Читать книгу: «A Country Girl», страница 3

Such were the ruminations, contemporary and nostalgic, of Eli Meese as he supped alone in the saloon of the Bell Hotel sucking at his clay pipe, his head enveloped in an aromatic cloud of blue smoke. Because he was an important citizen and a Justice of the Peace, few of the lesser locals these days considered themselves socially fit to sup in the same room with him. One man, however, walked into the hotel some little time after Eli, greeted him as an equal, and asked if he would allow him to buy him a drink.

Eli grinned in acknowledgement. ‘A pint of India pale, please, Murdoch.’

Murdoch Jeroboam Osborne paid for the drinks and took them over to the table where Eli was sitting. ‘You was deep in thought when I walked in, ha, Eli? Summat up?’

Eli swigged the last inch of beer that remained of his first helping, then sighed as if deeply troubled. ‘What d’yer mek o’ Will Stokes’s lad, Murdoch?’

Murdoch pulled a stick of tobacco from his pocket and began cutting it into workable pieces with his penknife as he pondered the question. ‘Can’t say as I know him that well, but he seems a likeable enough lad. Ain’t he a-courtin’ your Harriet? I’ve seen him a time or two come to meet her from the Drill Hall after our rehearsals, ha?’

‘Between me and thee, Murdoch, that’s what’s troubling me. I ain’t so sure he’s quite up to the mark, if you get me drift.’

Murdoch laughed. ‘I seem to recall as his mother was well up to the mark at one time, ha? Still is, if you want my opinion.’

Eli grinned conspiratorially. ‘Aye, you’m right there and no mistake. Proper little poppet, was Clara Bunn. Many’s the time I’ve wished …’

‘And the daughter takes after her,’ Murdoch remarked with a twinkle in his eye.

‘Ain’t set eyes on e’er a daughter so far’s I know,’ Eli replied. ‘But is that right? Another poppet? Like her mother was, eh, Murdoch?’

‘The image.’

‘I ain’t surprised. D’you see anything of Clara these days?’

‘Calls in me shop regular.’ Murdoch began rubbing the pieces of tobacco between the palms of his hands to render it into shreds. ‘If there’s e’er a boiling fowl or a rabbit spare I generally let her have it cheap. She’s grateful for that. I’ve always had a soft spot for Clara.’

‘She could’ve done a sight better for herself,’ said Eli, secretly meaning that she could have had him if she’d played her cards right. He gazed blandly into the clear golden depths of his beer. ‘She could’ve had the pick of the chaps in Brierley Hill – and beyond, but she settled for Will Stokes. Who’d have thought it at the time, eh? Will was never gunna be anything but a lackey to the Stourbridge Canal Company.’

‘Oh, Will’s a decent enough chap, but we can’t all be businessmen, Eli, ha?’ Murdoch scratched his chin, then took his pipe from his pocket and filled it with the shredded tobacco. ‘You got your drapery and I got me butchery. But it ain’t in everybody … So do I conceit as you ain’t too keen on young Algernon’s attentions to your Harriet, ha?’

‘I got no intention of encouraging it, Murdoch, let’s put it that way. She can do better for herself.’

‘Is she took with the lad?’ Murdoch struck a match and lit his pipe, his head quickly shrouded in waves of pungent smoke as he sucked and blew to get it to draw.

‘I wouldn’t like to say as she’s took with him. It’s hard to say for definite. But these attachments have a way of creeping up on folk. ’Specially these young uns what don’t know their own minds. I’m afeared that afore I know it, he’ll be telling me as he’s got to marry her and asking for me blessing. I don’t want to be asked for me blessing.’

‘Aye, well when she’s one-and-twenty – and that can’t be too far yonder – he won’t even need to ask, will he, Eli, ha? If he wants the wench he’ll just do it. Anyroad, I reckon as she could do worse. A lot worse, ha? The lad’s young, he’s working as far as I know. He might mek summat of hisself yet.’

‘Well,’ pondered Eli, lifting his fresh glass of beer, ‘’tis to be hoped … Got any more o’ that baccy, Murdoch? Me pipe’s gone out.’

As he walked along the towpath alongside his horse, Seth Bingham whittled a toy top from a piece of wood for his children. All that remained was to find a strong switch from which to make a whip to set it spinning. He could imagine their delighted faces when he presented it to them and showed them later that day how it worked.

Marigold jumped down onto the towpath from the butty, where she had left Rose, her younger sister, in charge of the tiller. They were approaching the flight of locks at Dadford’s Shed, on the way back from Kidderminster, and would soon be outside the lock-keeper’s cottage where Algie Stokes lived. She began walking alongside Seth, ready to run on and open the locks ready for the ascent.

‘What you makin’, Dad?’

‘A whip ’n’ top.’

‘A whip ’n’ top? For the little uns?’

‘It’ll keep ’em occupied while we’m moored up.’

‘Will it spin?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘Course it’ll spin, when I’ve made a whip for it.’

‘But it’ll want painting, won’t it?’

‘It’d look better painted, I grant yer,’ Seth agreed. ‘But let’s see if it spins all right first. If it does, we can soon paint it.’

‘I’ll paint it,’ Marigold offered. ‘With the kids. But it might be an idea to make more than one, you know, Dad. They’ll want a whip ’n’ top a-piece once they see it.’

Seth laughed. ‘I daresay they will, but they might have to wait.’

Seth continued whittling a second or two more, when neither spoke.

‘Have you got some pennies for the lock-keeper, Dad?’ Marigold asked, breaking the pause. ‘I’ll run on and make sure we can get through ’em all, and pay Mrs Stokes.’

Seth felt in the pocket of his trousers and fished out a handful of change. ‘Here,’ he said inspecting it. ‘And fetch me an ounce of baccy from the Dock shop while you’m at it.’

Marigold rushed to the lock. No other narrowboat was heading towards them from the opposite direction to occupy the lock and impede their progress. Rather, the last narrowboat through the locks had come from the opposite direction so all the levels would be set for them to enter without waiting for them to empty. She opened the first lock, while Seth led the horse towards it, then made her way to the Dock shop, where she bought her father’s ounce of baccy and put it in the pocket of her skirt.

She glanced back, saw their horse boat, the Sultan, entering the lock, and waved cheerily to Seth. She opened the next lock, then hurried to the next, amiably passing the time of day with a couple of the workmen from the dry dock that lay in an adjacent arm of the canal. A dog, from one of the rows of terraced cottages, joined her as she headed for the next lock, and she stooped down to fuss it.

‘Hello, Rex,’ she cooed, having become familiar with the animal over the years. She stroked it under the chin and it looked up at her with round, trusting eyes. ‘I ain’t got nothing for you this time. But next time, I’ll bring you some bones to chew on … I promise I will.’ The dog seemed to understand, and returned with its tail swinging, seemingly happy with the pledge, to the cottage he’d come from.

She reached the lock situated outside the lock-keeper’s cottage and she was aware of her heart pounding. What if Algie was there? What if he hadn’t gone to work and he was at home? She would see him again. It would be lovely to see him again so soon. Before she opened the lock, she crossed it to get to the cottage on the other side and climbed the steps to the garden and the back door. She tapped on the door and waited, scanning the well-tended garden and its crop of spring flowers that were blooming like an array of bright lamps. The door opened, and Clara Stokes greeted her, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Hello, young Marigold.’

‘Hello, Mrs Stokes,’ she replied deferentially. ‘We’m just coming up through the locks. Can I pay you?’

‘Course you can, my flower.’ Clara held out her hand and Marigold dropped the pennies into it. ‘Ta.’

‘I was just looking at your flowers, Mrs Stokes,’ Marigold said, turning round to admire them again. ‘Them choolips am really pretty. I would’ve thought they’re a bit early, though, wouldn’t you?’

Clara was making out a chit for the payment, but looked up to appreciate the tulips with her. ‘Yes, they’re grand, aren’t they? They are a bit early, like you say. Mind you, we’ve had some nice weather to bring ’em on.’

‘Me mom likes choolips. They’m her favourite flower. And those are a lovely colour.’

‘How is your mom?’ Clara enquired.

‘She’s well, thank you, Mrs Stokes. It’s her birthday tomorrow. I’d love to be able to give her some choolips. Would you sell me some, Mrs Stokes?’

Clara smiled. ‘I’ll do better than that – I’ll give you some to take to her. Let me get a pair of scissors to cut them with.’

‘Are you sure?’ Marigold queried, calling after her as Clara left the scullery for the sitting room. ‘I’d just as soon pay you for ’em.’

‘They cost nothing to grow, Marigold,’ Clara called back. ‘I’ll charge nothing for them. I just hope they give your mom a bit of pleasure.’

Marigold smiled gratefully. ‘That’s ever so kind. Thank you ever so much, Mrs Stokes.’

Clara stepped back inside the room with her scissors, and Marigold followed her up the garden path.

‘How’s Algie?’ she asked, with becoming shyness. ‘Is he at work today?’

‘Oh, he’s at work all right,’ Clara replied, diligently picking out the best tulips and laying them on the ground as she snipped them. ‘Earning his corn. At least it keeps him from under my feet.’

‘I was talking to him Sunday,’ she volunteered. ‘We went a walk afore he went to church.’

‘Yes, he said so.’

‘Did he?’ Marigold sounded pleased with this revelation. ‘He’s nice, your Algie.’

‘I daresay he’d be pleased that you think so,’ Clara replied non-committally.

‘Does he go to church every Sunday?’

‘Most. Only the evening service, though.’

Marigold felt herself blush, and was glad that Mrs Stokes was bending down with her back towards her, unable to witness it. She wanted to mention that girl called Harriet whom Algie had told her about, but had no wish to sound as if she was prying. ‘I suppose Mr Stokes is out and about on the canal somewhere?’ she suggested, to deflect any further focus from herself.

‘He’s checking the locks. You’ll very likely see him as you go by … There … that’s about a dozen blooms.’ Clara gathered the cut tulips from the ground and stood up. ‘I’ll wrap them in a bit of newssheet, eh?’

‘That’s 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 we’re fortunate to be blessed with so many lovely girls in our Little Theatre.’ He glanced at Harriet for a look of approval at his flattery. ‘We start casting and rehearsing next Wednesday for our next production, a play entitled The Forest Princess, set in North America. 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.’

Chapter 3

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 him slice the bacon and the liver expertly, and wrap it. When he’d bundled all her purchases together in newspaper, he took his blacklead pencil from behind his ear and tallied it up, writing the amounts on the corner of the wrapping. Clara watched, trying to discern the upside-down amounts, then paid him. He handed the package to her, but Clara had no room in her bags for anything else.

‘I’ll struggle with this lot.’

‘Tell you what,’ Murdoch said, not oblivious to her difficulty and keen to curry favour, ‘why don’t you let me deliver that lot to you later?’

‘That’s ever so kind of you,’ Clara answered with a grateful smile, ‘but I shall need the liver for our tea.’

‘Then just take the liver and whatever else you need, and let me deliver the rest.’

‘I don’t want to put you out, Murdoch,’ she said, as he pulled out the parcel of liver and handed it to her.

‘It’s no trouble. Now give us the rest o’ your tranklements.’

She handed him the stuff she didn’t need and kept the bag containing the vegetables and the liver she’d just bought.

‘There you go. I hate to see a lady struggle. Soon as I’ve shut the shop, I’ll have a ride over to your house and deliver this little lot.’

‘I’m that grateful, Murdoch.’

‘Think nothing of it. Enjoy the rest o’ your day, and I’ll see yer later.’

It was just turned half past six when Murdoch delivered Clara’s shopping. The magical aroma of liver and onions still lingered in the air as Will Stokes answered the door to him.

‘By God, that smells good, Will,’ Murdoch commented. ‘I’ve brought the shopping. Your missus was struggling to carry it all when she left me shop, so I offered to bring it.’

‘She told me,’ Will replied, and took the basket and a carrier bag from him. ‘And it’s very decent of yer, Murdoch. Fancy a cup o’ tea while you’m here?’

‘I could be tempted. I’d be lying if I said otherwise.’

‘Come on in then.’

Murdoch entered and Will led him into the small parlour. Clara and Kate were at the stone sink in the scullery, but ceased their chores as soon as they realised Murdoch Osborne was a guest.

‘Thank you for delivering me things, Murdoch,’ Clara said when she saw him. ‘It’s service you don’t expect these days.’

‘No trouble at all.’

‘Our Kate, put the kettle on,’ Clara suggested. ‘Let’s make Murdoch a nice cup o’ tea. Can I get you something to eat, Murdoch?’

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Clara, ha?’

‘One good turn deserves another,’ Clara responded, while Kate went out to fill the kettle and Murdoch’s eyes followed her. ‘I bet as you’ve had nothing all day.’

‘It’s true enough.’

‘Well, I can imagine how it is for a man who ain’t been widowed long. It must be hard for yer, Murdoch, since your poor wife passed on, but you need to look after yourself.’

‘Oh, I don’t go without, Clara.’

‘Well, let me get you something to eat. What d’you fancy? It’s a pity all the liver’s gone – it was beautiful, by the way … I could always fry you bacon and eggs …’

‘Bacon and eggs?’ Murdoch said with a smile of enthusiasm, directing his comment to Will Stokes. ‘What more could a man ask for but bacon and eggs and a bit o’ fried bread, ha?’ Will noticed how Murdoch cunningly added the fried bread to the meal. ‘But only if it’s no trouble, Clara.’

‘I told you, it’s no trouble.’

‘You’re a lucky chap, Will, having a wife who’s handy with the frying pan.’

‘I’m reminded of it every day, Murdoch,’ Will answered dismissively.

Kate returned and hung the kettle on a gale hook over the fire. It spat and hissed as a few drips of water fell into the burning coals.

‘So how’s our Kate shaping up in this here amateur dramatics group?’ Will enquired as Clara set about frying Murdoch’s treat.

‘Oh, she’ll do very nicely, Will. I’ve got her to agree to play the part of Pocahontas in our next play.’

‘Poker who?’

Murdoch guffawed. ‘Pocahontas. A celebrated Red Indian princess from the Americas who became a Christian and married an English chap. She was very beautiful, if recorded history’s to be believed. Kate’s got the right sort of colouring and figure for the part, I reckon, ha? She read it well an’ all, when we tried her out for it.’

‘I’m glad to hear as she’s some use for summat,’ Will remarked dryly. ‘Even if it is only acting up.’

Kate, who had been preening herself in the mirror, turned round and shot daggers at her father, who she felt had not only never understood her, but had signally failed to realise her latent talents as well.

‘Oh, I reckon she’ll be a valuable asset to us,’ Murdoch affirmed. ‘We’ve been lacking a wench with your Kate’s qualities.’

‘What qualities am they then?’

‘Good looks, a certain grace …’

‘Gets it off her mother and no two ways,’ Will said.

‘I wouldn’t argue with that, Will …’

At that, Algie appeared and stood in the scullery doorway wiping his hands on a towel.

‘How do, Mr Osborne,’ he greeted cordially. ‘You brought our stuff then?’

‘Aye, I brought it, lad … We was just talking about your sister Kate and the Little Theatre.’

‘Oh? Think she’ll be any good?’ he asked, as if it would be a surprise if she were.

‘I reckon so. I was just saying as much to your father. And if you reckon you could act as well, young Algie, we’d be pleased to welcome you into the group, a good-looking young chap like you.’

‘No thanks, Mr Osborne,’ Algie replied unhesitatingly. ‘I don’t think it’s my cup of tea, all that reciting lines. Anyway, I see enough of Harriet Meese without going to the Drill Hall with her as well. It’s a good excuse for a night off when she goes to the Amateur Dramatics rehearsing.’ He winked knowingly at Murdoch, who smiled back conspiratorially. ‘But if our Kate enjoys it, all well and good …’ He turned to his mother in the scullery. ‘What’s that you’re cooking, Mother? It smells good.’