The new Parkhead Viaduct straddled three prongs of a watery fork that was the junction of three canals. It was built entirely of wood. Sturdy trestles supported the thick planking above, which drummed beneath the abrasive scrunch of two hundred pairs of leather boots, stomping out of step across the span. Dog Meat was one of the men traversing the viaduct on his way to the cutting, avoiding the company of other navvies. Suddenly, he was aware of another person walking alongside him and he turned his head with resentment to see who.
‘Morning, Dog Meat. Smart new boots th’ast got there.’
‘Buttercup! Don’t you start! I’m pig-sick o’ folk taunting.’
‘Pig-sick, eh?’ Buttercup smiled at Dog Meat’s unwitting self-mockery. ‘Well, I bain’t about to needle thee, lad. I had it in mind to ask what thou thought about Tweedle Beak holding a lottery for young Poppy Silk.’
‘You wanted to ask me?’ Dog Meat queried, looking at Buttercup with an unbelieving eye.
‘Aye, thee. Th’ast got an opinion on it, I tek it.’
‘Huh. I just wish I could afford to buy a ticket. She’d be a good woman, would Poppy.’
‘Better than yon Minnie Catchpole?’
‘Yes. Even though there’s talk of Poppy and that young engineer—’
‘The engineer? Aye, but sod all will ever come o’ that, Dog Meat. The lad’s buggered off. Abroad, I heard. Any road, he was on’y learnin’ her to read and write.’
‘And I wonder what else,’ Dog Meat suggested cynically. ‘Why else would he bugger off?’
‘He wouldn’t need to bugger off if he’d got young Poppy into trouble. She’s on’y a navvy’s daughter. Who from his class cares about such as her? Now … if it was some daughter o’ the gentry …’
‘It’s a useful skill to have in a woman, reading and writing,’ Dog Meat said after a thoughtful pause. ‘’Specially when you can’t read and write yourself. If I won Poppy in the lottery I could be done with Minnie.’
‘Or has Minnie already done with thee, Dog Meat?’ Buttercup asked pointedly. ‘I mean to say, she’s had Jericho ferreting up her frock regular, by all accounts.’
Dog Meat shook his head resolutely. ‘Just the once.’
‘Oh, just the once, eh? Yo’ sound as if yo’ know all about it after all.’
Dog Meat frowned with puzzlement at Buttercup. ‘Aye, just the once,’ he affirmed. ‘He only paid me for the once any road.’
‘Paid thee?’ Buttercup grinned. ‘Yo’ mean you sold him the wench?’
‘He gi’d me the price of a gallon o’ beer. It was only for one jump, though.’
The older man guffawed. ‘Methinks you sold her too cheap, Dog Meat.’
‘You do?’
‘He’s bin cheating thee, that Jericho. He’s been seen going in and coming out of the tunnel a few times with that Minnie o’ thine.’
‘The bastard!’ Dog Meat exclaimed at the realisation. ‘How many times?’
‘The Lord only knows, Dog Meat. How many times a night could thou manage it?’
‘Christ! He must owe me a fortune,’ Dog Meat cried, at once sorting his priorities. ‘I’ll part him from his money one road or another.’
Later that day, as Buttercup strutted towards Rose Cottage after his day’s work, he espied Poppy Silk scolding Rose, the younger of her two sisters. He slowed down, waiting for the argument to die, then called Poppy’s name. She halted and straightened her apron when she saw him, then smiled with embarrassment at having been thus seen.
‘Hello, Buttercup,’ she greeted, looking up at him expectantly.
‘Poppy. I’m glad as I’ve caught thee. There’s summat as I wanted to talk to thee about. Can you meet me after? It ain’t summat as I want to discuss where other folks can hear.’
She looked at him mystified. ‘If you want. What time? Where?’
‘When the others am in the alehouse getting fuddled. Meet me by the bridge where the road ends and the footpath starts – towards Netherton.’
‘I know it,’ she answered. ‘About eight?’
‘Eight’ll do. It’ll be getting dark by then. Don’t let on to anybody as you’m meeting me.’
She nodded, wondering what on earth he wanted to see her about. Back inside the hut she continued with her work, cooking the meals that the lodgers had left with her, that were wrapped in linen and steeping in the boiling copper. One by one she drained them and plated them before she handed them out to their respective owners.
Most men took beer with their meals, a taster before the serious drinking that would ensue later. After they had eaten, the men would linger, talking, putting the world to rights, before they dispersed to change into their more flamboyant clothes.
‘You’ll make somebody a grand wife,’ was a common compliment in anticipation of the fate that was to befall her.
‘Somebody? I wonder who?’ she would reply, irrespective. To another she added, ‘Just as long as it ain’t you. So please don’t buy a lottery ticket.’
When the work was done, Poppy glanced at the clock. It was almost eight and she was aware that Buttercup had left the hut. She took off her apron, teased her hair and slipped out without saying a word. She hurried to Shaw Road and walked hurriedly downhill, looking behind her to see if anybody was watching. It was still slippery with mud underfoot, but the rain had ceased and the sky was clear. Buttercup was already waiting by the bridge, smoking his clay pipe.
‘Sorry if I kept you waiting, Buttercup.’
‘It meks no odds, young Poppy,’ he said kindly.
‘What did you want to see me about?’
‘I wanted to know how thou feels, wench,’ he replied. ‘Having known thy father as well as any man, being privy to his hopes and dreams and taking to him the way I did, I feel a mite responsible for thee, young Poppy. I sort of feel entrusted to be thy guardian.’
She smiled up at him gratefully. ‘What do you want to know? How I feel about men drawing lots for me?’
‘Aye. That sort o’ thing.’
‘What do you think about it, Buttercup?’
‘I think it’s a scandal.’
‘Do you think my father would’ve sold lottery tickets to get shut of me, or to profit from me?’
Buttercup shook his head. ‘Never in a million years. It was one of the big regrets in me life that I dain’t have the privilege of knowing thy father longer, Poppy. But I know well enough that he would never have sacrificed thee to the gamble of a lottery. Lord knows who’s likely to have the winning ticket. It’s just as like to be somebody you detest as one of them handsome bucks.’
‘I don’t want to be drawn by anybody, Buttercup, handsome or not,’ she said. ‘I always swore I’d never end up with a navvy …’
‘Don’t none of ’em appeal?’
She shook her head.
‘What about Dog Meat?’
She pulled a face. ‘’Specially not Dog Meat. He ain’t got the brains of a gnat.’
‘Who