A Country Girl. Nancy Carson

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      ‘Marigold told me her mother came from round here. So I suppose you could’ve known her before, eh, Mother?’

      ‘Not that well, like I say.’

      Algie took another bite out of his jam tart. ‘So what brought her living on the cut in a narrowboat?’

      ‘Because she wed a boatman, I suppose,’ Clara answered dismissively. ‘I ain’t so sure I would’ve done, but she did.’

      ‘There’s good families on the cut, Mother,’ he commented, more in defence of Marigold than anybody else. ‘Old Seth Bingham’s all right. He’s a decent bloke.’

      ‘I’m not saying he isn’t. And I’m sure Hannah must’ve thought so to marry him …’

      He shrugged as if it was of no consequence. ‘As long as she’s content, I say. She seems content. So does Marigold.’

      ‘’Tis to be hoped she is. ’Tis to be hoped they all are. So does this mean you’ve given up Harriet?’ Clara lifted the pan of cabbage onto the hob. The coals in the fire shifted and a flurry of sparks flitted up the chimney.

      ‘Yes …’ He took a last bite of jam tart.

      ‘Shame …’ Clara sighed. ‘She’s a nice respectable girl.’

      ‘I know she is.’

      ‘Have you told her yet?’

      He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I’ve tried. I called to see her on my way home tonight, but old Eli wouldn’t let me. He told me to clear off. Says he’s forbid her to see me ever again. He already knew somehow as I’d been with Marigold yesterday. How d’you reckon he found that out, eh? He knew almost as quick as I knew it meself.’

      ‘Oh, I bet your name’s mud,’ Clara said, with some conviction. ‘Word travels fast in a place like this. Everybody knows everybody else’s business.’

      ‘But it made me look as though I hadn’t considered Harriet at all, and I had. I had, Mother, honest. I wanted to be straight with her … Oh, well …’ He shrugged, and turned to go. ‘I think I’ll go and see if my dad wants any help. If not, I’ll clean my bike. It could do with an oiling after its dunking in the cut yesterday.’

      ‘Go on, then, and I’ll give you a shout.’

      ‘Is our Kate back yet?’

      ‘She’s upstairs, a-changing.’

      ‘Changing?’ he queried disdainfully. ‘Let’s hope she changes for the better.’

      The implication was lost on his mother, as he knew it would be.

      Algie lumbered outside. Out of curiosity he decided to inspect the far side of the shed, where he’d witnessed Kate and Reggie Hodgetts up to their antics, to see if there was any evidence of what had happened. He kicked over the traces and noticed a small footprint in the line of sandy earth where his father’s potatoes were planted, obviously that of a woman – Kate’s, of course. He kicked over that too, else his father was bound to see it and wonder what a woman had been doing there, and under what circumstances, trampling his precious produce. Despite Kate’s unsavoury wantonness, he still had to protect her; she was his sister, after all.

      After that, he passed through the gate, clambered over the lock gates and onto the towpath, heading towards the dry dock, where they repaired ailing narrowboats. Will Stokes was bolting a new cast-iron pinion wheel and brake to the lock’s winding gear. Narrowboats from both directions waited in the basins above and below while he completed the job, so they could continue their journeys. Meanwhile, the boatmen gathered around him watching, enjoying good-natured banter and swapping gossip with the workers from the dry dock, who lived in the row of cottages on the other side of a little cast-iron bridge.

      ‘Hello, Son,’ Will greeted.

      ‘Did you see the Binghams pass through earlier?’

      ‘Aye, just before I started work on the lock.’

      ‘I’ve come to see if you need any help.’

      ‘It’s the time to come now I’ve nearly finished,’ Will quipped with a grin. ‘Just gotta tighten these bolts, check the alignment and grease it. You can pass me that tub o’ blackjack, though, our Algie.’ Will pointed with a huge spanner to the pail of thick, black bitumen grease.

      ‘Will it want warming up?’ Algie queried as he went to fetch it from the towpath where it was standing along with Will’s thick canvas toolbag.

      ‘No, it’ll be a bit on the stiff side, but in this warm weather it should be workable.’

      Algie picked it up and took it over to his father. ‘I read today in the newssheet at work that Lord Sheffield’s eleven took a beating by the Australians.’

      ‘Did they?’ A look of disappointment clouded Will’s face as he looked up from his work. He was a keen follower of cricket and liked to keep abreast of all the first class matches. ‘I never heard. What was the score?’

      ‘The Aussies won by an innings and thirty-four runs.’

      ‘Damn! Was W. G. Grace playing?’

      ‘Yes, but he only scored twenty in the first innings and nine in the second. I reckon he ain’t half as good as what he’s made out to be.’

      ‘Wait till the test match in July. He’ll show ’em who’s the best batsman in the world.’

      ‘Pooh, I doubt it, Dad,’ Algie argued. ‘Not on his showing this week.’

      A discussion ensued, also involving all the men gathered around, about the merits or otherwise of the world famous W. G. Grace. It seemed to go on for ages, by which time Will finished his task and collected his tools together. Father and son walked back to the cottage, but Algie removed himself to the shed, to tend to his precious bike.

      Algie was so proud of his Swift bicycle with its pneumatic tyres. It was in desperate need of a thorough clean after its unscheduled dip in the cut, so he set about polishing it up. When it was gleaming again, he picked up the oil can and oiled the wheel hubs and the brake linkages, then trickled a few spots over the chain. Rust was the arch enemy of the conscientious cyclist, especially when the machine had cost twelve pounds of hard-earned and hard-saved money.

      As he applied the oil, he became interested for the first time in the engineering that had gone into the bicycle’s manufacture. It struck him that with the proper jigs and fixtures at his disposal he could make a machine like this. It was hardly like building a complicated steam engine. His research into bicycles, before making his purchase, had revealed that the frames of some were made from bamboo, for lightness. But bamboo would not do for him. He would prefer to sacrifice that inherent lightness for the durability of steel. And so would most other folk who had to save hard and long to be able to afford a bicycle. They wouldn’t want to see their bamboo frame warp and split. The only obstacle he foresaw to building a machine like his would be making the wheels – all those spokes. A wheel seemed like a perfect work of art; so precise, so finely balanced. If only he had enough money to start a business making bikes … maybe he could even buy the wheels already finished СКАЧАТЬ