A Country Girl. Nancy Carson
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turn deserves another,’ Clara responded, while Kate went out to fill the kettle and Murdoch’s eyes followed her. ‘I bet as you’ve had nothing all day.’
‘It’s true enough.’
‘Well, I can imagine how it is for a man who ain’t been widowed long. It must be hard for yer, Murdoch, since your poor wife passed on, but you need to look after yourself.’
‘Oh, I don’t go without, Clara.’
‘Well, let me get you something to eat. What d’you fancy? It’s a pity all the liver’s gone – it was beautiful, by the way … I could always fry you bacon and eggs …’
‘Bacon and eggs?’ Murdoch said with a smile of enthusiasm, directing his comment to Will Stokes. ‘What more could a man ask for but bacon and eggs and a bit o’ fried bread, ha?’ Will noticed how Murdoch cunningly added the fried bread to the meal. ‘But only if it’s no trouble, Clara.’
‘I told you, it’s no trouble.’
‘You’re a lucky chap, Will, having a wife who’s handy with the frying pan.’
‘I’m reminded of it every day, Murdoch,’ Will answered dismissively.
Kate returned and hung the kettle on a gale hook over the fire. It spat and hissed as a few drips of water fell into the burning coals.
‘So how’s our Kate shaping up in this here amateur dramatics group?’ Will enquired as Clara set about frying Murdoch’s treat.
‘Oh, she’ll do very nicely, Will. I’ve got her to agree to play the part of Pocahontas in our next play.’
‘Poker who?’
Murdoch guffawed. ‘Pocahontas. A celebrated Red Indian princess from the Americas who became a Christian and married an English chap. She was very beautiful, if recorded history’s to be believed. Kate’s got the right sort of colouring and figure for the part, I reckon, ha? She read it well an’ all, when we tried her out for it.’
‘I’m glad to hear as she’s some use for summat,’ Will remarked dryly. ‘Even if it is only acting up.’
Kate, who had been preening herself in the mirror, turned round and shot daggers at her father, who she felt had not only never understood her, but had signally failed to realise her latent talents as well.
‘Oh, I reckon she’ll be a valuable asset to us,’ Murdoch affirmed. ‘We’ve been lacking a wench with your Kate’s qualities.’
‘What qualities am they then?’
‘Good looks, a certain grace …’
‘Gets it off her mother and no two ways,’ Will said.
‘I wouldn’t argue with that, Will …’
At that, Algie appeared and stood in the scullery doorway wiping his hands on a towel.
‘How do, Mr Osborne,’ he greeted cordially. ‘You brought our stuff then?’
‘Aye, I brought it, lad … We was just talking about your sister Kate and the Little Theatre.’
‘Oh? Think she’ll be any good?’ he asked, as if it would be a surprise if she were.
‘I reckon so. I was just saying as much to your father. And if you reckon you could act as well, young Algie, we’d be pleased to welcome you into the group, a good-looking young chap like you.’
‘No thanks, Mr Osborne,’ Algie replied unhesitatingly. ‘I don’t think it’s my cup of tea, all that reciting lines. Anyway, I see enough of Harriet Meese without going to the Drill Hall with her as well. It’s a good excuse for a night off when she goes to the Amateur Dramatics rehearsing.’ He winked knowingly at Murdoch, who smiled back conspiratorially. ‘But if our Kate enjoys it, all well and good …’ He turned to his mother in the scullery. ‘What’s that you’re cooking, Mother? It smells good.’
‘I’m doing bacon and eggs for Mr Osborne. He’s had nothing to eat all day, poor chap. He’s got nobody to look after him, like you and your father have.’
‘Can you drop some in the pan for me as well? I’m famished.’
‘But you ain’t long had liver and onions.’
‘I know, but I’m hungry again.’
Clara tutted. ‘I can’t seem to fill him up, you know, Murdoch,’ she announced over her shoulder.
‘Oh, I was just the same when I was his age,’ Murdoch replied. ‘It’s to be expected, ha?’
The following Sunday, Algie decided to put his new bike, his pride and joy, through its paces along the towpath. The weather remained settled and it was a lovely warm, sunny day. He cycled first towards Wordsley, waving to the boatmen he knew and their wives, whose narrowboats he passed. Since it was the Sabbath many were moored up, generally close to a public house, their horses left to graze the tufts of grass that lined the canal. Algie had had no more trouble with his chain coming off since he had tightened it by moving the rear wheel back sufficiently in its forks. He cycled confidently now, in the certain knowledge that it would not come adrift again.
When he reached the Red House Glassworks with its huge brick cone towering over everything, he reckoned he’d gone far enough in that direction. He was keen to try the uphill ride back. The towpath followed the topography of the canal so it was flat for the most part, the ascent appearing in stages at the ten locks on that stretch of the canal, and the humpback bridges that spanned them. His intention was to cycle in the other direction as far as the Nine Locks at the area known as the Delph, about a mile as the crow flies, but nearly two miles along the meandering canal. He hoped he might espy the Binghams. But long before he reached the Nine Locks, he spotted a pair of narrowboats lying low and heavy in the water, plying the bend in the canal at the Victoria Firebrick Works. Thirty yards in front, a piebald horse was hauling them, its long face in a nose-tin. The stocky figure of Seth Bingham was leading it.
Marigold! Algie’s heart skipped a beat. He smiled to himself and raced towards them. He bid Seth good day as he whizzed past, looking for Marigold, and saw her bending down at the tiller of the butty, the Odyssey. She was wearing a sunbonnet and failed to see him at first. It took a shout to draw her attention, whereupon she stood up and looked about enquiringly. When she eventually spotted him she smiled and waved.
‘How do, Marigold,’ Algie called, an amiable grin on his handsome face. He turned around and rode alongside her, matching the sedate pace of the narrowboat she was steering.
‘Hello, Algie. You got your bike then.’
‘What d’you think of it?’
‘It looks nice. You ride it well.’
Mrs Bingham, at the tiller of the Sultan, the horse boat, turned around when she heard her daughter calling to Algie, and smiled to herself, not averse to the romance she perceived blossoming between them. This Algie Stokes was at least likeable, unlike that ne’er-do-well she’d taken to in Kidderminster.
‘I’m getting used to it now, Marigold.’
‘How long you had it?’
‘A couple of weeks. Hey, I ain’t seen you for ages. Ain’t you been down this cut since last time I saw you?’
‘No,’ she called. ‘We’ve been up again’ Cheshire and back a few times, though, and to Birnigum.’
‘So you’re on your way to Kiddy again?’
Marigold nodded coyly, aware of all it implied.
‘So you’ll be doing a spot o’ courting tomorrow night then?’
She shrugged and felt herself blush.
‘Are you mooring up by the Bottle and Glass?’ he asked.
‘I reckon so. Me dad likes the beer