LITMIR.BIZ

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‘You’re sharper than a pig’s jimmy.’

      ‘Now, I’m not certain whether that’s a simile or a metaphor,’ he said, and went on his way amused.

      Poppy was not really going to the tommy shop even though she ambled towards it. When she could see that Robert had gone inside the foreman’s hut, she turned around, acting as if she’d forgotten something, and headed wistfully back to Rose Cottage. She so missed him already. She ached for the opportunity to be alone with him again, to try and win his love. She imagined she had been so close to being his, yet the possibility was all but lost. The pain of unrequited first love increased inexorably and jostled at her heart.

      As she approached the hut she became aware of the navvy on tramp whom she’d seen a few minutes earlier walking alongside her as she neared the hut.

      ‘Howdo, Miss,’ he greeted. ‘Bist heading for Lightning Jack’s by any chance?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said, instantly throwing off her preoccupation at hearing her father’s name. ‘I’m his eldest daughter, Poppy.’

      ‘Well, is that the truth? Nor should I be surprised. Just look at thee … He said th’art a fine-looking wench. He told me thou tek’st after thy mother in looks. Is thy mother about, young Poppy?’

      ‘She’s in the hut, mister. Have you got some news o’ me father?’

      ‘Aye, I come bearing news o’ thy fairther.’

      Poppy looked with apprehension at his grave expression and opened the door of the hut to let him in. The men, who had just finished their dinners, were about to go back to work, leaving their mess to be cleared up by Sheba and Poppy, and her sister Lottie. They trooped outside as Buttercup entered.

      ‘Mother, this man’s on tramp and he says he’s got news o’ me father.’

      Sheba looked up and beheld the man with interest as she wiped her hands on her apron. ‘You’ve got news o’ Lightning Jack?’

      ‘I have that, missus. Lightning Jack and meself met up on our way to the Mickleton tunnel, and we’ve bin muckers ever since—’

      ‘Is that where he’s gone? The Mickleton tunnel?’

      ‘Aye, that’s where he got to. That’s where we both bin a-working – side by side.’

      ‘So what have you come to tell me that he wouldn’t come and tell me himself, mister?

      ‘Buttercup, missus. Folk call me Buttercup … And it ain’t that he wouldn’t come himself … He couldn’t.’

      ‘Couldn’t?’ Sheba said.

      ‘Nah.’ Buttercup shook his head solemnly. ‘’Cause the daft bugger blowed himself up.’

      Sheba slumped into a chair, the use suddenly draining out of her legs. ‘What exactly d’you mean, Buttercup? What d’you mean, blowed himself up?’

      ‘It was an accident, Sheba. I’ll call thee Sheba if th’ast got no objection. It was a tragic accident.’

      ‘So he’s dead?… Or is he still alive?’

      ‘He’s dead, poor bugger. I’m sorry to say.’

      There was a wail of anguish from Poppy, as piercing as the cry of a vixen that has lost a cub. At once she went to her mother for mutual consolation and threw her arms about her. ‘Me dad’s dead!’ she keened. ‘Oh, no. Please God, don’t let him be dead.’

      Sheba threw her arms around her daughter. Tears filled her own eyes and she began to tremble at the awful revelation. ‘How did it happen? When did it happen?’

      ‘Last Thursday,’ Buttercup said. ‘He’d packed gunpowder into the face of the rock to blow it and lit the fuse. He hivvered and hovered – I could see his candle in the darkness, not shiftin’ – and I called him to come away quick. “I’m a-coming,” he called back. But then he fell, Sheba, and I reckon as he twisted his ankle or summat, ’cause he dain’t shift no more. It’s dark in them tunnels, Sheba – night from dawn till dawn – and it’s my guess as he couldn’t mek out where he was a-walking, ’specially as he must’ve had the bright light o’ the fuse still flickering in his eyes, making all else seem darker by comparison. I rushed out to fetch him, but I was too late. The gunpowder exploded well afore I could get to him, and I reckon it was the blast what killed him. He was showered wi’ great lumps o’ rock any road. If he’d lived he’d most likely have ended up a cripple.’

      ‘My poor, poor Jack,’ Sheba moaned.

      ‘Aye. Poor Jack, and no two ways about it. Ye was all most dear to his heart, Sheba.’

      In her state of already heightened emotions, Poppy released another great howl of lamentation at these powerful but simple reminders of his affection for them, and Sheba hugged her tight. Not only had she lost Robert, but now her father was gone also. Forever. Never would she be able to take his hand and tell him things that she longed to tell him now; feelings she had never thought necessary to divulge to him when he was alive.

      ‘And what about his burial?’ Sheba asked.

      ‘He was buried Tuesday. I set off on tramp to let thee know as soon as ’twas over.’

      ‘I can’t get over it, Buttercup.’

      ‘Nor me, Sheba. It seems unbelievable. I liked Lightning Jack. We was good muckers … Here, I brought thee his things, look.’ Buttercup picked up the bundle that he’d laid on the floor between his feet and put it on the table in front of Sheba. ‘Summat to remember him by.’

      Sheba let go of her grieving daughter and opened up the bundle. She took out Jack’s metal tea bottle, the tin in which he kept his mashings, the pouch in which he kept his tobacco, his gum-bucket still reeking of the stuff. There was a razor, a shaving brush that had seen better days, and the remains of a bar of soap. Sheba saw these things and wept.

      ‘Well, Buttercup,’ she said eventually, drying her eyes and sniffing as she remembered her duties as regards hospitality. ‘How long since you’ve eaten?’

      ‘Oh, I had a bit o’ breffus somewhere round Halesowen.’

      ‘Then you’ll be clammed. I’ll rustle you summat up. Our Poppy, unlock the barrel and serve Mr Buttercup a quart.’

      ‘That’s real decent o’ thee, Sheba,’ Buttercup said. ‘Thou know’st what it’s like on tramp.’

      ‘That I do,’ Sheba replied.

      ‘Tell me, Sheba … Dost think there’ll be work here for me?’

      ‘You can but ask. See Billygoat Bob. But the tunnel here’s finished, ’cept for want o’ the permanent way being laid. I daresay there’s other work, though. Folk am coming and going all the time. It’s a different contractor now.’

      ‘Well, when I’ve had that bite I’ll seek out this Billygoat Bob. I see as thou tek’st in lodgers, Sheba. Cost find a bunk for me?’

      ‘Oh, I’ll organise you a bunk, Buttercup. Have no fear … only fourpence a night.’

      Word spread around the encampment about Lightning Jack’s death like a straw fire fanned by hot wind. A steady flow of navvies and a few women came to see Sheba to pay their respects. Poppy, however, her emotions already running high, took to her bed and sobbed the whole afternoon. If only she’d known, when he’d left that Saturday morning in May, that it would be the last time she would ever cast eyes on her father. She would have prevented him going somehow, hidden him somewhere close by till the fuss and palaver had died down. Even a spell in prison would have been infinitely preferable to his needless death. Such a horrible, sudden death at that. Now he was gone, there was so much she wanted to say to him, so much she wanted to hear.

      Poppy refused food when Sheba asked if she was ready to eat late that afternoon, and took only a mug of hot tea. As she lay, her eyes puffy

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