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

some whisky, little popsy … No? I bet your friend would like some.’

      He handed the bottle to Minnie who took a slug as if she had been drinking the stuff regularly for years, then offered it to Poppy once more.

      ‘Go on, Poppy,’ she urged, wiping her lips. ‘Have a drop. A drop won’t hurt you.’

      Poppy shook her head with defiance and Minnie thought she detected a shudder of fear in her friend.

      ‘She don’t drink,’ she said in her defence.

      ‘Does she screw?’

      ‘No, I do not,’ Poppy shrieked and reached for the door handle, burning with indignation.

      James caught her arm and yanked her back, pulling her against him. ‘Then I think it’s time you did, little popsy.’ He reached down and took a handful of skirt and petticoat, which he pulled up, exposing her legs. ‘Well, you’ve got a fine pair of legs, little popsy. I can’t wait to get between ’em.’

      He raised his knee and thrust it between hers, at the same time pinning her down on the seat while she struggled to free herself. He fingered the buttons of his fly.

      ‘You’re hurting me!’ she screamed. ‘Don’t you dare touch me.’

      ‘Easy, easy,’ James said in a calm, soothing voice, a grin on his thin face. ‘It’s so much better if you don’t struggle. For both of us. You’ll get your money afterwards. I’m not going to hurt you. Besides, if I like you, I shall see you again. That’s the way it should be. Not this senseless resistance. You could do well out of me if you play the game …’

      Poppy had not lived on a navvy encampment most of her life without picking up a few tips in self-defence. She clenched her tiny fist and whacked James on the temple. As he reeled from the unexpected clout, she brought her knee up hard and rammed it, with all the velocity she could muster, into his testicles. He winced with pain, clutching his crotch, unable to catch his breath to utter any curse. Poppy took the opportunity to grab hold of the door handle and shove the door open. Disentangling herself completely, while the others watched stupefied, she leapt down from the carriage, stepped into a pool of mud and ran towards the gate in the pouring rain.

       Chapter 17

      As she fled down Oakham Road, Poppy kept looking anxiously behind her to see whether James was following, with or without his friend to aid him or the carriage to expedite him. It was dark now and she looked continually for places to hide if need be. She searched for lights, for signs of habitation, but there were only dark fields and ragged hedges, spooky with the sound of cows lowing in the distance at the miserable weather. She had no idea how far they had travelled from the town. The journey had seemed like ages. Nor had she any notion of the time, but it could surely not be late.

      She felt guilty at leaving Minnie at the mercy of the two men. But Minnie had shown no sign of fear, only eager anticipation at what must inevitably come to pass. Why was there such a difference between them when it came to men and what you could be getting up to with them? It was as if Minnie could not help herself. Poppy wondered whether there was something lacking in herself, since she patently did not feel the same. She would happily give herself for love, but she would never sell herself. She would have willingly, eagerly, lain with Robert Crawford if he’d asked her to. Tonight he would have been proud of her, applauded the way she halted that rat James with a deft knee into his privates.

      Thoughts of Robert stirred up again the familiar ache of longing. So acutely did she yearn for him, especially now when she needed him. Without him she was a flower without sunshine, a wilderness without rain. Damned rain … She pulled up the collar of her mantle and adjusted her bonnet. Thank goodness for the mantle. At least it would protect her lovely blue dress. She hurried on in the darkness, picking her way through puddles and mud, holding her skirt up a little to protect it from the splashes her scurrying feet kicked up. There was no footpath on either side of this lane, only the rough, uneven track lined with shepherd’s purse, thistles, nettles and blackberry brambles all weeping and soggy and snagging on her skirt if she passed too close. At a bend in the lane, a dead tree loomed, its bare gnarled branches dripping black against the sky, poised unstirring, like some gothic spectre determined to leap out and grab her. Poppy shuddered and quickened her pace, unaware that this was a hangman’s tree, used in times past as a gallows to hang felons. Next to it stood a cottage, dilapidated but still inhabited, according to the waft of smoke that curled sparsely from the leaning chimney. It did not look welcoming.

      As she rounded the bend, the lane descended and she could just discern its lie, which was straight for as far distant as she could determine through the dim tunnel of trees. The lights from a house flickered with a feeble warmth some distance away. If she heard the rumble of the carriage now she could always run, hammer on the door and ask for protection until they had gone past. Somebody would surely shelter her.

      That Alfred … He must be married. She would bet any money on it. A married menace. James too. No doubt, they had sons and daughters of a similar age to herself. And yet Minnie was all too ready to go with them. No reluctance, no apprehension, no aversion, no fear. It was hardly bravery. Rather, it was stupidity, naivety. And yet Poppy felt little anxiety over her friend. Whatever else she was, Minnie was artful, knowing and confident with men … She knew how to take care of herself. No doubt they would all be swigging whisky now, laughing at Poppy’s dissent and reluctance to engage in whatever shameless antics Minnie was content to go along with. Well, if Minnie wanted to be like that, it was up to her.

      Poppy hastened on, listening for the sound of the carriage and the horse’s hoofs. All was quiet. She was quite alone. The only sound was the squelch of her own footsteps on the sopping ground. Follow this lane … She hoped nobody else was abroad to induce her heart to leap into her throat.

      After hurrying for about ten minutes she came to a sort of crossroads where the toll gate stood. Signs of life. She tried to remember from which direction they had come in the carriage. Facing her was a squalid-looking alehouse with a crooked railing in front of it. She recalled seeing it when she had travelled, uneasy but dry, in the carriage. Of course she must take the road to the right. What if she took the wrong turning and found her way back to the Blowers Green encampment? No, that would never do. Everybody would think she was incapable of making the break. She would never go back. Not now she had come this far.

      That big house again on the right-hand side … the one she had noticed during the drive … Such an imposing place, set well back from the road as it was, with a sweeping in and out drive. It was well lit inside, if the light spilling from the windows was anything to go by. At each side of the front door lamps burned, throwing a dancing yellow light onto a pair of horses and a black carriage that glistened with wetness. The front door opened … Poppy hesitated, curious. She watched a young woman step out wearing a dark mantle and bonnet. It was difficult to ascertain her age in this light, or what she looked like, but she was probably about twenty years of age, judging from her bearing. With audible farewells, the girl waved goodbye to the middle-aged couple who remained inside, while a footman opened the door to the carriage. Poppy watched as the girl stepped up into it and the footman closed the door. Then, as it was driven round the circular drive towards the front gate, she turned so as not to be seen and went on her way.

      Such an elegant life some girls lived …

      Poppy found her way back to Dudley town. She decided to walk in the middle of the road where she could be seen, with less chance of being accosted by drunken youths, and eventually returned to The Old Bush Inn soaked through, a little wiser, but none the worse for her adventure.

      She found a maid and asked for a candle to light her way to her room. There, she undressed and put her new clothes to dry over the back of a chair, which she placed in front of the fire. She unpinned her hair, brushed it and put on her nightdress. Then she took the candle, along with the book Robert Crawford had given her, and continued reading from where she had left off a few days ago. If only he were still here she could ask