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

Buttercup shared the whisky, finished their dinners and their tots of tea, and then went back to work. It was time to pack explosive into the hole they had drilled and blow the face of the tunnel to bring down more rock for clearing, more clay for making the bricks. From a sturdy wooden box, Jack picked up a linen bag that had already been filled with gunpowder and packed it deep in the hole, with a length of fuse attached, carefully bunging up the hole with clay.

      ‘Ready to blow,’ he said to the ganger who was at Lightning’s side inspecting the work.

      ‘Ready to blow, it is,’ the ganger replied. He cupped his hands like a megaphone around his mouth. ‘Clear the area!’ he called, then blew his whistle. ‘Clear the area!’ He looked around for flickering candles in the darkness, which would tell him where the nearest men were working. ‘I’ll just get that lot to move back,’ he said, turning to Lightning who was waiting to light the fuse. ‘Give me a minute afore you light it. I’ll make sure the way’s clear for you to get away.’

      Lightning watched as the ganger’s shadow became more indistinct. He gave him his minute and duly lit the fuse.

      ‘About to blow!’ he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Blowin’ up!’

      Beneath the shaft, where the men had collected, Buttercup asked for silence.

      ‘What’s up?’ asked the ganger.

      ‘Listen … I can’t hear Lightning walking back.’

      ‘You ain’t about to with all the racket going on down here. Dripping bloody water, the clatter o’ bricks, the squeal o’ them there wheels on the damn trucks, blokes chuntering.’

      ‘Look. The fuse is lit. Thou canst see it flaring. But where the hell’s Lightning?’

      ‘Give him a chance. The fuse’ll be at least a minute fizzling afore it sets off the gunpowder. Get your hands over your ears ready.’

      ‘Nah. I’m going to fetch him. He ain’t come away. Look, I can see his candle. He’s still there, the damned fool, by the fuse.’

      At that, Buttercup hurtled off, running towards the fuse that was still fizzing bright and crackling as it burned its way towards the compacted gunpowder. ‘Lightning!’ he yelled. ‘Move theeself! Get back here!’

      ‘Stay where you are, you bloody fool,’ came the reply echoing towards him through the gloom. ‘Get back and save yourself. You’ve got a bloody errand to run for me, remember?’

      ‘You arsehole!’ Buttercup bawled angrily as the final, awful realisation of what Lightning was up to struck him. ‘Thee bisn’t doing that. I’m coming to fetch thee. Stamp on the fuse or pull the bugger out. Quick!’

      ‘Get back, Buttercup,’ Lightning shouted urgently. ‘You’re too late. Save yourself.’

      There was a blinding flash of light and Buttercup was thrown to the floor of the tunnel as the wave of the blast reached him. He had the distinct impression that his head had imploded. The deafening sound was palpable as it reverberated along the walls and roof of the tunnel section. The ground beneath him and above him shook and shuddered and he fancied he must be dead already and in the midst of a thundercloud with heaven’s artillery booming. He lay with his hands over his head, fearing a fall of bricks and debris from the roof, but none fell. He looked up but all was black. He could feel the stench of burnt gunpowder in his nostrils, the dense smoke billowing around him making his eyes run.

      ‘Lightning!’ he called out, knowing it to be hopeless. ‘Lightning! Where bist thee? Answer me!’

      But there was no answer. The smoke deadened even the echo of his calls.

      His candle had been blown out in the blast. All was darkness. Never in his whole life had he experienced such complete and utter blackness. The pressure of the darkness on his optic nerves was unbearable. He began choking on the smoke. He could taste it. He was swallowing it. He raised himself to his feet, felt in his pocket for his box of matches and tried to light one. As it flared pathetically, all he could see was the dense miasma of black smoke wheeling all around him. If it would stay alight long enough to light a candle, he could look for Lightning Jack.

      It was some time before the smoke had billowed and eddied slowly towards the shaft and had been drawn up it. Had the tunnel been open at either end, or even connected to another vertical shaft further along, the natural draught would have drawn it out comparatively quickly, but it took an age with only one shaft open. The rest of the gang had made their way towards him, and the ganger, fearing he had lost two men, was relieved to see that at least Buttercup was still alive.

      ‘Come on,’ Buttercup said. ‘We’d best see if we can find what’s left o’ the daft old bugger.’

       Chapter 8

      ‘I’d like us to concentrate on double vowel sounds tonight, Poppy,’ Robert Crawford said.

      They were sitting in his office, on the first floor of an old house in Abberley Street, off Vicar Street, which the contractors had acquired because it was near the workings. It suited Robert’s purpose admirably. Poppy could learn undisturbed, and Robert would not be compromised by being seen in public with a low-class navvy girl. There was seldom anybody who used the offices after about six o’clock of an evening. And he was privy to a key.

      The evening rays of an early July sun streamed through the deep sash window, which was open an inch or two at the top, and fell obliquely onto his huge desk, that was covered in drawings and maps. Poppy sat next to Robert at the desk. They were so close that he was aware of Poppy’s soft warmth as his thigh gently nudged hers as if by accident in the desk’s kneehole.

      Robert was hopelessly torn. For two weeks he had contrived to meet Poppy there to give her lessons in reading and writing and, in that respect, both were experiencing singular success. Poppy could already recognise scores of simple words, and write them down in an awkward scrawl. But he had not yet mustered the audacity to suggest anything more than being merely her teacher. He was certain that he had fallen in love with her. If it was not love, it was some other destructive yet utterly overwhelming attraction that he seemed powerless to resist. Whatever it was, he was painfully aware that it could do neither him, nor anybody else, one iota of good. Still, he could not help wanting to touch her, to feel her girlish softness and gentleness. He ached to run his fingers through that tangle of fair curls and feel her delicious-looking lips on his. He was forever trying to glean information as to her likely relationship with that savage they called Jericho, and whether any relationship was flourishing. Always, however, she dismissed it as something trivial. Well, he hoped with all his heart and soul that it was trivial and would remain so.

      ‘If we have two “o”s together,’ he began to explain, ‘they make the sound you get in the word look.’ He wrote the string of letters down.

      ‘Look,’ she repeated, forming the word deliberately, and with a delectable pursing of her lips, which gave Robert the renewed and urgent desire to kiss her.

      ‘And this word – book.’ He wrote that down quickly as well.

      ‘Book.’

      ‘Tooth …’

      ‘Tooth,’ she repeated seriously, oblivious to the effect she was having on him.

      Next, he wrote down the word hook. ‘So what do you think this word says?’

      She studied the word for no more than a second. ‘’Ook.’

      He smiled, acknowledging her ability to work it out quickly. ‘Hook,’ he corrected. ‘You must sound the “h” …’

      ‘Hook,’ she said exaggeratedly.

      ‘That’s better. So do you understand the sound a double o makes?’

      ‘Yes,’