Angel Meadow

by Audrey Howard

  “I were wonderin’ why yer not walking yerselves. Me mam tells me the three of yer go ter Sunday school in Ashley Road. Is that right?” Not that he’d taken any notice of his mam’s ramblings. Went in one ear and out the other but this bit of information seemed to have lodged in his brain and the words came out of it.

  “Yes, we went for five years. We can all read an’ write.” Her pride in their achievement was immense and so it should be, for they were the only people in Church Court, indeed probably in Angel Meadow, who could. “Mrs Edwards – she was our teacher – wanted us ter become Sunday school teachers ourselves but . . . well, we didn’t go fer . . . well, God or anything like that. He’s not done much fer us nor me mam so why should we do anything for Him? What we’ve got we’ve got fer ourselves so we’ve stopped going now.”

  She made no bones of the fact that they had attended Sunday school for one reason only and now that that was achieved and the school was of no further use to her she was finished with it. She had better things to do with her life than waste it on other folk.

  “She was always sayin’ – Mrs Edwards – we’d to broaden our horizons and I reckon we’ve broadened them enough. Time to move on now,” she ended briskly.

  “An’ what might that mean, Nancy Brody, broaden yer ’orizons?” Mick grinned amiably, for what did he care? His come day-go day life suited him down to the ground and his lack of education mattered to him not at all. He did a bit of bare-knuckle prize fighting, earning a purse or two, since he was young, strong and healthy and there were more than enough young women in the world who were delighted with his smooth tongue and rough lovemaking. He liked nothing better than a night drinking and betting on the cock fights that took place in the area. The life of a man, a real man and that was Mick O’Rourke and he saw no reason to change it, or, as Nancy had, to better himself. In his opinion he was good enough!

  For a moment Nancy looked downcast. That this handsome young man who was studying her with a warmth she found somewhat disconcerting should be so poorly educated – could he not read? she wondered, saddened by the thought – that he did not know the meaning of broadening your horizons, quite horrified her. Education was more and more readily available to everyone now, through Sunday schools and the Mechanics Institute, one of which had opened in Miles Platting quite recently, just off Oldham Road, no more than a brisk walk from Angel Meadow. And mill owners were now compelled to supply two hours’ education each day to all children employed in their mills, but it seemed Mick O’Rourke could see no advantage in it. She tried to explain.

  “Well, it means to make use of everything that comes your way. Not to waste it. To notice things, to read about things and to learn from them. That’s what we mean to do, isn’t it, girls? You must see what’s beyond the boundaries of your life, of what yer mam an’ dad did,” she went on seriously, quite spellbound by the incredible blue of his merry, twinkling eyes. “Perhaps yer didn’t know but there’s ter be an Arts Treasures Exhibition opened in Old Trafford this month an’ we mean ter go and see it. I read that there’ll be paintings by all the famous painters. Constable and Turner and Millais, which I’ve seen in books at the library, are going to be displayed there so this is our chance ter see them. That’s broadening your horizons.” Her eyes shone and her face had become pink with excitement and Mick O’Rourke was mesmerised by her.

  “Yer don’t say! Well I never, but what about fun, Nancy Brody? Where does that come in?”

  “Fun?” Nancy looked mystified.

  “Aye, a good laugh.”

  “A good laugh?”

  “Aw, come on, lass, yer know what a good laugh is, though it don’t seem ter me you do much of it.” He’d plainly had enough of this stuff about paintings and such, his manner said, and if they stuck with him he’d show them what a good time was. “What yer gonner do when yer’ve seen the walks, eeh?” His grin was infectious and Mary and Rose turned to look at their Nancy in hopeful anticipation. By the standards of the day, though they were unaware of it, all three were relatively well educated. They had learned well, since they were bright and intelligent. A plain education, to be sure, with no French or music or art but for the past four years, ever since they had understood the written word, they had been reading whatever the gentleman at the free library recommended to them. Some of the books were dull, hard to get through, educational instead of entertaining, but enlightening to the three girls, revealing another world beyond Angel Meadow. Others were light, hugely enjoyable like David Copperfield and Martin Chuzzlewit, making their labours over the past five years worth every struggle.

  But it was their Nancy who kept them at it. They did not join the other children in street games. They did not move across their own doorstep when they got home from the mill at night, so fun was a mystery to them. They were well nourished, warmly clad, well shod, and upstairs, hidden behind the loose brick, was a growing hoard of farthings, halfpennies, pennies, sixpences, even whole shillings, and when the time was right they knew their sister had plans for it. They did not know what. They, and she, were satisfied with what they had at the moment. It was enough for now. Nancy had only to say, “We don’t want to end up like Mam, do we?” at the first hint of rebellion and it was suppressed before it had hardly begun.

  “What about Belle Vue?” he asked them seductively.

  “What about it?” Nancy looked wary.

  “There’s a zoo and pleasure gardens, they do say an’ I’ve a fancy ter see ’em. What about you?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly and his smile deepened.

  Nancy’s vanished. She would dearly love to go, for who hadn’t heard of the wonders of Belle Vue but it would mean spending money on something that would not be of value to them. She was so set on her course and the part her sisters were to play in it she could not afford to fritter away good money on pleasure gardens and zoos. The three of them, in the eyes of the folk who lolled in the sunshine on the doorsteps and against the damp and crumbling walls of Church Court and indeed all the alleys and streets that cobwebbed Angel Meadow, were as well dressed as they were sure the “quality” in Higher Broughton and beyond were. But Nancy knew better. She had studied the newspapers and periodicals displayed in the reading-room at the library that had advertisements for the latest fashions in ladies’ clothing, and she was aware that she and her sisters were, in comparison to the very quality she so admired, meanly, drably dressed. They looked what they were: working girls. Worse: slum girls who worked in a cotton mill, but she intended to remedy that which meant every bloody farthing the Brody girls earned was spoken for and certainly not to be chucked away on the likes of roundabouts and sideshows and hurdy-gurdies.

  Her sisters watched her avidly, their eyes bright with longing and she felt herself weaken. They were so much better off than their neighbours. In fact they were rich in comparison but, as Mick said, there was not much fun in their lives. They ate well but there was little laughter in their diet. They knew so much more than their neighbours but they were ignorant of games. They were warm and secure, thanks to her thrifty direction and their own hard work, but they got little pleasure, enjoyment, simple childish amusement out of the hard life they led. Still, it could not be helped. She must stick to her plan and so must they if the Brody girls were to amount to anything.

  She was beginning to shake her head. Mary looked as though she were about to cry and Rosie’s bottom lip stuck out mutinously. They had been elated earlier in the day at the thought of walking, with the rest of the sightseers, over to St Ann’s Square to watch the procession set out from there to Collegiate Church. A day off in the sunshine. A chance to cast off their mill-girl image and wear the plain but decent dresses they and their Nancy had contrived for them, to tie on their bright ribbons – for only Nancy had a bonnet – and go and enjoy the day with the rest of Manchester; but now, with a few silky words, Mick O’Rourke had spoiled it for them by presenting them with something better that they could not have.

  “It’s free ter get in,” he
offered casually. His eyes twinkled impishly, innocently, giving the impression that he was a hell of a decent fellow who wanted nothing more than to offer them an enjoyable outing.

  “Oh, Nancy, please, can us go? It’ll cost nowt.” Rose reverted to the speech of her early childhood in her breathless excitement and for a moment Nancy felt a spurt of irritation. She tried so hard to make her sister speak grammatically in readiness for their future and now here was this cheeky Irish Paddy undoing all her work, turning their heads and leading them to God knows what with his blandishments – and she knew what that word meant an’ all, for she’d looked it up in the dictionary at the library!

  “Please, Nancy, we promise not ter ask fer owt. Just let’s go an’ see th’ animals. I’ve never clapped eyes on an elephant, not in’t flesh, nor a giraffe, nor a tiger nor a—”

  “Yes, yes, I ’eard yer, our Mary.” Nancy also lost her grip on the English language in her confusion and, leaning indolently with one shoulder against the cottage wall end, his hands in his pockets, his eyes dancing with mischief, Mick O’Rourke watched the first crack appear in Nancy Brody’s solid façade of the respectability she craved. The first small deviation from the fierce ambition that burned in her, the flames consuming her since the night she had realised that her mam would never return. That whatever was to happen in the lives of the Brody girls was to be achieved only by her efforts.

  “I’ll treat yer to a ride on summat, acushla,” Mick said lazily. “Ter be sure ’tis a sorry day when Mick O’Rourke can’t put ’is ’and in ’is pocket ter treat a pretty lass like yerselves. Three pretty lasses like yerselves.” He jingled the coins in his pocket, come from the purse he had won only last night in a local prize fight.

  Nancy turned on him like a vixen defending her cubs. Her eyes flashed great gold-shot lights and her face flooded with the red of her indignation. Laughingly he stepped away from her, his hands held up in a pretence of terror as she thrust her face into his.

  “Yer’ll do no such thing, Mick O’Rourke,” she hissed. “The Brodys take charity from no one, d’yer ’ear? If there’s any rides ter be ’ad then we’ll pay for ’em usselves. Is that clear?”

  She did not at that moment realise that without meaning to and against her will she had committed herself to Mick’s plans for them, nor did she see the gleam of satisfaction in his blue Irish eyes.

  “Whatever yer say, Miss Brody.” His voice was mocking. “Now then, let’s go an’ see if the Proddy walks are as good as t’ Catholic ones. But I’ll not argue wi’ yer over it, acushla, or I might get me ’ead bit off. See, will yer not tekk me arm? No . . . Then ’ow about you – Rosie, is it?”

  And Nancy had no choice but to trail at the back of Mick O’Rourke who set off along Angel Street in the direction of St George’s Road and St Ann’s Square with one of her sisters, flushed and giddy with joy, on each arm. He was the most exasperating man she had ever met and in her job she came across a few who had been unwise enough to take on Nancy Brody. Though she was only fourteen – she could stand up to the best, or worst of them, with a reputation for having a tongue on her like a rattlesnake. She’d a way with words, words they’d never heard before, which tied them up in knots and up to now she’d not met one who could get the better of her.

  On the walk from Angel Meadow to St Ann’s Square Mick kept turning back to look over his shoulder at her, beaming in great good humour, raising his eyebrows and winking as though to enquire of her that surely she could only agree that this was great fun.

  And it was. At the end of it when, after he had seen them gallantly to their front door – not attempting to come in, for Mick knew how to play this game – they all agreed, sighing, that it had been perfect. The sun shone from a cloudless blue sky. They were jostled cheerfully by the milling crowds who were all going in the same direction, down Shude Hill and cutting through the packed and narrow streets to St Ann’s Square. There were eight statutory holidays in England, and Whit Monday was one of them and the whole working population of Manchester meant to make the most of it. Whit week was the greatest jubilee of all, enjoyed by them all, and though the great majority of them could afford no other means of transport than their own two feet, they were determined to see as much of it as they could. There were fairs and plays and concerts, cock fights and prize fights. Businesses came to a standstill and pleasure reigned; in fact it got out of hand at times which was why the churches had tried to reclaim the masses with the organised processions of Whit week.

  But the street entertainers were not to be outdone. Bands marched and blew and banged, ballad singers set up on street corners and street sellers screeched their wares, their voices drowned by the cacophony. Men and women, and even children, shouted and laughed and vanished into taverns together, tottering out later on unstable legs to sample the next enjoyment. From byways and alleys and back streets the crowds erupted so that cabs were forced to drive at a snail’s pace through the throng, the cab drivers shouting and swearing at them to get out from under the horses’ lethal hooves.

  But the greatest wonder of all began when they had struggled back along Market Street and London Road after watching the procession. They strode out to the outskirts of the city to Hyde Road and the long country walk to Belle Vue Gardens. The fields on either side of the road were as much a marvel to the Brody girls, at least Nancy thought so, as anything they had seen, or were about to see that day, for they had never before walked beyond the urban sprawl of Manchester. It was May and the hawthorn hedges exploded with blossom, the meadows were vivid with the emerald of new grass and the yellow of cowslips. There were marsh marigolds and lady’s-smock hanging over the small stream that ran in a ditch beneath the hedge bordering the road, though of course the sisters did not know the names of the plants just then but Nancy meant to learn them, just as she learned about everything that interested her. There were rows of books about plants on the library shelves. They heard the call of the cuckoo for the first time and watched as a pair of white-throated birds chased each other through the branches of a tree and were enchanted when a rabbit scampered across the road. Their continual halts to see this or that, to listen to the birds or inspect a hedgehog curled up in the grass, began to annoy Mick who had no interest in such things, but at last they reached the great raucous blast of the thirty-six acres that made up Belle Vue Gardens and Zoo.

  They got lost in the maze, shrieking with pretended fear, for they knew Mick would find them, watched him on the bowling green and the firing range, applauding his prowess while he strutted and preened like a peacock. They strolled across the deer park, Mary and Rose confiding that they hoped they met no deer, for might they not be dangerous beasts with those fierce horns? Antlers, Nancy told them primly, for she liked to have things right. Really, they said, without interest.

  There was a brass band and a licensed dancing saloon but though Nancy had been overruled on her stand against allowing Mick to pay for things, she put her foot down on this, though Mick did his best to persuade her, for he did so want to get her into his arms! They went to the tearooms instead and had tea and sticky buns which she insisted on paying for though the cost horrified her. They saw the elephants, the giraffes and monkeys and Rosie was taken up before Mick on a handsome horse on the merry-go-round, much to her delight.

  It was dark as they walked the last weary mile home. They were all quiet, even the irrepressible Irishman and Nancy allowed it when he took her hand and put it in the crook of his arm. He felt he had made good progress today in the seduction of Nancy Brody.

  5

  Nobody was more surprised than Annie Wilson when Nancy confided to her that she and her sisters were to leave Monarch at the end of May.

  “Leavin’? What for?” Annie’s pallid, good-natured face registered her amazement. Her jaw dropped and her dismay was so strong she allowed her machine to falter and a thread to break.

  “Oh, bloody ’ell,” she cried, “see what yer made me do now, yer daft beggar. ’Ere, Elsie,” to he
r little piecer, “see ter that thread, will yer, an’ give over natterin’ ter everyone what passes by,” her consternation driving her to blame the child unfairly for her own mistake.

  “I’ll tell you later, Annie, at breakfast.”

  They sat in a corner of the yard on a pile of sacking, the end of May sunshine which had continued all the month falling on their white-speckled heads and shoulders, sipping their tea and eating their bread and cold bacon side by side. A few yards away Mary and Rose were gossiping with some other younger girls and Annie, who said nothing, of course, since it was her belief that it was best to keep your trap shut over what didn’t concern you, believed that it was because of the way Nancy behaved that they converged towards girls younger than themselves. Nancy had got into the way of treating them as though they were still children, which, Annie supposed, in an ideal world they would be, and so, the more childish or light-minded their co-workers tended to be the more Nancy’s sisters were attracted to them. They giggled and whispered, as young girls will, casting slant-eyed looks at the lads and young men with no thought for the future, which was Nancy’s consideration, gathering for themselves a great deal of male attention, for they were, along with Nancy, the bonniest lasses in the mill. Apart from their feet and ankles they were as clean and neat as a newly wound bobbin of yarn. Their plaited hair was much copied now by the young girls who pleaded to be shown how to do theirs the same way, but though they did their best their lank and greasy locks looked nothing like the shining, curling glory of the Brody girls. Nancy’s sisters were thirteen and twelve but already the lads were flocking and Nancy would have to watch them, for they hadn’t half, nay a quarter, of the sound common sense she had. Easily led they would be, preening over a bit of flattery and though Nancy looked after them like a mother hen with a couple of chicks she’d have to have eyes in the back of her head where their Rose was concerned.