A Country Girl

‘Well,’ pondered Eli, lifting his fresh glass of beer, ‘’tis to be hoped … Got any more o’ that baccy, Murdoch? Me pipe’s gone out.’

As he walked along the towpath alongside his horse, Seth Bingham whittled a toy top from a piece of wood for his children. All that remained was to find a strong switch from which to make a whip to set it spinning. He could imagine their delighted faces when he presented it to them and showed them later that day how it worked.

Marigold jumped down onto the towpath from the butty, where she had left Rose, her younger sister, in charge of the tiller. They were approaching the flight of locks at Dadford’s Shed, on the way back from Kidderminster, and would soon be outside the lock-keeper’s cottage where Algie Stokes lived. She began walking alongside Seth, ready to run on and open the locks ready for the ascent.

‘What you makin’, Dad?’

‘A whip ’n’ top.’

‘A whip ’n’ top? For the little uns?’

‘It’ll keep ’em occupied while we’m moored up.’

‘Will it spin?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘Course it’ll spin, when I’ve made a whip for it.’

‘But it’ll want painting, won’t it?’

‘It’d look better painted, I grant yer,’ Seth agreed. ‘But let’s see if it spins all right first. If it does, we can soon paint it.’

‘I’ll paint it,’ Marigold offered. ‘With the kids. But it might be an idea to make more than one, you know, Dad. They’ll want a whip ’n’ top a-piece once they see it.’

Seth laughed. ‘I daresay they will, but they might have to wait.’

Seth continued whittling a second or two more, when neither spoke.

‘Have you got some pennies for the lock-keeper, Dad?’ Marigold asked, breaking the pause. ‘I’ll run on and make sure we can get through ’em all, and pay Mrs Stokes.’

Seth felt in the pocket of his trousers and fished out a handful of change. ‘Here,’ he said inspecting it. ‘And fetch me an ounce of baccy from the Dock shop while you’m at it.’

Marigold rushed to the lock. No other narrowboat was heading towards them from the opposite direction to occupy the lock and impede their progress. Rather, the last narrowboat through the locks had come from the opposite direction so all the levels would be set for them to enter without waiting for them to empty. She opened the first lock, while Seth led the horse towards it, then made her way to the Dock shop, where she bought her father’s ounce of baccy and put it in the pocket of her skirt.

She glanced back, saw their horse boat, the Sultan, entering the lock, and waved cheerily to Seth. She opened the next lock, then hurried to the next, amiably passing the time of day with a couple of the workmen from the dry dock that lay in an adjacent arm of the canal. A dog, from one of the rows of terraced cottages, joined her as she headed for the next lock, and she stooped down to fuss it.

‘Hello, Rex,’ she cooed, having become familiar with the animal over the years. She stroked it under the chin and it looked up at her with round, trusting eyes. ‘I ain’t got nothing for you this time. But next time, I’ll bring you some bones to chew on … I promise I will.’ The dog seemed to understand, and returned with its tail swinging, seemingly happy with the pledge, to the cottage he’d come from.

She reached the lock situated outside the lock-keeper’s cottage and she was aware of her heart pounding. What if Algie was there? What if he hadn’t gone to work and he was at home? She would see him again. It would be lovely to see him again so soon. Before she opened the lock, she crossed it to get to the cottage on the other side and climbed the steps to the garden and the back door. She tapped on the door and waited, scanning the well-tended garden and its crop of spring flowers that were blooming like an array of bright lamps. The door opened, and Clara Stokes greeted her, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Hello, young Marigold.’

‘Hello, Mrs Stokes,’ she replied deferentially. ‘We’m just coming up through the locks. Can I pay you?’

‘Course you can, my flower.’ Clara held out her hand and Marigold dropped the pennies into it. ‘Ta.’

‘I was just looking at your flowers, Mrs Stokes,’ Marigold said, turning round to admire them again. ‘Them choolips am really pretty. I would’ve thought they’re a bit early, though, wouldn’t you?’

Clara was making out a chit for the payment, but looked up to appreciate the tulips with her. ‘Yes, they’re grand, aren’t they? They are a bit early, like you say. Mind you, we’ve had some nice weather to bring ’em on.’

‘Me mom likes choolips. They’m her favourite flower. And those are a lovely colour.’

‘How is your mom?’ Clara enquired.

‘She’s well, thank you, Mrs Stokes. It’s her birthday tomorrow. I’d love to be able to give her some choolips. Would you sell me some, Mrs Stokes?’

Clara smiled. ‘I’ll do better than that – I’ll give you some to take to her. Let me get a pair of scissors to cut them with.’

‘Are you sure?’ Marigold queried, calling after her as Clara left the scullery for the sitting room. ‘I’d just as soon pay you for ’em.’

‘They cost nothing to grow, Marigold,’ Clara called back. ‘I’ll charge nothing for them. I just hope they give your mom a bit of pleasure.’

Marigold smiled gratefully. ‘That’s ever so kind. Thank you ever so much, Mrs Stokes.’

Clara stepped back inside the room with her scissors, and Marigold followed her up the garden path.

‘How’s Algie?’ she asked, with becoming shyness. ‘Is he at work today?’

‘Oh, he’s at work all right,’ Clara replied, diligently picking out the best tulips and laying them on the ground as she snipped them. ‘Earning his corn. At least it keeps him from under my feet.’

‘I was talking to him Sunday,’ she volunteered. ‘We went a walk afore he went to church.’

‘Yes, he said so.’

‘Did he?’ Marigold sounded pleased with this revelation. ‘He’s nice, your Algie.’

‘I daresay he’d be pleased that you think so,’ Clara replied non-committally.

‘Does he go to church every Sunday?’

‘Most. Only the evening service, though.’

Marigold felt herself blush, and was glad that Mrs Stokes was bending down with her back towards her, unable to witness it. She wanted to mention that girl called Harriet whom Algie had told her about, but had no wish to sound as if she was prying. ‘I suppose Mr Stokes is out and about on the canal somewhere?’ she suggested, to deflect any further focus from herself.

‘He’s checking the locks. You’ll very likely see him as you go by … There … that’s about a dozen blooms.’ Clara gathered the cut tulips from the ground and stood up. ‘I’ll wrap them in a bit of newssheet, eh?’

‘That’s ever so kind, Mrs Stokes, really,’ Marigold said, following Clara back towards the cottage.

‘Come inside while I do it.’

Marigold followed her inside, into the little scullery. She noticed the blackleaded range, pristine and shiny, with the fire burning brightly and a copper kettle standing on the hob. In front of the hearth lay a podged rug, made from old material, the colours and textures of the cloth organised into an appealing pattern. A scrubbed wooden table had four chairs around it, and beneath the window was a stone sink. There was little enough room to move, but to Marigold, used only to the tight confines of the narrowboats’ cabins, it was enormous.

She watched while Clara wrapped the tulips in a sheet of newspaper and asked again if she could pay for them, but Clara only refused with a reassuring smile. ‘Take them, young Marigold,’ she said kindly. ‘Your mother will like them.’

‘That she will, Mrs Stokes. Thank you ever so much.’

‘You’re welcome. Give your mother my best wishes, won’t you?’

‘Oh, I will …’ She did not move, hesitating at the door, and Clara looked at her enquiringly.