‘Tha’ll get nowt on this side,’ the old man observed, relighting his pipe and puffing the smoke into a languorous cloud around his head.
‘They don’t get to clean the steps much round here, do they not?’ Liam asked, his shoulders drooping as the torpor of another fruitless morning’s work settled on him.
‘It’s all old uns and young widders with children along here. Besides, we’re still wearing our old rags. But there’s some here that could perhaps do with a few of your bones if you’ve any to spare,’ the old man chuckled, removing his pipe and pointing across the street with the stem.
A three feet high raised pavement, surmounted by a handrail to which the washing lines were conveniently tied, carried the houses along the right side. Liam looked at the stone plaque set in the wall bearing the numerous names of the men from the street who had been lost in the recent war. A young, snotty-nosed and shoeless lad had suspended his concentration on scraping the dirt from between the paving stones with a small piece of slate to focus his attentions instead on Liam. Behind the boy, Liam noticed a man lifting himself awkwardly from a low stool. The two straps of his braces were linked together at the front with a piece of string and the unused right sleeve of his khaki shirt was folded carefully up and pinned to the shoulder. Small pieces of newspaper with blood red patches in the centre were stuck randomly around his face. With his left hand, the man removed his cap and wiped his forehead with his sleeve before smiling down at Liam.
‘Billy Perkins? Bloody wars, I didn’t think that you’d made it. You were looking definitely off-colour the last time that I saw you.’
‘Aye, well. They got me to the field hospital and cleaned me up a bit and then shipped me up to Lille. It was touch and go for a while but I pulled through. Finished up in the hospital on Langworthy Road. It was more handy for the missus, you know. Had to learn to do things with my left hand though. You got a crack for doing that at school but now I have no choice.’
‘Still not mastered the shaving bit though?’
‘Aye,’ Billy said, ruefully fingering the newspaper patches. ‘My wife usually does it for me but she had no time last night with going to Church and all.’
‘You moved down from Brindle Heath, did you?’
‘It was a lot better being near the in-laws. Give us a bit of a hand, so to speak.’
‘So what are you doing with yourself now Billy? Obviously won’t be playing rugby just now. You could manage a bit of football.’
Billy smiled. ‘I’m a bit past that now. Not much you can do in this state.’
‘How are you getting by then? It must be quite a struggle.’
‘Aye, it is. I got a bit of a pension but we rely on the wife with her job at Haworth’s mill. That’s why I’m stuck here looking after this little sod. He’s off school, sick.’
The child coughed obligingly and wiped his nose on his sleeve before returning to staring at Liam through the railings.
‘How’s things with you anyway, Liam?’ Billy continued. ‘Business a bit on the quiet side, is it?’
‘Aye,’ Liam said, staring sadly at the old jumper and the pair of trousers with a hole in the knee that were the meagre fruits of his morning’s work. ‘There’s no money about. People don’t want to part with their old clothes for a few bits of stone to clean their steps.’
‘Well there are a few more on this side that do them, but it’s usually just once a month rather than every Saturday morning like it used to be. I’m surprised that you’re not doing a bit better, though, with all the war widows that are knocking about.’
‘Most of them have put everything that was half decent into pawn. The rest gets handed down. There’s nothing left. Why are all the curtains drawn anyway?’ Liam said, waving his hand vaguely to indicate the extent of the houses that were in mourning.
‘It’s Nellie Grimshaw at number 18. She’s just lost her old man. Came back from Africa with half his stomach missing. Did well to keep going for all this time.’
Liam looked at the tightly closed curtains, neat front door with polished brass numbers and the newly stoned steps and window sill of the house that Billy nodded towards. ‘Nice place. Can’t be too short then?’
‘No, I think that she has a few bob put by. Harry had the ironmongers shop on Trafford Road. Nellie ran it after he took bad. I’ll get the lad to go and give her a knock and see if she’s got any of Harry’s old things that she is throwing out, if you like.’
‘She’ll not part with much for a few stones,’ the old man said, joining the discussion and pointing the stem of his pipe towards the meagre collection on the cart. ‘You should wear your medals, young man. You’d get a bit more sympathy that way.’
Scowling at the old man, Liam pulled himself erect from the slouching position over the cart that despondency had lulled him into. ‘I’m not after trading on sympathy. I’ll leave that for those with a song and a begging cup. I just want a decent living for an honest day’s work.’
‘There’s not too much of that about these days,’ the old man said, sucking thoughtfully on his pipe. ‘You don’t get a good hourly rate for principles.’
‘I didn’t fight for four years for nothing,’ Liam responded fiercely but with unintended irony.
‘You didn’t fight for four years to come home and starve to death,’ the old man suggested good naturedly, tapping the pipe bowl on the heel of polished black boots.
Liam felt uneasy with the course that the conversation was taking. In the ten weeks since he had left the army he had struggled to find any work. There were jobs going in British Westinghouse, mostly for trained engineers, but his inability to bend forward, for fear of the head pains that this caused, had ruled him out anyway. Many employers had retained the women that they had taken on during the war, partly because a lot of them were now widows and were the only providers for their families, but mainly because they were cheaper. In desperation, he had invested the last of his army money in the cart and a supply of stones from the merchant on Oldfield Road. After a week of plodding around the streets of Ordsall he still hadn’t collected enough to fill his army kitbag.
‘Go on then son,’ he said finally, addressing the dishevelled boy who stared at him from behind the railings, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin cupped on his hands. ‘Give Mrs Grimshaw a knock for me and ask her if she has got any old clothes to throw out. Maybe she won’t take offence if you ask her.’
‘No need for that. You can ask me yourself if you’re after something.’ The door of number 18 had opened and a stern faced, once handsome woman in a long black dress stared challengingly at them. Her shoulders were pressed firmly back, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, and the ribboned pins holding her thick grey hair quivered menacingly as she spoke. Both Liam and Billy instinctively stood more erect as the widow glared at them.
‘Morning Mrs Grimshaw,’ the old man said, removing the pipe from his mouth. ‘Fine day again. Shame your Harry can’t be here to enjoy it. He didn’t see too much sunshine before he went.’ The widow smiled thinly in acknowledgement and turned her steely stare on to Liam who stroked the handles of his cart uncomfortably.
‘Young fellah-me-lad here is an ex-soldier,’ the old man offered by way of introduction. ‘Friend of Billy Perkins. Another of the Salford heroes from ’16 who stood up to be counted in Flanders.’
Liam turned his back slightly towards the widow and briefly shook his head in denial. ‘I was back in Egypt then,’ he mouthed to Billy. He turned again to find the piercing eyes still on him. The old man continued unperturbed. ‘He’s come back with an injury like your Harry did, and he’s just trying to get himself on his feet again.’
The withering gaze was directed towards the cart and Liam smiled weakly. ‘You are not very good at it,’ she observed cuttingly, in a tone that brooked no disputation.
‘It’s a bit tough,’ Liam spluttered defensively. ‘Nobody wants to part with anything these days.’
‘Not everybody takes the s
ame pride in their houses as they used to,’ she said with a barely noticeable nod of the head to direct attention to the pristine condition of her own. ‘I knew you’d be round one day’ she added stonily. Turning abruptly, the widow disappeared as quickly as she had arrived. Liam looked at his friend and raised his eyebrows quizzically. Billy shrugged his shoulders, grimaced slightly and shook his head.
Liam, already trundling his cart down the street, was startled by the shouted imperative. ‘You there. Mr Murphy. Where are you going? I’m not running down the street after you.’
He turned sharply and was startled to see the formidable widow standing against the railing holding a large pile of neatly folded clothes in her arms. ‘Well don’t just stand there gawping. I’m not standing here all day carrying these. And fetch me a brown and a white while you’re at it.’
Liam hauled on the handles of his cart, pulling it back to where the woman was waiting above the memorial plaque. ‘My Harry has not got his name on that stone but he gave his life for his country nevertheless,’ she said. ‘You’ve still got yours so pull it back together again.’
‘Thanks very much, Mrs Grimshaw,’ Liam said, touching the peak of his cap. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘That might not be good enough, lad. You look like a beaten dog – no spark in your eyes. Go home and look at yourself in the mirror. You’ll not forget the war but you can stop the big green devil from sitting on your shoulder and wrapping his tail round your neck.’ She thrust her stack of clothes into the grateful arms of Liam.
‘Aye, well, it’s not that easy Mrs Grimshaw,’ Liam muttered, staring in some disbelief at the range of garments that now lay on his cart. ‘Things have been a bit difficult since I came out. There’s not a lot of work about and, anyway, I get a lot of headaches from an injury I had.’
‘Headaches!’ The word exploded out of the outraged widow and rattled down the street. ‘Headaches,’ she repeated, as if, quite unnecessarily, to reinforce the first attempt. ‘My Harry came back with most of his stomach missing and was still behind his counter by seven o’clock every morning. He kept this area going with its hardware, no matter what it took to get supplies in.’
‘Sounds like a good man, Mrs Grimshaw. Sorry you’ve lost him.’ Liam raised his hand, doffed his cap and lifted the handles of his cart. ‘And thanks a lot for all these things. They’ll be a big help.’
‘You’re welcome. And don’t be taking any of it to that rascal of a rag trader on Cheetham Hill,’ she ordered. ‘You can do better than that with them.’
Liam turned his head as he set off down the street. ‘’Bye for now, Mrs Grimshaw, and thanks again.’ He was surprised to find himself smiling though slightly puzzled. He didn’t remember telling her his name yet she had called him Mr Murphy.
‘Let me know how you get on,’ she instructed his receding back as he disappeared under the next line of washing. ‘And remember, that is my Harry planting a small oak in your back garden.’
‘I will, Mrs Grimshaw. You’ve made my day. ‘’Bye now.’
‘And you mine,’ she muttered, gripping the rail tightly as she watched him duck under the next line of washing. ‘And you mine.’
Liam had abandoned his intended meanderings around the streets and had rushed back to Goodiers Lane with his windfall stack of Harry Grimshaw’s clothing. Gasping and red faced, he clattered through the front door holding the waistcoats at the top of the pile in place with his chin.
‘My God, what the…’ his wife exclaimed in surprise. She held the sides of the stack to support it and guided him down the cream painted hall. A mottled pattern of red, blue and gold from the stained glass above the door fell across her pale face and dark hair. ‘Where on Earth have you been to get this lot?’
Liam’s excited explanations were hindered by the need to hold the top of the stack in place with his chin. As she helped him through, Bridget’s eyes wandered appraisingly over the neatly folded offering and her face suddenly became more fearful. ‘Liam, what have you done to get stuff like this?’ she demanded, stopping her guiding to stare into his face. ‘I can’t believe that we have reached such a point. I know that you haven’t been well since you came back but I would rather starve to death. They’ll have to go back.’ His head shaking denials appeared more like affirmations with the restricting effect on his chin and Bridget started to push him back towards the door.
‘I’ll not be having things like that in my house when I don’t know where they’ve come from,’ she persisted. ‘How would I ever show my face to the fathers ever again?’
The pile was becoming more unstable with the struggle and Liam’s ‘Sod the fathers’ spluttered into the silk waistcoat on the top sounded like a repenting ‘God the Father’ to his now tearful wife.
‘I’m glad that you have seen the error in what you have done,’ she sobbed. ‘Go and put things right for us, Liam,’ she pleaded as she pushed him back down the steps and closed the front door.
Liam staggered over to his cart and replaced the troublesome bundle. ‘Bloody wars’ he grumbled when he finally freed his jaw. ‘What sort of a Monday is this turning out to be?’ he demanded of a surprised old lady carrying a large wicker shopping basket, who happened to be passing by. ‘I think that I’ll just go back to bed and start again.’ The old lady smiled and nodded with the benign indifference of the deaf before pulling her shawl up over her head and continuing on her mission. ‘Fat lot you care,’ he muttered after her and petulantly pushed the stack of clothes over.
‘Eh, Mr Murphy, you’ve had a good day today with that lot. You’ve not been robbing the houses on the Height have you?’ He turned to see the smiling face of the imperturbably cheerful Amy Benson who was arm-in-arm with her best friend Pippin. Normally he would have been delighted to see the two teenage girls who seemed to be able to bring some sparkle into even the gloomiest of days. Today, however, he was struggling to decide on what to do about the clearly worrying evidence of opulence that was now scattered across his cart.
‘Afternoon girls,’ he nodded towards them. ‘How’s your father today, Pippin?’
‘He’s not so good this morning,’ Pippin said, pushing the strands of golden red hair from her eyes then straightening the belt on her pale grey dress. ‘He had a bad night with his coughing.’
‘And now he’s sitting there all grumpy and miserable, drinking his pot of tea,’ Amy added. Pippin turned with a smiling, slightly shocked look, putting her hand over her mouth and both girls shrieked with laughter.
‘Aye, well. I’ll pop round to see him later.’
‘It’s a good job he doesn’t want cheering up then,’ Amy retorted, grabbing at her friend and collapsing with her into a fit of giggling.
Liam was never quite sure how to respond to this disarmingly honest child, who seemed to have adopted him as a proxy father, and he shuffled the clothes on his cart to conceal his discomfort. Amy straightened herself up and attempted a serious face but as soon as she saw Pippin’s smile she started again. ‘Ooh, sorry Mr Murphy,’ Amy finally offered, patting her short, fair hair then adjusting her pale blue cotton dress, ‘but you’ve been such a droopy drawers lately and here you are with all this lovely stuff and you still feel down in the dumps.’
‘Well, it’s all a bit confusing, Amy. I’m not sure myself why I’ve been given these clothes in the first place. Mrs Murphy thinks that I got them dishonestly and now I suppose you do.’
Amy’s mouth fell open. ‘Oh, Mr Murphy, it was only a joke. I know people round here don’t get things dishonestly like that. Well…, perhaps only when crates fall open on the Docks. But that doesn’t count the same because they would be damaged anyway.’ Liam was unable to control the slight smile that flickered across his face.
‘There are some very posh outfits here, Mr Murphy,’ Pippin said holding up a Harris Tweed jacket.
‘Well just look at me in this,’ Amy said. She had pulled on an astrakhan top coat which reached down to her ankles. ‘They’d say I was really
swanking going to the market in this.’ She suddenly put on a serious face, braced her shoulders back and, licking an imaginary pencil, made as if to start taking notes. ‘Now then, Mr Murphy,’ she said, adopting as gruff a voice as was possible. ‘How did you say this bag of expensive clothing had fallen into your possession?’
‘Shush will you. I don’t want all Goodiers Lane gossiping. It came from Nellie Grimshaw – you know, from the hardware shop down Trafford Road. Her husband has just died.’
‘Who? Old Man Harry?’ Amy asked, aghast. ‘Mam will be upset. He used to give her a bit of credit without Mrs Grimshaw knowing.’
‘Is Mrs Murphy not pleased then?’ Pippin asked.
‘She didn’t give me chance to explain. Thinks that I must have pilfered them.’
‘Well, why don’t you just tell her how you did get them?’
He pointed to the front door and rubbed the side of his head. ‘Locked,’ he said, turning back to his cart where he attempted to reintroduce some order into the clothing. ‘May as well just take them back or something,’ he muttered, trying to assess his options.
The urgent rapping on the door knocker startled him and he looked up to see Amy kneeling on the step and lifting the flap on the letter box.
‘Mrs Murphy,’ she yelled through the opening. ‘We’ve come to see if your Billy is in ‘cos Pip’s brother, Edward, said there is a job going at the butcher’s near where he works and he should go round there quick if he wants it.’ She paused for a second to draw breath. ‘And these clothes are from Nellie Grimshaw, you know, from the hardware shop, because her husband has died and she doesn’t want them any more. You’d better come and have a look at them because Mr Murphy doesn’t know whether he is coming or going and looks as if he might be getting one of his heads.’
Rags, Bones and Donkey Stones (Sequel) Page 9