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

to take advantage of Jericho’s company and let him keep her out late. She did not want to be faced with the awful truth of her mother and Tweedle Beak cavorting in bed. It was inevitable, of course it was, but she wanted to delay for as long as possible the dreadful, disgusting moment when she would have to witness it. If luck was with her, she would be able to keep Jericho at bay and return home between Sheba’s and Tweedle’s unspeakable love sessions … and fall asleep before they recommenced. As they started walking again, Jericho reached for her hand and she gave it compliantly.

      A three-quarter moon emerged from behind clouds of smoke that issued out of the clutter of chimney stacks, and lent an eerie silver glow to the unnatural landscape. Then all at once the sky glowed red and angry, reflecting the blaze and searing heat from furnaces spewing out white-hot iron, and from cupolas vomiting flame. Set against this bloodshot firmament, those same chimney stacks stood out stark and black, like sentries guarding the headgear of the adjacent coal pits, whose turning cranks and wheels rumbled and clanked, while the steam engines that powered them hissed and sighed in their endless toil. The air was filled too with the penetrating roar of blast furnaces, a sound which was constant, however distant.

      Jericho led Poppy down the path towards Cinder Bank, the same path she had ridden along as a passenger on Robert Crawford’s two-wheeled bone-judderer. Poppy thought about Robert, and wondered what he was doing at that very minute. She had no idea of the time; perhaps he was asleep in bed, perhaps he was reading a book on engineering.

      Reading … Oh, soon, she would be able to read … but not soon enough.

      They stopped walking when they reached the bridge under the railway, and Jericho pressed her against the wall.

      ‘I don’t half fancy you, Poppy,’ he whispered. ‘I want you to be my wench.’

      ‘I don’t want to be anybody’s wench, Jericho.’

      ‘I’ll make you change your mind,’ he murmured. ‘Just give us a kiss.’

      She felt obliged to let him, since he had saved her from that overbearing lad at the fair and had seemed sympathetic to her anxiety over her mother. She tilted her head back and tentatively offered her lips. Jericho was upon her like a hog at a sweetmeat and Poppy did not particularly enjoy the experience. His kiss was too wet, his lips slack and slavering through too much alcohol, and his rough tongue, which she imagined as some unutterable, eyeless water vole crazy for entry, invaded her mouth. Without wanting to seem too ungrateful, she tolerated it for a second or two, then had to break off, turning her face away.

      ‘Don’t you like the way I kiss?’ Jericho asked.

      ‘It’s not that …’

      ‘What then?’

      ‘It’s as if you’re trying to rush me into something, Jericho. I don’t want to rush into anything,’ she said beseechingly. ‘Not with anybody. You’ll just have to give me time …’

      ‘Time?’ he scoffed. ‘I ain’t got time. I might be dead tomorrow. You know how many men get killed digging cuttings and blowing tunnels. What about if some bastard knocks the legs too soon from under an overhang and a hundred ton of earth and rocks come tumbling down on me and bury me? What then? No, I ain’t got time, Poppy. Don’t ask for time. I want you now.’

      He bent his head to kiss her again and she allowed it. Certain that she had submitted, he put his hands to her backside and began hitching up her skirt. At once, she pulled away from him.

      ‘No, Jericho! Please have some respect for me. You have to respect my feelings.’

      ‘Respect you?’ he gibed. ‘Bugger me, Poppy, anybody’d think you was that Lady Ward, whose husband owns the Pensnett Railway back there – him as has got the ironworks and the collieries all over the place …’

      ‘I need time, Jericho,’ she pleaded. ‘Let me get used to the idea first.’ Thoughts of Robert Crawford and her meeting with him tomorrow were more important. What if he wanted her to be his girl? She had to stall Jericho, even though she knew that he was stronger than her and could easily take her by force if he felt so inclined. ‘I need to know you better before I can do what you want.’ She took his hand gently, gambling that she could ensure her safe conduct by seeming helpless; humouring him and promising him all in the future, but delivering nothing. ‘It could be worth the wait, Jericho,’ she whispered tantalisingly, as she led him away. ‘I just ain’t ready yet …’

      ‘Ain’t you ever been with anybody afore?’

      ‘No. Never.’

      ‘Bloody hell … You’re a virgin …’

      ‘Course I am. Come on, Jericho. Take me back to the encampment.’

      ‘But what about your mother and Tweedle Beak?’

      ‘I think I can cope with that now,’ she said, with an assurance she certainly did not feel.

       Chapter 7

      Poppy waited beneath the old red-brick tower of St Edmund’s church, scanning Castle Street for signs of Robert Crawford and his boneshaker, her head full of the events of last night. Jericho and his amorous advances had set her thinking more about him. There were things about him she liked, but also things she didn’t. She liked his sympathetic nature, and the fact that he was easy to talk to; he had a lusty sort of charm and she could understand why he’d had success with girls. What she didn’t like was his heavy drinking and the readiness for violence manifested in his fighting, which suggested a short temper and instability. Neither did she like his kisses, but maybe she could get him to alter how he kissed if she became his wench.

      A string of children all holding hands and dressed in their Sunday best were being shepherded to Sunday school. Some of them looked with curiosity at Poppy, but she smiled back at their innocent faces and stood back to let them pass.

      When Poppy had returned to the hut last night all was quiet, but her mother and Tweedle Beak woke her twice with their vigorous antics in that squeaky bed they were now sharing. Poppy had tried her usual trick of pulling her pillow over her head, but she had not been able to shut out the shaking of her own bed, transmitted from theirs. Maybe when the novelty had worn off a bit she might get an undisturbed night’s sleep, but the Lord knew how long that might be.

      There was also Robert, of course. Oh, she liked him more than anybody, but she realised she was wasting her time and emotions if she thought he was going to stoop to her level. Yet of all the men she had come into contact with in her limited social world, he was the one with whom she felt she had a true bond. They did not know each other that well, but there was an undeniable rapport, an understanding between them. As yet it remained unspoken – maybe it always would – but it existed. Perhaps it was best left unspoken; the consequences of acknowledging it might present too many insurmountable difficulties, as well as a broken heart.

      She scanned Castle Street again and saw him. Today he was without his two-wheeled contraption. He walked towards her with a smile on his face, as usual, and her heart flipped over in a somersault.

      ‘Have you been waiting long?’ he asked, looking her up and down.

      ‘No, I only just got here. I got my paper and blacklead, look.’

      ‘Excellent.’

      He tried to hide his disenchantment with her red flannel frock. Not only was it a mighty step down from the pinnacle of fashion and inelegant, but it did not fit her particularly well. It was too big at the waist and the bodice rendered her chest shapeless and ambiguous. It was also too short and revealed the ungainly clogs and rough stockings that clearly signalled her background for all to see. She looked infinitely better in those plain working frocks; at least they fitted her, gave some form to her young figure, which he knew to be alluring enough. Why had he now put himself in a position where he would be seen accompanying this uncultured wench, who to any bystander would appear