The Railway Girl. Nancy Carson

and quietly finish his drink there. Most of the patrons he knew, some only by sight, but those he was better acquainted with merely nodded. He watched, envious of the banter they shared, and it struck him that nobody was bothering to engage him in conversation. Not that he minded right then; he sometimes found it difficult to converse with folk, especially when he was nursing a cold or toothache, and so preferred to be left alone anyway. He leisurely finished what remained of his beer and slipped out to go home, unnoticed by anybody.

      It was strong beer they brewed in Brierley Hill and it had gone straight to Arthur’s head. It was on account of the head cold, of course. Two drinks didn’t normally affect him. It did the trick for his appetite, though, for now he was ravenously hungry, feeling weak and wobbly at the knees.

      Arthur sliced the joint of pork that Dinah had roasted in the cast iron range in the scullery, while she drained the cabbage and the potatoes.

      ‘I could do with a maid,’ she complained, shrouded in steam. ‘Nobody ever thinks of any help for me.’

      ‘Tell Father.’

      ‘Your father wouldn’t pay out good money for a maid,’ Dinah said. ‘Mind you, he has a lot of other expense … Here, our Arthur … Take his dinner up to him. He wants to see you anyroad.’

      ‘Shall I take him some beer up?’

      ‘No,’ Dinah snapped. ‘Why waste good beer on him? I’ll finish it meself.’

      Arthur did as he was bid. He found Jeremiah lying flat on his back, his eyes closed and his hands pressed together as if in supplication. He opened one eye when he heard Arthur enter the room.

      ‘What’n we got for we dinners?’

      ‘Pork.’

      ‘Blasted pork! Your saft mother knows as pork serves me barbarous. So what does her keep on giving me? Blasted pork! It’s a bloody scandal. It’s a bloody conspiracy. I swear as her’s trying to see me off.’

      ‘Well, when the time comes I’ll do you a nice headstone, Father,’ Arthur replied, inspired by the thought.

      ‘Oh, ar? Then mek sure as yo’ get the inscription right this time.’

      ‘Oh, I’ll dream up a good one for you, Father. Anyway, I apologised for that one,’ Arthur said defensively. ‘I told you, it was the time I was took short.’

      ‘Well, sometimes I think you’ve bin took short of brains, if you want my opinion.’

      ‘I wasn’t concentrating, I told you. My mind was on other things.’

      ‘Be that as it may, you owe me compensation for making me look such a fool.’

      ‘Compensation? What do you mean, compensation? I’ve already agreed to pay for two new headstones out of me own wages.’

      ‘I want you to collect a debt this afternoon,’ Jeremiah said, making a meal of sitting up in bed so that he could take the old wooden tray on which his Sunday dinner was presented.

      ‘What debt?’ Arthur asked suspiciously. ‘And why this afternoon?’

      ‘I want you to fetch some money off a customer called George Parsons. Money he’s owed me too long. He’ll be expecting you, but he reckons he’ll be gone out by three o’ clock.’

      Arthur handed Jeremiah the tray. ‘But I’m supposed to be going out this afternoon, Father. It’s been arranged all week. I’m meeting somebody at three and it’s two already, and I ain’t had me dinner yet.’

      ‘Well, it can’t be helped.’ Jeremiah picked up his knife and fork and began hacking at the pork that served his system so barbarously. ‘It’s money I’ve been trying to get hold of for ages. If I was well enough I’d go meself, but I ain’t, and there’ll be no other chance till next Sunday. He works away, see, does this George Parsons – Stafford way. He only comes home at weekends.’

      ‘But, Father, I’ve arranged to meet somebody and I’m not going to let them down. Anyway, where’s he live, this perishing George Parsons?’

      ‘Pensnett. Near to Corbyn’s Hall. I’ll tell you the address.’

      ‘But I shan’t have time to go there.’

      ‘Damn me!’ Jeremiah exclaimed huffily. ‘After that stupid sodding blunder you made last week …’ He shook his ruefully. ‘After all I do for you, and you can’t run one little bloody errand for me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, our Arthur. Anyroad, it’s firm’s money. It’s for your own benefit as it’s collected. When I’m dead and gone …’

      ‘Tell me the damned address then,’ Arthur said with exasperation. It was typical of his father to spoil whatever he’d planned. ‘I ought to charge you commission for debt-collecting.’

      Jeremiah told him the address and Arthur went downstairs disgruntled. If it took longer than he thought he was certain to miss Lucy. So he bolted his Sunday dinner and left the house without even having any pudding, losing no time in putting a hastily formed plan into effect. He didn’t want to give Lucy the impression that he didn’t care or that he was unreliable. Already the ground was slipping from under his feet where she was concerned. He must not make matters worse by any perceived disregard for her.

      Corbyn’s Hall was a couple of miles away, too far to walk there and back in the time allowed. The only answer was to go on horseback. He harboured a distinct dislike of riding and horses. Or was it merely a dislike of their own wretched horses? He seemed to hold no sway with them, even when he drove the cart. But the weather was fine for a ride and, at a steady trot, he should be there and back in the three-quarters of an hour that was left before he was due to meet Lucy.

      The equestrian stock of Jeremiah Goodrich and Sons, stonemasons and sepulchral architects, comprised two sturdy but ageing mares whose terms of reference suggested that they generally hauled the cart, for they were seldom ridden. They were the equine embodiment of lethargy, artfulness developed over years, and not a little spite. Arthur took down a set of reins from the stable wall and forced the bit into the mouth of one of the mares, called Quenelda. She was the older and scruffier of the two, but usually the most co-operative, a quality Arthur had taken into account. Quenelda’s mane sprouted only in places, like sparse tufts of grass poking through a neglected pavement. He coaxed the horse outside and mounted without a saddle, since he didn’t have time to find it and tack up. But the horse’s sharp-edged back and broad girth elicited concern for his manhood and the potential for damage to it.

      Seated on the horse, he looked around him pensively, first gazing towards Withymoor, then across the valley to Audnam and Stourbridge in the opposite direction to that which he must go. His fingers clutched the reins tensely as a barge and attendant bargee glided as one along the Stourbridge Canal, drawn by a hack almost as unattractive as his own. The bargee was singing some unsavoury ditty as he headed for the Nine Locks where doubtless he would get his belly, and his wife’s, filled with ale.

      Arthur pulled on the rein. ‘Gee up, Quenelda!’ As the horse turned around he looked up the yard and onto the Delph in anticipation.

      But Quenelda had ideas of her own. Sunday was her day of rest, and long years of experience had led her to recognise it. If man did not work on the Sabbath, then she did not work on the Sabbath either. The mare thus made her way back to the stable with no regard for Arthur who was tugging manfully at the reins. Passing through the stable door, Arthur was not quick enough to duck, by dint of the alcohol he had consumed, and ended up banging his head and acquiring a nasty cut across his eyebrow. Angry and frustrated, he got down from the horse and dabbed the cut with the rag from his pocket.

      ‘Listen, you,’ he snorted impatiently, punching the animal hard on the nose, ‘we’d better sort out who’s gaffer here.’ He grabbed a stick for good measure and led the horse out again. When he mounted Quenelda she made for the stable once more. ‘The other way, you varmint.’

      Arthur hit the mare on the rump with the stick, pulling hard on the reins. He succeeded in turning her around,