Chopper heard a faint rustling noise and he jumped instinctively when he saw the black beady eyes of a mouse peering at him over the brass fender. It adjusted its stance to modify its viewing angle and, having apparently decided that Chopper’s posture, though clearly uncomfortable, posed no immediate threat, it scuttled along the skirting board and rested behind a pile of Picture Post magazines. Although he detested rats with a passion and would gladly flatten them with a large spade, he bore no such malice towards mice. He remembered his mother jumping on a chair when one ran across the front room and his father saying ‘Don’t be afraid, dear, it’s just one of God’s creatures.’
‘I don’t care, you’ll have to kill it or we’ll be overrun with them,’ his mother had cried.
‘It shares the same spirit of life that I have, Mother,’ his father had replied, ushering it gently into a box. ‘Taking the life of this little animal will only diminish mine.’
The mouse, with some freshly acquired cobweb attached to its whiskers, emerged from the mound of magazines. It checked to ensure that Chopper had remained a fixture, then skirted an elephant’s leg converted to a walking stick holder before heading for the safety of a walnut display cabinet full of tarnished silver cups, a variety of medals and three porcelain bowls.
‘Right then. What can I do for you?’ The words, breaking through the silence like a rifle shot, shook Chopper from his reverie. He looked across the desk at the austere man who had pushed aside the pile of papers and was now staring at him intently over his half moon spectacles. He was of a slim build, medium height, with a neatly trimmed moustache and oiled down, greying hair. The keen, intelligent eyes that were studying Chopper so closely were shaped by a pained sadness. Chopper shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair and tried to hide the tear in the sleeve of his jacket. The briskly alert General Fforbes-Fosdyke bore no similarity to his late son and Chopper was now trying hastily to re-assess the approach that he would take. The morning sun was just beginning to shine through the narrow gap in the dark brown brocade curtains and was reflecting off the heavy brass shade of the reading lamp that presided over the neat piles of paper on the mahogany desk. Chopper shuffled his chair out of the line of the dazzling glare and smiled nervously. ‘Good morning, sir. It was good of you to see me.’
‘Morning, Hennessy. Come to talk about your brother, have you?’
Chopper was stunned by the implication that the General was already familiar with the incident that had occurred in the campaign in Gallipoli. The letter that he had asked Epiglottis to write for him, to achieve the subtle nuances that were necessitated by the ingratiating nature of the content, had made no mention of either the General’s son or of Chopper’s brother. His hope had been that, by touching the General’s conscience, he might spark some support in finding a job. Chopper’s nonchalant demeanour with his mates on the rails at Trafford Road corner hid the deep need that he felt to be re-united with his family. The eviction letter that he had just received was about to break his last thread of hope.
‘I… I, er, no, sir,’ Chopper stammered. ‘I… was more hoping that, er, you might be able to help. Getting a bit desperate, like.’
‘Times are getting more difficult, Hennessy. Cotton trade going down, engineers struggling, the miners won’t help. Bad news all the time.’
Chopper found himself losing the thread of the conversation. ‘It must have been a shock, sir.’ He hesitated, fearing that he might say too much. ‘The news…, from the Army…, about your son getting killed.’
‘Damn fool, my son. A waster. Got what he deserves by the sound of it. Pampered too much by his mother. This is what you get when you mollycoddle them. Brings shame on the family.’
‘Yes, sir. I mean that maybe I understand, sir. He was scared…, like my brother. But my brother had nowhere to go.’
‘They recruited too many who weren’t suitable. All this damn fool nonsense with the Kitchener posters. Lads were too ashamed to stay out.’
Chopper was floundering with this unpredicted, off-course conversation. Walking up to Bury New Road earlier, he had rehearsed in his mind the words that he would use to elicit support from the General. However, Fforbes-Fosdyke had taken the initiative and pursued his own agenda, startling Chopper with his insights. ‘Yes, sir. Could be sir. But how did you know?’
‘How did I know what?’
‘About the incident. Your son and our kid…, sorry, sir, my younger brother.’
‘I might be retired, Hennessy, but when you have been an officer in the British Army you never leave it and it never leaves you. Did you think that they wouldn’t have told me?’
‘Well, I don’t know, sir. I suppose that I thought that they might, er just sweep it under the carpet… so to speak, sir.’
‘Ah. I see. Didn’t have a spot of blackmail in mind, did you, Hennessy?’
‘No, sir. Indeed I did not,’ Chopper said, stunned by the older man’s offensive interpretation of his motives. ‘I am in a desperate situation, General, but I wouldn’t stoop to that. We might only be rank and file but we still have our principles. Any argument I had was with your son and justice has been done there. That’s finished with.’
‘No, I’m sorry, Hennessy. My comments were a bit out of line. I must be a bit edgy this morning. Not sure what to expect, though, after the legalese in the letter that you sent.’
‘Oh, that would be Eppie, sir. Likes to show off a bit with his language. Can’t say that I really understood it myself. Sorry, sir. I just signed it and sent it off.’
‘Can’t you write?’
‘Yes, sir, I can. I suppose that I thought that you might take notice with a different wording than I would have done. It’s just that I know that your rent collector that does the Ordsall and Hulme round is getting on a bit. Word is, sir, that he is not too well.’
‘Isaac Jeffries you mean. Not heard that. He is slowing down. Wants to retire, does he?’
‘Don’t think that he can, sir. His daughter lost her husband on the Somme and Isaac is helping with keeping her family.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’
‘Isaac’s son told me that his father always thought that when your son came back you would be giving him a job in the office. Well, sir, to put it bluntly, your son is not coming back. I thought, maybe, that if the office job was still open, perhaps you could give it to Isaac.’
The General’s eyes gleamed. ‘And you could have Isaac’s job, eh? Was that the idea? You get me to move the old man over and you step in.’
Chopper gulped and twisted the cap in his hand into a tight bundle. Suddenly they were at the crux of his mission and it had gone totally awry. ‘Well, yes sir. I suppose that was what I had in mind. I’m sorry. It was just a stupid idea. But don’t take it out on Isaac, will you? He knows nothing about my coming here. I do feel sorry for him and I thought perhaps you could do something to help him and happen it might do me a favour. I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have interfered. It just seemed like the right thing to do.’
Chopper jumped as the General slapped his hand down on the desk. ‘You’ve got some nerve, Hennessy, I’ll give you that.’
‘Yes sir. It was a question of needs must. My last hope really.’ Chopper rose from the chair and unfolded his cap. ‘I’ll be getting off now, sir. Sorry to have wasted your time.’
‘Sit down, Hennessy and stop fluttering about.’ He pushed two sheets of ledger paper over to Chopper. ‘Here, add those columns up. There’s a pencil. Don’t press too hard.’
Chopper’s shaking hand, sweating palms and lack of practise made the first list of figures an ordeal but when the General stood up, glanced over his shoulder and said ‘Good, well done.’ Chopper’s confidence slowly returned. He quickly completed the other columns and pushed the papers over to the General.
‘Are you married, Hennessy?’
‘Yes sir. Well, sort of.’
‘Sort of? What does that mean?’
‘Well, sir, she has gone to her mother�
��s with the lads. She went while I was away and she has just stayed. I… I couldn’t keep them in the way that she wanted.’
‘Hennessy, I’m sorry for what my son did to your brother but, in the end, I suppose that, as you say, justice was done. They were both killed and, as far as the official record goes, they were both killed in action. But as for this idea of yours, to take over Isaac’s rent round, it clearly will never work.’
Chopper’s heart sank as he realised that his audacious scheme had failed. His mind had become a vacuum, totally devoid of any initiative. Amongst his friends, he had never hinted at the anguish caused by the departure of his family, but now he had conceded his dismay to this complete stranger and failed. ‘No sir. I shouldn’t have wasted your time,’ he said, twisting his cap into a battered rag.
‘Just listen to me, Hennessy. You don’t understand. I am in business and the bottom line is that there is little room for sentimentality. Tenants sometimes default because they often choose to spend their rent money on other things; like drink. I know that is not always the case but I can’t distinguish. I allow some leeway but then action has to be taken. This is a business not a charity. The workhouse and the Board of Guardians are there to provide that service.’
Chopper felt the bile rising, a physical need to express himself. He remembered the rain streaming down walls of the trench as he had read the letter. Dear Mr Hennessy. We are sorry to advise you that your mother died yesterday in the Salford Workhouse… It had been three weeks before that she had passed away in the miserable poverty of the Workhouse and had been buried in a paupers’ grave in Weaste Cemetery. The Workhouse was a huge, imposing building that hung like a spectre over their humble existence, the symbol of failed lives and fallen morals. Chopper hadn’t known that she was in there; he had never got around to saying the things that he had always meant to. He unfolded his arms and rose to his feet.
‘I’m sorry, General. The Workhouse might be a convenient place for you to sweep the nuisance lower classes into. It might make you feel good giving us this charity after sucking us dry through working for a pittance.’ Chopper took a deep breath and held the back of his chair. He knew that he had already said too much but this boiling fury that he had suppressed for years had to have release. ‘You should try going into that place; it is like a prison. It’s somewhere for the upper classes to lock away the peasants who have become an embarrassment for them; the folk who are too old now to dig the canals and have nothing put by to live on; the young girls who have been put up the duff by the owner classes and their slimy sons.’
The General sat back in his chair and, with his hands folded across his middle, stared at Chopper with the proprietorial scrutiny of a boxing manager studying an apprentice fighter.
‘Hennessy?’
‘Sorry, sir. That was a bit out of order. I shouldn’t have said all that and I apologise. It’s just that the people out there don’t want charity, they want jobs. They want to do a good day’s work and take a pay packet home at the end of the week.’ Chopper dropped his head forward and swallowed hard to restrain the surging emotion.
‘Hennessy, do you know how many people there are in the Workhouse?’
‘No, sir. But one is one too many.’
‘I agree. In fact, there is more than one but it is now almost empty. I do know what it is like because I am on the Board of Guardians and we are working hard to get it closed and to offer some kind of better alternative. I also appreciate that it is very difficult to find jobs just now when so many men have come back into the system at the time that many trades are suffering, but we are trying. I am just making the point that in the business side you have to be very careful not to appear weak. People will take advantage.’
‘There are many who are genuinely struggling, sir. There are families with six and eight kids down our way who are trying to survive on thirty shillings a week. The Poor Law payments are better than nothing, but only just. There are people out there who are literally starving.’
‘I know that but you can’t let your heart rule your head. I think that you could be very useful to me, Hennessy, but you know too many people on Isaac’s round and I think that you would be too lenient.’
‘You’re right, I suppose. I wouldn’t have the heart to be putting mates out on the streets, especially those I had been in the army with.’
‘Don’t write yourself off so easily, Hennessy. You have clearly got many good qualities. I’ll bring Isaac in to the office and move the Broughton and Kersal man on to his area. He has been on that one too long anyway. Got too comfortable. You can take over his round. I’ll give you a month’s trial. Come here at eight o’ clock, Monday morning. Be prompt. Wear a black or navy blue suit and a bowler. You have to look the part, Hennessy, to get the respect.’
Chopper walked home in the sunshine, his head still reeling from the turmoil of the interview with the General. At Pendleton Church he hesitated, then pushed open the heavy door and went inside. Sitting in a pew at the back, he enjoyed the soothing stillness, the crepuscular shadows in the side aisles, the slightly perfumed cool air. He stared through the dusty shafts of sunlight at the dark, pitch pine pulpit where, as a boy, he had watched his father speak with such eloquent passion, sometimes about incomprehensible concepts such as the ‘sacred trinity,’ at other times about heart-warming stories of the miracles of Jesus. He remembered the smell of the big man’s pipe tobacco, his rigorous, morning routine of careful shaving, cleaning his teeth and rubbing drops of olive oil into his hair. He saw again the shiny boots, the watch chain with the silver cross hanging from it and the long black coat that he used to call his jackdaw. An inviolable strength that had protected their family and that Chopper had sometimes resented sharing when others came to seek his counsel. He heard again his father’s warming chuckle, it always reminded him of treacle toffee; his breathless laughter after they had raced each other down Broad Street; his encouraging shouts at Chopper’s clumsy schoolboy football and his big warm hand that had been icy cold when, just ten years old, Chopper had touched it just before they screwed down the lid of the coffin.
His mother had been sustained through her torment by the loving support of the Church members but Chopper had never forgiven the God that had so cruelly removed this huge bastion from his life. He had rejected the pointless demands of his schoolwork, had mortified his mother with the frequent visits from the police, and had played his football with a vindictive ferocity that had demanded respect and earned him his nickname. His assiduous, often stifling, protection of his young brother had prevented his burning resentment from driving him irretrievably down the road of rebellion, but it had then deepened his brother’s dependence on him.
Chopper closed his eyes and bent his head. ‘Thanks, Dad. Sorry to have made such a mess of things but thanks for being there for me,’ he whispered.
Chapter 9
Linking their arms together, their heads bowed in a giggling exchange of confidences, Amy and Pippin walked through the gates of Ordsall Park and past a group of youths who were lounging idly on the grass. When one, emboldened by his sniggering mates, shouted a request for a kiss, Amy lifted the umbrella that she was carrying and told the caller that it was the steel point of that which she would give him if he didn’t stop mithering them. Despite the sunshine, her mother had insisted that she should take the umbrella because the air was heavy and she was having one of her headaches.
Since the empowering, though shocking, revelations of their discussion with Aunty Sarah, the girls never tired of speculating about the disgustingly incongruous implications of the procreative intimacies that were their future. ‘I was listening to some of the women off our floor talking in the toilet last week,’ Amy confided. ‘One of them had just come back from her honeymoon and they were asking her about it. You remember that one that I told you about, the one that they call Gipsy Rose? Well, she said “Lost your cherry then, have you, dear?”’
Both the girls laughed. ‘What did she mean by that?
’ Pippin asked her friend.
‘I don’t really know,’ Amy said. ‘But she seemed disappointed with the whole thing. She said that she was shocked when he took his trousers off. She said that she’d never seen such an ugly thing in all her life and there was no way that she was going to let him put that anywhere near her. She said that she ran to the toilet and was sick.’
There was a rumble of distant thunder and a heavy bank of dark grey cloud loomed threateningly beyond the Docks. ‘It does put you off the idea of having children,’ Pippin said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think that I want to bother. What’s the point in getting married if it’s so horrible.’
‘Perhaps they’re not all made the same. Cissie Bradshaw said that she is proud of her Harry’s manhood.’
‘Well, maybe I’d just rather not think about it. It frightens me to think of taking my clothes off in front of some man,’ Pippin said anxiously. ‘And to think what Aunty Sarah said about where the babies come from. That just doesn’t seem possible.’
Large drops of rain began falling from the gloomy grey cloud that had now overtaken them and they rebounded noisily off their weekend bonnets. The sky was rapidly darkening and a lightning flash left them scared and open-mouthed. They quickened their pace and Amy struggled with the fortuitously carried umbrella. ‘Let’s make a dash for the bowling green,’ she gasped, hauling the resistant mechanism into an upright position. ‘There are those shelters where the old men sit watching the matches.’ An explosive clap of thunder reverberated through the park and across the roofs of the terraced streets, echoing out across the plains of Cheshire.
Rags, Bones and Donkey Stones (Sequel) Page 6