The Sweeping Saga Collection: Poppy’s Dilemma, The Dressmaker’s Daughter, The Factory Girl. Nancy Carson
‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying, Mother. I don’t want to end up with a man that lives like that. So I don’t want to end up with a navvy. I want a house of my own. I want to sit in front of me own fireplace with a good husband and me kids safe abed upstairs.’
‘Dreams, our Poppy. And easier said than done. Any road, somebody’s already asked if he can have you.’
‘Who?’ Poppy asked with alarm.
‘Never mind. Your father wouldn’t agree to it.’
The rest of the hut’s occupants were stirring. Poppy heard the coughs and groans of men emerging from sleep with thick heads and wondered if it had been one of them that had asked for her. Through the thin partition she could hear the robust breaking of wind, followed by puerile laughter from those who thought it funny, and strings of abuse from those who considered the ensuing stink an intrusion. Somebody stepped outside and, through the small window, she glimpsed Tweedle Beak – so called because of his beaked nose – his back towards her, urinating into a patch of grass. Poppy was maybe the richer for having experienced this life, for nothing shocked her.
‘Shall we have some breakfast?’ she suggested. ‘Then I’ll scrub the floor.’
‘There’s plenty bread and cheese,’ Sheba said. ‘I’ll get some eggs today and some bacon.’
‘Did Father leave you any money then?’
‘About ten shillings. But I’ll have money from the beer we sell as well, and from the beds.’
Something else caught Poppy’s eye through the window. Towards the turnpike road she saw about a dozen policemen assembled, standing alongside a Black Maria and four horses. One of the policemen was clearly giving instructions to the others. Another man in a tall hat, a gentleman by his bearing, accompanied them. Her father had been right.
‘The police have come,’ Poppy warned her mother.
‘Let ’em come. They’ll not find my Lightning Jack here. He left just in time.’
The navvies lodging in the same hut grew strangely quiet; the irreverence and laughter were suspended, pending the intrusion of the police, whom they had evidently also seen. One thing was certain, however: if any of them knew anything about the missing trinkets, they were not about to confess it.
Soon they heard a loud rap at the door and it flew rudely open. A policeman was standing there with a young official employed by Treadwell’s, the contractors. Sheba withdrew the child from her breast and buttoned herself up, indignant at the interruption.
‘Are “excuse me” two words you’ve never heard of?’ she asked sarcastically. ‘Is there something you want of me, since you feel entitled to barge into my house?’
‘Good morning, ma’am,’ the police officer said, failing to sound deferential. ‘We are looking for two men who live in these barracks. They gave their names as Jack Silk, better known as “Lightning Jack”, and Joseph Wright, who is also known as “Dover Joe”. I suspect you know why we want them.’
‘You can suspect all you like, but there’s no Jack Silk here,’ Sheba said coldly. ‘Nor no Joseph Wright either. But if you want to check for yourselves, I won’t be able to stop you.’
‘I’m told Lightning Jack lives here.’
‘He used to,’ she responded defiantly. ‘But, thanks to you damned lot, he’s jacked and left us. Lord knows when we shall see him again – if we ever will.’
‘He should’ve thought of that afore he committed the crime,’ the policeman said, and nodded to the contractor’s man, who was young and handsome, and vaguely familiar to both Sheba and Poppy. Both men stepped inside the hut. The young man doffed his hat respectfully, but the policeman did not. Poppy appreciated this little demonstration of good manners from the young man and rewarded him with a brief smile, which he returned.
‘They’ve committed no crime,’ Sheba retorted. ‘It’s the packman’s word against theirs, but it suits you better to believe the packman, eh? Nobody ever believes there’s any good in a navvy.’
The policeman ignored her jibe, pulling sheets and blankets off the beds. He bent down to look under them.
‘Who’s in the next room?’
‘Lodgers,’ Sheba replied. ‘The men you’re looking for ain’t there either.’
The policeman opened the door and was greeted by eight surly, unshaven men leaning against their disorderly bunks. A birdcage with a tweeting canary hung from one beam; pairs of boots tied together and bags of kit hung from others. The constable spoke to the men and got several grunts in response as they shifted in turn so that he could search through the bedding. A small dog yapped from under a blanket, indignant at being so rudely disturbed.
The policeman turned to the contractor’s man. ‘Mr Crawford, do you recognise any of these men as the prisoners who were sprung last night?’
Mr Crawford shook his head solemnly.
The policeman then addressed the men. ‘Do any of you know where these two men, known to you as Lightning Jack and Dover Joe, might be hiding?’
All shook their heads and looked suitably solemn.
‘Well, we shall find ’em. Be sure of it. And woe betide ’em when we do.’
This encroachment on the navvies’ early morning routines as they prepared for work was not being well-received in other areas. Many had gathered together in the centre of the encampment and were muttering their dissatisfaction to each other. More joined them and the atmosphere thickened with a menacing air of belligerence. The policemen regrouped, truncheons drawn, the law firmly on their side, watching defiantly, until a lump of wood tossed from somewhere among the navvies hit one of them on the chest.
The older person, who was dressed in the top hat like a gentleman, moved to the front at once and shouted to make himself heard. He announced himself as a magistrate and told the men that unless they dispersed immediately and went about their business, the consequences for each of them would be serious. They must back off. Nothing was to be gained. The men the law was seeking had given them the slip. Why provoke more trouble?
So the navvies slowly dispersed. They took up their picks, their shovels and their barrows, and commenced work.
Only two days before his temporary incarceration at the Dudley lock-up, Lightning Jack had spoken to a navvy who had passed through the Blowers Green workings on tramp. The man had been looking for good, dry tunnelling work and had been disappointed to discover that the Dudley tunnel had already been completed. He’d told Lightning that he’d been working on the Oxford, Worcester and Wolverhampton at Mickleton, but had got into trouble with a card school to whom he owed some unpaid gambling debts, so he’d sloped off. Recalling what this man had told him, Lightning decided to head south and try his luck at Mickleton. That first Saturday, he walked about twenty miles and was refreshed and victualled at a public house in Ombersley, Worcestershire.
Afterwards, he found a suitable hedge under which to sleep, the weather being settled. Next morning, he awoke under a blue sky and took in a great gulp of the cool morning air, so fresh with the promise of summer, and free of the stench of coal gas that had normally greeted him at Blowers Green. The sight of the leaves stirring gently on the trees, and of the ordered pattern of fields that adorned the landscape, set his heart singing after the muck and filth of the Black Country. Maybe he should have gone on tramp before. He finished what food he had in his pantry, gathered his things together and set off again, intent on reaching Mickleton later that day. At Evesham, stopping for a gallon of ale at a beer shop, he met another navvy on tramp and they got talking. The stranger told Lightning that people knew him as ‘Bilston Buttercup’.
‘I’ve never seen anybody less like a buttercup in all me life,’ Lightning said, genially, as they supped. ‘Buttercups are pretty, dainty flowers. You’m as plain as a pikestaff and as ungainly as a three-legged donkey.’