Late Night on Watling Street

by Bill Naughton

  For almost two whole days those bees lay at the bottom of the jar without the least sign of life. It must be my dad, I thought; they don’t like the sort of talk he comes out with when he’s in a bad temper. Before going to school on Monday I put my hands round the jar, warming it up a bit. When suddenly one moved. At first it only stirred, as though wakening up, and then it kind of got up on its toes, looking about the size of a fat grain of rice, and after a bit of preliminary jumping it slowly began to rise. I could hardly believe it. Somehow it must have set the others off, because the next thing another followed it, and then a few more joined in, and then right under my eyes they all began to move upward, whilst some of the early ones began to go downward. It was a lovely sight to watch, and I went running into the kitchen to my mother, who was trying to get the fire going under her wash-boiler: “Hy, Mam, come an’ look,” I cried, “the bees have started workin’!”

  You wouldn’t believe what a difference those bees made to my life. I was never one for noisy games, and all that shouting and yelling you get with some lads, so it was real nice to sit there in the evenings and watch the bees working. They were company for me. Especially when my dad had gone to pit in the evening, then I’d stoke the fire up, because I could see the bees liked the warmth, and worked better. And on baking days the heat would rise up from the oven to the cornice and set them agate in a proper frenzy, up, down, up, down, rising bloated to the surface as though in need to breathe, and diving down to the bottom again for sugar. At such times it seemed to me they must need extra sugar, and I saw they got it. There were the odd rows at breakfast over the shortage of sugar, and my father couldn’t understand why our coal was getting used up so fast, but the way I looked at it, the bees had to be kept working.

  By the fourteenth day that wine had thickened up something lovely, and the bees had trouble making their way through it. “We’ll pour it off tonight, Mam,” I said to my mother “for it must be ready by this.” So when my dad had gone to pit I helped my mother to drain it off into our big jug. Then I got out an old fashioned brandy flagon that a servant girl who worked in a big house had once brought round, and I poured the lot in. It filled it just near the top. Then I put the cork in tightly. “I’ll bet that’s right good, Mam,” I said, “when it’s ready.”

  The weeks went by, and the bees kept working, and we got our second harvest. Then the Sunday came for the bishop’s visit, and I was getting ready when there was a shout at the door: “Bill!… ready yet?” I went and let Ned in. “I’ll not be more than a couple of ticks, Ned,” I said, “I’ve got some stains on my collar.” It was a stiff celluloid collar that clipped tight round the throat.

  “Give me a bit of dry bread,” said Ned, “an’ I’ll get them off for you.” Ned rubbed the bread lightly over the collar and it was like new. “Are you on your own?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, “My mother an’ dad have gone to my Uncle Pete’s at Wigan.” On Sundays in those days you always spoke a bit better off, as they say.

  Ned stared at me: “You don’t look in very good fettle,” he said.

  “I’m worried, Ned,” I said. “I feel as if I’m in very poor voice.” And I began to hum and me … me … round the house.

  “Try a spoonful of golden syrup in a drop of hot water,” said Ned.

  “I’ve got them funny fingers scrawpin’ away in my stomach, Ned,” I said. “I’ve tried that breathin’ exercise, but so far no results.”

  Ned was standing in front of the fire, hands in pocket, gazing up at the bees in the jar: “By the way,” he said, “how did the wine turn out?”

  “Champion,” I said. “Course we haven’t tasted it yet.”

  “Why not?” said Ned.

  “It’s got to mature first,” I said. “For twenty-one days. I’ll show you the bottle we got.”

  I went to the bottom cupboard and got out that big flagon. Ned tested it for weight. “When did you draw it off?” he asked.

  “I think it was a fortnight ago,” I said.

  “How long was it brewing?” said Ned.

  “You mean how long were the bees making it?” I said. “Oh, just about fourteen days…”

  “Then your twenty-one days are up,” said Ned. “Because it’s five weeks since you got the bees. I remember the Wanderers were playing Newcastle away on that Saturday.” And then Ned reckoned through the football fixtures that it was five weeks.

  “You’re right, Ned,” I said, taking hold of the bottle. “I’ll tell my mother when she gets home.”

  Ned looked at me critically: “You’re going hoarse,” he said.

  “What?” I said.

  “You’re going hoarse,” he said. I noticed that he was still holding on to the bottle. I could, see our four hands gripping it. “Try the doh, me, sol, me” said Ned, taking full hold of the bottle, “fah, lain, doh, lah …”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I feel dry in my throat.”

  “Dry…?” said Ned, gripping the flagon by the neck and having a good look at it.

  “I daren’t, Ned,” I said. “I’d get laid out if my dad came home an’ caught me at it.”

  “How can he,” said Ned, “if he’s in Wigan?” He put the bottle down on the table: “You’ve got to do something about that voice,” he said.

  “I’ll try golden syrup in hot water,” I said, “same as you said.”

  “Try it,” said Ned, “but it’s not a blind bit of use for hoarseness.” He picked up the flagon and held it to the light: “It might look all right,” he said, “but you simply can’t say with wine until you’ve tasted it.”

  “I’d get murdered, Ned, honest I would,” I said. I wanted to grab the bottle and put it away, and yet it was nice being tempted.

  “Forget it,” said Ned, handing me the bottle. “Put it away.”

  “We could have a smell,” I said. “But I don’t think you’re supposed to take the cork off.”

  “Wine can be ruined just as easy by over-maturin’,” said Ned, “as by under-maturin’.” He picked up the flagon and in a trice his short nail-champed fingers had drawn the cork: “Pop!” he cried. “Did you hear it? That’s a good sign that it was ready.”

  We both had a smell. “Lovely,” I said, “put the cork back.”

  Ned looked at me severely: “A drop of that,” he said, “is the very stuff for your voice. You owe it to yourself, lad, an’ to the bishop, to take a drop. “Purely,” he added, “as a medicine.”

  “They’re not blind,” I said.

  “You can always replace it with two-three drops of water,” said Ned. “What the eye don’t see … And after all, who got the bees in the first place?” Then he thrust the naked bottle-mouth at me.

  I put my head down towards it, and it was so nice and comforting to feel the circle of thick cold glass fitting so neatly to my lips. A swift odour ran up my nose and made my head a bit dizzy, and then I felt Ned’s hand tilting the flagon. The rich liquid halted just at the tip of my tongue, and then it poured right across it and down my throat, filling all my mouth and throat with bright warmth, and away it went into my stomach, warming up every spot it touched.

  “How was it?” I heard Ned ask.

  “N-not much good, Ned,” I said. “Tastes funny.”

  “You had a right good neck of it just the same,” remarked Ned. “Not that I want any. Not a drop.” He handed the bottle back to me: “But don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Have a sup an’ be dashed to you,” I said. “Here, I’ll put some water in.”

  “When I’ve had my swig,” said Ned. “Trouble with me is that I can’t drink out of a bottle. Have you left the gas on in the back kitchen?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I said.

  “Then turn your eyes to the window,” said Ned, “and watch for your dad coming. I can’t bear being watched when I’m drinking.”

  I did give a glance through the window, but when I heard a glugging sound I turned and ran back to Ned. I grabbed it from him: “You can
’t sup out of a bottle!” I said, holding it up. “By gum, Ned,” I said to him, “you’ve given that a bit of tongue.”

  “I’ve tasted worse,” said Ned. “Just a drop more for your throat before we go.”

  It seemed only right I should, though I felt uneasy at the sudden drop in weight of the bottle. I had a long sip in place of a short sup.

  “Slip your collar on,” said Ned, “whilst I fill this up with water. Then we’ll make a dash for it.”

  I stared at myself in the glass-backed dresser as I put my collar on. It seemed I was getting fatter in the face. Ned seemed to be a long time in the back kitchen.

  “What about it, Ned?” I called.

  I heard a cough and then Ned called back: “Just gettin’ the cork in tight.”

  We set off at a nice light trot through the streets. For the first time in my life I saw the beauty of our town. The Sunday quiet was on the small cobbled streets as we ran along, every factory chimney stood in some mysterious simplicity, the long low-built ropeworks with wire-grated windows looked strange and different, and even the tannery odour was not unpleasing, whilst the two fat gasometers looked very comforting, and the railway arch with its wet dripping walls was like some ancient cave.

  The church itself was a scene of resplendent glory to me as Ned and I took our place in the choir. Then the congregation rose to its feet with a shuffle, and I began to take my seven slow breaths as the bishop was escorted to the altar beneath the ciborium. The organ broke out and Mr McDougall raised his baton. I’d never before realised how easy it is to sing if you don’t think about it. The voice simply poured out of me:

  Pange lingua gloriosi

  Corporis mysterium …

  The others seemed to be heavy and stuck, their voices dull and forced, whilst mine soared along, and I was trying to get them to join in with me.

  Nobis datus, nobis natus,

  Ex intacta Virgine.

  It wasn’t until I went into my solo that I really let go. It seemed the voice just poured out of me, and all I had to do was supply the words. McDougall, the choirmaster, stared at me as though he hadn’t seen me before. Even the bishop gave a peek my way.

  As Ned and I strolled home later, he remarked: “I’ve heard worse singing than that solo of yours, Bill.” I knew that was the limit of all praise.

  It was after ten o’clock that evening when my father and mother got home. I’d been very sleepy and thirsty all evening. My father was in a bad temper on account of the train having been very cold, and he’d got a bit of a chill from it.

  “Maybe a taste of that bee wine would help,” said my mother, going to the cupboard.

  “It should help something,” he said, giving a sneeze, “after all the sugar it got.”

  I didn’t even look up as I heard her draw the cork and pour it into the glass. I heard him say, “Good health.” There was a pause and then he let out a roar: ‘Puuh!… cursed sugared water!” he yelled. “The devil roast them bees, after all the expense an’ trouble.”

  “I think I’ll go to bed, Mam,” I said.

  The next day at dinner time when I looked up on the cornice I saw all the bees lying in a heap at the bottom of the jar. I went running into the back kitchen: “Hy, Mam,” I cried out to her, “all the bees look dead. They’ve stopped working.”

  She straightened up from the dolly tub, and fastened her quiet eye on me: “Is it any wonder they would?” she said. And then she went on possing the clothes.

  Tom’s Sister

  One rainy Tuesday morning, when I was nearly sixteen, I put on my Sunday suit, and set off for the Royal Navy recruiting office in Moncrieff Street, Bolton. My mother had been crying when I kissed her goodbye and her tears nearly set me off, so that I had to keep swallowing little hard lumps in my throat as I walked along the wet streets, amongst the folk hurrying to the cotton mills before the quarter-to-eight buzzer went.

  The recruiting officer, a grey-haired man in a blue overcoat, made out a railway pass for me to go to Manchester, where I would be given a medical examination. I went there and was examined with eight more fellows, all older than myself. They all failed early on, except another chap and myself. I passed everything so it seemed, but the doctor kept listening to my heart. I was very nervous at the time, and I could hear it pounding away. Then he said to me, “You’d better come back in a year’s time, sonny, when you’ve calmed down.”

  I felt ashamed of myself for having failed. I kept trying to think what I’d tell my mates. I wandered round Manchester a bit. I was hungry, but I hadn’t the courage to go in anywhere for a cup of tea, since I’d never been in a café in my life, except once at a funeral. But then, feeling full of misery, I went home.

  I’d no job to go back to, since I’d given up my job in the weaving shed to join the navy. It wasn’t easy to get work at the time, because the mills were doing badly. But a man called Tommy Cheadle told me where to go.

  “Go to the Hilton Mercerising Company,” he said. “It’s out in the bloody wilds, but there’s sure to be a job, because Abraham Hilton is always sacking somebody. If they like the look of your face they’ll let you work night and day. But for God sake don’t tell ‘em you’re a Catholic—he goes in for Wesleyans, and he’s a local preacher.”

  I went there, and I didn’t say anything about being a Catholic or anything else, and I got a job. It was shift work, and I had to clock in by six o’clock next morning. I was very excited and happy. Nobody I knew worked there, and it was like making a new start in life.

  I was up at half past four next morning, and went off to work through the dark streets just after five—my mother kissing me goodbye and crying a bit. But I liked the streets at that hour. You were almost alone, and you didn’t have to pass groups of mill girls, who would suddenly burst out laughing, and who made going to the factory a bit of a trial.

  The mercerising and dyeing shop was a very big, high steamy sort of place, with a wet concrete floor, and eight heavy roller machines, on which smoothed-out bundles of cotton yarn were placed, immersed in liquid caustic, stretched and pressed, and came off the machine as mercerised cotton, known as lisle.

  It was my job to learn how to run one of these machines, straighten out the dry yarn, strip the machine of the finished yarn, and feed it again. The foreman was a man called Albert, and he was known as Ta-ta. He was about forty-eight, with dark blue eyes, a quiet manner, and a very nice full smile.

  The lads all made fun of him. Not to his face, but within his hearing. They liked to come out with dirty talk in front of him, just to see how he would shake his head. We all went for our one break of the shift at half past eight, and we used to take our clogs off to ease our feet, because most of us had little burns on our toes where the drops of caustic had got through our clog tops. We used to tear strips off our shirt-laps and bind them round our feet to protect them. This meant that we were often late getting back to our machines, for we only had half an hour break. Albert used to come up about a quarter past nine and take his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and look at it, and say,

  “What time did you come to breakfast, lads?” He would get us bits of cloth for our feet, do little jobs for us on the machines and try to make life easier for us. He was the one who came around two o’clock just before we were finishing, and asked us if we’d like to work the double shift. That meant working on till ten o’clock at night. But we got a free lunch, and free tea, and overtime. Nobody ever refused. But he didn’t seem to like to ask us.

  At that time I was almost as bad as the others in thinking of Albert as an old ta-ta. But when I look back I see Albert in all his goodness, and I remember him more than anyone else, except Tom’s sister. I’ll never forget her.

  Tom worked on the machine next to mine. We used to stand shoulder to shoulder at the sorting poles dividing the wet finished hanks into noodles, and preparing the new dry ones for the machine, loosening the yarn and putting it on large scoops known as shovels, which were used to get the yarn over the
steel rollers.

  Tom was not really my sort of mate. I always liked lads you could have a nice little chat with about life and girls and things like that. But Tom would never listen properly. In the middle of something you were telling him, his clown’s face, with its long nose and freckles, would suddenly burst into a smile, and he would say something that showed he hadn’t heard one thing you had said.

  “Hy, hearken them spadgers, Bill,” he said to me one summer evening. “Ee, I wish I were a little sparrow. You could have plenty of fun, you know. Perch on a house-ledging, see, an’ pretend fallin’ off. Drop like a stone, with folk watching bog-eyed with pity, then as you got near the ground, open up your wings, and fly off!” Then he looked at me and said: “Has it never crossed your mind, Bill, that you’d like to be a gull or a swallow?”

  “If I were flyin’ high,” I said, “I’d be frightened of fallin’!”

  “I damn well wish I’d never asked thee,” said Tom. The dyers and bleachers all went home about six o’clock, and Albert would stay on until about seven.

  After that we eight machine lads had the place to ourselves, apart from Dirty Ernie, who worked the whizz. Our quota of work was laid out for the evening—a machine did eight pounds of yarn every five minutes—so that we couldn’t do any dodging.

  As soon as we lads got the place to ourselves we used to start singing at the tops of our voices. Between songs Ernie would look up from the whizz, let his false teeth down, and call out: “Anybody like to kiss me?” We used to yell things at him, which he seemed to like. Then he would sing The German Clockmaker or some other dirty song.

  But about nine o’clock in the evening we all seemed to grow a bit tired and we’d stop singing. It was usually about then that I could get Tom to talk in a sensible sort of way, about life and himself, and not so much about birds.

  One evening, about half past nine—we’d been on since six in the morning, so we weren’t too chirpy—we were making up feeds we’d like to eat, when Tom suddenly looked serious, and said: “What I’d like thee to taste, Bill, would be one of our Mary’s hot apple pies.”