The Railway Girl. Nancy Carson

over her shoulder.

      ‘Yes, thanks.’

      ‘That’s good,’ she said, then placed the beers on the counter.

      He handed her a shilling. ‘Oh, and have a drink yourself.’

      ‘That’s decent of you. Thank you.’ She handed him his change and he relished the brief moment when the tips of her slender fingers brushed his palm. ‘Are you here with your mates again?’

      ‘No, my brother and my father this time,’ he replied, passing two foaming tankards to Talbot. ‘We’ve just come from church. D’you go to church, Lucy?’

      ‘Me? Not since my sister got wed at the Baptist chapel. No, I haven’t got time for church. My mother goes regular though. To the Baptist chapel …’ She turned to her next customer and began serving him.

      But Arthur remained where he was, hoping to be blessed with some more conversation with this girl who appealed so much.

      ‘Is that your brother?’ she asked, evidently content to continue talking to him while he tarried, to his delighted surprise.

      ‘Yes. His name’s Talbot. And that’s my father with him.’

      ‘I’ve seen them about. Funny as I hadn’t seen you till last night. Then I see you two nights running.’

      ‘I know,’ Arthur replied with a grin, his confidence growing, for this girl seemed easy to talk to, and not like the others. ‘It’s a funny coincidence, don’t you think?’

      She handed her latest customer his beer and took his money, still looking at Arthur. ‘I bet my dad knows yours.’

      ‘Oh? How’s that, then?’

      ‘He says he knows most folk round here. What’s your name?’

      ‘Arthur Goodrich. I’m a stonemason. The old man’s Jeremiah. So who’s your father?’

      ‘Haden Piddock. He works at the Earl’s. He’ll be here soon. He generally comes for his beer about this time.’

      ‘Maybe I’ll recognise him. Does he go to church or chapel?’

      The notion evidently amused her, for she laughed. ‘My father? This place is his church … and his chapel.’

      Arthur felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Talbot. ‘Is she the reason you wanted to come here for a drink? The doxy?’

      Arthur grinned sheepishly. ‘She seems a decent wench.’

      ‘Her’s got long eyelashes, I’ll grant yer,’ Jeremiah remarked scornfully. ‘But I’ll tell yer this … As long as her can work, cook and bear babbies, the length of her eyelashes is of no consequence. Anyroad, her’s Haden Piddock’s youngest, unless I’m very much mistook.’

      Arthur stepped back from the counter. ‘You know Haden Piddock?’

      ‘Oh, I know him all right.’ Arthur noticed with awful disappointment the scorn in his father’s tone.

      ‘Well, I don’t know Haden Piddock myself, Father, but his daughter seems a fine young woman.’ He slurped his beer and avoided his father’s look of disdain. ‘And I ain’t getting mixed up in some ancient feud you might have had with him.’

      ‘Got your eye on her, have yer?’

      ‘I might have. What’s it matter to you?’

      ‘Well, if you tek my advice you’ll keep well clear of anything to do with Haden Piddock.’

      ‘I was telling Father how you fancy a change from working in graveyards all the time, Arthur,’ Talbot said, discreetly switching the topic.

      ‘And I don’t know what you expect me to do about it,’ Jeremiah said testily. ‘Somebody has to do the stones in churchyards. We’d be better off employing somebody to work the forge and sharpen chisels. A handyman. But even a handyman will cost money and bring nothing in return.’

      Arthur glanced back at Lucy, sorry that he had been dragged away from her, even more sorry that his father evidently didn’t think much of hers.

      ‘Did you hear what I said, Arthur?’

      ‘I did, Father,’ he said, turning his attention back to the old man. ‘But I’d rather you employed another stonemason. It’s bad enough in the summer with all the rain we get, but in the winter I might as well be a snowman. I’d rather work in the workshop. If you started another stonemason, I could.’

      ‘And where am I gunna get another skilled stonemason in Brierley Hill?’

      ‘Advertise,’ Arthur suggested logically. ‘There’s bound to be somebody in Stourbridge or Dudley. Or even Kingswinford. But you’d have to pay him more than you pay me.’

      ‘I got no sympathy with yer,’ Jeremiah claimed. ‘Respect is better than remuneration.’

      ‘Well, I don’t think so. Give me remuneration any day of the week. The respect will follow.’

      ‘Listen to yer. Talking damned rubbish. We’ve all had to work in churchyards at some time, and it’s done we no harm.’ He coughed violently as if to disprove his own theory. ‘And it’ll do you none neither. You’ll have to grin and bear it, our Arthur.’

      Jeremiah turned to speak with another man he knew and his two sons drained their tankards.

      ‘I hate him,’ Arthur said venomously. ‘Cantankerous old bugger.’

      ‘Let’s have another drink,’ Talbot suggested. ‘It’s my turn.’

      ‘Give me the money and I’ll get ’em. I want another word with that Lucy Piddock.’

      Talbot gave him a knowing look. ‘You heard what Father said.’

      ‘Sod him. I got no beef against this Haden Piddock, and I certainly ain’t got no beef against his daughter. So why should I be obliged to uphold his petty prejudices? He evidently isn’t about to do anything to help me. No, Talbot, I see a fine wench there, and if she’s free of any attachment I might just try my luck.’

      Talbot smiled matily and winked. ‘Go on then, our Arthur, and I hope she’s worth it.’

      So Arthur approached the counter again. As soon as she was free, Lucy stood before him and looked into his eyes with a friendly smile.

      ‘Same again?’

      ‘Please, Lucy.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Can I ask you something?’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘Are you courting or anything?’ His heart was in his mouth, eager for her reply and yet dreading it.

      Lucy smiled coyly and even by the dim lights of the oil lamps he perceived her blushing. ‘No, I’m not a-courting anybody.’

      ‘In that case, would you like to come out with me sometime?’

      ‘If you like.’

      Arthur felt a boyish gush of excitement, a whole gallon of joy, surge through him. ‘Honest?’

      ‘I just said so, didn’t I?’

      ‘When? What night don’t you work in here?’

      ‘Tomorrow?’

      ‘Tomorrow then. About eight o’ clock on the corner of Church Street and the Delph?

      ‘Can we say half past seven? It’ll be dark by eight and my mother won’t want me to go off in the dark on me own, specially round here.’

      He smiled. ‘All right. Half past seven … Listen, I could walk you back tonight if you want.’

      ‘No, it’s all right. Me dad’ll walk me back. He’ll be here soon. He would’ve been here sooner but he fell asleep after his dinner and I reckon he hasn’t