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

she said no and nodded. Once more she glanced at the half sovereign. She could buy loads with that; it was a handsome bribe. She hesitated a second. She could try her luck and stall for a whole pound … but then this man might withdraw the offer and ask somebody else. ‘All right,’ she said at last, and held her hand out for the lottery ticket.

      ‘But it’s just between you and me, Selina.’ He pressed the ticket into her hand but did not release it while he held eye contact with her.

      ‘It’s just between you and me,’ Selina agreed.

      Tweedle Beak let go her hand. ‘Just be sure to come to me as soon as I call you.’

      She took the half sovereign and he winked knowingly. ‘Have no fear … sir …’

      He finished his beer and ordered another.

      Legal wrangles continued over the implementation of Brunel’s broad gauge in preference to the more widely used narrow-gauge track. Coupled with inordinately slow progress, due to a string of inefficient contractors that had slowed down the job intolerably, it was decided that all work on the Oxford, Worcester and Wolverhampton Railway was to be wound down and suspended by the end of next month. The friendly and helpful alliance with the Great Western Railway had proved to be neither friendly nor helpful after all. The encampment at Blowers Green would consequently disband, and the navvies who had lived and worked there for months, with a common purpose, would up sticks and set off on tramp to seek employment on other civil engineering projects. Men who had become firm friends, or even sworn enemies, would part company and possibly never meet again, for better or for worse.

      The men were advised of this as they lined up to collect their pay. A letter was included in each pay packet, but since all but a couple could not read, it had to be explained to them by a representative of the company. Those who wanted to seek alternative employment could leave at once. Those who wished to stay would be kept on only until the end of October.

      There had been rumours for ages that the company was in financial straits, but it all made little sense to the men. As far as they were concerned, the section from Worcester to Dudley was all but complete, save for a mile or two of cuttings and embankments, the laying of the track and the building of stations. Between Worcester and Oxford, however, it was a different story. The Mickleton tunnel, for instance, was nowhere near finished and Mr Brunel was said to be livid about the spiralling costs and his plummeting reputation.

      The women that dwelt in the encampment were oblivious to the commercial turmoil that would affect all their lives. In anticipation of Tweedle Beak’s lottery, they had collected switches of gorse, which they had tied together and fastened to a broomstick for the ceremonial jumping over it later that evening. Another had made a chaplet of flowers for Poppy’s hair. They were excited, and took great trouble to tease Poppy whenever she appeared, particularly Ma Catchpole. She not only considered it a golden opportunity for Poppy, but declared it was about time the girl settled down with a man and had some babbies. Poppy, however, was not so enthusiastic.

      Tweedle had collected forty-seven pounds in lottery contributions, a sum he had stored in a leather pouch in his locker in the main room of Rose Cottage. Dandy Punch had duly written the names of contenders on squares of white paper, which had all been neatly folded and which accompanied him to The Wheatsheaf for the draw that evening. Despite the news that all work was to be held in abeyance, Tweedle Beak was still hopeful that payday might induce a few others to speculate on the enticing possibility of winning an exceedingly bonny, industrious and highly desirable young bed partner. His hopes were well founded. Several men had been waiting for payday so that they could afford tickets, and he collected a further fifteen pounds. Dandy Punch wrote those names on tickets.

      The atmosphere in The Wheatsheaf that evening was buzzing with a heady mixture of despair and anticipation. Some men were openly devastated that work was being shelved, others could not have cared less. Nonetheless, it was a major topic of discussion as they slaked their thirsts with excesses of foaming beer. The air of anticipation, however, was stirred by the impending lottery draw. The usual gathering sat in front of their tankards and speculated on the outcome, while Tweedle Beak excitedly pocketed his latest booty and Dandy Punch wrote out the final ticket, inscribing the words ‘Dog Meat’ upon it.

      ‘How many tickets hast thou bought, Dog Meat, me old mate?’ Buttercup asked, rubbing his fingers through his whiskers.

      ‘Just the one,’ Dog Meat replied. ‘Tipton Ted lent me the money after all.’

      ‘Aye, well, p’raps he wants to get shut of thee. Did you have any luck wheedling any more out of Jericho?’

      Dog Meat shook his head. ‘No, and I wasn’t about to argue with him either. He gets nasty when he’s offended. I din’t fancy a broken mush.’

      Buttercup looked at Jericho. ‘How many tickets has thou bought, Jericho?’

      ‘Enough to put me in the reckoning.’

      ‘Dandy Punch has bought ten, I hear.’ Buttercup turned to Tweedle Beak whose nose was in his tankard. ‘Is that right, Tweedle? Has Dandy Punch bought ten tickets?’

      ‘Ask Dandy Punch, why don’t you?’ Tweedle replied off-handedly. ‘It’s his business how many tickets he’s paid for. It ain’t for me to tell you his business.’

      Buttercup looked at Tweedle with distrust. ‘I reckon we need a scrutineer to check the tickets in that hat o’ thine there. Seeing as how I got no interest in the matter, I reckon it should be me.’

      ‘Sod off, Buttercup,’ Tweedle Beak rasped, piqued as always by Buttercup’s goading. He took the floppy hat, which was occupying pride of place on his lap, and closed it up protectively. ‘There’s no need for e’er a scrutineer. This lottery’s being run fair and square.’

      ‘So how long have we gotta wait afore we know who’s won it?’

      ‘We’ll be doing the draw in ten minutes.’

      ‘And who’s gunna draw it?’

      ‘Selina, the gaffer’s daughter.’

      ‘I bet if you’d put Selina up as a prize, you wouldn’t have sold many tickets, eh, Tweedle?’ Jericho suggested.

      Tweedle looked Jericho squarely in the eye. ‘Say what you like about Selina, she’s a decent wench.’

      ‘Tell me, Tweedle,’ Buttercup interjected. ‘How is this stopping o’ the work likely to affect thee? D’you intend to stop on through October, or bugger off early?’

      ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ Tweedle asked defensively.

      ‘I was just trying to be friendly. Either road, it’ll be a tidy tramp for Sheba and her kids, wherever you go, Tweedle.’

      ‘What’s it to you?’

      ‘I’m just commenting, me old mate. You mustn’t forget as she’s a-carrying.’

      ‘It’s in the forefront o’ me mind, Buttercup.’

      Jericho nudged Dandy Punch who was sitting on the stool next to Tweedle. ‘How many tickets have you bought for young Poppy, Dandy?’

      ‘None o’ your business, lad. Who says I’ve bought any?’

      ‘Buttercup reckons so. Any road, I’ve bought six. Tell me how many you’ve bought,’ he persisted.

      ‘All right … I bought six. Same as you. So me and you have got equal chances.’

      ‘Well, if I win I shall take her to live in Chippenham, now as the work here is shutting down. I shall go back to being a farm worker. I’ll rent a cottage and who knows, I might even have me own smallholding someday.’

      ‘Noble ambitions, Jericho. Who’d have thought it from you?’

      ‘And what about you, Dandy? What’ll you do if you win the wench?’

      ‘I’m assured of work with Treadwell’s, Jericho.