The Railway Girl. Nancy Carson

triviality and gazed around the room pretending not to notice, determined not to give the impression that he condoned their puerility.

      ‘We might not have Dingwell Thomas next season,’ James Paskin was saying. ‘There’s talk of him emigrating to America. D’you think you could take on the job of wicket-keeper, Arthur?’

      At that moment, a girl with dark hair, slender and wearing a white apron, was slowly moving in his direction as she collected used tankards and crocks from the tables. She was not excessively pretty but, for Arthur, there was something powerfully alluring about her classic good looks and reserved demeanour. She possessed the most appealing, friendly smile, but also a look of shyness that struck a distinctly harmonic chord within Arthur, a sort of instant empathy. He watched her, fascinated, waiting to see her face again as she leaned forward to pick up more tankards. Then, just before she reached him, she turned and made her way back towards the counter, swivelling her body tantalisingly to avoid bumping into customers.

      ‘Sorry, James, what was you saying?’

      ‘About you having a go at wicket-keeping next season.’

      ‘Oh … I wouldn’t mind giving it a try … I’ve done a bit of wicket-keeping in the past, but I wouldn’t say I was as good as Dingwell. But with a bit of practice, you never know …’

      Suddenly Arthur was aware of a commotion behind him. Two dogs, one large, old and lethargic, the other a small, young and animated terrier, were snarling at each other under a table. The owner of the small dog lurched forward to grab it and knocked over his table in the process, sending several tankards of ale flying. They wetted not only the flagged floor but poor Arthur’s good pair of trousers, and the coat of one other man. At once the indignation of the man, who was unknown to Arthur, was high, but mostly, it seemed, at losing his beer. Arthur, however, was largely unperturbed, realising it was merely an accident.

      ‘I’ll get thee another, Enoch, as soon as I’n gi’d me blasted dog a kick,’ the offender said to his peeved acquaintance, righting the table. He went outside, taking his dog with him, its little legs dangling as he held it by the scruff of its neck.

      The owner of the other dog managed to pacify his more docile animal, allowing it to lap beer from his tankard, and it resumed lying quietly at his feet, in a rapture of mild intoxication. Ben Elwell, who disliked such disruptive outbursts in his public house, was over in a flash to investigate, but the flare up had already died down. He saw the pool of beer frothing on the floor and called for a mop and bucket, and the slender girl with the dark hair and the white apron re-appeared to clean it up.

      ‘Here, I’n got beer all down me coot,’ the man named Enoch told the girl. ‘Hast got summat to rub me down with afore it soaks through to me ganzy?’

      ‘I’ll bring you a cloth when I’ve mopped this up, Mr Billingham,’ the girl answered apologetically. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’

      As she cleaned, the owner of the offending terrier returned. ‘I swear, I’ll drown the little bastard in the cut if he plays up again,’ he muttered, and asked who else’s beer he’d knocked over. He duly went to the bar to make reparations.

      ‘Fun and games, eh?’ James Paskin remarked to Arthur.

      ‘That beer went all over my trousers, you know, James. I’m soaked through.’

      ‘Ask the girl for a cloth.’

      ‘Think I should?’

      ‘Course.’

      ‘I could catch a chill with wet trousers.’

      ‘It ain’t worth taking the risk, Arthur. Quick, before she goes.’

      Arthur hesitated but, just as the girl was about to go, he plucked up his courage and tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, miss …’ She turned her head and he saw by the light of the oil lamp hanging overhead that her face was made beautiful by wide eyes which were the most delicate shade of blue, full of lights and expressions. ‘I … I got soaked in beer as well … Would you mind bringing a cloth for me?’

      Had it been any of the regulars she would have taken the request with a pinch of salt, knowing it was an attempt at flirting, to get her to wipe their trousers. But there was something in the earnest look of this man that made her realise he was not preoccupied with such triteness. So she nodded and smiled with decorous reserve.

      ‘I haven’t seen her before,’ Arthur remarked. ‘She’s quite comely.’

      ‘Fancy her, do you?’

      Arthur grinned self-consciously. ‘Like I say, she’s quite comely. She seems to have a pleasant way with her. Don’t you think so, James? But I expect a wench like that is spoken for already. Is it the landlord’s daughter, do you know?’

      ‘Not that I’m aware of. I’ve not seen her in here before. Not that I’m stuck in here every night of the week, you understand.’

      The girl returned and handed a towel to Enoch Billingham, apologising again for his being drenched. Then she turned to Arthur …

      ‘You wanted a towel as well, sir?’

      ‘Thank you …’

      ‘Shall I hold your beer while you wipe your trousers?’ she asked pleasantly.

      ‘Thank you …’ He began swabbing the spreading wet patch on his trouser leg, feeling suddenly hot. Just as suddenly he felt his bowels turn to water again and knew that he must make another rapid exit. With intense agony he held himself, noticing at the same time that at least the girl was not wearing a wedding ring.

      ‘What’s your name?’ he managed to ask. ‘I ain’t seen you in here before.’

      ‘Lucy,’ she said.

      ‘You live local?’

      ‘Bull Street.’

      ‘Funny I’ve never seen you before.’ Arthur was trying manfully to maintain a look of normality.

      ‘Why, where do you live?’ Lucy asked pleasantly.

      ‘The Delph.’

      ‘Fancy. Just up the road.’

      Arthur was effecting some severe internal abdominal contortions coupled with heroic buttock clenching, in an effort to maintain not only his composure, but his self respect and his eternal reputation. He was desperate to keep the girl talking as long as he could, to try and find out more about her, but he was even more desperate to win the battle against his wayward bowels. It was a battle he was losing ignominiously, however, for without doubt he had to go.

      ‘Yes, just up the road … You’ll have to excuse me, Lucy …’ He turned and fled.

      ‘What’s up with him?’ Lucy enquired of James.

      ‘Something he ate, I think,’ James replied, being as discreet as he knew how. ‘He’s had a problem all day, I believe.’

      Lucy chuckled. ‘Poor chap. Well, he’ll find nowhere to relieve himself that way.’

       Chapter 3

      Sunday was another lovely September day, a day when women kept open their front doors and sat on their front steps, gossiping with like-minded neighbours. They peeled potatoes and shelled peas which they would have with a morsel of meat for their dinners when their menfolk staggered back from the beer houses. Lucy strolled to the water pump carrying a pail. Bobby the sheepdog ambled wearily but proprietorially beside her, ignoring other animals that pointed their snouts at him and sniffed. Lucy tarried a minute or two with most of the women, pleased to comment on what beautiful weather they were blessed with, but said nothing of the dismal slag heaps and factory yards that rendered the immediate landscape squalid and colourless.

      ‘It’s a pity there