Rags, Bones and Donkey Stones (Sequel)

by B A Lightfoot

  ‘All I’ve done is brought home a pile of rags.’

  ‘What you did, my love, is swallow your pride and go round the streets with a cart, day after day, shouting for those rags. All I did was what I have done for years - a bit of stitching and cleaning.’ She was still holding him in a tight grip but the moment was softening from one of threat to one of natural intimacy. He returned her steady gaze, smelt the faint, tangy odour of her body and put his arms round her waist. Nothing had changed but everything was different; the more prominent role of the women was now established in the public domain. She didn’t despise nor deride him for his failure to bring home a wage packet but, instead, she recognised it as a shared struggle against some external force.

  He held her close to him and kissed her nose. ‘Thanks, Brig. You did a fantastic job turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Where do we go from here?’

  ‘You take a bunch of flowers to Nellie Grimshaw and say a big thank you. She started this off with all that stuff of Harry’s that she sent. Then you have to think of some way of getting a lot more cast-off clothes on your cart.’

  Liam licked the foam from his lips before wiping his mouth on the cuff of his jacket. ‘You know, Eddie, that’s my first pint since Paddy’s funeral,’ he said, putting his glass down on the already saturated towel on the bar.

  ‘Well, I hope that it tastes better for the waiting,’ Edward said, passing a cigarette to his friend before lifting his foot onto the thick brass rail and resting his elbow in a dry patch adjacent to his glass.

  ‘No, it bloody doesn’t, it tastes like something the cat’s passed,’ Liam answered vehemently. ‘But I suppose that I’ll get used to it.’ He stared round at the sparsely populated vault in the Railway and coughed as he drew in the smoke of his cigarette. Further down the bar, Arthur Blenkinsop was hunched over his almost empty glass, staring gloomily into the gleaming amber fluid that remained there. His brown tweed flat cap, gleaming greasily on the peak, was pulled firmly onto his head, casting a shadow over his pale face and neatly trimmed, greying moustache. The pocket of his grey flannel jacket bulged untidily with his waiting meal, wrapped in its greaseproof paper. In one hand he carried a rolled up copy of the Evening Chronicle whilst the other tapped intermittently on the glass. A leather strap hung loosely from his wrist and curled down the leg of his grey shiny-seated, pin-striped trousers to a small, dirty white dog that lay sleeping on the sawdust-covered floor at his feet.

  On a table under the window, two men, dressed almost identically in collarless shirts, dark waistcoats and flat caps, played a lethargic game of crib. Smoke from their cigarettes drifted lazily upwards to make a further contribution to the darkening brown of the lincrusta covered ceiling. A pinch-faced man in a ragged woollen jumper, his hands thrust into the pockets of his shiny black trousers, sat absently watching them, blinking his bloodshot eyes incessantly.

  ‘Hello, Fingers. How’s business these days?’ Liam asked, addressing the arch-recidivist. ‘Things a bit quiet, are they?’

  ‘I’m weighing up, weighing up, weighing up,’ the man answered gruffly.

  ‘Well, so long as it’s not the lead off St Joseph’s roof you’re weighing up again.’

  ‘No, No. Changed now. She’s buggered off, buggered off. With the kid.’

  Liam smiled. Conversations with Fingers tended to be a bit stilted. He was a man, who, having found a couple of suitable words, used this device of repetition to give added weight and bulk to his response. ‘Oh, I’m sorry about that, mate. Been away in the army, have you?’

  ‘No, no, no. Inside, inside. Did a job. Took the nipper with me to go through small window at back of shop. Forgot him, forgot him. Copper heard him scriking when he went past. Wife said she’d had enough, had enough. Not my fault. Too much to think about.’

  At the other end of the bar, a dark haired man played a lonely game of darts, screwing his eyes as he peered through the smoke from the cigarette between his lips. His substantial, though fraying, braces were assisted in their task of holding his grey flannel trousers on to his small, wiry frame by a khaki canvas belt.

  Through the bar, Liam could see two shawl-clad women sitting on the wooden form that ran along one side of the snug. They each held a glass of stout protectively in one hand, a frequently flicked Woodbine suspended over the ash tray with the other. Their bowed heads, lowered voices and occasional gasps betrayed the disclosure of neighbourly confidentialities. Behind their heads, the glowing red rose in the stained glass presided in silent arbitration.

  The door of the snug burst open and a flustered young woman held up a white enamelled jug. ‘Please, Mr Kirkbride,’ she pleaded with the landlord. ‘Will you top up my jug with about half a pint of porter and I’ll give you the money at weekend?’

  ‘Now then, Lily,’ the landlord answered with calm authority, placing his right hand over the pump handle. ‘What’ve we got here? You had a full jug only ten minutes ago.’

  ‘I know, Mr Kirkbride, but I lost some on my way home. Dad will kill me.’

  ‘How did you manage to do that then, Lily? Some slip down your throat, did it?’

  ‘Er, no. It was my boyfriend, actually.’

  ‘What? Your boyfriend drank some?’

  ‘Well, er, no. It was down his back.’

  ‘Now, you’re losing me here, Lily. What was it doing down his back?’

  The young woman was by now a bright red and her free hand went to her throat as she stumbled over the words of explanation. ‘It was just…, it was when…, when we were… just saying goodnight. I forgot, you know, about the jug in my hand.’

  The gloomy Arthur Blenkinsop raised his head and gazed balefully at the now glowing Lily. ‘Give her half a pint of porter, Bill, and I’ll pay for it. Fair cheers you up knowing that there’s still some romance left in the world.’

  The landlord smiled and filled up the jug. ‘There you are, Lily. Now, no more encounters on the way home, mind.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Kirkbride and thank you, Mr Blenkinsop. You’re very kind.’

  Arthur shrugged his shoulders, shifted uncomfortably, and then resumed his contemplation of the bottom of the glass. The two women in the snug, having been distracted for the moment by the exchange, now resumed their huddled conversation with renewed vigour as the door closed behind the grateful Lily.

  ‘That was a nice gesture, Arthur,’ Liam said, turning towards the brooding figure. ‘Wasn’t a bit of salesmanship there for a future client, was it?’

  ‘No. I’ll be long gone before she becomes one of the dear departed,’ the sombre manager of Musgrave’s Funeral Services answered, with just the faintest trace of a smile.

  ‘Business alright then, seeing as you are making these generous gestures?’

  ‘Always keeps steady, you know.’

  ‘That’s good, then. So why are you looking so bothered about things?’

  ‘It’s the boss. Stressed. Nobody to take over the business since his lad got killed. And he’s not been the same since all that palaver with your family when we laid your Paddy to rest. Reckons that the Co-op is now saying that they are the only ones who can guarantee a quiet and dignified burial for your loved ones.’

  ‘Well, you tell them that we have no more like him in the family. There’s none of us can barely afford a drink nowadays.’

  Liam swirled the beer round in his glass before raising it to his lips. He drew the fluid to the back of his mouth to savour more completely the slightly bitter flavour. ‘You know, Eddie, I could probably get quite used to it again, given half a chance.’

  ‘You never know. Laura said that your little enterprise at the Flat Iron Market had gone quite well. Perhaps things are looking up.’

  ‘Aye, thanks to Brig, Laura and the girls. No thanks to me; it was just a stroke of luck.’

  ‘Maybe your luck is changing. A few more days like that will be a big help.’

  ‘It won’t happen though, Eddie. Where’s the stuff to sell going to come from? It was ju
st a bit of luck that Nellie Grimshaw had just lost her Harry. Well, it was for me if not for Harry.’

  ‘What about the lads with rounds in Seedley and on the Height? They are probably all Blighties. Our Sarah said that Sam Tomlinson has the round in Langworthy and he lost half his left buttock in ’16.’

  ‘But they’ll all be selling their stuff to Jacobs. I can’t move in on that.’

  ‘Why not? Just offer them a decent price and say that you were with the 8thLancashires. And don’t just offer donkey stones for the old clothes. People have more to worry about these days other than cleaning the steps. Can’t you offer them something that they need?’

  ‘And how am I supposed to do that? The things that people need most are the rent money and a square meal.’

  ‘You might be right there. I’ll tell you what. I’ll have a word with our Jim and ask him to sound out the lads on the allotments. See what they have to spare. Perhaps if they can let you have some stuff at the right price you could either sell it from your cart or exchange it for the old clothes.’

  ‘You know, Eddie, you should have had some more of that gas in France. It has really sharpened up your brain. That could just be a cracking idea.’

  Edward picked up his pint and gulped at the beer. ‘I don’t know about my brain but it certainly hasn’t done much for my breathing.’

  ‘Sorry mate. I know that it’s a bit of a trial. But while you are thinking so clearly, have a look at this and see what you make of it.’

  Liam took out the small painting that he had found in the pocket of Nellie Grimshaw’s suit. ‘What do you reckon to that then?’

  Taking the picture, Edward studied it closely. The likeness to his friend was uncanny; the dark, wavy hair, the arched eyebrows over the glinting, slightly mischievous, eyes. And something almost intangible that had been lost over the years — an eagerness, a sense that the unexpected might be about to happen. He looked at the young woman that Liam was with. She was disturbingly beautiful. Edward knew that her eyes, clear blue, shining, almost mocking, would have looked deep into his soul had she been other than an image. Her nose, exquisitely crafted, delicately flared, would have defied a sculptor’s chisel and her mouth was an invitation that no man could risk and none could refuse. Her hair was the colour of the golden, swaying cornfields of France, drawn to the top of her head where it was held by a pearl encrusted band. Around the tight and delicate muscles of her long throat, a necklace of lustrous pearls held a pendant; a deep green emerald framed by tiny diamonds. The jewel was suspended above an unseen, but certain, perfection. He felt an irrational and mortifying irritation as he handed the picture back.

  ‘What do you think?’ Liam asked.

  ‘What I think is that you are a devious little sod. That’s another that you sneaked off with without letting on.’

  Chapter 13

  A Saturday morning spent dipping into the Spencer Collection at Manchester’s John Ryland’s Library had, once again, proved an enriching experience for Callum. He loved the Victorian gothic elegance of the building, combining rich craftsmanship with innovative engineering ideas. He had earlier struck up a conversation with the maintenance engineer who had been unloading his truck when Callum had arrived. A quickly revealed mutual fascination with all things mechanical had led to the engineer demonstrating the creative ideas that had gone into the design of the air filtering systems, installed to protect the precious collections.

  ‘Why do you want to be spending a Saturday morning reading books when you could be getting some fresh air?’ his mother had asked over breakfast. Maybe she had been right but, all the same, she had made him some tongue sandwiches and he was now on his way to Piccadilly Gardens to eat them.

  It seemed as if the whole of Manchester had turned out to enjoy the warming embrace of the summer weather. There was certainly more evidence, in the fashions on display, of a greater degree of affluence than would be seen in Salford. A greater predominance of straw boaters to flat caps on the men; brighter, modern cotton fabrics, rather than drab grey linens, for the women. But this was, after all, the centre of Manchester where all the big shops were. The people who came here either already had it to wear and show, or they had it to spend.

  There was an almost continuous row of electric trams along Moseley Street and the alighting and boarding passengers had to dodge nimbly round the carts and motor cars. The increasingly popular Morris Cowley ‘Bullnose’ with the 4 cylinder 1500cc engine, the boxy model T Fords and Austin 7’s, parping and stuttering, roared and purred past him, weaving their noisy way round the trams and horse drawn carts. A loud honk on the horn heralded the approach of a sleek, snarling Vauxhall 30/98 driven by a haughty-looking man with a black moustache, a lemon jumper and a white silk scarf wrapped round his throat. At his side was an elegantly beautiful young woman striving to keep her wide hat balanced at the correct angle. Callum felt thrilled by the potential power lying under the throaty roar of the 4,500cc engine, capable of driving this car at 85 mph.

  Stout gentlemen waved sturdy walking sticks at steaming horses that obstructed their progress and leather helmeted young men wove perilously through the traffic on barking motor bicycles. A frustrated carter, trying to deliver neatly wrapped rolls of material to the loading bay at the rear of a store, was waving angrily at a motor car driver who had broken down in the narrow street. Callum resisted the temptation to assist the driver, heading instead into Piccadilly and the sanctity of the lowered gardens. Finding a vacant seat, he unbuttoned his jacket, removed the wrapping from his sandwiches and spread his clean, white handkerchief over his knee. His mother had folded a pickled gherkin inside a lettuce leaf. She would have been thrilled to have included this little treat for him but Callum was not enamoured by their spicy bitterness. It was a nice bit of tongue on the bread, though. She had even managed to find some butter for his sandwich ‘seeing that you will be eating in Manchester.’ It felt good to be able to enjoy the sunshine and the excited chatter of the children in the gardens after the claustrophobic, studious silence of the library.

  Raised voices from close by aroused his curiosity. He finished his sandwiches, ate the piece of lettuce and threw the gherkin into a nearby bush. Walking out towards the Market Street end of Piccadilly Gardens, he encountered a large crowd being harangued by a woman standing on a box at the far end. He moved to the edge of the crowd to catch the words. She had a strong though pleasant voice and was making her points forcibly. ‘Who was it that kept this country going when the men went off to war? It was the women. Who was it built the howitzers and made the bullets and the shells? It was the women. Who milked the cows and farmed the land?’

  A number of women in the crowd chorused, ‘It was the women.’

  ‘Who manned the trams so that people could still get to work?’ the speaker on the box cried.

  ‘It was the women,’ the chorus rang out.

  ‘And who wouldn’t give the men their jobs back when they came out of the army?’ a flat-capped man standing near Callum shouted through the Woodbine in his mouth.

  ‘It was the women,’ an all male chorus shouted.

  Disadvantaged by a slight slope in the land, Callum found it difficult to see the speaker when she rounded on the heckler. ‘Don’t you forget, sir, that many of those women are now widows and they need the jobs to support their families.’ He edged over to the side of the crowd where a grassy bank and his above average height enabled him to get a clearer view of the woman. She was carrying a brightly coloured, folded parasol that she waved emphatically at the crowd on the far side as she spoke. Brown hair hung on to her shoulders beneath a wide-brimmed, charcoal grey hat. A wide green, white and violet silk sash was slung across her shoulder, partly concealing the modish, black linen jacket with a belt folded into a neat bow behind her back. She was wearing a calf length, grey worsted skirt and her small, black leather shoes stamped irascibly on the wooden box to add stress to her arguments.

  Callum was oddly disturbed by the seductive stren
gth in the young woman’s voice and he stared fixedly at the gentle curve of her silk stockings. He longed to trace with his finger the soft shadow that ran down the inside of her ankle and over the elegant mound of her ankle bone. ‘How can you not support the right of women to have the vote?’ the compelling voice demanded. The stylish cut of the leather shoe hinted at the shadow of the instep that lay beneath and Callum shuddered with excitement as he envisaged the smooth curving beauty of the underside of her foot, a sight so alien to his world of noisy engines, oily overalls and clumsy, leather boots. ‘How can you deny us these basic human rights,’ he heard her cry out as she turned towards the front of the crowd, ‘after the support that we gave to the men in the war effort?’

  ‘So what did you do in the war then, love?’ a heckler demanded. ‘I can’t see you in overalls building ships.’

  ‘Sipping cocktails in the Ritz, more like,’ another, standing close to Callum, shouted out, supported by jeers from others in the crowd.

  Callum watched her foot stamp prettily on the box as she addressed the heckler, pointing her parasol dramatically. ‘I will have you know, sir, that I worked every hour that I could as a volunteer nurse at Hope Hospital looking after wounded men and I don’t…’ Her voice trailed off in mid-sentence. ‘Oh!’ she gasped, clasping her hand to her throat. ‘It’s Callum Murphy. Thank you so much for coming to support us, Callum. Don’t go away, will you? I’ll be finished in a few minutes.’ Callum leapt as if struck by a bullet, irrationally fearful that his private, slightly licentious contemplation had been exposed to the mocking scrutiny of this barracking crowd.

  ‘No need to rush, dear,’ a man in the crowd shouted to the speaker as all eyes turned to see who Callum Murphy was. ‘It’s only one of those bible bashers up next.’ Callum, meanwhile, shocked to the core by the startling revelation that the engrossing speaker was Jean Peterson, obligingly ensured that identification was made easy by turning a bright, skin-splitting red. He headed instinctively for the sheltering anonymity of some trees behind the podium, apologising briefly to those he shouldered roughly to one side. Jean intercepted him and grabbed his hand before he gained the arboreal obscurity.