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The Factory Girl (#ua871e31a-35e7-501a-9151-164ee22b344a)
Title Page (#ud6f6ebe6-0455-5bfa-9ffa-46815d5a5a75)
Copyright (#ue6f11c1d-ae4b-5dc7-b597-9bae760b0c2e)
Chapter 1 (#u29d8bb96-f1d0-52be-b45f-56182594582e)
Chapter 2 (#u0036e94e-7cfb-58c5-934c-83a9ac44b9a4)
Chapter 3 (#u361f2bd7-a31d-560f-8570-96134772c831)
Chapter 4 (#u7b38a303-1c44-5608-8b11-2acc863913fa)
Chapter 5 (#u1e1116c2-a5f9-5cb5-9d41-f7a14ea698d2)
Chapter 6 (#u14a723b6-f88a-59ce-8b4f-33ac6c4f0137)
Chapter 7 (#u9c3bfe16-dd70-587d-98d6-b5c5035085be)
Chapter 8 (#u9fe86e36-1f6d-547c-bffd-b0ffaf7f5f1d)
Chapter 9 (#u30e93736-f360-5e53-8b2d-63e84391cc09)
Chapter 10 (#ua095ffa5-549a-533b-96b9-1dad3a52f0c6)
Chapter 11 (#u5f5d0dab-3339-5114-873a-55f15eb4f7d4)
Chapter 12 (#u54a60661-377b-5b43-89bf-a9bce1b6cf81)
Chapter 13 (#ud1ca66f5-b841-5c4c-803d-3e8acefdc796)
Chapter 14 (#uf9bebb34-f1c1-57d4-a74d-cc550746bfb4)
Chapter 15 (#u4e2288bf-d235-5181-b905-82985b367424)
Chapter 16 (#u9ee33231-62e1-5c81-b5da-28bed28e0298)
Chapter 17 (#u919d7da0-b6c3-5474-92b1-4a0220b8abc2)
Chapter 18 (#u84462eb8-d248-5782-8d2b-7686919b004a)
Chapter 19 (#ua1a7228c-5dd8-5f2d-a37c-a01bd191522e)
Chapter 20 (#u964fffa9-6028-598a-a551-d264e604dd9b)
Chapter 21 (#ue21f3f77-4684-526d-b65b-ab7c68981842)
Chapter 22 (#u1f5b188a-1c86-5cad-a513-39aef2035c2c)
Chapter 23 (#u817ad243-d421-5a24-b2ac-07548b86fc5e)
Chapter 24 (#u92f3572f-f8d3-5614-aa33-f6cb0e02a982)
Chapter 25 (#u992d54e4-2132-586d-9e19-ac7c7060261b)
Chapter 26 (#u59ad2552-53e4-5895-b8ae-1214fb775930)
Chapter 27 (#u6f552d3c-9636-5ed2-a041-f61302ac378a)
About the Author (#u10cbfd45-5fbc-5fce-b9fd-8bdd02af3876)
Also by Nancy Carson (#ueb71eb20-9f7d-54f7-8c18-2c735e556688)
About the Publisher (#ub7e1654c-c164-5c86-8da1-b8244fa2f06c)
Nancy Carson
Poppy’s Dilemma
Copyright (#ulink_d5ce4f5c-4ee3-5437-8d3b-687a267ff5e3)
AVON
An division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Previously published as Poppy Silk by Hodder and Stoughton 2003
Copyright © Nancy Carson 2015
Cover images © meshaphoto/ istock 2015
Cover design © Debbie Clement 2015
Nancy Carson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008134808
Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN 9780007948482
Version: 2018-07-24
Chapter 1 (#ulink_e2eee537-c793-5724-9753-451c3b7f6a52)
She did not really want to be there, but Poppy Silk loitered compliantly with her friend Minnie Catchpole outside the alehouse, which was called ‘The Wheatsheaf’, but somewhat appropriately known by some as the ‘Grin and Bear It’. Poppy was wearing the only reasonable frock she possessed; second-hand and made of red flannel with buttons down the front. It was a size too big for her slender figure and had cost her mother a shilling. Her black worsted stockings and inelegant clogs were made more conspicuous by the frock’s short skirt. Despite the frock, and despite her reluctance to be among her own kind, Poppy had seldom been short of admirers lately. She had the face of an angel, strikingly beautiful, manifesting all the innocence of the unenticed, and yet she was much too worldly to warrant a halo.
There was a stiff breeze, not uncommon for the middle of May, and the evening sky was shredded with sprinting clouds. The road, growing dustier and more uneven the longer the dry spell lasted, was strewn with old news-sheets that flapped like misshapen birds against the wind.
The Wheatsheaf stood alone, surrounded by wasteland on one side and the Old Buffery Iron Works on the other. Within spitting distance was a collection of wooden shanties that lined the Blowers Green section of the Oxford, Worcester and Wolverhampton Railway, which was just another of the huge civil engineering enterprises under construction.
The event was payday and it only occurred monthly. A horde of railway navvies had assembled in blustery sunshine two hours earlier at The Wheatsheaf, Poppy’s and Minnie’s fathers among them. The tavern was where they reaped their monetary reward for four weeks’ gruelling labour minus, of course, what they owed in truck to the contractor. Most were the worse for drink. Their pockets were bulging with money, which was begging to be spent on beer, whisky, or whatever other libation would intoxicate them into sublime oblivion and render painless their aching backs and limbs. Some had ventured further afield in their search for it, but were now returning, having boisterously worn out their welcome at other public houses and beer shops, and even wobble shops, which were illicit drinking houses.
Poppy and Minnie were not the only girls aware that it was payday and hoping to be treated at least to a drink; many neighbourhood girls had gathered, hoping some of the navvies’ hard-earned money would trickle down to them. Minnie, the flightier and more buxom of the two, struck a pose calculated to attract the favourable eye of the young workmen who were there in abundance, and she was flattered when some young buck whistled his approval. Poppy, though, was not so sure about those others who sidled up and made bawdy suggestions, even though those suggestions elicited girlish giggles, or feigned indignation, depending on what was being suggested and by whom.
‘I reckon our dads have forgot we,’ Minnie commented.
‘They forget everything once they’ve got the beer in ’em,’ Poppy replied realistically. ‘Shall we go inside and ask ’em for money so’s we can buy our own?’
A particularly well-built navvy, who looked old enough to be her father, suggested something spectacularly indecent to Minnie. She stared at the man in mock outrage for a moment or two, yet inwardly remained unruffled, before she turned round to reply to Poppy’s question. ‘I ain’t going in there. We’d get mauled to death by this lot o’ dirty buggers. I don’t mind somebody young, but not that lot o’ dirty old buggers.’
‘Well, I ain’t stoppin’ here much longer,’ Poppy said, glancing apprehensively at the same man. She turned to Minnie. ‘They ain’t doing to me what they done to that Peggy Tinsley the other week down by the Netherton turnpike. Seven of ’em, there was, she reckoned. They just left her there lying in the grass after. She couldn’t walk properly for days. And her best bonnet blowed away in the wind.’
‘Poor soul,’ Minnie commented, but with little sympathy. ‘Still, I’m glad it wasn’t me. If they’d done to me what they done to her, and Dog Meat had found out, it would’ve spoiled me chances.’
‘Why do they call that chap o’ yours “Dog Meat”?’ Poppy asked. ‘Does he eat dogs or summat?’
‘Course not. It’s ’cause he used to sell meat for dogs to the swells afore he was a navvy. Any road, it’s just a nickname. Everybody’s got a nickname.’
‘I ain’t got a nickname, Minnie.’
‘Nor me, but your dad has – “Lightning Jack”.’
Poppy smiled and her blue eyes sparkled. ‘So’s yours – “Tipton Ted” … Come on, where shall we go? We ain’t gunna get a drink here. And I want to be safe in me bed asleep come turning-out time when they’re all drunk and a-fighting.’
‘Let’s have a walk up the town,’ Minnie suggested with a gleam in her eye. ‘Let’s see what the swells am up to.’
As they were about to go, a packman carrying a case came up to them. He opened it up and displayed rows of necklaces, earrings, bangles and other trinkets.
‘Buy a necklace, Miss?’ he suggested to Poppy. He lifted one out and held it before her throat where it tantalisingly out-glittered the glass and paste example she was already wearing. ‘It’d look a treat on you with your pretty face, wouldn’t it?’ He regarded Minnie beseechingly, in an attempt to elicit her support. ‘Wouldn’t she look a picture, eh, miss?’
‘I got no money,’ Poppy informed him.
‘Got no money? Well, it’s soon got, a pretty wench like thee.’
‘It’s me dad what’s got the money,’ Poppy replied, the innuendo lost on her. ‘But he’s making sure he spends it on himself.’
‘What about you, my flower?’ he said, addressing Minnie.
‘I got no money neither.’
‘The men got paid tonight, didn’t they?’ the packman queried, placing the necklace back in the case and closing it up again. ‘I daresay I’ll be able to prise a sovereign from somebody afore I’m done.’
Poppy and Minnie turned to go. They were content to leave behind the hawker and the local girls who were making up to the young navvies, content to leave behind the guffaws and the swearing, the shouts and the bawling, which were increasing in direct proportion to the amount of beer being drunk. A hundred ordinary workmen, each with a pocketful of money, in even a large public house, could wreak havoc. A hundred drunken navvies, with their own brand of disregard for order and serenity, could triple the chaos. Poppy and Minnie were well aware of it. They were all too aware that towns which were being linked to the railways did not altogether embrace the arrival of hundreds of burly, uncouth men, some with their so-called wives, however transient their stay. It was commonly believed that the shanties they erected alongside the railway workings were hardly fit for pigs, let alone people. And heaven protect decent, God-fearing folk from the unspeakable goings-on inside. But how those men could shift earth!
The girls left the turnpike and walked steadily towards Dudley up a track known as Shaw Road that ran alongside the new cutting the men had been excavating. As they passed the gasworks, chattering amiably, Minnie imparted some very personal secrets about herself and her man Dog Meat.
Poppy giggled in disbelief. ‘You don’t do that, do yer?’
‘Course we do. It’s nice.’
They sauntered between the houses, factories, shops and alehouses of Vicar Street. The granite spire of the recently built St Thomas’s church came into view, pointing the way to heaven as it gleamed ethereally, caught by the sun’s dying orange glow. It was good to be away from the rabble and babble of the navvies. Here was the chance for Poppy to derive some notion of how civilised society functioned.
They reached the church, turned right and headed downhill towards the town hall and the market square. The market square occupied the area that split High Street into two carriageways before joining up again to form Castle Street. Poppy and Minnie nudged each other at the sight of bonneted women in fine dresses and handsome men in cylindrical top hats. A carriage passed them coming in the other direction, its wheels clattering over the uneven surface. Neither girl would have known whether it was a barouche or a phaeton, a landau or a clarence; the only horse-drawn vehicles they could recognise were the tip-trucks that conveyed spoil from the cuttings and the tunnel. Poppy marvelled at the pristine goods on display in shop windows. Soft feather mattresses adorned with clean white sheets and pillowcases lay on bedsteads fashioned from glistening brass. There was highly polished furniture you could almost see your face in. Shoe shops displayed modish boots, cuffed and lace-edged, with delicate heels. Poppy drooled over elegant white dresses – the height of fashion – and beautifully tailored coats, and bonnets bedecked with colourful ribbons and flowers. Oh, it was a fine town, this Dudley, both Poppy and Minnie agreed.
‘If me father’s got any money left after his randying I’d like to get me mother to come here and buy me a pair of them dainty boots,’ Poppy said, knowing it to be a vain hope. ‘I’d love a pair of new boots.’
They ambled on, past the old town hall and market. Things were subtly different in this part of the town. The street was busy with people. Even this early in the evening, several people were stumbling tipsily as they entered or left the profusion of noisy public houses. A few were sitting in sluggish stupors adorning alcoves, or lolling against convenient walls. Women and girls stood around, gossiping animatedly, cackling like hens in a farmyard. Some were overtly trying to tempt men with coquettish looks. Here and there a glimpse of some well-turned ankle promised heaven. Poppy and Minnie giggled at the sight and sound of an old man emptying his nose into the gutter with a voluble snort; that sort of action would hardly offend them, used as they were to witnessing far less refined behaviour. They chuckled even more at the pettiness of a woman walking behind them, who tutted self-righteously and muttered, ‘How disgraceful!’
They walked past the frontages of some more tightly squeezed shops, inns and houses; a succession of stone and red-brick porticoes, forming an unbroken way on both sides of the wide Georgian street. It narrowed as they approached St Edmund’s church, with its red-brick tower overshadowed by the cold grey stone of the old Norman castle on the high adjacent hill.
‘Shall we turn back?’ Poppy suggested. ‘We don’t want to walk down the hill towards the station, there’s no shops down there.’
‘Only the new railway bridge.’
Poppy chuckled. ‘Remember when the first one they built fell down? It’s lucky we weren’t under it.’
They turned around and retraced their steps. As they passed The Seven Stars opposite the town hall and the market place, four youths who were loitering around the doorway called after them. They made disparaging comments about the girls’ clogs, and their unusually short skirts which revealed their shins.
‘Show us your drawers!’ one called, and laughed with satisfaction at his own bravado. Rumour was rife that some working girls were wearing the long johns of their menfolk.
‘Show us your pego, then,’ Minnie replied with equal bluster. ‘If you’ve got e’er un worth showin’.’
With a cheeky grin, the lad put his hands to the fly buttons of his trousers and, fearing Minnie had failed to call his bluff, Poppy turned and walked on. Minnie, laughing, caught her up.
At the side of the road in front of the town hall a woman was arguing with a hawker about the price of a coal scuttle. A middle-aged man with sunken cheeks was sitting on a step, lecherously stroking the blooming cheeks of a full-bosomed woman sitting next to him. A couple of urchins in rags and tatters, who had been nowhere near a bar of soap in a fortnight, rolled over in the gutter and came to blows, one of them squawking with hurt pride.
After only a few minutes, Poppy and Minnie realised that the four youths were following them.
‘Quick, let’s hurry up,’ Poppy urged.
‘Let ’em come,’ Minnie said, unabashed. ‘Mine’s a nice-looking lad.’
‘Oh?’ Poppy queried. ‘What about Dog Meat?’
