“Paddy’s too clever for us, Tommy,” said Martin. “So, we might as well tell him.”
“Tell him what?”
“Shallup Tommy!” Paddy glared at me. “Go on Martin. I won’t say a word ta anyone, not even to me auld Granny, God rest her soul.”
“Tommy’s tellin’ the truth. We are givin’ ourselves up ta the coppers so we can be with the rest of our brothers and sisters, but we don’t know if we want to tell dem about the money.”
“What money?” both Paddy and I asked in unison.
“The money we stole from the church an’ buried over there.” Martin gave me the look, before pointing across to the croft next to the recently demolished houses and I noticed that Paddy’s eyes had suddenly lit up.
“Oh! that money!” I suddenly remembered, falling in with my brother’s concocted tale about us robbing the collection money from St Mary’s Church in Upper Moss Street the previous evening.
“That can’t be right, stealing from the church – can it?” said Paddy.
“Only if it’s not a Catholic church,” said Martin. “Well, we have ta go now Paddy. We’ll see yah when we see yah.”
“Yer coddin’ me aren’t yah? I mean, yer not really giv’n yourselves up ta the coppers? Are yah?”
“Aye, we are that, Paddy,” said Martin.
“Yah won’t be touchin’ that money now Paddy will yah?” I added.
“What do ya take me for Tommy!” Paddy looked hurt. “I wouldn’t do such a ting ta me own kind, so I wouldn’t.” He stood on the same spot eyeing us suspiciously as we walked off up the street.
“He’ll murder us for sure if he ever finds out we made it all up.”
“Well he won’t find out unless he’s stupid enough ta dig up the whole croft,” laughed Martin.
Continuing our journey along those last few streets, which had played such an important part of our childhood, I felt afraid to look back over my shoulder in case we’d spot someone, or they’d spot us, which could so easily have influenced us to leave the path we were set on.
I didn’t want to give myself up. I didn’t want to leave those damp, dark streets that were just as much a part of me as I was a part of them – and certainly the place where I had felt safest. But I missed my brothers and sisters. And as tough as times were for us all, it was always comforting to be in their company, sharing everything we had, including the warmth of our bodies when we had snuggled up together in bed under all the old overcoats and whatever other rags we could find to keep ourselves warm.
I so missed my sister Bernie’s infectious laughter and the brilliant ideas she would often come up with, for someone so young. Ideas that had got us into big trouble. Like the time she’d taken us on that ride in Mr McCarthy’s horse and cart through the streets of Manchester and up along Piccadilly Plaza in the city centre.
I missed our big sister Maggie’s sour puss when Mammy and Daddy were not around. And though she pretended nothing ever bothered her, we knew she’d be worrying so much about us over any little thing, especially our habit of stopping out much later than we ought to have done. I missed the affection Elizabeth had for us all, her reassurance and encouraging words that kept us all going, at times, helping us to forget our hunger. Martin and I needed her. We needed all of them. And for that, we were both willing to give up our own freedom.
“Look!” I’d been the first to spot the tall aluminium television aerial still attached to the chimney of the house with its roof now collapsed in on itself. And in that moment, it seemed that I had suddenly forgotten that we had a purpose for that day. Until Martin reminded me.
“Leave it Tommy! It’s no use ta us any more.”
“It’s got to be worth at least tuppence.”
“But not ta us – not any more.” He held out his hand to help me back across the uneven surface of the ground. And that’s when it had all suddenly dawned on me and I came to accept that this chapter in our lives was close to its end. Hulme had nothing left to give us but our memories, and for those we were grateful. We were still holding hands when we turned into Park Street and walked into the police station.
I can still see the look on the fat Sergeant’s face as we ambled inside the station and stood peering up at him in silence. His jaw nearly dropped onto the large oak counter. You could almost hear a pin drop as he stared back down on us, before squeezing his eyelids tightly together, as if checking whether we were just a figment of his imagination. Then he went away, leaving us standing there for a few seconds before he reappeared with a posse of faces, which stared over the counter at us, their murmured whispers finally breaking the silence.
“You’ve seen some sense at last, have you?” The Sergeant’s hardened face had softened into a smile. But if he’d been waiting for an answer or a smile back from us, he would have been waiting for an eternity. Our lack of schooling had left us with a somewhat stunted vocabulary, so our conversations were very short and sweet, influenced more by the foul language we’d picked up from our elders. For Martin and me, that day was not a victory or a disaster. There were no sentimental emotions running through my head. In fact, there were no thoughts at all – they would come later. For now, I remained silent, staring up with expressionless eyes into the Sergeant’s face.
“Come on,” he sighed, breaking the spell. Lifting the heavy counter flap up for us to come behind, he handed us over to the jailer, telling him to look after us.
We were put into a large cell with an iron-barred frontage, which I can only assume was used as an eating area for the policemen working at the station. It was furnished with a long, heavy table and an assortment of six or seven chairs, with drab-green painted cupboards fixed to the walls and a large floor-standing three-bar electric fire in one corner. The jailer said he was going off to fetch us something to eat and as he went, he closed the gate behind him and was about to lock it. But then he paused, seemingly having second thoughts, before swinging the large iron gate back open, leaving it ajar as he left us alone.
He arrived back with a portion each of sausage and chips covered in a thick layer of mushy peas and all wrapped in newspaper, which we’d gratefully swallowed down with the help of a large tin mug of strong, sweet tea. Afterwards, we were interviewed by two social workers, Miss Barton and Miss Young, who arrived in the late afternoon.
Miss Barton, the older-looking of the two women, was small and plump with short, silvery-grey hair. The other was much taller and wider with black hair in a bob and a face like a constipated gorilla. I didn’t like the pair of patronising old biddies, who started off with their false, sweet smiles, calling us Martin and Tommy as if they’d known us for ages. They were desperate to get information out of us.
“Where’s your mother?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
“Did your father come home from prison?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
“Who has been looking after you both?”
“We don’t need anyone looking after us, missus.”
“So, there was no one looking after you?”
“We’d not said that, so don’t be puttin’ words inta our mouths,” snapped Martin.
“Then who has been looking after you?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
“And how did you eat?”
“With our mouths.” I sniggered at the stupid question.
“We are obviously not getting anywhere with this.” The snooty, silver-haired woman, having grown tired of our unhelpfulness and seeming to be getting humpier by the minute, spoke through gritted teeth. It had taken her a moment to gather her composure, before telling us we were being taking to Lynwood Children’s Home for a few days, until they could find us a more permanent place. Nazareth House was mentioned as a permanent possibility and that news had lifted our spirits, giving us hope that we could soon be reunited with most of our fami
ly.
“So,” said the darker-haired woman, “if you’ve any questions you would like to ask us before we set off, now is your chance.” She stared hard from Martin to me.
“Have yah been ta a zoo?” asked Martin.
“That’s an odd question, under the circumstances. But since you ask, yes, Polly and I visited Chester Zoo only last week.” She threw a big smile at her silver-haired companion.
“How did yah escape?”
On the way out of the police station, the smiling desk Sergeant, probably smiling at the thought of never having to see us again, stood holding the front door wide open for us. We gave him our best scowls and I just had the word “fatty” on my lips when he suddenly handed us each a pack of fruit Spangles, telling us to take care of ourselves. And for the first time ever, I had seen a softer side to this big fella who, on many occasions, we had harassed and threatened with all sorts of dire consequences if he so much as looked at us.
A New Home
With the pair of us sitting in the back of the two-door Morris Minor, we were taken on the short journey of around three miles to our destination. The silence was interrupted only the once, when a football bounced off the pavement into the path of the car. The Gorilla, who was driving, deliberately aimed the car straight at the ball and popped it, to the amusement of her colleague, while three small boys stood on the pavement with their two fingers in the air, screaming abuse at the car.
“What chance has the world got with this lot?” sneered the Gorilla, peering into the rear-view mirror (probably admiring her handiwork), where she caught my gaze and held it. But determined as I’d always been, I glared back at her with a grin spread right across my grubby face – knowing she would have to back down first or crash the car. “And that’s just the children,” she declared, as I won the battle of wits.
It was already dark when we arrived at Lynwood House Children’s Home. Both social workers escorted us into the hallway and had the briefest of discussions with a middle-aged fella they’d addressed as Mr Howard who to all intents and purposes looked as if he’d just woken up and climbed out of his coffin. He kept blowing his reddened hooter, excusing himself for his bad bout of flu. Pale-faced and as bald as a coot, he looked to us like he was at death’s door. It wouldn’t have surprised me one bit if his clothes, which hung off his bony body like sacks, had fallen off him when he sneezed twice in succession.
“I’m Uncle John,” he said hoarsely.
“What’s the queer fella sayin?” asked Martin under his breath.
“I tink he said he’s our Uncle.”
“He looks like Granddaddy standin’ in his coffin, I’ll give him dat!”
“So, he is our Uncle?”
“Shallup Tommy.”
“The children here call me Uncle John,” he explained.
“Well, we’re callin’ yah nothin’ of the sort, mister. An’ don’t yah be pretendin’ yer related ta us when we’ve never set eyes on yah till now.” Martin put him in his place.
“This is Aunty Pauline,” said the dead-looking fella, ignoring Martin and introducing us to the fat, slobby-looking girl who had suddenly squeezed herself out into the hallway through a side doorway.
“Jaysus, will yah get a look at dat. No wonder the queer fella’s dying of starvation, with the size of her.” Martin muttered the words out of the side of his mouth, causing me to almost choke on my laughter.
“Aunty Pauline will look after you and I’ll speak with you tomorrow morning,” said the ill fella, suddenly walking off and leaving us with the blonde fat girl, who couldn’t have been much older than our sister Mary – though probably three times as wide. I’d taken an instant dislike to her, with her gawking eyes sizing up the pair of us and her nose in the air, as if she thought she was above us. I’d been on the point of firing off the first barrage of abuse at her when, right on cue, she suddenly turned her back on us and walked away.
“Follow me – if you’re hungry.”
Aunty Pauline rustled us up some cheese sandwiches and a home-made Victoria sponge, along with a glass of watery, diluted orange juice to swill it down. We sat at the large kitchen table, forced to listen to her going on about her life, which hadn’t amounted to all that much. She lived in Moss Side, hardly ever went to school, was put into care aged 12 after her mother had got rid of her baby – the one her granddaddy had given her. Now aged 16, she bemoaned the fact she had been removed from every foster care placing, having been accused of being a nympho-something-or-other.
“I suppose I’m one of the lucky ones living here and them giving me a job as well,” said Aunty Pauline, who perhaps wasn’t so bad after all.
She seemed happy with her lot. So, when she helped herself to a large lump of the Victoria Sponge, Martin and I quickly grabbed our lot, leaving her to pick off the crumbs left on the plate.
I wondered why her mother had given away the baby her granddaddy had given to her and where he’d got it from in the first place. Daddy said he’d found us under a bush by the Manchester shipping canal. I wanted to ask her if that’s where her granddaddy had found her baby. But I changed my mind at the last minute, not wanting to upset her, especially as we all seemed to have been getting on well. It did have me thinking about why our own mother had left us the way she did, which brought to my mind the song our sister Mary used to sing us to sleep with.
I once had a dear old mother
who meant the world to me
and when I needed her
she’d always cuddle me.
One night as I lay dreaming
upon my little bed
an angel came from Heaven
to tell me mother was dead.
I woke up in the morning
to see if it was true
And she’d gone to Heaven
above the sky so blue.
So listen all you children
and do what you are told
for if you lose your mother
you’ll lose a heart of gold.
I liked the song very much and was able to understand its meaning, though it meant nothing to me, in the sense of losing something as precious as a mother. I’d lost my mother and I had no emotional attachment to that fact. But I had been left with the question, if a good mother has a heart of gold, what was my mother’s heart made of?
We followed Aunty Pauline upstairs to the bathroom where she ran a bath, telling us to strip off and get in. We were only too happy to oblige, before being interrupted by a breathless, grey-haired old woman who came barging in on us.
“I’ll deal with the boys,” said the bespectacled old woman, scowling at Aunty Pauline and telling her, between deep breaths, to leave the bathroom. Then she turned on us and snapped, “Come on! Off with those dirty rags and into the bath.” But we were not so obliging for her, and we stood our ground, scowling back at her.
“Come on. We haven’t all day.”
“We’re goin’ nowhere missus, are we, Tommy?”
“Not today we’re not.” I grinned at the woman. “Anyways, yer not gettin’ a peek at our flutes.”
“Flutes? What are you talking about!”
“Our mickeys.”
“Mickeys indeed. Get yourself in the bath and I’ll be back with some clean clothes for you. Flutes!” She walked out of the bathroom closing the door behind her, as we hurriedly stripped naked.
I still don’t know why we did what we did next, but the intentions of getting a bath changed instantly when Martin, with a mischievous grin, stepped into the bath and opened the sash window above it. I watched as he climbed out of it and down the soil pipe to the ground and then I followed him.
“Are we runnin away, Martin?” I scanned the small passageway we’d found ourselves in, looking for an escape route.
“Let’s pretend ta be dead.” He got down on the ground and laid on his back,
and I followed suit, lying on my back on the cold concrete surface, as naked as the day I was born. With my head resting on Martin’s stomach, I squinted through half-closed eyes at the open window of the bathroom above us.
Not long afterwards we heard this almighty, blood-curdling scream, and saw the old woman’s grey head looking out of the window, peering down into the dark at us.
“Oh Lord! They’ve fallen out of the window! They’ve fallen out of the window! The poor buggers!” The woman was beside herself as we listened to her voice fade away.
“Quick!” said Martin, pushing me up off him.
Climbing back up the soil pipe, with me following close behind him, we clambered back into the bathroom and pulled the window shut, before sitting in the bath and washing ourselves.
“But I know what I saw! They were both lying there! I didn’t imagine it!”
We scowled at the group who had suddenly rushed into the bathroom, led by Mr Howard, still blowing his hooter. The distraught old woman standing alongside him stared at us with disbelieving eyes and, shaking her head from side to side, insisted she’d seen what she’d seen. And no one could tell her otherwise.
I caught Aunty Pauline’s gaze and was sure she knew what we’d been up to, as her concerned look suddenly bloomed into a wide grin.
“I think you should take the rest of the week off, Mrs O’Neil,” advised Mr Howard, as we continued to scowl, while shaking our heads at the distraught woman. “You have been overdoing it again.”
“But I swear, they were lying outside. I saw them both. I did!”
End of an Era
Our expectations that we would be moved on quickly to Nazareth House to join our siblings, as originally mentioned by Social Services, never materialised. Longing to be reunited with our brothers and sisters, we’d cried in private until we’d no more tears left to shed. We had lived on the promise of being reunited with them and were told time after time, “Soon”, “Not long now”, “Just be patient.” Eventually, time was to blunt the sharpness of our separation from them.
Boy Number 26 Page 2