by June Gadsby
Just before they were herded onto the open-topped buses that would bring them back home, they were given a supper of fish and chips ladled with salt and vinegar. Billy thought he had died and gone to Heaven and, judging by the moans of pleasure from Bridget and all the other children around them, he wasn’t the only one.
On the way home, they sat on the upper deck of the bus, right at the front, waterproof aprons covering their laps, wind and rain driving in to their faces that were glowing with health and happiness. It was the happiest day of their lives and, Billy recalled now, not even coming home to his mother comatose on the floor surrounded by empty gin bottles had spoiled it.
Bridget Maguire and Billy Flynn had been friends all their lives, ever since Colleen moved into the house next door just before her daughter was born. They were like brother and sister. Where Billy went, Bridget usually followed. They crawled in the grass together when they were infants in nappies, cried together when hungry or cold, or on occasion, lost. They had a tendency to wander off, hand in hand, in search of anything more interesting than chalking pictures on slate paths in the back lanes, or finding cheeky things to shout at the women hanging out their washing on lines strung from one street to the next, where backyard faced backyard, and ladies directoire knickers dried on a line between, flapping in the breeze, sometimes bearing the sooty handprint of the coalman, who had passed, making deliveries from door to door.
People always knew if they saw Little Billy Big Boots – for the name had stuck – Bridget Maguire wouldn’t be far away. And it was a good thing, too, for the girl looked out for Billy like a little mother. Because of that people forgave her for being the daughter of a whore.
Colleen reached out and ruffled Billy’s fair hair, which was growing thick and wavy on the top, though his mother chopped the back and sides short and patchy with the kitchen scissors. And that was a sin, because he had a nice little face for a lad and those bright blue eyes of his would surely turn the heart of some lucky lass when he was older.
‘I thought I heard a bit of a rumpus, that’s all, Billy,’ she said. ‘It was probably nothing. Maybe yer mam was doing the housework and knocked something over.’
Billy pursed his lips, pushing them out until they almost touched the tip of his nose, then he chewed reflectively on a piece of twig.
‘Nah, she doesn’t do housework any more. She says she’s too sick.’ He gave a small, lopsided smile, which said it all.
‘She’s still drinking, then, is she, son?’
‘Aye. Maybe it was our Maureen ye heard,’ Billy said. ‘Or one of me brothers. They’re on nightshift at the pit, so they were all still in bed when I came out.’
‘Does Maureen still work up at Mrs Caldwell’s, Billy?’
Billy nodded. Maureen took over from their mother at the Caldwell house two years ago, when Maggie disgraced herself by being drunk on the job. It made Laura’s mother as mad as hell to be without her famous “housekeeper”, but Maureen surprised everybody by proving she could cook and clean as well, if not better than her mother. The fact she lived in the Caldwell house during the week and only came home on weekends, made it easier for everybody. Billy made it his business to go up there as often as he could. Especially on a baking day. Maureen always made extra so she could slip him the odd iced bun or treacle tart through the window. And Laura was there, of course’, and not averse to chatting with him as if they were equals.
Laura Caldwell had just celebrated her eighteenth birthday, but age played no part in the feelings ten-year-old Billy had for her. She was not only the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, she was special in so many ways. What’s more, she always made Billy feel special too. He truly thought he would never be able to love anyone quite the way he loved Laura, and one day he promised himself, he would marry her. He dreamed constantly of the day he would be old enough to look after the girl who had, according to rumour, saved his life.
It was a promise he kept a close secret, even from Bridget. And Bridget knew all his secrets. Sometimes, it seemed to Billy, his best friend in the entire world knew lots of things without even being told. When he questioned her on this, Bridget would simply laugh and tell him it was maybe the Irish blood in her, and wasn’t her great-granny in Ireland a clairvoyant and could tell you a thing or two that would make your hair stand on end.
‘I’d better hurry,’ Billy said. ‘I’ve got to light the fire for me mam and then old Mrs Davison said she’d give me sixpence if I’d do some odd jobs for her.’
‘Well, off ye go then, Billy,’ Colleen dug into her capacious bag that she took everywhere with her. ‘Here. These are for you.’
Billy stared in awe at the highly polished black Sunday boots she held out to him. He’d never seen the likes of such smart footwear, except on wealthy gentlemen. Even the priest didn’t wear quality like that on his long splayed feet that always appeared to want to go off in different directions.
‘Where’d you get them, Aunty Colleen?’ Billy wiped his dirty hands down the front of his jersey and took hold of the boots cagily, turning them over to admire every angle of them. ‘They’re brand new.’ He lifted them to his nose and inhaled the aroma of the new leather that was still upon them.
‘Aye, hinny, they are an’ all. One of my.... er...my gentlemen friends died a couple of days ago. He was old, but he had very good taste and small feet for a man. I didn’t think he would miss these, though the family might not be too pleased. They were probably planning to bury him in them.’
All three of them laughed heartily then Billy’s attention was drawn back to the boots.
‘I didn’t know people got buried in boots,’ Billy said, breathing on the black leather and polishing it to an even higher sheen on his sleeve. ‘Me granny wore her slippers when they carted her off in her box last year.’
‘Well, there ye are, but say nowt. And don’t let yer ma pawn them like she does everything else. She’ll only buy liquor with the money. When’s the last time you had a proper meal, Billy, eh? You’re lookin’ as if you could knock back a meat pie or two.’
Billy’s blue eyes shot up and grew bigger and brighter. ‘Have you been bakin’, Aunty Colleen?’
Not even his sister could beat Colleen Maguire at baking meat pies. Her pastry melted in the mouth and her fillings ran with rich, meaty gravy, oozing deliciously as you bit into them. There was nothing like it to bring an ecstatic roll of the eyes and “ooh’s” and “ah’s” of delight between each munching.
‘I have, but don’t you tell anybody, cos it might ruin me reputation around here. They all think I’m only good for one thing. I’d hate to shatter their illusions.’ She gave him a wicked smile before teetering away unsteadily on the slippery cobbles, then called out over her shoulder. ‘I’m off to work now, but I’ll be back by dinnertime, being as how it’s Sunday and me day off. Keep him out of trouble, Bridget, bonnie lass.’
‘But what about the pies, Aunty Colleen?’ Billy called out after her.
Colleen flapped a hand at him over her shoulder and wiggled her hips.
‘What pies are these?’ she asked, as if she didn’t know. ‘Just you be sitting at my table on the stroke of twelve and see what you get.’
The two children laughed and waved, then Bridget took charge of Billy’s new boots as he trundled his barrow down through the back lanes that led to Dawson Street. As ever, she walked at his side, chattering away happily, whether he listened or not.
‘They’re a mite big for you yet, Billy,’ Bridget said, comparing the size of the boots with the size of Billy’s feet. ‘Just shove some newspaper or some old socks in the toes and they’ll do fine.’
‘Nah,’ Billy shook his head and grinned. ‘I’m going to keep them for a special occasion. My wedding day!’
‘When are you planning that, then?’ Bridget giggled with embarrassment and her cheeks flared up. ‘We’re both too young for years and years yet. The boots will have turned to dust by then.’
‘No they won’t. It is
n’t that long before I’ll be old enough to get wed. Only another eight years or so. Dickie Carter got married last week and he was only eighteen.’
‘You got somebody in mind, then, have you?’ Bridget’s cheeks had become scarlet and her eyes were a little too bright.
‘Aye, but I’m not sayin’ who it is. Not even to you, so don’t go asking any more questions, cos I won’t tell you.’
The scarlet paled and the eyes lost their lustre as Bridget realized she was not the object of Billy’s affections. Since she was with him most of the time, she couldn’t begin to think who the lucky lass might be. The only other person Billy was friendly with was Miss Caldwell, who lived in that big house on Bede Burn Crescent, and she was far too old for Billy. And too tall, though Billy might grow a bit in the next year or two and catch her up. At the moment he barely came up to Laura Caldwell’s haughty shoulder.
‘Billy...?’ She started to ply him with questions, but his mind was already preoccupied with something entirely different.
‘Listen to that!’ He had stopped in his tracks and she almost collided with him as he let go the barrow handles and spun around, his eyes searching the hill to the right of them.
Faint strains of brass band music floated down from the town on the breeze and Billy cocked his head to one side, the better to hear it.
‘It’s just the Sally Army,’ Bridget said. ‘They always belt out their hymns like that.’
‘I haven’t heard them play like that before.’
‘I’d love to have a go on one of their tambourines. They make a lovely jingly sound, like me mam’s bracelets when she dances around the house.’
‘They’d never let you in, you being a Catholic and all,’ Billy said and saw Bridget frown. ‘And they don’t let girls into brass bands, anyhow.’
‘I’m not a Catholic, Billy Flynn,’ she said, her fists punched into hips that were far too shapely for one so young. ‘Me mam says we’re lapsed Irish Oranges. You’re Irish too though, with a name like Flynn, so you’re probably the Catholic, not me?’
They stood there, blinking at one another. It was the first time the subject of religion had come up between them and rash assumptions were being made on both sides.
‘I’m not Irish,’ Billy told her firmly. ‘I’m a Geordie.’
‘That’s not the same, silly. Geordie’s not a religion.’
‘Sammy Green’s dad says it is. And he says we’re a race apart.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘What?’
‘A race apart.’
Billy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dunno. I’ll ask Laura when I see you. She’s going to be a teacher. She knows everything.’
‘Huh!’ Only Bridget could make that simple response sound so scathing and full of disbelief.
‘It’s true, Bridget. It was Laura who said you were a Catholic,’ Billy said with a sniff. ‘And her parents wouldn’t let her have anything to do with you, even though she was the one who chose your name.’
Bridget looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘If you’re a Catholic, you can’t marry a Protestant, you know.’ She peered at him from beneath her gold-tipped lashes and saw his face twist as her words sank in.
‘If I was a Catholic, I’d know it,’ he told her sulkily.
‘How do you know if you’re Catholic?’ Bridget’s frown deepened.
‘Dunno,’ Billy shook his head, and then regarded her with his head at an angle. ‘Does it have anything to do with what school you go to?’
‘I don’t go to school any more than you do, Billy-too-Big-for-yer Boots. The teachers wouldn’t have me when they found out about me mam.’
‘Aunty Colleen? Did she do something she shouldn’t?’
Bridget’s chin quivered perceptively and her green eyes turned into deep, dark saltwater pools as she shook her head, unable to answer Billy’s question. She knew her mam wasn’t a bad woman. Colleen Maguire was the best mam any girl could have. She was certainly better than Billy’s mam, and heaps better than that snobby Laura Caldwell’s mam. Bridget always had clothes on her back and hot food in her belly. And she wasn’t stupid either, not since one of Mam’s friends had taken her education in hand, which kept the school board man from the door. And when she could, she tried to teach Billy the things Mr Smith taught her, though most of the time Billy was too busy trying to earn enough to keep the wolf from the door. His father certainly didn’t do anything to provide for them, other than the odd five-pound note he sent from time to time, wrapped in a grubby piece of a foreign newspaper.
Nobody knew where Patrick Flynn was. He had disappeared into the wide blue yonder years ago.
‘Come on, Billy,’ she said. ‘I’m cold.’
They walked on for a few minutes in silence then Billy was back on the subject of Bridget’s education.
‘Bridget, how come, if you don’t go to school, you can read and write and know so much?’
‘I’ve told you, Billy. One of me mam’s friends teaches me. He comes to the house and he brings all the schoolbooks and things and he talks to me. He’s nice. Mam says he does it because he owes her a big favour, but we’re not to mention it to anybody or there’ll be trouble.’
‘Why? What sort of trouble.’
Bridget shrugged. ‘Just trouble. Do you always have to be asking questions, Billy?’ She stopped and turned, realizing that Billy was no longer beside her. ‘What’re you doing now?’
Billy was standing with his head tilted back, cupping his hands behind his ears and listening for all he was worth, his face screwed up and his eyes half shut.
‘Sssh!’
‘What...?’
‘That’s not the Sally Army band,’ he said and smiled broadly. ‘It’s one of the shipyard workers’ bands and they’re marching. Listen, Bridget. What’s that they’re playing?
Bridget gave a little giggle. ‘It’s Mr Smith’s favourite song. He sings it to me mam every time he calls in.’. She did a wiggle of her hips, exactly like her mother did, and twirled in front of Billy’s amused grin, singing out a few notes of Oh, Lady Be Good. When she had finished, they both fell about laughing.
‘Who’s Mr Smith when he’s at home?’ Billy snorted through his laughter. ‘Is that your teacher friend?’
‘No. That’s a different Mr Smith, but don’t tell anybody I told you their names.’
‘How many Mr Smiths does Aunty Colleen know?’
‘Oh, quite a lot. Some of her friends are called Mr Brown and there’s even one called Mr White, which is daft when you see how black his skin is. He’s from Africa and works on the boats that come into the Tyne.’
‘Does he wear a bandage on his head?’ Billy asked innocently, not sure that he knew what a black man looked like, but there had been a brown one once in Jarrow, his head all trussed up in bandages.
‘That’s a Sikh, silly.’ Bridget heaved an impatient sigh. ‘And it’s a turban, not bandages. They come from India.’
Billy narrowed his eyes and gazed thoughtfully out over the river, wondering, not for the first time, what lay in the world beyond the banks of the Tyne, apart from Newcastle city. He had seen a red and white, smoking funnel slide up between the banks only yesterday. It made a helluva racket when it honked its foghorn. The sound of it gave him a creepy feeling inside, though he couldn’t understand why. When he told his mam about it she seemed to get a similar feeling, because she dropped the glass she was holding and it was half-full and all, and that must have upset her more than hearing the boat.
‘Dear God!’ was all she could say for at least an hour afterwards and kept going to the window for the rest of the day, peeping out through the shabby net curtains every time she heard footsteps. ‘Dear God, help us!’
She had been like that, all on edge, since that last letter with the foreign stamp on it flopped through their letterbox. Billy remembered how pale she had gone on reading the contents, but she wouldn’t tell him who it was from. She tore it into shreds and threw it into the fire.
The tramp of marching feet could not be heard above the stirring trumpet, trombone and French horn notes that sailed cleanly through the morning air. But Billy felt them. He felt their vibration through the soles of his old boots long before the band appeared, resplendent in their royal blue and gold jackets and black trousers pressed into knife-sharp pleats. And shoes, not boots, black and shining like polished coals.
‘Cor!’ he exclaimed breathlessly. ‘Cor, I’d like to look like that one day.’
The band was approaching the two children, where they sat waiting on a grassy mound. Then they were abreast of them, the big bass drum banging away and sweet notes shooting like stars up to the wide blue yonder. Billy had heard nothing like it. The sound resonated in his head, throbbed inside his heart and made him tingle all over with an excitement that beat anything he knew any day.
‘Aw, just listen to that, Bridget! That’s grand, that is. Isn’t it just?’
Bridget wasn’t so impressed. The music was too different from the songs her mam and their friends liked to sing. She would have been happier with Red Red Robin and Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue, or her mam’s favourite, Black Bottom, when she would shimmy all-round the front room kicking her legs and showing an expanse of plump thigh for all to see.
‘Come on, Billy, before yer mam wakes up and starts hollerin’ because you’re not there.’ Bridget tugged at him, but he didn’t budge; only a piece of disintegrated wool came away in her fingers.’
‘Watch me gansy, Bridget, man! It’s me Sunday best.’
Bridget’s cheeks fired up again and her eyes became mournful as she looked for a way to repair the gaping hole she had created. However, the jersey had long since been beyond repair.
‘Gawd, Billy, I’m sorry,’ she said, staring horrified at the damage. ‘Maybe me mam can get you a better one. You know, from that friend of hers what died?’
‘Hey, I’ll put the deed man’s boots on, but me Aunty Colleen isn’t goin’ to get me wearin’ his gansy an’ all.’ As if a spectre had walked over his grave, Billy shuddered convulsively. ‘Howay, let’s go home. Put them boots in the barra and help us push.’