He giggled boyishly at her and instantly started to carefully pack away apples, oranges, strings of onions and great green orbs of Savoy cabbage. Dena helped, working quickly alongside him with professional ease so that in no time at all the boxes of fruit and sacks of potatoes were carefully stowed away in his van.
Dena liked Barry Holmes. She didn’t know how old he was, oldish, or so he seemed to her and not particularly good looking being short and chunky, his face somewhat plain with a sloping forehead and long nose. His upper lip was almost invisible and the full lower one looked as if he were pouting half the time. Nevertheless, the small dark eyes peering short-sightedly at her with deep concern from behind his spectacles, seemed to represent instant reassurance and security.
‘Right, we’ll just take this lot round to the warehouse. I never leave them in the van overnight in case they get nicked. You can’t trust anyone round here. Pinch the skin off your rice pudding some of ‘em. Then you must come to mine for a cuppa and a nice toasted muffin. What d’you say to that, chuck? That’ll warm the cockles.’
Dena beamed and nodded happily.
Dena always felt honoured by Barry’s friendship. He wasn’t a particularly sociable creature. Living alone since his mother died and being something of a private individual he seemed to prefer his own company much of the time, apart from the boxing club of a Friday where he coached his boys.
Pete had been a member. There was nothing her little brother had enjoyed more than to give that old punch-bag a good pummelling. He’d looked up to Barry, following him everywhere like an adoring lap-dog.
And was it any wonder? Barry Holmes seemed to represent the father figure both she and her little brother had missed. Dena’s own memories of her father had grown hazy and vague after all these years, and Pete had had none at all. Barry was the best replacement they could find.
He’d led such an exciting life, once having worked on the North Pier at Blackpool where he’d tried his hand at all manner of activities from running a flea circus, being a caller for housey-housey, and even performing with a Punch and Judy show. Dena loved nothing better than to listen to his stories. Barry Holmes could be very entertaining when he’d a mind to be, showing a caustic wit and dry sense of humour.
She suspected that he was ashamed of having come down in the world to something so mundane as a market stall. But he sold first class fruit and veg and had become another of Champion Street Market’s colourful characters with his famous bowler hat and carnation in his buttonhole. Even when he was working on his allotment he would have the bowler hat perched on the back of his round head. It always made her laugh to see it as he dug up leeks and potatoes in his old gardening jacket and muddy wellies. No cloth cap for Barry.
Dena was very fond of him.
They soon unloaded the stuff into his warehouse and the moment they reached his house he quickly ushered her inside, insisting she go upstairs and change into some dry clothes.
‘You’ll find a dressing gown behind the bathroom door, chuck. Put that on and fetch your wet togs down with you.’
Minutes later she was sitting on a stool by his fire, warmly wrapped in a plaid dressing-gown that smelled of shaving soap and his favourite Woodbine cigarettes. Not at all unpleasant. And while her clothes steamed on the clothes rack, Barry whistled happily to himself in the back kitchen as he filled the kettle.
He’d made no mention of the cuts and bruises on her face, obviously accepting that she’d come by them trying to save her brother from drowning.
‘Would you like raspberry jam on your toasted muffins, chuck? Course you would. Now where did I put that toasting fork?’
Dena felt a lovely curl of happiness deep inside. How wonderful to have someone look after her for a change. She almost felt like crying but then kindness always made her weep and really she mustn’t. She’d done too much crying lately and was making her eyes all sore. ‘Can I help?’
‘No, you just sit still and get warm, cherub. Uncle Barry will see to everything. We’ll have you warmed up in no time. Switch the wireless on, it’ll happen be Dick Barton soon.’
‘No, it won’t, that’s on later. Anyway, I’m quite happy sitting here admiring your ornaments and pictures.
His house was surprisingly grand for all it was situated in Champion Street, quite close to the market. He had a front parlour as well as a living room, and she’d caught a glimpse of darkly polished mahogany furniture, a green tiled fireplace with a prettily decorated fire screen in front of it, and a comfy three-piece suite as they’d passed the open door. His mam had always kept it nice, and she supposed Barry continued to do so out of respect to her memory. No one was ever invited into the front room. Presumably he saved it for special occasions like Christmas. Dena thought that proved Barry Holmes must be really quite well off.
Anyway, Dena felt more at ease on this stool by the black leaded Lancashire range, toasting herself against the bright fire at its heart.
While she waited she studied the black and white photographs of Blackpool on the cream flock wallpaper. It was a place she’d never visited but dreamed of doing so one day, just for the fun of it. She meant to ride on the big dipper and paddle in the sea, eat Blackpool rock and go right up to the top of the tower.
She’d never even seen the sea. Mam didn’t approve of getting messed up with sand, or riding in dirty, smoky trains. There was a great deal her mother didn’t approve of, come to think of it.
They sat cosily together remembering old times, and while they ate toasted muffins dripping with butter and raspberry jam, and Dena drank two full mugs of tea, she talked and Barry listened.
For the first time she felt able to express out loud her grief and misery over losing her brother, and the horror of seeing him drown in the canal. Even so, she was careful not to make any mention of the bullying and beating that had preceded the drowning. She’d buried that deep inside herself, a secret to keep forever. Dena wanted no repercussions, no bully-boys coming after her and Mam.
‘I miss him so much, Barry.’
‘Aye,’ he said sadly. ‘So do I. Right little star was your Pete. One of me best lads. Never a word of complaint, no matter what the weather he was there every Saturday morning, bright and sharp as a new pin, eager to get on with the job. Remember that time he dropped that box of apples and sent them rolling everywhere. Little tinker wasn’t watching what he was doing. I’ll swear he nicked one.’
‘Our Pete didn’t steal.’
Barry gave her an old fashioned look, but said nothing. Dena had adored her younger brother, had seen no wrong in him. But then happen she had a point. ‘He wasn’t a bad lad, better than most anyway.’
‘Mr George trusted him to mind his shop for him, if he wanted to nip out for a pint at dinner time.’
Barry nodded. ‘And Mr George’s baker’s shop was never broken into as many others were, that’s true.’
‘He’d give our Pete a couple of Eccles cakes in payment.’ As memories flooded back, Dena continued in a low voice, ‘Mam used to go every Wednesday to buy us a big custard tart each. Our Pete loved custard tarts.’
‘Aye, he always were a greedy little tyke!’ Barry wiped away a stray tear. ‘Here lass, sup up. I’ll make us a fresh pot.’
And over a third cup Dena opened her heart further and told him how worried she was about her mother. ‘She just seems to have collapsed in upon herself. Given up her job and never stirs a foot from her chair, not even to lift a duster, and you know how she loved cleaning her house. Mam always likes things just so and my efforts never seem to please her somehow. I don’t know what to do for the best.’
‘You need help, love, that’s what. You can’t possibly manage on your own, young lass like you.’
She felt better just for having talked, never mind the good meal he’d given her. It was as if she did have a friend after all, someone she could rely on to be there if she needed a shoulder to cry on.
‘You can always come and have a natter with me anytime,’ B
arry told her as she prepared to leave. ‘My door’s always open for a friend. And put something on them bruises. They look proper nasty.’
So he had noticed after all. Life suddenly seemed much less bleak.
Chapter Four
Kenny slouched into the kitchen of his home, leaving the front door wide open behind him as he trod mud over the new red carpet with the little blue and green dots and lines. A voice barked in loud disapproval. ‘Were you born in a field? Shut that door.’
Ignoring his brother, half hidden behind the Manchester Evening News, Kenny made no move to obey but flung himself down on the green moquette sofa and propped his feet up on the Long Tom coffee table.
‘Shut it yourself,’ he muttered, his mouth taking on its accustomed expression of scorn as his brother heaved a furious sigh and kicked the door closed behind him. Carl was like an old mother hen at times, nag, nag, nag, just like his flaming mother.
As Carl returned to his seat, snatching up the paper he’d cast aside, he slapped Kenny’s feet off the table as Belle was forever doing. His mother was always going on at him for what she termed his slovenly behaviour; for spitting or slouching, farting or belching. All perfectly normal activities in Kenny’s view! Daft cow! Now she’d even got Carl doing it.
He got up again and set off for the door.
‘Where you going now?’
Kenny grunted.
‘What did you say?’
‘Out!’
‘You’ve only just this minute come in.’
‘Well now I’m flaming going out again, somewhere I’ll get a better welcome than here in me own home.’
Carl lifted one large, booted foot, effectively blocking his exit. ‘Not yet you’re not, not till you’ve done your chores and had some tea. Mam’ll be home in a minute.’
That was a laugh, that was. Kenny had never willingly done any chores in his entire life and certainly had no intention of starting now. Besides, he’d left school now so Carl couldn’t push him around any longer. He was a working man, at least he would be once he’d found himself a job. Nor would his mam care whether he had any tea or not. They were hardly the sort of family to go in for sitting round a table using knives and forks. A bag of chips would do him later.
But he made no attempt to say any of this to Carl. Tension between the two brothers was ever high, one or the other of them likely to fly off the handle at the least provocation.
Carl had adopted this parental role years ago and Kenny hated him for having the extra couple of years, and the build, to exert that sort of power. With his dark good looks he was a favourite with the women. They seemed to like his foreign looking olive skin and untidy black curls, even that big square jaw of his. And when he won all those prizes in the boxing ring, they fell over themselves to get noticed.
Carl could do no wrong in his mam’s eyes either, whereas Belle scarcely seemed to notice that her younger son even existed. And if she did, it was only to give him an ear bashing for some supposed fault. Kenny hated him for that too.
And just like their mam, Carl only ever saw the worst in him. Half expecting disaster to strike at any moment where Kenny was concerned, which in Kenny’s view was mean and sadistic.
Picking a fight with his brother, however, did not appeal. With the physique of the talented amateur boxer he undoubtedly was, Kenny always thought twice before taking him on as an opponent at the best of times, and today Kenny had no wish to risk any bruises marring his good looks. He was hoping to spot Dena later, and she’d be sure to notice and make some sarcastic comment if she thought he’d been fighting.
Trying to impress Dena Dobson was proving far more difficult than he’d expected. More often than not she’d walk past him without even a glance in his direction, which was more than a little galling. But he meant to make her take notice, one way or another.
Blue eyes burning with resentment Kenny sat down again, managing to express his displeasure by leaving a smear of mud on the new fluffy green rug. Then realising his mam would thump him for messing it up, he tried to rub at the dirty mark with his heel.
‘Leave off, you’re making it worse,’ Carl shouted. ‘Why can’t you just sit still and read the paper or listen to the wireless for five minutes without fidgeting or being a nuisance?’ and clipped him round the ear.
Kenny shot to his feet. ‘Right, that’s it! I’ve had enough of this.’
This time the booted foot rested against his stomach to shove him firmly back on to the sofa and hold him there. ‘You’ll sit still till I say you can move. I was wanting a word, anyway.’
‘I’m taking no orders from you.’
Carl smiled. It was not a pleasant sight. ‘Aye, you are mate. Tomorrow I’ve fixed you an interview for a job, so you’ll get up early, wash behind your ears and try to pretend you’re human, right?’
Kenny inwardly groaned. Carl had sent him for half a dozen interviews already, none of which had resulted in anything. ‘What is it this time?’
‘Up at the engineering works, and this time you’ll show willing or I’ll cut you up into little pieces and feed you to Sam Beckett’s bulldog. Got that?’ All said in a cheerful bantering tone but there was no denying Carl had a knack of reinforcing his power over Kenny.
Kenny allowed a few seconds to pass, just to prove he wasn’t intimidated. ‘Right. Can I go now?
Carl removed his foot. ‘Where you off to, anyway?’
‘Out with me mate, Chippy.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I dunno.’
‘And where were you the other night, for instance?’ Carl persisted, a quizzical expression in his dark blue eyes.
‘When?’
‘You know when. Where were you? You weren’t at the club.’
‘Where were you, more like?’ Kenny yelled, and kicking his brother’s feet to one side, marched out, this time slamming the door loudly behind him.
Kenny found Chippy, as he would expect, hanging around the empty market, digging amongst the rubbish bins in case something good had been thrown away by mistake. Chippy only had a dad, who kept forgetting to feed him. Hence his nickname. He lived largely on bags of chips from the shop on the corner, when he could find the brass to pay for them. But he was a cheerful soul and happy to go along with whatever Kenny told him to do.
Now the two lads took their bikes and rode the length of the canal tow path, first with no feet on the pedals, then with no feet and only one hand on the handlebars. Then with neither feet nor hands. By a miracle, neither of them skidded in the mud or fell into the cut, which made them feel very big and important.
After that, they broke into Barry Holmes’s lock up and helped themselves to a few apples and a couple of dirty pound notes from the cash box he kept tucked under a loose floor board. To celebrate their own cleverness they rewarded themselves with a steak pudding and double portion of chips each.
The first thing Dena thought to do was to call the doctor. Like the old sergeant at the police station he was sympathetic to their plight, even if not particularly hopeful that he could do much to help. His first concern though, was for Dena.
‘Good heavens, where did you get that shiner?’
Dena had no wish to tell the doctor either about the beating she and Pete had endured by the canal, nor about her mother belting her. She’d managed to hide the bruises she carried on her arms, legs and ribs, even from the police, and they’d readily accepted her brother’s death as a tragic accident.
But the black eye and bust lip her mother had given her was less easily explained. The sergeant had seen Alice do it, of course, but had put it down to hysteria, not even enquiring if she’d ever hit her daughter before.
Dena judged it disloyal to her mam to tell the doctor the truth, so she claimed to have sustained the injury while searching for her brother in the canal. He looked sceptical, seemed about to ask more questions but then changed his mind and accepted her story, giving her a pot of ointment for her split lip.
He talked to Alice
for a few minutes and gave her pills to help her to sleep, which Dena was instructed to count out every night to make sure she didn’t take too many.
Later he explained all about the new National Health Service and had her mother fitted up with free spectacles and new false teeth, also free. Alice seemed to have taken quite a shine to the man and one day when he asked was there anything else he could get her, suggested that perhaps National Health corsets might be a good idea. ‘Now that I’m not as trim as I used to be.’
Dena was shocked to see that she even batted her eyelashes at him. Was Mam not quite so grief-stricken as she claimed?
The doctor tactfully pointed out that this wasn’t a particularly good reason, and how the special corsets were generally handed out to people with ruptures and similar problems, just as they gave out smog masks to those with bad lungs, and wigs to people who’d lost all their hair.
‘That would be a good idea,’ said Alice. ‘I wouldn’t mind a wig. It would save me the expense of a perm every few months.’
‘Mam, don’t say such dreadful things!’ Dena felt herself blushing with embarrassment at her mother’s impudence. Had she quite lost her mind through all of this tragedy?
The doctor winked at Dena. ‘I’m glad to see a return of your old sense of humour Mrs Dobson, and your sarcasm is well justified. Glasses and spectacles, wigs and corsets are all very well but I realise they do little to improve your financial situation. I also appreciate that, like most people, you’re far too proud to ask for help unless you really need it. I have trouble sometimes persuading many of my patients to ask for bread to put in their mouths. Even so I would encourage you to pursue the matter. You may well be entitled to some assistance and certainly deserve whatever is due to you.’
‘Oh, I have my pride, make no mistake about that,’ said Alice sharply. ‘What I’m saying is I don’t want no daft handouts of any sort, only what’s right and proper.’
‘Of course you do. Everybody seems to be struggling these days. Still trying to rebuild their lives and their homes after the war. It’s proving to be very difficult for some. But with a new young Queen on the throne we hope for better times in future, eh? They say they’re going to show the Coronation on the television. Will you be able to watch it, do you think, Mrs Dobson?’
Putting on the Style Page 3