The Sweeping Saga Collection: Poppy’s Dilemma, The Dressmaker’s Daughter, The Factory Girl. Nancy Carson
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it for me?’
‘Aye, especially if you promised her a bit for herself. And if you gave some to Minnie, it might put you back in her good books.’
Dog Meat was convinced. ‘Help me catch that little bugger, eh, Jericho?’ He pointed to a small pig that was rooting in the mud, remote from the rest of its family.
‘Mebbe we should wait till it’s dark,’ Jericho suggested. ‘Somebody might see us and tell the police.’
‘That’s all well and good, Jericho, but if it’s dark I won’t be able to see the bloody pig. Any road, there’s nobody about, look.’
‘Suit yourself.’
They clambered over the picket fence that was lined with chicken wire and, in the rain, crept stealthily up behind the young pig. When both men were within two yards of it, the pig turned around with a squeal and scampered off, turning away from them.
‘Bugger!’ Dog Meat cried, and turned to follow it.
The pig began rooting again in a fresh spot and seemed to settle down. Once more, Dog Meat and Jericho inched towards it, a step at a time. Once more, the pig turned and scarpered.
‘Stun it with a brick,’ Jericho advocated, and himself picked up a half house-brick that lay close by. The pig found another spot where he hoped for some uninterrupted rooting, and Jericho hurled the brick. He missed, merely succeeding in splattering the animal with mud, provoking it to move on again.
‘Dive on it, Jericho,’ Dog Meat urged in a hoarse whisper. ‘It’s the only way.’
‘You dive on it,’ Jericho replied. ‘It’s you as wants it.’
‘Might as well dive on a sunbeam. Tricky little bugger this, eh? Why don’t I just get a fowl?’
‘Nay, go for the big prize,’ Jericho encouraged. ‘It’ll be worth it. Just dive on it.’
Dog Meat dived. Just as he was about to smother the pig it let out a frightened shriek, wriggled free and scurried smartly away. Dog Meat was face down in the sticky black mud where the pig had been standing. Jericho laughed aloud as Dog Meat, recovering from his prone position, sat covered in treacly goo and reached down for his boot, which he took off and hurled at the pig resentfully, missing the animal again.
The commotion had, by this time, alerted the occupiers of the cottage that stood at the far end of the field that something was amiss. A window opened and a man’s voice called, ‘What the bloody hell d’yer think yo’m up to?’
‘Christ! Get me boot, Jericho!’
‘Well, you ain’t about to get the pig now,’ Jericho responded.
‘Bloody, buggering, brilliant idea o’ yourn,’ Dog Meat moaned, standing on one leg in the mud. ‘Fetch me me boot quick, afore that bloke gets here. He might have a gun.’
A huge pig, that Jericho estimated must be at least a quarter of a ton in weight, trotted towards them from the far end of the field, splattering dabs of mud behind him.
‘Aye up!’ Jericho yelled. ‘Sod the bloke and his gun. The biggest bloody pig you’ve ever seen in your life has spotted us. Quick, Dog Meat, run – else that’s what you’ll end up as – bloody dog meat.’
Dog Meat turned to look and saw the great, grotesque animal bearing down on him, great swathes of fat shuddering around him as he ran. The navvy struggled to upright himself and began hopping desperately through the mud. ‘Where’s me bloody boot? Get it for me, Jericho.’
But Jericho was striding through the mud towards the sturdy fence over which they had climbed in the first place to get into the field. When he reached it he turned to look at Dog Meat lurching towards him on one leg, the vast pig angrily looming ever closer.
‘Run, Dog Meat, you daft bugger,’ Jericho shouted. ‘Never mind bloody hopping. You’ll never make it.’
Dog Meat heeded the advice and threw himself headlong over the fence just as the pig got its snout to his damp rump. He rolled over and shook his head, taking a second to get his bearings and to decide whether or not he was hurt. He sat up then, his hat skew-whiff, a disgruntled expression on his mud-bespattered face. The sight of him amused Jericho and he guffawed.
‘Remind me never to heed any of your damned advice again, Jericho,’ Dog Meat muttered truculently. ‘Christ, you coulda got me killed. And I’ve still got no dinner.’
‘Aye, and you’ve thrown a shoe, into the bargain.’
‘And a new pair is gunna cost me even more money.’
The next evening, Dandy Punch and two others ambled over to The Wheatsheaf with the men’s wages, as they did at the end of every month. Two hundred men awaited them outside, each tormented by a raging thirst that none but a few were able to satisfy before the money was doled out. As each envelope was handed over, the recipient inspected it, counted it and generally muttered his irritation at how much had been deducted as owing.
‘This ain’t right,’ Tweedle Beak complained to Waxy Boyle as he counted his wages. ‘But how the hell am I to prove it? Now I got me score to settle with Toby Watson. Trouble is, I’m never sober when he gets me to put me mark on it.’
‘Neither is anybody else,’ Waxy said. ‘He fiddles everybody blind. Come on, let’s slake our thirsts.’
As the first of the newly but temporarily enriched navvies trickled into The Wheatsheaf, Toby Watson, the landlord, handed the scores to each man that owed him money and they settled. Then they were entitled to take a tankard of beer from the dozens that had already been poured, and which lined the top of the counter in anticipation of the rush.
Tweedle Beak and Waxy sat on abutting wooden settles in the corner of the room at an iron-legged table. Many other navvies would cram in with them, complain about their lot and get drunk. Sure enough, they were soon joined by Windy Bags and Crabface Lijah. Crabface carried a cribbage board and a box of dominoes as well as his frothing tankard. Windy Bags counted his wages and slipped the money into one of his pockets before shuffling the dominoes that he had laid face down on the table. Brummagem Joe appeared, sat beside him and asked if he could join in the game.
‘We need another,’ Crabface declared. ‘D’you want to play, Tweedle?’
‘Count me in,’ Tweedle responded.
They settled into the first game and were joined at the table by Jericho and Dog Meat. Next to arrive was Buttercup. He drew up a stool, filled his gum-bucket, lit it and watched the game of dominoes with interest, occasionally needling Tweedle Beak with sharp comments. Already there were eight men sitting around the table. The room was filling up, not only with men but with tobacco smoke, and it was growing noisy. Soon it would become rowdy. A further group from Hawthorn Villa occupied the adjacent table, including Tipton Ted, and others with names like Masher, Green Gilbert, and Fatbuck. Dandy Punch, who had done his job of paying everybody, soon joined them.
Jericho went to the bar and appropriated two more drinks for himself and Dog Meat. When he returned he narrated the story of their encounter the day before with the oversized boar. The men found it funny and the story was passed on to the next table and the next, and Dog Meat became the butt of several jokes, to his annoyance and humiliation. The room was so crowded by this time that men were standing around between the stools and tables. Jericho thrust past them to get to the bar again, and once more returned with beer for himself and Dog Meat.
‘He’s a good mate to thee, Dog Meat,’ Buttercup remarked sarcastically. ‘He keeps getting up and fetching thy beer, and I ain’t sid thy hand in thy pocket yet.’
‘All me wages have gone in what I owe, Buttercup,’ Dog Meat replied ruefully. ‘I had a bit left over but that’s gone now I’ve settled me score with Toby. It’s why I was trying to steal me dinner afore we met that bloody great pig.’
‘Nipped thy arse, did it?’
‘Would’ve,