A Country Girl. Nancy Carson
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by the trickling songs of blackbirds. On other days such wistful and lovely birdsong went unheard, muffled by the intense throb of industry. Ducks and geese basked at the edge of the canal and a pen sat with propriety and elegance on a huge nest overlooked by the Dock shop.
‘How many drinks did you have to buy him?’ Marigold enquired.
‘Two.’
‘No wonder he’s the best o’ mates with you.’
‘He bought me one back as well.’
‘So you’ve had three pints?’
‘No, four, to tell you the truth. Somebody else bought us one besides. I never drink that many as a rule. ’Specially of a Sunday dinnertime.’
Marigold gasped. ‘Your hold must be awash. I wonder you can still stand.’
‘Oh, I can still stand all right.’ He teetered exaggeratedly, pretending to be more unsteady than he really was. ‘I don’t think I can walk very straight though.’ The sweet sound of her laughter appealed greatly to him and he focused his admiring eyes on her.
‘Then it’s a good job you ain’t riding your machine, else you’d be taking another look in the cut.’
‘I was intending to give you a ride on it,’ he said with a broad grin. ‘Shall I go and fetch it?’
‘Not on your nellie. Not if you’ve had four pints o’ jollop and you keeps plaiting your legs. Look at you, you’m all over the place.’ She chuckled again good naturedly at his seeming unsteadiness.
‘When we come back, I mean.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘How come it’s been so long since you came this way?’ he asked. ‘I thought you’d be through our lock well before today.’
‘I told you, we had work that took us up to Cheshire. It’s a good earner to Cheshire and back to Birnigum, ’cause we generally loads up wi’ salt for the return.’
‘So you ain’t seen that chap in Kidderminster either?’
‘Course not.’
‘I bet you got your eye on somebody in Cheshire, though, eh?’
‘Me?’ she queried, with genuine surprise. ‘Course I haven’t.’
He was teasing her, but something in her voice suggested she was taking him seriously, and convinced him she was telling the truth. ‘I’d be surprised if nobody was interested in you, Marigold.’
‘Why?’ she fished, an expectant smile lighting up her lovely face.
‘Well, I mean … Somebody as pretty as you?’
‘Oh, I ain’t that special, Algie,’ she protested pleasantly, with no hint of coquetry. ‘I’m just ord’n’ry. Anyroad, what about you? I bet you’ve been seeing that Harriet.’
He shrugged non-committally.
‘I bet you have,’ she persisted.
‘There’s nothing serious between me and Harriet. I told you.’
‘I bet you’ll be going to church with her tonight again, whether or no.’
It was true, worse luck; Harriet was expecting him, and there was no sense in denying it. ‘Not if you agree to come out with me tonight, I won’t.’ He looked at her again to discern her reaction.
‘All right,’ she agreed, returning his look with a distinct twinkle in her eye. If she refused, then he would certainly spend the evening with this Harriet, and she must prevent that happening. ‘I’ll come out with you tonight, if you like. You’ll have sobered up by then, tis to be hoped …’
They walked along the towpath in a companionable silence for a moment or two, each considering the implications of what they had said. Algie casually kicked a loose stone and it plopped into the canal. He would have to give Harriet an explanation for failing to show up for church. But he was not sorry. It would afford him the opportunity to make the break from her as honourably as he could, as his father had said he should. Such a break from Harriet would be to their mutual benefit, freeing her to accept the advances of other young men, more deserving of her.
‘How far are we going?’ Marigold asked.
‘Not far, eh?’ Algie replied. ‘I’m tired. All that buggering about in the cut.’
‘Oh, well, you can bet it’s nothing to do with the beer you’ve had.’ Marigold glanced at him sideways with a knowing look, with no hint of recrimination, then burst out laughing at his peeved expression.
‘I can take my beer, you know,’ he replied sheepishly. ‘It’s the mucking about in the cut that’s done me in. I just hope I haven’t caught a chill. Anyway, let’s get off the towpath by Dadford’s Shed … There …’ He pointed to a huge new timber construction named after Thomas Dadford Junior who had supervised the building of the canal more than a century earlier. ‘We can go over the bridge there to the fields at the back of the sand quarry and have a sit down.’
‘If you like,’ she agreed. ‘I don’t fancy walking far. I got some new second hand boots on as I got from Penkridge Market the other day, and they’m a bit tight. I need to break ’em in afore I walk a long way in them.’
It was a short walk from Dadford’s Bridge and the wharf of the Glassworks, along a back way called Mill Street and then Water Lane, where they passed the sand quarry Algie had mentioned before the lane dwindled to a footpath. Marigold was surprised to find herself at a lovely quiet spot, nestling between steep hillocks and sandstone crevices, out of sight of the quarry, the glassworks and the rest of civilisation. A small and very clear stream rippled idyllically between clusters of young trees. Wafts of almond-scented gorse rose to meet them as they stepped over the soft grass, like velvet beneath their feet.
‘Let’s sit down here,’ Algie suggested. He sat himself on the ground with his arms around his knees and looked up at Marigold who was still standing. He held his hand out to her. ‘Come and sit beside me, Marigold. I thought you said your boots were hurting you.’
She did as he bid compliantly and with an inherent daintiness. Algie tugged at a stalk of grass, one end of which he put between his teeth. In the distance a cuckoo made its wilful call, while a pair of young rabbits bobbed about playfully close by. Marigold drew his attention to them.
‘Ain’t they beautiful?’
‘They’re all right in a stew,’ he quipped, deliberately taunting her. ‘I reckon there’s too many uncooked rabbits knocking about.’
She responded by giving him a playful tap on the arm. ‘Tell me about Harriet.’
‘What d’you want to know?’
She shrugged. ‘How long you’ve been seeing her, what she’s like …’
‘She ain’t that interesting,’ he replied dismissively.
‘She can’t be that bad if you see her regular.’
‘I told you, it’s nothing serious. We aren’t courting proper.’
‘So how long have you known her?’
He shrugged. ‘About two years.’
‘Two years and it ain’t serious? It’s time she got the hint … Unless you’ve just been stringing her along.’
He shrugged again, but made no reply.
‘So you don’t love her?’
‘Love her?’ he repeated, disparaging the notion with overstated disdain. ‘If I loved her I wouldn’t be here with you. That doesn’t mean to say I don’t like her, though.’
‘But not enough to wed.’
‘Any chap would be