by Lyn Andrews
‘Will you be able to manage the market on your own, Mary? By the time I’ve got through the day I won’t feel much like traipsing up and down Great Homer Street.’
‘Of course I will.’
‘How much have you got? Don’t forget what I said last night about getting yourself something. I meant it.’
‘Oh, I’ll see. I’ve got a good bit to spend. Now, there’s meat, vegetables, a bit of fruit, a couple of slices of Dundee cake, tea, sugar, a bit of butter, Nellie’s getting those eggs, salt fish for breakfast, bread and then I’ll get some sweets and a couple of penny toys each for the kids. I might even get some holly and those cheap paper decorations they sell. It’s a pity we can’t have a Christmas tree, the kids would really love that, but it’s beyond my pocket and I owe Sarah McShane for the coal. I’ll have to get a couple of bottles of beer for Frank to go with his dinner.’
Maggie pursed her lips. ‘There won’t be much left to buy yourself something. Can’t he do without his ale? He’ll have enough at Nellie’s tomorrow and you can bet your life he’ll be in the pub this afternoon when he’s finished work.’ She was certain that Frank McGann had kept back enough of his wages to go drinking with his mates and even if Violet hadn’t been getting married on Christmas Eve there would have been little done in the way of work by most of the men in the street.
‘Oh, Maggie, it’s Christmas!’
Maggie was about to make a sarcastic comment when the door burst open and Katie appeared, her face flushed. ‘Mam! Mam, come quick! Our Tommy and the other lads made a slide and Mrs Jones came out of her door and fell flat on her back!’
‘Oh, Jesus, Mary and Holy St Joseph! Is she hurt? I’ll swing for that lad yet! I told him not to be carrying on like that.’
‘It was Georgie Price’s fault. He had a shelf from his mam’s oven!’
‘This time Hetty will have to do something about that little hooligan!’ Maggie said grimly as she followed Mary out.
Nellie was on her feet but hanging on to the downspout for dear life.
‘Nellie, are you hurt, luv?’
‘Just a bit shaken up, Mary! I put me foot outside and down I went!’
Maggie took her arm. ‘Come on, let’s get you back inside. A cup of good strong tea is what you need.’
Mary rounded on the small group of lads who were all looking a bit sheepish. ‘I hope you lot are satisfied! And you, Georgie Price, you’ll end up in a reformatory the way you’re going on! I’m going to see your da about this. You, Tommy McGann, get inside! That’s all the nonsense I’m going to stand from you for today. You can spend your time doing something useful for a change. There’s wood to be chopped for a start and then you can go to the dairy!’
The little group dispersed, shooting malevolent glances at a subdued Georgie Price. If their das got to hear of this there’d be nothing in any of their stockings on Christmas morning.
Nellie wasn’t in fact injured, and after a cup of tea and some encouragement from Maggie and Queenie (and a couple of other neighbours whose sons had been involved and who all swore retribution in one form or another on their offspring), she pulled herself together. They began the final preparations for Violet’s wedding.
By mid-afternoon Mary was exhausted. She had swept and scrubbed the house from top to bottom. She had black-leaded the range, polished the fender and ashpans, scrubbed the table until it was white, taken out the few rag rugs, thrown them over the washing line and given them a good beating and had tidied herself up ready to go to Dalgleish’s pawnshop to redeem Frank’s good suit.
‘Right, I’m off to Uncle’s for your da’s suit. Behave yourselves and don’t get this place mucky!’ she instructed, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders.
‘When will Da be home, Mam?’ Tommy asked cautiously.
‘Any time now and don’t blame me if he’s heard about your antics this morning! You can explain it all to him.’ Mary was aware that this was possible because of the fact that today it wouldn’t only be Queenie down at the dock gates waiting for her husband’s wages.
‘Da’s just come up the yard. Now you’re for it!’ Katie hissed at her brother.
Mary was relieved. Now he could keep his eye on them. She just never knew what Tommy would get up to when her back was turned: more dreadful mischief, if the past two days were anything to go by.
Then her heart sank. She realised that Frank was drunk.
‘I see you’ve been celebrating!’
He glared at her through bloodshot eyes, hanging on to the mantelshelf for support. ‘Can’t a man have a drink at Christmas?’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s the day before Christmas Eve!’
‘What’s for my dinner? I’m starving.’
She was becoming angry. Did he have no idea of the amount of work she had to do? ‘I didn’t know what time you’d be in. Katie will heat up that bit of scouse that’s left but there’s no bread to go with it. I’ve the shopping to do tonight.’
‘I suppose you’ve all had your dinner though?’ he said nastily.
‘No, we haven’t! The kids have had a bit of bread and scrape. I’ve had nothing since breakfast and now I’ve to go and fetch your good suit and then press it and iron you a clean shirt ready for tomorrow. Give Tommy your boots, he’ll give them a good clean. Tommy, shift yourself; Katie, put the kettle on,’ she instructed. ‘I’ll take Lizzie with me,’ she added. Frank had little patience with Lizzie at the best of times and now wouldn’t be one of them. Quickly she bundled the child into her coat, wrapped the scarf around her and took her hand. She refused to have a row with Frank. Let him sleep it off. He wasn’t going to ruin either Violet’s wedding or Christmas for them.
Lizzie trotted along happily beside her mother. Hers was a silent little world but she noticed many things with her sharp eyes. Things the others didn’t see. Like the way her mam looked at her da. Looks that had changed over the months. Like the way some of the men in the street looked at her mam. (Even she could see that her mam was lovely compared to a lot of the women and girls.) Like the way Katie seemed to creep around her da, as if she was afraid of him. She knew Christmas was coming: she had managed to gather that from all the unusual activity that was going on around her and Katie’s pictures and mimes. From past experience she knew it meant more food and maybe even toys, but it also seemed to mean that her mam was angry with Da. Da didn’t bother with her much but that didn’t upset her. He never had. From the route they were taking she knew she was going to Uncle’s, as everyone called Mr Dalgleish. She liked going there. He had all kinds of things to look at and sometimes he gave her an aniseed ball to suck.
There was a small queue of women waiting in the tiny, musty, overcrowded shop. Bundles with tickets attached to them were piled high on the shelves; in the corners were stacked household articles: clocks, vases, ornaments, rugs and even pots and pans. The women were all there for the same reason; they all used the pawnbroker’s services on a regular basis. The Sunday suits and other best clothes were brought in on Monday mornings to raise a few shillings that would tide them over through the week, and then redeemed on Saturdays.
Finally it was Mary’s turn.
‘Frank’s suit please, Uncle.’ She passed the coins over the counter.
‘Ready for the big do tomorrow?’ Mr Dalgleish asked good-humouredly.
‘Word certainly gets round, doesn’t it?’
‘Talk of the neighbourhood, Mrs McGann.’ He always treated his customers with respect. He knew how hard their lives were and a polite word cost him nothing and meant a great deal to them. They got very few of them in their lives. He leaned over the counter and smiled down at Lizzie. ‘Hello, Lizzie,’ he mouthed slowly and then produced a paper bag from his pocket and extended it to her.
Lizzie smiled, took an aniseed ball and popped it into her mouth, and then nodded her thanks.
Mary too smiled. ‘You’re very good to her.’
‘Ah, it’s nothing. Only a sweetie now and then. Hasn�
�t she a hard little cross to bear.’
‘I just wish her da thought the same,’ Mary replied with a note of bitterness in her voice. Lizzie couldn’t help the way she was yet somehow Frank seemed silently to blame the child for her afflictions. Or maybe he blamed herself. Maybe that’s when things had started to become cool between them and she’d never noticed it until now?
‘And how is himself?’ Mr Dalgleish asked, retrieving her bundle.
‘Drunk,’ Mary answered before realising what she was saying. ‘I mean he’s been celebrating a bit,’ she added quickly.
‘Ah, well, it’s only to be expected and you have to admit that he doesn’t “celebrate” half as much as some do.’ He smiled understandingly. If half the men in this neighbourhood were to lay off the drink he would face a decline in business, he reminded himself. Still, life for them wasn’t easy either. Far from it. They probably deserved a bit of pleasure although they could temper it with a bit of responsibility towards their long-suffering wives.
Mary smiled at him. ‘You’ve a great way of looking at things.’
‘Ah, you have to be a bit of an optimist in this line of work, Mrs McGann. Otherwise you’d depress yourself into an early grave. Well, enjoy the wedding and the holiday.’
‘Thanks, and you have a happy Christmas, too.’
He watched her leave and shook his head. She was a striking young woman. It was such a pity that she would lose her looks and become old before her time, but that’s what would happen. It always did.
Mary dawdled home, stopping occasionally to exchange a few words with the other women she met who were all bustling around, busy with their preparations.
Thankfully she realised that Frank had gone upstairs to sleep off the effects of the alcohol, and she hoped he would be in a much better humour when he finally awoke. She sighed heavily and drew the curtains. Darkness was already falling. She pressed Frank’s suit and ironed his one good shirt and draped them carefully over the back of a chair. She ran the iron over what passed for Sunday clothes for the kids and then held up her dark blue skirt. She looked at it without much pleasure. It had been second-hand when she’d bought it nearly three years ago; now it was limp-looking and shiny in patches. Well, it would have to do. Maybe she could just afford a blouse or a thin jacket, if she could find anything halfway decent in Paddy’s Market. She couldn’t afford Mrs Carmichael’s prices. The skirt might look a bit better for a quick press. Then she would have to try and find something for the kids’ tea, though God knew what. Then she had an idea.
‘Katie, take this and go and pay Mrs McShane for the coal. Then run up to Maggie Block’s and get a pennyworth of thick pea soup. Take that bowl, it will do you all for your tea.’
‘What about Da’s tea?’
‘Don’t bother with him. Leave him to sleep. I’ve to go out to the market, I’ll bring him something back. Then after you’ve all had that it’s time for a bath. Tommy, you can bring in the bathtub from the yard. It will take me ages to heat up the water.’
‘Ah, Mam, it’s too cold to be having a bath,’ he protested, having a strong aversion to soap and water and the rough bit of towel his mother used to scrub his neck and ears.
‘Don’t you start, meladdo! You’ll all be clean and tidy for tomorrow. I’m not having you go to church looking like little street arabs!’
They were all in bed, the fire was banked up and both Frank and Maggie were asleep when at half past ten Mary again wrapped her shawl around her and stepped out into the cold, dark streets.
There had been no further falls of snow and the sky was clear. The moon was bright and surrounded by a milky white halo. Already the snow beneath her feet was beginning to freeze. Despite the hour the streets were busy. Many shops were still open and the pubs were packed to overflowing. Rowdy, raucous laughter and singing emanated from their open doors.
She walked quickly along, the two hemp shopping bags over her arm, her spirits rising. This type of shopping she didn’t mind at all. They were all what she considered luxuries and the thought of the faces of her children on Christmas morning when they saw their bulging stockings and the brightly decorated kitchen and smelled the wonderful aromas of the food filled her with excitement and pleasure.
The street market was crowded. Stall-keepers shouted their wares and exchanged witty repartee with their customers, many of whom had imbibed a fair bit of Christmas spirit already. She called greetings to the women she knew and some she didn’t as she weaved her way between the stalls. At knock-down prices she bought a pair of chickens, potatoes, carrots and sprouts. Apples and oranges. Butter, thick slices of fruit cake, the pieces of salt fish that would have to be soaked overnight to be fried the next morning for breakfast. For a penny she got a big bunch of holly and for another penny some red and green crêpe paper chains to decorate the kitchen. From a stall that sold hand-knitted articles of clothing country women had made in their homes she bought a pair of woollen mittens for Maggie.
Finally she made her way to the large covered market at the top of Banastre Street. Officially it was called St Martin’s Market but it was known worldwide as Paddy’s Market. Here everything was sold but people came particularly for the second-hand clothes. It was much frequented by the sailors from the ships in the docks and every language in the world could be heard. She frequently said it was a veritable tower of Babel.
She rummaged amongst the stalls and piles of clothes that were in heaps on the floor until she found a blue and green tartan jacket that didn’t look too worn. The woman had asked for twopence.
‘It’s not worth that! Look, there’s a rip in the sleeve. I’ll give you a penny ha’penny for it.’
‘Yer look like a woman what’s ’andy with a needle, yer can mend it. Tuppence is me price,’ the woman stated firmly. Her quick eyes had taken in Mary’s neatly mended shawl.
Mary frowned and then caught sight of a white muslin blouse. It was grubby and it too needed mending. ‘Here, I’ll give you tuppence halfpenny for the two. This is little better than a rag and it needs a good wash!’
The woman nodded. ‘All right, but they’re a bargain. A bit of a wash and a dip of starch an’ that blouse will make yer look the ’eight of fashion.’
Mary laughed. ‘It’ll take more than that to make me look like a fashionable woman. Put them in the bag, will you?’
She was tired but happy with her purchases. What a treat it would have been to have caught a tram home. Still, it was a bright night and it wouldn’t take long to walk even though she knew her arms and shoulders would be aching with the weight of her shopping by the time she reached Newsham Street.
She had reached the corner of Great Nelson Street and Scotland Road when she heard her name being shouted. She turned around. Richie Seddon was crossing the road, waving to her.
‘Hello there, Mary. You’re out late. Been snapping up the bargains then?’ He looked smart and jaunty, his cap pushed back to reveal his thick, dark wavy hair. His dark eyes were full of laughter.
‘I have indeed, Richie. Where’ve you been? Enjoying yourself ?’
‘Just for a few pints with me mates.’
‘Not with the girls?’
‘Ah, Mary, there’s no one I’ve seen who compares to you!’
‘Don’t you be giving me the soft-soap treatment, Richie! The place is full of pretty girls much younger than me and you can have your pick and you know it.’
‘What’s age got to do with it?’ He grinned. ‘Give me one of those bags, they look heavy.’
‘Won’t that spoil your image? A big strong man like you carrying a shopping bag?’
‘Who cares? Give it here.’
She handed him one of the bags. It was typical of him. He didn’t care what people thought of him. Frank, and for that matter most of the men she knew, wouldn’t have been seen dead carrying a shopping bag.
‘God, it weighs a ton! We’re not dragging home with the weight of these. Come on, here’s a tram.’ He took her arm and pulled her alon
g.
‘Richie, I can’t afford the fare! I’ve spent up.’
‘I can and it beats walking.’ He pushed her onto the platform ahead of him.
The tram was already crowded and the conductor looked annoyed.
‘ ’Ere, girl, yer can’t gerron with all that ’olly! Yer’ll ’ave someone’s eye out!’
‘I’ll stand on the platform,’ Mary countered, unwilling now to give up the chance of a ride home.
‘Yer can’t. It’s against the regulations.’
‘Then we’ll go upstairs,’ Richie cried.
‘It’s full!’ the conductor snapped. He was harassed and it was nearing the end of his shift. ‘Look, mate, there’s ’alf the crew of the Acadia up there an’ they’re all drunk. God knows ’ow I’m goin’ ter get them all off!’
‘I don’t care if there’s the entire crew of every Cunard ship up there, we’re not getting off!’ Richie shouted.
The conductor gave up. ‘Oh, gerron then! Stand on the bloody platform if yer like, I’m past carin’! All I want ter do is gerrome ter me bed an’ that lot up there can sleep in the bloody depot fer all I care! Give us yer money.’
Richie handed over the coins and Mary laughed as he pulled a face at the back of the conductor who was bawling, ‘Gerralong in there! Move along inside! Ma, shove over in that seat, yer’re takin’ up too much space!’ This last was to a buxom Mary Ellen on her way home from selling her fruit in the city centre.
‘Don’t yer “Ma” me, yer ’ardfaced get! Too much space indeed. Yer look as if a decent meal would kill yer!’ came the hostile reply. But she moved her voluminous skirts to one side so Mary could sit down.
‘Thanks, I’m worn out,’ Mary said pleasantly.
‘Aren’t we all wore out, girl, an’ fellers think they ’ave it ’ard! My feller will ’ave been proppin’ up the bar of the Throstle’s Nest since dinnertime. ’E’ll be flamin’ paralytic by now an’ me poor bloody feet are killin’ me! Still, I think I might join ’im!’ she finished cheerfully.
‘How about it, Mary? Fancy a port and lemon in Mary Kate’s to round off the night?’ Richie asked, referring to the Britannia pub on the corner of Alexander Pope Street.