Liam turned to see a tall, slim lady wearing an ankle length grey worsted skirt with a full pleat in the back and a white blouse, trimmed at the throat and wrist with narrow bands of lace. Her dark brown hair was swept into a bun behind her head and was surmounted by an elegant, white-rimmed blue hat. She was proudly pushing a gleaming black and chrome pram. The calm, half smile belied a burning energy, betrayed by the sparkle in her searching brown eyes. At her side, a man, dressed smartly in a charcoal grey suit, a white shirt with a winged collar, grey silk tie and a straw boater, limped slightly as he supported himself on a pitch pine walking stick with a carved horn handle.
He smiled and nodded as some of the men, unconsciously standing more erect, greeted him. ‘Good morning, Captain. Good morning, Mrs Brown’ they said, deferentially touching the peaks of their caps. Mrs Brown waited patiently as her husband stopped to enquire after the health of some of the men from his command before they passed together through the imposing swing doors of the bank.
For a few seconds there was a finely balanced, breath-holding hiatus, like a concert after the music has stopped and the audience enjoys a fleeting moment of enraptured silence before the applause begins. The men watched the diminishing swings of the door as the pinging springs slowly restrained it. As if signalling the time to relax, Chopper’s voice broke into the silence. ‘All I ever got for breaking windows was a bloody good clout.’
The men laughed and turned back to the rail. ‘It must be handy when your old man is a director of a bank,’ Edward observed with a slight touch of bitterness. ‘You just come back and walk straight into a job.’
‘I’ve heard he was a fair man that Captain Brown. He took too many risks, like a lot of them, but he always treated the lads well,’ Liam said. ‘It’s perhaps as well he’s not had to walk around looking for a job, though, with that leg of his.’
‘He’d not walk so far. They would soon find a job for the likes of him.’
‘Pity we can’t just go and ask him what we should do.’
‘Funny thing, you know,’ Chopper reflected, ‘you have four years of being pushed and shoved, trained to kill, forced to walk further and run faster, to stay awake when your body’s screaming for sleep and food. Then you’re thrown out through the door of the barracks and what do you find? You can’t make your mind up about anything. It takes me ten minutes in the morning trying to decide which to do first - a brew or the bog.’
‘I’m a bit like that,’ Liam exclaimed, grateful to discover that he wasn’t alone in experiencing this debilitating uncertainty. ‘I’m asking Brig what she thinks about everything I do.’
‘It takes a long time,’ Edward said. ‘I was out quite a while before you lads and I still find myself dithering about what to do. We were trained to act like machines in combat but everything else was decided for you.
‘Aye, you’re right,’ Chopper nodded. ‘But you’ve got to remember that it’s been the other way round for the women. For four years they’ve learnt to survive by making their own decisions. We come back home and there’s no place for us.’
‘You’ve got a sensitive soul under that hard exterior, Chopper,’ Liam joked.
‘It’s not just a problem in the homes, you know,’ Edward said. ‘My neighbour can’t get his job back in the offices at the Town Hall. The place is full of women. I mean, fair enough, a lot of them need the jobs because they’re the breadwinners now, but there’s a lot of us who risked our lives in the army and are coming out to nothing.’
‘They reckon that there’s some jobs going for rubber spreaders in that place in Broughton. The one that makes the raincoats for the police,’ Chopper said, taking a packet out of his jacket pocket and removing from it a wedge-like sandwich.
Liam looked at the dripping that was already oozing from between the thick slices and moved his arm away. ‘I went up there yesterday. I had no chance. The foreman was some old duffer who does a lot at Manchester Cathedral. He doesn’t like Catholics, especially ones with Irish names. Thinks we’re only good for digging trenches.’
‘That’s not a very Christian view.’
‘It was good enough for him. He did stretch himself, though, and gave one of the jobs to a Methodist. Probably thought that at least they would be singing off the same hymn sheet.’
‘He’s a hardfaced sod, isn’t he? The company’s owned by Jews,’ Chopper spluttered through his sandwich.
‘Yes, but they’re not there doing the interviews,’ Liam pointed out. ‘I wouldn’t have wanted to work for the miserable old devil anyway.’
‘You’ve got to take what’s going these days.’
‘I had a walk over to the ironwork’s after that. I’d heard a couple of jobs were going there for casters. Two of the fellahs had had an accident pouring the cast iron last week. There was nothing doing, though. The jobs had already been taken by sons of men already working there.’
‘Seems to be about the only way these days.’
‘It is. I walked about fifteen miles yesterday without even a sniff,’ Liam said gloomily. ‘At this rate, I’ll have run out of boots before I find anything.’ He grabbed the top rail and pulled himself up onto his toes, staring across the junction. ‘Bloody Nora, there’s Epiglottis. What’s he doing down this end of the Lane?’
The others looked up to see a tall, gaunt man striding down Cross Lane towards the junction. His bowler, patterned by the faint remnants of bird droppings, had tufts of grey hair protruding from under the brim. The hat was aligned precisely over his hooded brow, and his prominent Adam’s apple wobbled violently as he hummed some popular song. Despite the warm early-summer weather, he wore a long, slightly stained, black overcoat, pin-striped trousers and white spats over his polished black shoes. In his lapel he had an extravagant, though fading, button of wild flowers and grasses. A rolled up umbrella, which he used to move aside some loitering urchins, was carried in one hand whilst the other gripped an ageing attaché case. Turning into Eccles New Road, he called out in a resonant voice that hinted at a declamation from Hamlet, ‘Ah, good morning Mr Artingstall.’ The greengrocer, standing on a stool whilst hanging some rabbits from a hook outside his shop, turned and smiled, extending a slightly bloody hand in greeting. After a brief inspection, the hand was ignored and the two men disappeared through the door.
‘Well, I wonder what’s going on there,’ Liam mused. ‘He’s got his legal gear on today.’
Chopper, now standing erect with his hands in his trouser pockets, was still staring open-mouthed at the shop doorway as if fascinated by the rows of robust green cabbages and the parading leeks. ‘Who’s that then? He looks a bit of a rum character.’
‘It’s Epiglottis; lives on Ellor Street. He writes letters for people,’ Liam explained.
‘And occasional scripts for sketches at the Salford Hippodrome,’ Edward added.
‘Right,’ Chopper said, still bemused by the flamboyant character that he had just seen. He took a cigarette from the packet proffered by Edward and put it in his mouth. Still staring at the greengrocer’s display, where two boys were being scolded by their mother for fiddling with the rows of onions, he nudged Liam. ‘So what’s this about his legal gear, then?’
Liam rummaged in his pocket and extracted a box of safety matches. ‘He dresses up according to the nature of the work that he is doing. That today is his legal outfit. If he is doing letters for War casualties he wears an officer’s hat and jacket. If a woman goes to see him for a letter that’s a bit romantic like, he puts a vase of flowers on the table, wears a Spanish troubadour’s outfit and plays the piano whilst she tells him what it is about.’
‘And if he is writing a script he has a top hat and a cane and wears a silk cape.’
‘Or a cassock for someone who is pleading for a reconciliation.’
‘Round the bloody twist if you ask me,’ Chopper said after some deliberation, his mouth relaxing into just a hint of a smile.
‘That’s as maybe,’ Edward agreed. ‘But he knows his
stuff and he has a good way with words. They even use him at funerals to give dedications to the dead person.’
‘Aye, wears his legal outfit but with a black tie for that.’
Chopper put the Woodbine between his lips while he straightened his cap and torn jacket then cupped it in his nicotine stained hand in the manner common to those whose working lives normally prohibited the free enjoyment of a cigarette. ‘He sounds like a useful bloke.’
Edward lifted his foot onto the lower rail and pulled his sock up. ‘Our Jim’s asking for me at their place about a job in the warehouse. The owner’s son was a Major in the 1/7th. Got killed in France in ’17. Jim said that he gives a bit of preference to fellahs from the Lancashires.’
‘Ask him if he needs two. As long as it doesn’t involve bending down too much.’
Chapter 6
Adjusting the wooden framed mirror on his bedroom shelf, Callum attempted to optimise the less damaged section of the reflective surface in the middle. Bending his knees and leaning forward, he tried again to fix the collar stud in position. ‘Come on, you little sod, get in there or I’ll be late,’ he muttered irritably. His natural competence with anything mechanical always deserted him when he tried to fix these hated wing collars in place. His strong fingers, comfortable when gripping a heavy spanner, lacked the subtle dexterity needed when contorted around the back of his neck, targeting the difficult-to-align holes with a small hinged device that too-readily folded in upon itself before it was in place. He had an intense dislike of those constricting, starched collars on which his prominent Adam’s apple sat like a twitching, hairy egg. Tonight, however, was one of those occasions when it was necessary to dress formally.
Sighing, he collected his collar, tie and jacket and went downstairs. ‘Here you are, Mam. Will you have a go at this and see if you can fix it in place for me, please.’
His mother put down her Evening Chronicle and removed her glasses. ‘Will that be the one that belonged to Himself when he was at home? That one with the bent bigot thing on it? He trod on it when he was roaring drunk.’
Callum smiled and pulled a chair out from under the table. ‘You mean the spigot, Mam. Yes, that’s the problem. The bent spigot makes it hard to get it through the hole.’
He was pleased to see the small but significant improvements that his mother had made to the home since he had started work. The newspaper cover on the table had been replaced by a cream cotton tablecloth with a red pattern border. The bread was now kept in a white enamel breadbin in the scullery and the milk was dispensed from a newly acquired pale green ceramic milk jug.
His mother replaced her glasses and swivelled the wayward collar stud between her fingers. ‘Right, come on now Paddy, you awkward eejit. You’ve never been a proper father to our Callum so don’t you be starting your tricks when he has such an important place to go.’ She held her breath and grimaced with the pain of concentration as she thrust the stud into place. ‘There,’ she announced as she at last inhaled. ‘That’s done it.’ Stepping back, she smiled at the successful outcome to the manoeuvre then removed her glasses as she looked quizzically at Callum. ‘Which important place was it that you were just talking about, anyway?’
‘I wasn’t saying anything about an important place, Mam, but I am going to a concert at Central Hall.’
‘Ah. And will you be meeting up with any young ladies of the opposite sex? But don’t be having any dalliances with that Amy Benson will you? A sensible girl and a mother who goes to St Cyprians but she is too young yet for a strong detachment.’
As he joined the queue that snaked down Broadway, he mused that his mother would never understand that he was going because he actually enjoyed listening to the music. One of the pieces that the Hallé Orchestra would be playing tonight was Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony. He had listened to it before. It was so powerful, full of shades of light and dark, gentle then exciting colours. The drama of the thunderstorm then the gradual re-awakening of the countryside had moved him deeply; he remembered the devastated villages of northern France as they started to rebuild, how a new door or repaired window was like a new shoot growing, evidence of a new life. He remembered the spirited but often tearful parties as husbands and sons returned from the army.
‘Excuse me. Will you be moving up with the queue or perhaps we could just squeeze past you?’ It wasn’t so much the question as the voice and the delivery that had the galvanising effect on Callum. There was a gentle, teasing confidence, a timbre in the voice that hinted at a quality upbringing. He smelt a perfume with a subtlety and fragrance that was alien in his world of working people, where coal tar soap was the norm. Her brown eyes sparkled with a challenging, non-submissive humour and her long, auburn hair hung down below a pale tan bonnet trimmed with a white silk bow. Her demeanour and dress bore the stamp of affluence, probably a family from the Height, and Callum, never comfortable in the company of young women, found himself stumbling over a few simple words of apology. ‘I, um, didn’t… sorry.’ The girl’s older companion began to snigger and Callum felt Paddy’s collar tightening about his throat; the collar studs becoming instruments of torture.
‘I am sorry to have startled you but you seemed to be lost in a world of your own for a moment. I felt sure that you wouldn’t want to miss the start of the concert.’
The kind words and gentle smile acted like a soothing balm on Callum’s edginess and he calmed slightly. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, I must have been day-dreaming. I was just thinking about one of the pieces that they are playing tonight.’
‘Oh, which one was it? I have been really looking forward to Rimsky-Korsakov’s Capriccio Espagnol. I think that it is so exciting,’ she enthused.
Callum’s momentary recovery in confidence disintegrated as he perceived that her knowledge of classical music was wider than that of most of the people he knew, and probably of his own. The thought of sitting for a while and talking with her about his passion was just an intoxicating illusion. His knowledge would soon be exposed for its threadbare inadequacy.
‘Well, er, I’m afraid it was just the Beethoven piece,’ he mumbled. ‘His sixth symphony.’
‘Oh, the Pastoral,’ she gasped. ‘I do love that one. It is so clever how he creates such vivid experiences of the countryside with his music. Tell me what you were thinking about; share your thoughts with me.’
‘I… I couldn’t do that. It was all a bit silly really.’
‘No, please. I’d love to hear. It would be so interesting to know what feelings it evokes in somebody else. My mother thinks of it in such an idealised way with jolly peasants in smocks emerging out of thatched cottages. I told her to think of the hardships that they endured; the poor living conditions; their exploitation by rich local squires. They were treated almost like slave labour. They had to have their moment in the sunshine.’
Callum stared disbelievingly at the beautiful young woman. ‘Yes. I… er… suppose you’re right.’
‘I am sure that Beethoven was trying to depict the drudgery, the tedium and suffering, as well as the enriching effects of the countryside. He starts by submerging you into the beautiful, calming effects of nature. But the second movement about the brook also describes the endless repetition of rural life. What do you think? How do you see it? Please share with me what you were thinking about.’
The wave of panic that had engulfed Callum was gradually transmuted by the unstoppable enthusiasm of this sensuous, captivating young woman into a mesmerised amazement. His jaw moved slowly but soundlessly.
‘Beethoven was a sensitive man and he endured much suffering himself in his life,’ she continued, in the absence of a response from Callum. ‘I think that he understood the struggle of the peasants, don’t you?’
‘Well, er, yes. I suppose that I was thinking something like that myself,’ Callum said, relieved at having finally managed to form some words. The queue shuffled forward up Broadway but the girl moved faster and jumped in front of Callum.
‘Oh, do tell me,�
� she pleaded, grasping his hand. ‘That is so amazing that you should be thinking along the same lines as me. Please tell me.’
Her hand gripping his had sent numbing shock waves through his system and he found himself once again stumbling for words. ‘I… was, er, I was just thinking about France.’
Her eyes widened. ‘France! Oh, how brilliant.’ She danced in front him, hindering his progress until she had elicited a suitable response. ‘What was it about France and the Pastoral Symphony? You must explain to me now. Please.’
‘Jean, dear, do calm down a little,’ the older companion said. ‘It’s you who is holding the queue up now.’
‘Oh, Aunt Agnes, the queue won’t mind one little bit. Please tell me about France before my aunt gets a bit cross. And what is your name, by the way? As you now know, my name is Jean, Jean Peterson actually.’
‘Oh, yes, pleased to meet you, Miss Peterson. Mine’s Callum — Callum Murphy.’ He extricated his hand from hers, conscious of the hidden messages that the sweaty roughness was conveying. ‘It was nothing so special about France and you will probably think it a bit stupid. I was just remembering the villages; how they seemed so cold and lifeless after the war. So much damage and so much loss of life.’ They slowly moved along with the crowd. ‘And you never heard babies crying. When it seemed that things couldn’t get worse they were hit by the flu epidemic and the harsh winter. But every day the women would come out, sorting the rubble and cleaning the stones. The old men began to rebuild the village; the bakery first, then the bar and then the houses. We helped where we could, repairing roads and bridges, helping them to fix their carts and farm machinery. Around Christmas, the younger men started drifting back and there was a party for each one of them. Over the next few months they began to get the farms and fields back into shape. There was some upset, mind, for those who didn’t come back but you could feel that indomitable spirit rising up, driving them on.’ Callum became aware of Jean’s admiring eyes fixed firmly on him as she listened to every word he spoke. He shuddered as he thought of the frailty of his ideas when subjected to such scrutiny. ‘Well, I don’t know much about these things. It’s just that I have heard this piece a few times and it’s that third movement. You know, where they play that fairly coarse but good fun music.’ She had beautiful lips that were slightly parted, an expectation that he couldn’t meet. ‘I suppose that I just thought that it must have been like that in those French villages. That is how they had lived for hundreds of years. Working hard with boring jobs; then the community got together and enjoyed themselves. But the thunderclouds came over and destroyed their villages and their way of life. And, sadly, their men. I, er, I know that Beethoven wouldn’t have had this in mind at the time but that is what I felt. You know, it was just like that awful stillness after the storm and the thrilling awakening as the countryside slowly crept back into life.’ He ran a finger inside his collar and straightened his cap nervously as Jean stared at him, open mouthed.
Rags, Bones and Donkey Stones (Sequel) Page 4