by David Smith
* * *
From David Smith’s memoir:
On the day of Mum’s funeral, Maureen is the only one I can share my tears with – she allows the thunder to roar out of me again and keeps the secret of my grief between the two of us. I still don’t know if it’s love or just the moment that brings us fully together and sets the time bomb ticking.
I go back to Aked Street for a while after Mum’s death, but it’s not the happy house I remember. Standing on the doorstep, cold but calm, I watch the empty street for the family’s return, cursing the aunt or uncle who decided I should look after Grandad. My duties go no further than cleaning his stinking room and removing the overflowing phlegm boxes. At night, I telephone Maureen – red Ardwick telephone box to red Gorton telephone box – and she listens patiently to me. I don’t need anyone but her.
There’s no sign of the black cars, so I leave the front door open and wander through the house. In the scullery, I stand beside the small mountain of booze that usually only appears at Christmas: several crates of beer and numerous bottles of whisky, brandy, port and Harveys Bristol Cream. On impulse I peer into the old hiding place behind the unused stove. Reaching in, I pull out exactly what I expected to find: three dust-covered pint bottles of Mum’s precious Guinness. I give a small laugh, remembering all the times I sprinted to the off-licence back in my cowboy days.
Replacing the bottles, I return again to the front step, but the street is still empty. I lean against the door. Mum is dead and I can accept it in my own way, with the memory of kissing her cold, pale skin so recent in my mind. But I shouldn’t be here alone in Aked Street while she’s lowered into the earth. I want to be at the graveside, saying goodbye as it should be done; she raised me to do the right thing. I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine myself standing with the rest of the family as she goes down to rest beside her brown-eyed soldier boy. Just to be there, to let fall a handful of earth among the flowers, to do what is right before walking away for the last time – that’s what should be happening. Not this pain that will stay with me for ever, the one that rips through me like the knife I always used to carry.
A low rumble reaches me from the end of the street. The cars turn in slowly and I flick my half-smoked cigarette into the gutter. A moment ago everywhere was deserted, but as the two black Princess limousines (courtesy of ‘Stiles the Undertaker’) pull up slowly outside the house, people appear all along the street until there isn’t a doorstep without a housewife or married couple silently paying their respects.
It isn’t a big family gathering, just the ‘immediates’ and me. I watch them emerging from the cars, middle-aged men and women in their sombre best, looking almost regal for once. I stick out like a sore thumb in my drainpipe jeans, winkle-pickers, white shirt and bootlace tie. Dad and Grandad appear, followed by the Duchess and Uncle Bert, and finally all the posh aunties who haven’t set foot in Mum’s house for years: Ida, Barbara, Dorothy and Debora. I watch as two sisters help their seemingly distraught father indoors; Grandad knows how to play to an audience, even when it’s only the locals. I step aside and mutter a polite hello to the women who, despite my adoption, have always remained aunties to me, never siblings.
The Duchess comes in last and I know she’s hung back purposely to have a word with me.
‘Have you remembered to light a fire in the parlour, David?’
I nod my head.
She touches my arm. ‘Good lad.’ She gives me a searching look. ‘Are you all right?’
I open my mouth for a glib reply, then admit, ‘No, not really.’
She pats my arm gently, ‘I know . . . I understand.’ And I believe her.
I leave the rest of the family to settle themselves down. In the backyard I smoke a couple of cigarettes and tell myself, ‘This is Mum’s day. This is my mum’s day.’ When I return to the kitchen, our neighbours Mrs Barnes and Mrs Yates are busily arranging sandwiches, cakes and a fresh pot of tea on the table. Both ladies ask sympathetically how I’m bearing up and I tell them fine, thanks. I like Mrs Barnes a lot; she has a son just a few years older than me – a 100 per cent, straight-up, dyed-in-the-wool Ted. Not a thug, just a good old boy who knows how to dress to impress and loves his mum and the music. Decent people.
My nerves are starting to splinter, so I head upstairs for a leak before facing the gathering. Coming out of the bathroom, my feet move on instinct towards Mum’s room. I turn the white doorknob, but the door seems to open of its own accord anyway.
A deep silence fills the room like a presence. Throughout the house all the curtains have been drawn to mark our mourning, but in here I can still make out the furniture, pictures and ornaments as if sunlight floods the room. Everything is just as Mum left it, perfectly in place. Her double bed is neatly made with the ironed creases visible on the turned-down sheet. It feels as if she hasn’t rested her head on the pillows here for years, as if she’s passed this room eternally by to climb the second flight of stairs to where her beloved dead son waits. I stand before her dressing table and gaze at my reflection unseeingly. I feel very young and very small. My hands hover over the surface of the dressing table. It’s crowded with fancy containers of every shape and size, all positioned very precisely; the essential female accoutrements that are forever a mystery to men.
I lift a small but surprisingly heavy box. A very noble swan has been hand-painted on the ice-blue porcelain lid. Inside is a fine, pale brown powder. When I hold it to my nose, the gentle smell stirs forgotten memories, and I rub a fingernail of dust over my cheekbones, near my nose. I rub so hard that my skin burns as the powder sinks into my complexion, leaving only its scent. I breathe in deeply and sense that Mum is near, very near.
The rising murmur of conversation from the floor below disturbs me. I put the box back among its companions and go swiftly downstairs. Outside the parlour, I pause: that door has never been left open as long as I can remember. Today it’s slightly ajar and I glimpse relations through a haze of cigarette smoke. The latch that I used to lift while standing tiptoe on a chair is well within my reach now; I push the door and close it behind me again.
All the chairs are taken, so I lean against a wall, fumbling for my cigarettes, and stand quietly alone, thinking, ‘This isn’t right, it’s all wrong, everyone shut up and stop ruining my memories. This is my world, mine and Mum’s, our special room, this is where I come from, so shut the fuck up.’
I force the tension to pass, holding the smoke in my mouth and putting a finger against my cheekbone to bring the fragrance of Mum’s powder out. Across the room, above the fireplace, hangs another of the many sepia photographs dotted about the house. I gaze at Mum and Grandad standing youthfully within the glass oval, sharing a loving look and surrounded by small, uncomfortable children in smart outfits. One little boy returns my stare more piercingly than the others. Frank is the only one missing from this gathering in the parlour. Or is he here? Unseen by any of us, but leaning against the wall in his khaki uniform, brown eyes watchful and knowing.
I shouldn’t be here, I tell myself, lowering my eyes from his. I don’t want to be here. I notice Mum’s lovely gramophone being used as a drinks trolley, half-empty bottles of port and Harveys Bristol Cream forming sticky rings on its gleaming mahogany top.
The Duchess catches my eye from the opposite corner, where she sits with an empty glass. I mimic taking a drink myself while pointing at her, and she nods with a smile. So I leave the parlour, shutting the door quietly, and walk to the scullery, where several empty bottles have appeared on the table.
‘Fuck it,’ I tell myself, reaching behind the stove to grab a bottle of Guinness. I flick off the dust and the cobwebs, open the top, and take a half-pint glass from the table before returning to the parlour, where my aunties are clustered on the settee. I have to pass them at close quarters to reach the Duchess and decide on the spur of the moment to let the devil in me loose. Faking clumsiness, I stumble, grab the stockinged knee of the lady closest to me, giving it a bit of a squee
ze and causing the women to fuss like hens.
Ignoring them, I hand the Duchess her Guinness and say loudly, ‘Mum left you a drink.’
The Duchess beams at me, then replies equally loudly, ‘Tell her thank you from me.’
Auntie Ida’s voice freezes the smile on my face: ‘David, love, be an angel and open that door for a bit of air. I can hardly get my breath in here.’
Open the parlour door and leave it open? Get some air into a room that’s never been sullied by fag ash and smoke, booze drunk and booze spilled? No fucking way, I think, but instead I nod, ‘Not a problem, Auntie Ida.’
I walk over to the door, open it and leave it ajar. I go into the hall and move towards the front door. It crosses my mind to turn back and shut the parlour door, fastening the latch to lock the lot of them in, but I place one foot determinedly in front of the other until I’m out into the street.
Somewhere deep within me I know that this will be the last time I ever see my family en masse, but the thought doesn’t slow me. It’s time to draw the curtain on my memories of that house and this street; I go on walking until home is out of sight and I’m on the traffic-congested thoroughfare of Stockport Road, its bland, busy pavements giving me the anonymity I crave.
I think I’ve said goodbye to Aked Street. But in a few short months I’ll return twice to seek refuge in the parlour again: first to pass an endless night grieving for my baby daughter and the second to find sanctuary following the savage murder of a boy my own age, from these same streets.
I wait for the bus, feeling as though I’ve finally left my childhood behind. On the top deck of the 109, I light a cigarette, rub my cheek again, and think of Maureen. She isn’t expecting me today, but I can’t wait to be with her. When I jump down from the bus, I have to fight the urge to run through the red warren of terraces, crowded corner shops, pubs and empty churches. The houses are so small you can almost hear what’s happening behind each front door.
I reach Eaton Street and knock loudly, excited and breathless, happy to be back in the shit hole where I now belong.
Nellie appears, unable to hide her surprise at seeing me.
I’m painfully aware of the daft grin plastered across my face as I ask, ‘Hello, Mrs Hindley, is Maureen home?’
Nellie knows it’s Mum’s funeral today and can tell from my expression that I’m not myself. ‘Is everything all right, David?’ she questions, then corrects herself: ‘Are you all right?’
I shuffle impatiently. ‘I’m fine, thanks, everything’s fine. I just need to see Maureen.’
Nellie frowns. ‘Well, she’s gone out somewhere. A couple of the girls called for her about an hour ago and they’ve gone for a walk.’
‘Right, thanks, Mrs Hindley. I’ll catch up with her. Bye.’
I know she’s watching me, arms folded Hindley-style, as I stroll down the street and turn the corner. Out of sight on Taylor Street I break into a desperate run.
It’s too early for the chip-shop meet, so I run along the main roads to Sivori’s. I know that’s where Maureen will be – she’s got to be, I tell myself. Stopping short of the cafe, I stand before a shop window to get my breath back, straightening the bootlace tie and taking the metal comb from the back pocket of my jeans to marshal my hair into an immaculate quiff. I give myself the once-over and like what I see, then pause deliberately before pushing open the door.
The pulsating rhythms of rock ’n’ roll and the reek of strong espresso hit me as I walk in, posing as usual, cool and moody: the Image is Back. Maureen sits with her gang of girls, eyes panda-black, cigarette dangling limply from her fingers in a way only she can make sexy. Before her is a small white cup with a lipstick smear, and below the table she taps her court shoes to Del Shannon’s latest hit.
Then she sees me and her smile lights up the cafe better than any jukebox neons.
She waves and I slouch over to sit among the girls. Leaning across, I kiss her softly on the cheek – something I’ve never done before. She reacts with obvious shock and her eyes spill concern. I listen with total lack of interest to the bubbly chatter of her friends while Buddy Holly raves on from the spinning black vinyl. I realise that Maureen has fallen silent and is watching me, her face serious and still. Something new is happening between us; I can feel it and know that she does, too.
I get up, needing to occupy myself, and feed coins into the jukebox, pressing the buttons before walking to an empty table and sitting with my back against the wall. I stare at Maureen and she returns my gaze, paying no attention to her giggling girlfriends. She’s listening to every line of the record I’ve chosen and after a minute excuses herself from the gang and walks towards me. The girls look across the tables knowingly, as she slides in next to me on the bench.
Her shoulder touches mine. I kiss her on the cheek again, while her friends turn tactfully away. She asks how my day has gone and I tell her it went all right for them, but I feel nothing now. The sadness has gone; I’m right where I want to be, close to the only person I want to be with, and we sit together talking about nothing in particular, drinking espresso until we’re wired, filling up the ashtray. We take it in turns to own the jukebox, letting Elvis speak for us. I feel Maureen’s leg against mine and her hand squeezing my hand, slipping her fingers through mine to lock us together. The girls glance over their shoulders, giggling again, but I don’t care and neither does Maureen. This is different from teenage passion in the back entries, where zips go down and skirts go up; we’re only holding hands, yet it feels more intimate and erotic than any knee-trembler we’ve ever shared.
Later when it’s dark the music stops, the coffee machines die with a splutter and the cafe empties. I leave Sivori’s with my arm around Maureen’s shoulder and her arm around my waist, gripping my studded belt.
We walk the full length of Taylor Street entwined together, rounding the corner into Eaton Street and ignoring the temptation of those shadowy back entries. Standing outside the Hindley house, with such lonely people existing miserably within, I kiss Maureen goodnight, softly, lingeringly. We don’t make a ‘date’ for tomorrow; we’ll be together every day from now on.
I return to the dim, silent house on Wiles Street, feeling more content than ever before about crossing the threshold. I wash in the usual biting cold water and go upstairs. Passing Dad’s empty bedroom, I open his door and turn on the light to give him something to aim for when he returns home smashed out of his mind. I’m glad to get to my own room, and drop with deliberate heaviness into bed, making the mattress springs groan. Crossing my ankles, I draw deeply on a cigarette and stare up at the ceiling, thinking back over the day.
This morning I lost someone for ever, but by the end of the afternoon I had someone else to love and I’m confident that she loves me, too. I shut my eyes calmly, picturing Maureen and ignoring the mountain of unhappy baggage that surrounds her in the form of her family.
June 1963, I say out loud, letting the words drift on the dark, smoky air. I’m 15 and the summer is already hotter than any I can remember. It feels like a storm is building on these streets, pressing down on the huddled houses and approaching slowly from somewhere beyond the railway line. People, I think, people will be the problem. Not my dad – I can handle him, his moping and drinking – but someone from the Hindley side. Not Bob; he doesn’t give a fuck about anything. Nellie’s a handful at times, but if Maureen stands her ground we can wear her mother down.
Myra, then.
Myra is the threat, the ominous funnel of black air in an otherwise unclouded sky. I’ve seen how she conducts herself on the street and how she batters her dad; Myra will screw this thing up for us, one way or another. Everyone is aware that me and Maureen are a couple – Bob and Nellie tolerate me around their home, but once it’s clear that there’s more to us than just a bit of teenage misbehaving there are bound to be comments from the adults. That doesn’t bother me. What makes my stomach tighten with anxiety is the deeper shadow that falls across Maureen: her sister.
And so I lie there, on the lumpy tick-mattress, unsettled about Myra’s influence over Maureen. Tiredness overwhelms me and at last I shrug: so what, let the storm come. Against the odds, today has been a good day, so screw you, Myra Hindley. Que Sera, Sera . . . whatever will be, will be.
I finish my fag, flick out the light and fall asleep with a smile on my face.
Chapter 5
‘She used to go dancing often. I was not worried at first, but I became alarmed when she failed to return . . .’
– Joan Reade, quoted in the Gorton & Openshaw Reporter, 2 August 1963
After Annie’s death, there was speculation among the family about where David should live. His grandfather wasn’t involved in the discussions. David recalls: ‘I hated the man. He couldn’t have cared less about Mum: when the chap from the Cooperative came to sort out the life insurance, Grandad put on a gala performance, weeping and wailing, pretending to turn his head away. “Oh, it’s blood money,” he cried, then snapped his neck round to make sure a wad of notes was in the offing. “Just leave it there . . . I won’t touch a penny of it, it’s blood money – just leave it there, on the table, that’s right, in a neat pile . . .”’ David grits his teeth in disgust. ‘As soon as the insurance man left, whoosh, out shot Grandad’s hand and the money disappeared into his pocket.’