘What if the roof fell in and half of Dudley was to come crashing down on us?’
‘You’re full of pleasant thoughts,’ Lucy murmured. ‘I wish you wouldn’t say such things. You scare me.’
‘What if one o’ these Johnnies here jumped on we?’
‘I thought you liked men.’
‘I don’t mind ’em if I can see ’em. But it’d be just my luck to get the ugly un. And there must be nothing worse than realising you’ve had the ugly un when all of a sudden it gets light again and you’ve imagined you bin with the handsome un.’
However, they soon emerged into daylight at the new Dudley Station, which was still only half built. The train stopped to disgorge passengers and take on others before it resumed its journey through a stark and bewildering landscape of factories, pits and quarries interspersed with small impoverished-looking farms. Brown smoke swirled into the air from chimney stacks which were sprouting like bristles on a scrubbing brush. At Wolverhampton Low Level Station the locomotive hissed to a halt, and the coaches behind it nudged each other obsessively in their commitment to line up behind it.
The two girls stepped down from their third class accommodation
