The Sweeping Saga Collection: Poppy’s Dilemma, The Dressmaker’s Daughter, The Factory Girl. Nancy Carson

smiled at him brightly. ‘It don’t matter, Robert. I was a bit early … but I had to get out when the chance came.’

      ‘I presume, then, that you haven’t changed your mind about riding with me?’

      She shook her head. ‘No, I ain’t changed me mind, but I was thinking about what might happen if we fell off,’ she said, vividly recalling her dream.

      He shrugged. ‘We could, of course. It’s entirely possible. But if the fear of it puts you off, I’ll be extra careful that we don’t. It’s not as if you’re going to be an enormous weight to carry. You’re quite small really. Why don’t you get on?’

      She stood close to him and turned around so that she could sit on the crossbar of his machine. It felt hard against her rump, like the bar of a gate.

      ‘You need to sit back a little bit further,’ Robert said, ‘so that the machine balances. And so that I can get my feet on the treadles.’

      She pushed herself further on and felt the crossbar under her backside. Robert was steadying the handlebar and his right arm formed a barrier that she could lean against to prevent her toppling over backwards.

      ‘Are you ready? Lift your feet higher … no, higher … I have to reach the treadles. Don’t worry, I’ll hold you.’

      He scooted off and, after a couple of initial wobbles, they began travelling in a commendably straight trajectory. The road was pitted and bumpy and the frame of the machine transmitted all those bumps to Poppy. Her very bones juddered, but it was exhilarating. The wind was in her hair and against her face as they gathered speed, and she heard herself shrieking with excitement. They hurtled underneath the new railway bridge and approached a grassy mound that vaguely marked the end of Shaw Road and the start of the undulating footpath to Netherton. As they rode over it, Poppy’s innards rolled over and seemed to reach her throat in an unbelievable sensation, making her whoop with delight. She was between Robert’s arms, holding on to him tightly while he steered the machine, conscious of his left leg rising and falling under her skirt as he controlled their speed with the treadles. The ground over the footpath seemed softer, with no hard bumps to bruise her bottom and the backs of her thighs more. She would not mind falling off now and rolling into the long grass at the side of the footpath with Robert …

      But they did not fall off. They bowled past tiny cottages in desperate need of repair, past the Old Buffery Iron Works that glowed red at night-time, flaring the dark sky with an eerie crimson glow. They skimmed past the Iron Stone pit with its huffing, clanking steam engine. Robert slowed down the machine as they reached the turnpike road from Netherton to Dudley at Cinder Bank, and carried on over fields. Just before they reached a fishpond, they stopped.

      ‘Well?’ Robert said. ‘Did you enjoy that?’

      Poppy was breathless after the ride. ‘Oh, I loved it, Robert.’ She hooted with laughter, and with the back of her hand wiped away wind-induced tears that had traced a watery line across her flushed cheeks.

      She sat on the crossbar pressed against him, still trapped between his arms, radiant with excitement. Robert looked at the delightful profile of her face. She was close enough for him to steal a kiss if he wanted, although he did not take advantage. Instead, he smiled with satisfaction at the few moments of joy he’d brought to this enigmatic girl, by giving her something as simple as a ride on his rudimentary two-wheeled machine.

      Feeling Robert’s strong right arm protectively at her back, Poppy was loath to dismount, but she let her feet fall to the ground and eased herself forward. As she stood, her skirt brushing the side of the machine, she hoped Robert would invite her for another ride at some time.

      ‘Well, we have a long walk back,’ he commented, himself dismounting. He turned the two-wheeled contraption round and began pushing it in the opposite direction. ‘I’ve been working on a design for another machine,’ he said to Poppy as she ambled beside him. ‘Similar to this one but with a better means of propelling it forward. I’m convinced that something like it has immense commercial potential.’

      She turned to him and smiled with admiration, uncertain of the meaning of the words ‘commercial’ and ‘potential’. If only she was educated. If only she had been given some schooling, she would be more able to talk with him on his level.

      ‘What time do you have to be back at work?’ she asked, mundanely.

      ‘Half past one. Mr Lister, the resident engineer, gets rather rattled if I’m late.’

      ‘So what time is it now?’

      He took his watch from his fob and checked it. ‘Quarter past. We’re easy on.’

      ‘Good. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble on my account.’

      For the first few yards of their walk back, there was a pause in their conversation. Poppy noticed the wild flowers growing at the edges of the black earth footpath – buttercups, daisies, ragwort, dandelions. Thistles were thriving too, growing tall in the warmth of the May sun and the recent rain, and it struck her how beautiful they were to look at, if not to touch.

      ‘Thank goodness we didn’t fall off into those thistles,’ she remarked. ‘We’d have been scratched to death.’

      ‘Or into nettles,’ Robert replied easily.

      She nodded. ‘Oh, yes, I hate nettles.’

      ‘So do I.’

      ‘Do you like being an engineer, Robert?’

      ‘Actually, yes, I do.’ He turned to look at her face, always an entertaining mix of earnestness and gaiety. He was fascinated as well at how easily she could turn from one subject to another. ‘It’s interesting being an engineer. There’s something different to deal with all the time.’

      ‘What sort of things do you have to do?’

      ‘Oh, measuring and marking out, tracing plans, trying to calculate whether the spoil we take from a cutting will be sufficient to build an embankment. I’m handy with a pair of brass dividers, a blacklead and a straight-edge.’

      ‘I’ve often wondered,’ Poppy said, her face suddenly an icon of puzzlement, ‘if they start driving a tunnel from more than one place, how they manage to meet exactly in the middle.’

      Robert laughed, fired with admiration for her curiosity. ‘By candles, usually,’ he replied.

      ‘Candles? How do you mean?’

      ‘Well, it’s dark inside a tunnel, Poppy. So what you do is to line up the centre line of the tunnel by exactly placing lighted candles at predetermined intervals. When you have three candles exactly in line as you match them up against the cross hairs on your theodolite, then you know your tunnel is straight – or level, if you’re taking levels.’

      ‘What about if there’s a bend in the tunnel?’

      He laughed again, astonished at her grasp of engineering problems. ‘Before you start excavating a tunnel, you sink narrow shafts along the way,’ he explained. ‘These shafts would already have been pinpointed during a survey. The centres of those shafts meet the centre line of the tunnel perpendicularly and, if they’re not in direct line – in other words, if they form a bend – you follow the line they form. Do you understand?’

      Poppy nodded and emitted a deep sigh. When Robert looked at her again, her expression was serious, almost grave.

      ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, concerned. ‘Are you worrying about your father?’

      ‘Oh, no, I was just thinking how lovely it must be to be educated. To be clever enough to do all the things you do.’

      ‘Oh, I’m not particularly clever,’ he said modestly. ‘But having had a decent education enables me to earn a good living, I admit.’

      ‘I wish I was educated. It’d help me get away from the navvy life. If only I could read and write …’

      ‘Don’t