Putting on the Style

by Freda Lightfoot

  Putting On The Style

  Freda Lightfoot

  Originally published 2006 by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd. 338 Euston Road, London NW1 3BH

  Copyright © 2006 and 2011 by Freda Lightfoot.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9568119-6-7

  Published by Freda Lightfoot 2011

  Champion Street Market Series

  ‘You can’t put a price on Freda Lightfoot’s stories from Manchester’s 1950s Champion Street Market. They bubble with enough life and colour to brighten up the dreariest day and they have characters you can easily take to your heart.

  The Northern Echo.

  Romance doesn’t come sweeter than this tale of love and chocolate set in the grimy streets of 1950s Manchester. Lancashire Evening Post

  Kitty Little is a charming novel encompassing the provincial theatre of the early 20th century, the horrors of warfare and timeless affairs of the heart.

  The West Briton

  Another heartwarming tale from a master story-teller.

  Lancashire Evening Post on For All Our Tomorrows.

  She piles horror on horror – rape, torture, sexual humiliation, incest, suicide - but she keeps you reading!

  Jay Dixon on House of Angels

  This is a book I couldn’t put down . . . a great read!

  South Wales Evening Post on The Girl From Poorhouse Lane

  A stirring tale of a woman with an iron purpose

  The Keswick Reminder

  A bombshell of an unsuspected secret rounds off a romantic saga narrated with pace and purpose and fuelled by conflict.

  The Keswick Reminder on The Bobbin Girls

  You’ll find bargains galore and life in the raw at Champion Street Market.

  In 1950s Manchester, folk are just emerging from the shadow of the war. Money is still tight, and the bustling market is a source of tempting bargains – as well as the local gossip.

  Dena loves her Saturday job at Belle Garside’s market café, and her ready smile makes her a universal favourite. She is soon in thrall to Belle’s two sons; good looking, exciting and dangerous but fate has other plans in store. When her younger brother is killed by a gang of young thugs Dena is taken into care. Later, when she returns to her beloved market, she valiantly tries to rebuild her life. Only when it is far too late does Dena begin to ask herself the terrifying question: has she fallen in love with her brother’s killer?

  Chapter One

  1953

  Dena knew the instant she heard the splash that her young brother was dead, that the last gurgling sounds he made as he fought for life would live forever in her mind.

  Their assailants had sprung from the darkness, little more than shadows, jumping out upon them to attack with feet and fists, battering and thumping, punching and kicking.

  She could hear those same feet now, running, fading away into the darkness, although not before they’d given her a good beating too, pummelling her in the stomach, kicking her in the back and legs when she fell so that she feared they might not stop till she too was a goner. Now, with only the distant sounds of the city washing over her, and the wind whistling under the canal bridge Dena risked moving a leg, terrified it might be broken because she had to get up. She had to save him.

  ‘Pete! Pete!’

  Every muscle screamed out in agony as she struggled to reach the edge of the bank, desperately trying to penetrate the inky blackness. Dena sent up a silent prayer that she might find his cheery face laughing up at her, see her little brother swimming to the bank. Pete was a good swimmer, better than her, yet instinct told her that he could not have survived such a terrible beating. Even so, without pausing for thought she jumped into the water, ready to give her own life to save his.

  How long she searched, diving in the filthy water again and again, calling his name, crying and screaming for him, Dena couldn’t rightly have said. Until she was floundering for air, her lungs choked with oil, muck and filth, legs tangled in weed and old rope and bits of tyres, and she too was in danger of drowning. Until she was finally forced to drag herself out and collapse exhausted on the tow path.

  She was too late to save her young brother. Far, far too late.

  If only she’d managed to protect him. He was ten years old and she’d promised her mam that she’d take good care of him. Oh, if only they hadn’t taken this shortcut. ‘Mam, I wish you’d come to fetch us,’ Dena sobbed. ‘I wish we hadn’t come this way.’ But they’d been hungry for their tea on this cold January evening, tired after a long day working on the market. She did not allow herself to consider that as a skinny thirteen year old, Dena had little hope of protecting him against such an attack.

  The pair of them had emerged from under the canal bridge, giggling and laughing, about to turn off the towpath and make a dash up Barber’s Court when the gang had pounced. They’d grabbed Pete by the scruff of the neck and started bouncing him between them like a rubber ball.

  He’d sworn at them of course, tried to fend them off. He’d always been good with his fists had Pete, but that seemed to inflame them all the more. There were too many of them and the ruthless thugs set about beating him senseless. Even when he fell to the ground they dragged him to his feet just so they could knock him down again, chuckling maliciously as they did so.

  Dena’s own screams, her frantic efforts to reach him had all been in vain. She’d been held fast, slammed back against the wall under the bridge by two of the gang, their cowardly faces hidden beneath balaclavas while she was made to watch the punishment meted out to an innocent boy as if it were a performance to be proud of.

  She’d seen little in the darkness, couldn’t identify a single one of them, nothing but a huddle of figures with their backs to her, fists and feet flying. They could have been any one of a number of gangs who roamed these streets. She saw the flash of a blade, heard the crunch of knuckle on bone and Pete’s low groans of agony, his gasps for breath and desperate pleas begging for mercy.

  But his assailants spoke not a single word throughout, which added to the sense of nightmare of the whole episode, like watching a scene in a black and white film. Dena couldn’t quite take in what her own eyes were telling her. There was no sense of reality, the eerie silence punctuated only by grunts and callous laughter. She felt utterly helpless. And then came that last terrified scream which had echoed beneath the bridge and over the water before being sharply cut off, followed a few minutes later by a soul-sinking splash as they dumped his body in to the filthy canal.

  Now, as she lay bruised and damaged, alone on the towpath, there was nothing but the sound of her own weeping.

  Alice Dobson did not take the news of her son’s probable drowning well, but then what mother would? At first, she refused to believe it, accusing Dena of spinning some fanciful yarn, or of telling nasty tales about her brother. Even the sight of her daughter gasping for breath, having run the rest of the way home, covered with cuts and bruises and soaked through to the skin didn’t penetrate her dazed mind. ‘If this is one of your daft squabbles . . .’

  ‘Mam, we have to do something. We need help. He’s likely a goner but . . .’ Alice refused to
listen, just carried on making tea, setting the table, even told Dena to wash her hands. Her mother liked things to be all nice and proper.

  Dena walked out, went herself to the police station to report the accident. That’s how she described it to the sergeant, taking care not to give away too many particulars. The last thing they needed was for her to start mouthing off about their Pete being beaten up. Whichever gang had done this terrible thing wouldn’t take kindly to her shopping them to the police, and would more than likely come back to give her a second pasting if she was stupid enough as to try, or else start harassing Mam. You learned to keep your mouth shut in this neighbourhood.

  The desk sergeant peered over his spectacles at the stick-thin girl before him, dressed in a thin cotton frock and tatty cardigan that offered no protection against a cold winter’s night, and felt a wave of pity for her. She couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve at most, and was clearly genuinely distressed, her tears making clean tracks in the dirt on her face.

  And what a face! He’d seen more waifs and strays standing before his desk than he cared to remember but there was something utterly innocent about this face. It was captivating, almost angelic. Was it the perfect oval shape and pointed chin, the small, straight nose or those dark curling lashes wet with tears which gave it such an ethereal beauty? The chestnut brown eyes had gold flecks in them and gazed up at him so trustingly, imploring him to help as if the simple presence of a police uniform could put right all the ills of the world.

  The sergeant cleared his throat. She could be spinning him a yarn, of course, deliberately sent to lure a force of police to go chasing off in one direction while the rest of her gang did their worst in another. You had to be cautious in this job, and not be taken in by some sob story told by an urchin, however angelic. They were often the worst liars of all. ‘He fell in, you say? What were you doing playing by the canal? Has your mother not told you how dangerous that is?’

  ‘We live in Barber’s Court.’

  The sergeant sniffed his disdain, knowing the area well. A stinking hole if ever there was one. Should be raised to the ground in this new, post-war world, and hopefully soon would be. Though the folk who lived there would no doubt mess up a new place just as bad.

  She must have read the disdain in his eyes because she said with some spirit, ‘I don’t always look like this. We’re respectable in our house. Tablecloths and everything.’

  The sergeant instantly felt ashamed. Many people had fallen on hard times during the war. Houses were hard to come by, either decent or otherwise, and many women had been widowed. Too many. ‘You must be used to that towpath then, living down there. Happen he’s swum down the canal for a bit, got out some place else. Is your mam out looking for him? She’ll give him jip when she catches him, eh?’

  Dena shook her head, dark tendrils of wet hair showering him with water. He saw then that she was shivering, her teeth chattering with cold, and realised in a flash that she must have jumped in and tried to save the lad herself. He picked up his phone and began to dial. This accident clearly needed urgent attention.

  It was over a week before they found him. When Dena heard the knock on the door she guessed instantly who it was. Usually that all too familiar sound heralded yet another complaint about her tearaway brother, some mischief he’d been up to. Perhaps tying dustbin lids to door handles, breaking someone’s windows with his cricket ball, or chucking mud at folk’s clean washing. Mrs Emmett next door had once made him wash two of her pillowcases as punishment for his naughtiness, but Pete had only thought it funny that his own filthy hands had made the washing water so dirty the pillowcases had come out worse.

  But despite his bad behaviour, and what lad living in these rough streets of Manchester wasn’t a bit on the wild side at times, his heart was in the right place. Maybe he would have been easier to cope with if their dad hadn’t been killed in the war, gone down with his ship before even his son was born. There were times when Pete could have done with a father’s guiding hand but at least he didn’t steal or lie or hurt people.

  He was funny and affectionate, always with a grin on his cheeky face. And underneath that cocky exterior, that brash, devil-may-care facade which he used as a shield to protect himself, underneath all of that he was soft as butter.

  He’d willingly set to and make tea if Mam was having one of her ‘turns’. He’d run her errands, fetch her knitting and endlessly charm her so that he was easily her favourite.

  And he was always at the market early every Saturday morning to help Barry Holmes load up the fruit and veg for his stall, for all he was only ten years old. Pete worked hard all day and stayed late to stack away the trestles that Barry used without a word of complaint, pocketing his few shillings in wages with one of his famous wide grins. He was scruffy and untidy of course, would do anything to avoid having his neck washed, but he readily tolerated the nagging of an older sister.

  But no more. Dena knew in her heart that this knock was different from the others. Her young brother would never work the market again, nor have his neck scrubbed on a Saturday night.

  She pulled open the door and silently invited the two policemen to step inside.

  ‘Is your mam in?’ the sergeant asked, his voice carrying that special hushed tone that people adopted when the news was bad. ‘You’d best fetch her, love.’

  ‘I don’t need fetching, I’m here. Say what you’ve got to say then take your mucky feet off my clean doorstep and sling your hook.’

  The sergeant backed off a pace, although he wasn’t on her doorstep, having planted his booted feet on the clean linoleum since the door opened directly into a living-kitchen. His mate was and quickly stepped back into a puddle, which made matters worse.

  Both officers punctiliously wiped their feet while Dena softly closed the door behind them.

  Alice Dobson made no attempt to offer them a seat as she normally would have done, nor did she order Dena to run and put on the kettle. Satisfied that she’d made it very clear to them how she was known for keeping a clean house, thank you very much, even if she did live in one of the worst courts Manchester could offer, she returned to staring into a blazing fire. The small room was stiflingly hot but she sat like stone, hands neatly folded on her lap, her lips as tightly curled as her brown hair which she had permanently waved every two or three months.

  The sergeant cleared his throat, as always hating this part of his job. ‘I’m sorry love but we need an identification.’

  Alice jerked up her head and looked into the round face filled with compassion. She wore a thick navy cardigan and woollen skirt pulled so far down over her plump knees that only a pair of thick ankles and carpet slippers could be seen. The over-heated room, sour with the smell of poverty, seemed to suck the air from Dena’s lungs as she watched and waited what felt like a lifetime for her mother to take in the significance of this remark.

  Then something in her expression seemed to collapse as finally Alice faced the truth that her son was indeed dead, and she began to whimper. ‘No, no, I can’t. I can’t. Don’t ask me.’

  She let out a terrible wail, flung herself at Dena and slapped her hard across the face. ‘You did this. This is all your fault, you little bitch!’ and burst into noisy, gulping sobs.

  Chapter Two

  There was a stiff breeze blowing on this cold January morning, bristling the hairs on the scavenging dogs and cats round the fish market, sending scraps of tattered brown paper bags and rotting cabbage leaves scurrying the length of Champion Street. Because of the cold weather the outdoor market was quieter than usual, most folk taking refuge inside the market hall. The old Victorian, iron-framed building was heaving with people, the wind blowing in through the big double doors, making old ladies tighten their headscarves as they bought skeins of wool to knit socks for their old man, or a nice bit of crumbly Lancashire for his tea.

  And when they were done and their shopping baskets filled with onions, potatoes and a big green cabbage from Holmes’s Frui
t and Veg, perhaps a couple of Poulson’s best meat and potato pies and a string of shiny red polony sausage from Ramsay’s Pork Butchers, they’d sigh with relief and go off to the market café for a cuppa and a bacon butty.

  A good half of Belle Garside’s customers visited the café as much for a gossip and to see her pretty young waitress’s bright, cheerful smile as to enjoy the excellent food. They loved simply to have it light up their lives for a few precious moments.

  This morning they were destined to be disappointed. Some folk glanced in the café and, seeing Dena wasn’t present, changed their minds and went and bought a hot potato from Benny’s cart instead. Others didn’t linger for that extra cup, nor order a slice of Belle’s delicious apple pie in order to have a repeat performance of that bewitching smile.

  Belle noticed the fall-off in trade and blamed Dena for it, deeply irritated by the girl’s absence since it badly affected her profits. She did have another waitress, but Joan Chapman somehow didn’t have the pulling power of the younger girl, being swarthy skinned with boyishly cropped dark hair and was also married with three kids. She made wonderful pies and cakes did Joan, but didn’t cause any hearts to beat faster.

  ‘Where the hell is the silly child? The minute she shows her face, she’s sacked, do you hear me?’ Belle roared.

  ‘You can’t do that, she’s just lost her brother.’ This from her younger son Kenny, who rather fancied Dena.

  ‘By heck, what’s this, not going soft are you? I thought you hated the little tyke.’

  ‘I do, I mean – I did. Used to get up my nose good and proper.’

  Belle chuckled, a deep throaty sound, the kind that could bring a man to his knees if the moment was right. ‘I seem to remember that he objected to you lusting after his big sister, wasn’t that the way of it? Thought she could do better, eh? Silly little brat.’