The Sweeping Saga Collection: Poppy’s Dilemma, The Dressmaker’s Daughter, The Factory Girl. Nancy Carson
more tenderness from him; tenderness she craved. Through the haze of tears he was indistinct, but it did not look like the Robert Crawford she knew and loved, and her heart sank. She wiped her eyes, and was surprised to see Jericho standing there holding a posy of flowers.
‘I din’t know what to get you,’ he said clumsily. ‘So I brought you these. I’m that sorry to hear about your dad.’
Poppy forced a smile, touched by his unexpected consideration. She took the flowers from him and held on to them. ‘That’s kind,’ she said, realising the barracking he would have got from his fellow navvies for doing something as unmanly as taking flowers to a girl. ‘Thank you, Jericho.’
‘Folk have told me how you thought the world o’ your dad. O’ course, I din’t know Lightning Jack, but folk have told me all about him. He sounds like the sort I woulda liked having a drink with – and working with, o’ course.’
Jericho’s voice was surprisingly soothing. He was not saying all the right things, but it seemed he understood. He was giving support in his own limited way. Poppy’s eyes flooded with tears again at his compassion and he squatted on the roughed-up bed beside her.
‘Would you like a mug of tea?’ she asked, remembering her hospitality and wiping her tears again. ‘I’ll make you one.’
‘Nay, my wench,’ Jericho answered. ‘I’ll not bother you in your grief. But I’ve a mind to call and see how you are later, if you’ve no objection … Maybe you’ll feel a bit brighter later.’
She nodded. ‘That’s very kind, Jericho,’ she answered sincerely.
Jericho did call later. Poppy did not feel any less grief-stricken but she was pleased he had shown an interest and had taken the trouble to see how she was. She walked out with him later down the footpath to Cinder Bank and into Netherton. He chatted easily, talking about this and that, and she believed he was trying to take her mind off her grief. They stopped at a public house in Netherton. The flagged floor of the public bar was strewn with sawdust; a few rickety tables and stools were the only furniture. Two men kept nudging each other and eyeing up Poppy with lustful looks. Jericho tolerated it for a while then approached them.
‘Have you had an eyeful yet?’ he asked them collectively.
‘Well, her’s a comely enough wench but for the queer frock,’ one of them answered, calm, confident, grinning, defiant. ‘Yo’ cor blame we for lookin’, though. Why? Dun yer want to mek summat of it?’
‘If you like,’ Jericho replied. ‘Would you like to take a wander outside, eh?’
‘No, Jericho,’ Poppy pleaded. ‘Don’t fight again on my account.’ She knew she would feel even more beholden to him.
‘I’ll not stand by and hear them insult you, Poppy,’ he said, handing her his jacket. ‘I’ll gouge their guts out.’
He led them all outside. The man Jericho had addressed handed his jacket to his mate and stood poised with his fists up.
‘Just the one of you, eh?’ Jericho taunted. ‘I’ll fight the pair o’ you together if you’ve a mind.’
‘It’ll on’y tek one to bump yo’ off, you cocky bastard,’ goaded the local man.
Jericho hitched up his trousers and grinned, and his opponent lunged out at his head. Jericho deftly sidestepped the punch, intercepting it with an upward sweep of the arm, then struck the local man hard on the jaw with a sickening crunch. The man put his hand to his mouth and looked at it to see if blood had been drawn. Seeing the man’s guard was down, Jericho hit him again and the poor fellow slumped to the ground with a lip that was oozing blood.
A crowd was gathering, murmuring, watching intently, inexorably drawn to the fight. ‘Who’s this big bugger who’s just downed Billy Webb?’ somebody asked, obviously surprised that somebody should.
Billy Webb struggled to his feet and his arms shot out at Jericho like the lashes of a whip. But few jabs made contact and they only succeeded in angering Jericho the more. Jericho struck out again at Billy Webb and missed, whereupon Billy landed a telling punch into the stomach that made Jericho wince. Jericho leered in defiance, looking for an opening to drive home a blow. He fought to win and there were no rules. Everything was fair: punching, kicking, kneeing and clinching. Both men were masters of scrapping, a hard-learned craft born of too many cruel fights, too many split lips, blackened eyes and aching limbs, but Jericho was the younger man and the bigger. In a short time his advantage began to tell, while his opponent began to lose confidence.
The growing crowd watched in stunned silence. Their local champion was about to be beaten. After one more blow to the mouth, Billy Webb went down … and stayed down.
‘Now you, my friend,’ Jericho said, offering Billy’s mate the opportunity to avenge the defeat of his friend.
The mate put his hands up defensively. ‘I’m no fighter, my mon. I’m a drinker. Let me buy you a drink and we’ll part friends.’
‘I’d see to me mate first, if I were you,’ Jericho said. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll buy me own beer.’
He turned to Poppy for his jacket. Embarrassed, she handed it to him.
‘Shall we go now?’ she suggested, uncomfortable, feeling that hostile eyes were on her for being the cause of this Billy Webb’s downfall.
‘Shall we buggery! I’m having a few more drinks yet, my flower. It’s thirsty work fighting.’ He inspected one of his fists that had become grazed in the scrap, licked it and wiped it on his jacket.
Poppy watched him, disconcerted by the wild, glazed look in his eyes. It was obvious that Jericho enjoyed fighting. Clearly he derived some strange sensual satisfaction from the physical exertion, the exhilaration of danger, or at gaining physical superiority over another.
‘Why do you have to fight?’ she asked as he sat down, having bought himself a fresh tankard of beer.
‘’Cause that’s how I argue – with me fists.’
‘But you hurt folk, Jericho.’
‘I ain’t hurt you, have I?’
‘No …’
‘So why are you harping on about it?’
‘But that’s twice you’ve fought over me. I don’t desire it, Jericho.’
‘But it’s a measure of how much I think o’ yer.’
‘So is that how you let somebody know how much you like ’em? By fighting?’
‘Can you think of a better way?’
Poppy didn’t answer. Of course there were better ways. Her thoughts turned to Robert Crawford and his gentleness. There was a world of difference between the two men. Jericho was typical of all navvies – he argued with his fists, his aggression justified by the twisted logic for which an excess of alcohol was responsible. Conversely, was Robert Crawford typical of all men who purported to be gentlemen?
She finished what was left of her drink and looked intently at Jericho. ‘I want to go now. I’m going anyway, whether you come with me or not. I ain’t gunna stay here any longer.’
‘Go then,’ he said sullenly. ‘I’ll find me another wench.’
But then she remembered how considerate he had been, how sympathetic. ‘Oh, come on, Jericho,’ she pleaded. ‘You’re not going to let me walk that path all by myself, are you? What if one of these here follows me? What if I get set on?’
He drained his beer and stood up. ‘I’d kill anybody who touched you, Poppy. Come on, then. Let’s went.’
The low sun threw long shadows as they walked hand in hand along the footpath back towards the encampment. Tall grasses and thistles waved lazily in the summery breeze and a white butterfly settled on a cluster of shepherd’s purse. The rain that had half threatened all