There was a picture of a football team with a young Fforbes-Fosdyke proudly holding a large cup. Another, now promoted to a Major, with his head bowed low as he was presented to a tiny and rather dowdy Queen Victoria. Chopper was worried about Isaac, whose health had thankfully improved since he had been brought indoors. How would his dependent family cope if their provider lost his job? He had recently been telling Isaac about the sustained attacks by Meredith’s gang against Liam. The old rent collector knew the Murphys well from his days on the Ordsall round. Chopper told him about the burning down of his shed and truck, about the threatening behaviour towards the drivers and their families, and about the numerous times when tins of paint were thrown over the produce on the back of the truck. He described how Liam and his son had struggled to rebuild the business after the arson attack but were finding it difficult to deal with the random assaults on the drivers.
Isaac, with much trepidation, had told him that one of the General’s companies owned a major stake in Meredith’s and that he, the General, would surely not be happy with such conduct. It would be impossible, however, to advise him of this conduct without disclosing that he had had access to this confidential information.
There was a photograph of the General shaking hands with Haig, another with Churchill, then a collection of him with a variety of music hall performers. Chopper sat down on a leather covered pouffe but quickly rose again and he stared unseeingly at the picture of the General standing alongside Lord Kitchener. The General would question him and would almost certainly guess the source of his information when he told him about Liam’s troubles. It would be a bad enough outcome if Chopper was to lose his job but it would be disastrous if Isaac also lost his. Chopper sat down again on the pouffe but jumped like a startled rabbit when he heard his name barked out by the General.
The interview was painful, with Chopper stuttering and stumbling over the explanation of the vindictive campaign against Liam Murphy and his son. The General’s instructions for him to ‘Get to the point, man,’ helped his focus if not his lucidity but, when the old man began to tap his pencil on the desk and ask questions about Liam’s business, he worried that he had disclosed too much.
‘And what do you think should be done?’ the General demanded. Chopper had not thought it through that far, having been too pre-occupied with the worrying possibility that both he and Isaac would become jobless. He had expected that the solution might come from the lips of Fforbes-Fosdyke as he appeared to have the controlling hand in these matters.
‘Oh, er, I don’t rightly know, sir. Perhaps I should take a few of the lads and go and have a word with Meredith. Meet force with force, if you like,’ he suggested tentatively.
‘Hennessy. Do you suppose for one moment that I want to resolve this by sending thugs to beat the living daylights out of the people running a business in which I have a financial interest? Do you really believe that I want to be involved in such mindless violence, to risk my integrity by behaving in such a lawless manner? Do you think that I want to risk appearing in a court of law? Do you not think that it might, anyway, seem an amazing act of folly to instigate such an action against people whom I indirectly employ? No, Hennessy. I do not think that your suggestion is a good one. In fact, I would go as far as to say that, from my point of view, it is totally without merit.’
‘No, sir. I mean yes, sir?’
‘What we need, Hennessy, is a commercial resolution to this little difficulty which proves beneficial for all concerned.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right then. I am sure that you have work to do or can you afford to take the morning off whenever you feel like it? Bring your friend Murphy in to see me sometime.’
‘Yes, sir. And no, sir, I can’t.’
‘Close the door behind you or else all the heat goes upstairs.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Hennessy. This is a serious matter which needed to be drawn to my attention, so I will overlook, on this occasion, the intrusion into my personal affairs.’
Chapter 23
The hard wooden chair in the waiting room was far from comfortable and Callum crossed and uncrossed his legs nervously. He grimaced slightly as the rasping feet on the parquet floor amplified noisily over the wooden partition, echoing around the heavily patterned plaster architrave of the high ceiling. In front of him, the narrow room was divided by a desk along the top of which a thin brass rail gleamed with burnished authority. A card standing on the desk instructed ‘Salford Charter Bank – Please ring for attention.’ A large, brass bell challenged new arrivals to issue a ringing summons; an option which, after waiting quietly for ten minutes in the hope that someone would be just passing through, Callum had been eventually forced to take. As he tapped on the plunger a loud, metallic ping had reverberated through the dusty quiet of the room beyond and he had quickly retreated a few paces in the hope of dissociating himself from the intrusive bell. A few minutes later, just as Callum was wondering whether he would have the courage to ring a second time, a fusty old man with slicked back, grey hair, elasticated arm bands and a clearly uncomfortable starched white wing collar, appeared through the side door behind the counter. He peered over his half-moon glasses and Callum approached hesitantly.
‘Yes?’ the old man demanded, obviously unhappy that somebody had had the temerity to disturb the cavernous silence.
‘Oh, sorry. They sent me up from the desk,’ Callum said, waving his hand nervously towards the door that he had come through. ‘I… I have an appointment with Captain Brown.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Ah, yes, it’s Callum Murphy. I’m a bit early, I think.’
‘Better than late, in my opinion. You can sit over there while you wait.’
‘Thanks,’ Callum smiles weakly. ‘I will.’
The wooden partition was a dark oak with obscured glass panels around which were coloured glass squares bedded in leaded strips. He could hear a pen scratching an apparently endless list, a precise ticking of a large clock. A loud cough clearing an unseen throat startled him momentarily before the room returned to a reverential quiet. He noticed a spider industriously weaving a web across the top corner of the partition behind the desk. It hesitated for a moment, detecting a movement or a sound beyond the powers of Callum to discern.
Callum felt his inside pocket to reassure himself once again that he had brought the papers. Jean had transformed his endless scrawling notes and calculations into a neatly typed justification report. He had thought so long about this project, unsure about his capacity to run a business, worrying whether his knowledge of motor vehicles was sufficient to run a garage and car repair service. Jean’s father had done his best to reassure him, happy with the skills that he had demonstrated in repairing his motor bike and servicing his company vehicles. When he had first mentioned his scheme to Mr Peterson, Jean’s father had been immediately supportive. He had offered to assist in raising the funds but Callum had declined politely. His motivation in going through with all this pain was to prove to Mrs Peterson that he was deserving of her daughter and that he had built a business using his own initiative and resources.
If the truth were known, he was petrified. When he had listed all the equipment that he would need, and costed the building in Swinton that he had identified as suitable for his venture, his heart had sunk. The sum was unthinkable and the modest savings that he had accrued in the few years since he had come out of the army were pitifully inadequate. It was Jean who had constantly supported, reassured and reinforced him. She was determined that her mother’s aloofness should not stand in the way of their being married and was keen that they should do it on the terms that Callum had specified. He had said that he would not go cap-in-hand to her father, nor would he marry her unless her mother was convinced that he was a worthy partner and that he could take care of her daughter in a way that she felt was appropriate.
As the clock picked away tirelessly at his ordeal in this silent auditorium, he refl
ected on how Mrs Peterson still seemed unconvinced that he was not a Catholic. He went over the figures again in his head, grateful for the help that he had received from Mr Peterson. Jean’s father had built his business through shrewd initiative and good engineering skills but even his company was suffering from a worrying downturn in trade. Supposing that he had wildly overestimated the turnover that he would be able to achieve? Even the big, established companies were finding it increasingly difficult to make a profit and the number of out-of-work Salford men was growing by the day. He heard low voices murmuring distantly over the partition. Then he heard them laughing. They were mocking him and his foolish, preposterous proposal. Perhaps he would be better retaining his position at the Council yard, just doing the odd job in his spare time like he did for Uncle Liam. He was willing to work all the hours that he could to build up a business so that he could marry Jean, but what if no customers ever came?
The door in the partition at the side of him opened with a suddenness that startled him and a tall, elegant woman stood smiling at him and holding out her hand. ‘Hello, Mr Murphy, I’m Annabel Brown. My husband said he would be happy to see you now if you would like to follow me, please.’
Standing up, Callum shook Mrs Brown’s hand nervously. ‘Oh, yes. I’ll do that. Thank you.’ He had met Captain Brown on a number of occasions in France when, as a mud spattered motor bike despatch rider, he had delivered communications to him on the front line. He knew that it was unlikely that the Captain would ever remember his now clean face, never mind his name, so Mrs Brown’s slight familiarity in introducing herself confused him.
The Captain ushered him into his oak panelled office and sat him in a chair at the side of the heavy, oak desk. As he lowered himself onto the leather covered seat he had the alarming sensation that he was going to slide backwards over it, but a creaking spring restrained its swinging movement. Callum barely noticed the bookcase, containing more silver cups and plaques than books, or the heavy metal safe in the corner as he tried to focus on the plea that he was about to submit for a substantial loan. The Captain offered him a cup of tea and a cigarette, both of which he declined, then said that it was a bit early yet to offer him a glass of whisky. Callum was grateful that the ceaselessly ticking clock had mitigated in his favour on that one.
‘It’s good to see you, Mr Murphy. I believe that you were with the 1/8th Lancashires?’
‘Good morning, sir. I was with them at the end. I was on a crew repairing the vehicles. Before that I was with the motor bikes.’
‘I probably bumped into you then before I got this Blighty.’ The Captain tapped his leg ruefully. ‘Tried to get back but it was all over by the time that I got clearance. What are you doing with yourself now, then?’
Callum told him that he was the foreman at the Corporation garage and he went on to explain his plans for setting up his own business. There had been a lot of talk amongst the men, he said, that there were plans to build a new road between Manchester and Liverpool. It would create a lot more jobs but he had heard that the Ship Canal owners weren’t happy about it. The premises that he had found were quite close to where this road would be and it was in a more affluent area so there would be a greater number of car owners. ‘Unfortunately,’ he added, ‘you can see from my figures that it will need quite a bit of capital and I’m afraid that I just don’t have that sort of money. I… I will need to borrow quite a lot. I know that things are pretty tight at the moment and, maybe, well, you know, if the bank can’t…’
‘Mr Murphy,’ the Captain smiled, ‘thank you for putting forward your proposal. You have clearly thought your ideas through very carefully. There are already many privately owned cars in that part of town so you should do very well. There should be no problem with meeting your requirement – it’s your money, after all. I will speak with Miss Connolly in the next few days.’
‘Miss Connolly?’
‘She is a major shareholder in the bank. Normally, my father would vet small commercial loans but Miss Connolly has asked to be kept informed on this one.’
The Captain stood up and held out his hand. ‘Good luck, Mr Murphy. I have been told that you have an amazing talent with motor vehicles. Personally, I am absolutely hopeless with anything mechanical. I’m sure that you will do very well.’
Standing on the pavement outside the bank, Callum watched the red and cream tram rumble up to the four-way intersection. It was number 198, a pre-war Mountain and Gibson with a Hurst Nelson body. The driver switched the contact on the catenary, turned the handle and the tram lumbered over the elegant curves of the sixty tons of track that formed the junction, the groaning intimacy of wheels on rail echoing around the underside of the mammoth vehicle.
He felt dazed and confused by both the content and the brevity of the meeting. After the long and vacuous wait in the partitioned reception area, the discussion on his request for a loan had lasted, perhaps, just five minutes. Not that he had much experience in these matters, but he had expected the questioning to be far more rigorous. The scrutiny of the figures had been minimal. On a whim, he crossed the road to wait for a tram to Pendleton. He would try to speak with Jean at the offices of her father’s company, where she was employed.
Joining a queue of gloomy men, who had been on a protest march that morning to the Poor Law offices demanding work not charity, he listened abstractedly to their grumbling discussions. There seemed to be a general consensus that it would make no difference. Stepping onto the platform, he made his way up the stairs to the upper deck. Somehow, the sensation of smoothly developing power from the 32bhp motors was enhanced on the slightly lurching top. Not smoking himself, he appreciated how these modern tram designers had developed an ingenious set of zinc louvers that brought in fresh air and sucked out polluted air. The previous designs with open tops or open-ended canopies had been uncomfortable for passengers in the colder weather and a problem for the driver when a freezing wind was funnelled down into his cab.
Settling back onto his seat, he felt the tram jerk slightly, the whirring hum of the electric motor increased and it moved smoothly across the junction, the steel wheels grinding over the curving connection rails in a squealing harmony before evolving into a smoother, faster progress on the other side. The throbbing drone of the motors was relaxing, the powerful, rumbling strength of the vehicle re-invigorating. The complaining voices of the protestors, the hum of the motors, all blending into a soaring chorus of man and machine.
Callum barely saw the posters advertising the acts for the current week’s show at the Palace as he swayed slightly with the roll of the tram, relishing the intermittent clacking of the wheels on the rails as he tried to rationalise the distracting anomalies of the meeting that had just taken place. Captain Brown had already known that he was in the 1/8 Lancashire Fusiliers, although he might have possibly just guessed at that. Many of the enlisted men from the area had been with the Lancashires. The Drill Hall, where he had first joined as a Territorial, was only just up the road, but how would he have guessed at the 1/8? And who had told the Captain that he was pretty good with cars?
The tram rattled and pitched and Callum enjoyed the tremor of the whirring motor in the soles of his feet and through his buttocks. His lustful admiration of her ankles and feet, when he had seen Jean on the speaker’s platform in Piccadilly two years before, had now transmuted into a deep love, a profound respect and a yearning for the shared intimacy of marriage. He heard the bell tinkle a request for a stop, the pitch of the powerful motors slowly diminished and the doors stuttered open.
An old man, his cloth cap shining from accumulated grease and grime, a pipe protruding under his yellow stained moustache, hauled himself up the stairs. ‘How did you lads get on today, then?’ he asked, addressing the men from the march.
‘A waste of bloody time, if you ask me,’ one grumbled.
‘We need a few of our lads on that committee,’ another added. ‘It’s just full of Tories and do-gooders.’
‘Aye, it
would serve them well to get their hands dirty sometimes,’ a third man said, surveying his own large, calloused pair with a gloomy stare. ‘They sit in there, worrying about whether they’re paying out more than Manchester or not. They should come and see what it is really like with no jobs.’
‘And no bloody hope either,’ the first one said vehemently. ‘That snooty bloody woman with her “you men will just have to learn to manage” crap. I felt like telling her where to stick her arty-farty fag holder right where she’d enjoy it most.’
‘I wonder when she last had a slice of bread and dripping for her tea?’ the gloomy one pondered.
The tram clattered over the intersection where the line peeled off towards Manchester and they passed a large poster outside the Hippodrome advertising performances twice nightly at 7pm and 9pm – prices 2d, 4d, 6d and 1s. Callum wondered if the theatres would still be able to pull in the crowds for much longer. The older generation were still loyal but the younger people seemed to favour the excitement of Tom Mix and the fun of Charlie Chaplin that were now to be enjoyed in the cinemas. Another poster advertised Beero - the celebrated non-intoxicant drink from Walker and Homfray’s Ltd. Callum tried to rationalise the apostrophe but decided that he would ask Jean.
They slowed down and the metal wheels squealed round the corner into Broad Street. Callum watched a large group of men standing outside the padlocked doors of the engineering works across the road. A couple of them looked quite angry but the others appeared resigned and distressed. The tram swayed slightly then resumed its smooth, untroubled progress up the wide road. It was still busy with people, vehicles and carts but the wicker shopping baskets were light and the loads were small. Grim faced men, caps pulled down and jacket collars turned up over knotted white scarves, hands thrust deep into their trouser pockets and shoulders hunched forward, ambled aimlessly in their hopeless quest for work or stood huddled in groups in the doorways of closed pubs. The women, woollen shawls pulled over their head and shoulders, stopped intermittently, like a line of questing ants, passing information on the price of tea and butter, the gossip about the local vicar or the black eye of Mrs Sidebottom.
Rags, Bones and Donkey Stones (Sequel) Page 21