A Fallen Woman. Nancy Carson

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СКАЧАТЬ would guess, looking at you now, as you’d spent your life on the narrowboats, though. You can put on a show of elegance and good manners just as well as Aurelia.’

      ‘Except I’m a bit more shy than what she is. Aurelia’s got lots more confidence than me – she ain’t backward in coming forward – comes from being educated proper, I reckon.’

      ‘Maybe so, my flower, but one thing you ain’t short of is common sense. And that counts more than having had an expensive education – for a girl at any rate.’

      They had reached a bench that was in desperate need of a lick of paint. Beyond it, over the hedge, was a field edged with a row of tall elms.

      ‘It’s funny the way things turn out, ain’t it?’ Marigold went on, smoothing the creases out of her skirt as she sat down. ‘I mean…I know we was lucky to have this house as well, and that bit of money your mother inherited—’

      ‘Which we put into the business,’ he interrupted.

      ‘Yes, but you work hard, Algie. And you’re careful with money.’

      ‘I don’t take chances. But in business you can’t afford to stand still either. Things are changing all the time. Especially in the bike business.’

      ‘I suppose sometimes you make your own luck, eh, Algie?’

      He put his arm around her and she snuggled up to him. ‘Maybe I hit on the right thing at the right time with the bikes,’ he said. ‘It was just a feeling I had that building bikes was the right thing to do. Anyway, we’re doing all right. We’re getting more orders all the time. In fact, I’m setting on two more men next week – old workmates from Sampson’s.’

      Marigold regarded him with sudden anxiety. ‘Oh, Algie, do you think that’s a good idea?’

      ‘What? Employing old workmates?’

      ‘Pinching Benjamin Sampson’s workers.’

      ‘Sod Benjamin Sampson. Anyway, Sampson’s ain’t doing too well, by all accounts.’

      ‘All the same…it could cause more trouble between you and him.’

      ‘I don’t see why. Folk can choose where they want to work so long as there’s work enough. Anyway, Benjamin Sampson wouldn’t think twice about sacking them if things got that bad. So why should they be loyal to him? Their only loyalty is to themselves and their families. Besides, I’ll be paying them more money.’

      ‘As long as it don’t make things awkward between me and Aurelia.’

      ‘Why should it?’

      ‘I think the world of her. She is my sister.’

      ‘Half-sister,’ he corrected with a smile. ‘And I know you think the world of her. But this is business, Marigold. Nothing to do with Aurelia. So why should it make things awkward between you two?’

      ‘P’raps it won’t. But she has enough to contend with, what with Benjamin and all. The things she tells me…’ Marigold rolled her eyes.

      ‘Oh? What sort of things?’ He wondered what poor, lovely Aurelia might have to contend with that he wasn’t already aware of.

      ‘Well, they don’t sleep together no more, for one thing. Not since before Christina was born.’

      ‘Fancy…’ He pondered Aurelia and her troubled marriage for a moment. Such a waste of a worthy woman; Benjamin Sampson was an utter fool. ‘Let’s go and see how your mate the hedgehog is getting on,’ he said in an effort to divert himself and Marigold from the subject of Aurelia and her troubled marriage. He stood up and together they ambled in silence to the spot where they had encountered the prickly creature.

      ‘Oh, Algie!’ she exclaimed, with obvious delight. ‘I swear some of that bread has gone. I wonder if he had a drink of milk as well.’ She stooped down to inspect the area for clues. ‘I bet he has, Algie.’ She stood up again. ‘I’m going to put more bread and milk out for him tomorrow night. D’you think I should?’

      ‘He might fancy a change,’ Algie replied, tongue-in-cheek. ‘Try him with a pork chop with some gravy and cabbage.’

      ‘Oh, hark at you! Why can’t you be serious? D’you think hedgehogs like cheese?’

      ‘Ask him. A lump of my favourite cheddar would cheer him up no end, I bet.’

      * * *

       Chapter 5

      And so the big day at last arrived for the wedding of Harriet Meese to Clarence Froggatt. St Michael’s red-brick hulk in Brierley Hill was bedecked inside with gold chrysanthemums. Supervised by Priss the day before, the blooms were positioned to best advantage in various locations within the church with the help of Harriet’s other sisters. This exercise was not just to make it look pretty, but to elicit favourable comments also, for Priss was generally starved of any praise and strove to invoke it in whatever way possible.

      Outside, the sun was shining, as if to extol its symbolic blessing on the happy, well-matched couple. There were about eighty guests, plus a throng of the uninvited curious who came mainly to inspect the bride and her dress, for she was well known in the town for her exquisite couture. Others attended merely to wish the couple well.

      Eli Meese, almost as portly as his wife in his tailed coat and striped trousers, symbolically handed over his second daughter at the behest of the curate, Mr Cuthbert Delacroix, who, of the two parish clergy, had been the one favoured with the task of conducting the ceremony. This was a sop to Priss, because of her partiality to him.

      Clarence turned to his bride with a proud smile. When prompted, he took her hand and repeated after the curate, ‘I, Clarence George, take thee Harriet Delicia, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.’

      Looking into his eyes through her veil, Harriet took his hand in turn, as directed by Mr Delacroix, and dutifully repeated her vows. Her voice and diction were as clear as the locally made crystal glass, and the entire congregation could hear her with perfect clarity.

      Cuthbert Delacroix smiled his encouragement.

      ‘Oh, eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life; send thy blessing upon these thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless in thy Name…’

      While the two figures were kneeling at the altar listening to Cuthbert Delacroix forging this legal and spiritual bond, a clatter from among the guests on the bride’s side ensured that disdainful heads at once turned to see who the clumsy culprit might be. Algie Stokes had accidentally knocked his Book of Common Prayer onto the floor and the racket, though minor, echoed magnified throughout the nave. He stooped to pick it up and looked apologetically at Marigold.

      ‘Clumsy article,’ she whispered, smiling good-naturedly, her eyes brimming with forgiveness, while the curate progressed with the ceremony unperturbed.

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