Lonely Teardrops (2008)

by Lightfoot, Freda

  ‘Mother!’

  She patted his hand. ‘Don’t be modest, dear, it’s true. Once you’re qualified, you’ll be a headmaster in no time, I’m quite sure of it. Then you’ll be able to afford to buy a nice semi-detached house in a good area of Manchester, find yourself a nice middle-class girl to marry and provide us with a couple of lovely grandchildren. Won’t that be nice, dear?’

  There was a small silence while Harriet digested this comment.

  Nice was one of Mrs Blackstock’s favourite words. She liked everything to be nice, from the way she set her dining room table to her neatly tended back garden. Her home was liberally decorated with flowery prints, tapestry cushions, embroidered fire screens and other pretty things which she’d no doubt stitched herself. There were Persian rugs and Royal Dalton figurines in crinolines; Toby jugs and a good deal of polished brass. It was the kind of house Joyce would have given her soul for. To Harriet, it seemed like another world here in St John’s Place, far from the everyday hustle and bustle of Champion Street.

  Not even glancing at Harriet’s stunned face Steve gave an awkward little laugh. ‘One thing at a time, Mother, I’ve two years hard graft at Teacher Training College first. Besides, Harriet doesn’t want to hear all of this stuff.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s very interested in how you plan to spend your future, aren’t you, dear? And I should think she understands perfectly that since we’ve all had such a struggle recovering from the war years, we wouldn’t want our only son stuck in this seedy part of Manchester for the rest of his life. Not when he has the chance to better himself.’

  ‘I quite like Castlefield, actually,’ Harriet stoutly responded. ‘And Champion Street will always be my home.’

  ‘But you weren’t born there, were you, dear? Or so I’ve been led to believe.’

  Again that small taut silence, in which all knives and forks stopped moving as eyes swivelled to the woman’s bland, enquiring smile.

  Mr Blackstock cleared his throat. ‘I reckon I’ll have a few more of those lovely crunchy roast potatoes. Would you like one, Harriet?’

  ‘No, thanks, Mr Blackstock. You’re quite right, I wasn’t born in Champion Street. Fancy your knowing that when I’ve only just found out myself.’

  The older woman delicately dabbed her mouth with an embroidered napkin. ‘Oh dear, I do hope I haven’t upset you. Word gets around so quickly in these parts, doesn’t it? Full of old gossips that market is, which is another reason why we want our Stephen to make his life elsewhere. I’m sure you’re ready to move on too, dear, following these recent traumas you’ve been obliged to endure. Losing your poor dear father and discovering that your mother wasn’t who you thought she was.’

  ‘Margaret,’ Mr Blackstock said on a warning note, but his wife pressed on as if he hadn’t spoken.

  ‘And no one could blame you if you did up-sticks and leave. For our part we look forward to moving to the Fylde Coast once Ralph retires from the bank. By then, of course, Stephen will be long off our hands and nicely settled.’

  Living in a nice semi-detached house and married to a nice middle-class girl, Harriet thought, unshed tears smarting at the backs of her eyes as she struggled to focus on her roast lamb. Unfortunately her throat had closed up tight and she’d quite lost her appetite. She judged it wise not to say anything more on the subject, hoping perhaps that Steve might refute his mother’s plans for him.

  He said nothing, simply kept his head down and concentrated on eating his Sunday lunch, which galled her somewhat.

  Margaret Blackstock, however, was well into her stride. ‘And of course, none of us can be held responsible for where, or how, or to whom we were born, can we, even if it does prove to be a blight on our lives?’

  Harriet looked at her, her stormy grey gaze steady. ‘No, we can’t, although some people might insist on apportioning blame on the innocent.’

  Margaret Blackstock blinked. ‘I’m sure no one would do any such thing.’

  Harriet smiled. ‘And would you still describe me as a nice girl, Mrs Blackstock?’

  Still Steve said nothing, although he shot her a furious glare which Harriet did not miss. His father too seemed strangely silent, concentrating entirely upon his roast potatoes.

  ‘You always were very direct, dear.’

  ‘I see no disgrace in speaking the truth.’

  Harriet’s heart had started to beat very slowly and painfully in her breast. She laid her knife and fork neatly together in the centre of her plate, as Mrs Blackstock liked her to do. ‘Well, that was lovely, thank you, but for some reason I seem to have lost my appetite. I won’t bother with a sweet, if you don’t mind. I think I’d best be going.’

  ‘As you wish, dear. I’m sure you must feel more comfortable at home. It’s bound to take time for you to adjust to your new status.’

  Like being a bastard you mean, Harriet thought, but managed not to say so. And when Steve made no effort to come to her defence, she pushed back her chair and headed for the door. She’d deal with him later.

  Her acceptance by the Blackstocks into their son’s life seemed to be entirely dependent upon the quality of her pedigree, which was now apparently beyond redemption.

  Chapter Nine

  Summer was coming to an end and the mornings were fresher now with that first hint of autumn in the air. The Committee should have been making their plans for Christmas, which they liked to do in good time, organising the fairy lights and the tree in order to make the market look festive. Instead they were holding an emergency meeting to discuss the new threat to the market.

  The half-derelict houses at the bottom of the street had long been in need of demolition, and everyone would welcome something more modern and pleasant in their place. The problem was that since the right to develop this section of the street had been acquired, the rest of it now seemed to be under threat too, even though those houses were still in perfectly good order. And the developers wanted the market to move out of the street altogether.

  It had become apparent that several people who lived at the top of the street and owned their own houses had already been offered a great deal of money to sell their property, and their pitch. The proposal had come via a firm of solicitors who represented the development company.

  Winnie Holmes had received such an offer for her old house, now rented out to Dena Dobson, and Barry, Winnie’s new husband, had a similar one for his. Both Clara Higginson and Big Molly Poulson were also under pressure to sell. This meeting was an attempt to discover how far the problem had spread.

  There were one or two notable absentees. One was Alex Hall, who hadn’t been seen around the market since Stan’s funeral in late July, and whose music shop was now being run by his son Terry. Rumour had it that he’d returned to Korea. Judy Beckett, who usually ran a little stall to sell her own art work was hiding away somewhere, a fact which nobody quite liked to mention since her husband Sam, the cause of her flight, was present at the meeting.

  The committee, plus a number of long established stallholders co-opted for this extra-ordinary general meeting, were gathered round the market superintendent’s desk, a position still occupied by Belle Garside, and she had asked for a show of hands.

  ‘From what I can ascertain, that makes ten or twelve offers for property so far, would you agree with my figures?’ She glanced briefly at the assembled company but continued without waiting for an answer. ‘So, the question is, what are we going to do about it?’

  Rose had agreed to do her bit in this fight to save the market. She sat on the back row, a neat trim figure in a startlingly red and yellow flowered linen dress, circa nineteen-thirties, complete with matching dangly ear-rings, listening quietly as folk began to put forward suggestions, some of which were not even legal.

  She listened as Papa Bertalone likened the developers to the Gestapo; smiled as Big Molly nudged her husband Ozzy in the ribs, and, having failed to bully him into speaking, shouted out that her son Robert depended on Champion Street being a
round for some time to come if he was to take over the pie business.

  ‘We should march on the council offices and demand their full support,’ Jimmy Ramsay insisted, shaking a powerful fist more used to slicing up meat carcasses. ‘Let them know we refuse to be bullied.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right. No one is going to walk all over us,’ cried one stallholder.

  ‘And we’ll punch anyone who tries,’ yelled another.

  There was a noisy chorus of agreement, and several other suggestions about what folk would like to do to any councillors who refused to stand by them. Clara Higginson cleared her throat to quietly point out that these kind of threats weren’t getting them anywhere, and gradually the grumbles subsided as they listened to her sound common sense.

  ‘From what I understand, this generous offer will stand for only a limited period and then will be reduced. There may be some people present who would be willing to accept it, so should we perhaps take a vote before we proceed any further?’

  A small silence ensued while people digested this uncomfortable truth. Glances flicked all around as everyone attempted to assess which of those present might be seduced by such blackmail.

  ‘Who would admit to it?’ Sam Beckett scoffed. ‘Although I’m sure some of us may well be considering retirement, or a possible move anyway, we’re hardly likely to risk damaging our business by saying so.’

  Everyone looked at him, and wondered.

  Belle, in her usual forthright way, said, ‘Well, let’s find out. Is there anyone here willing to accept this undoubtedly generous offer, bearing in mind, as Clara points out, that it has a limited life-span?’

  No one volunteered a reply to this question although whether that was because they had no intention of ever accepting, or were keeping their intentions close to their chest, as Sam suggested, wasn’t clear.

  Chris George said, ‘We should also remember that not everyone on Champion Street owns their own property. Many houses are rented so it will be the landlord who decides, over whom we have no control. My own father owns our baker’s shop, for instance.’

  This was a sobering thought.

  ‘Can’t we persuade them to draw up a new agreement to spare those houses in good condition, and allow the market to stay, even if they do demolish the older ones?’ Barry Holmes wanted to know.

  ‘We’ve tried, so far with little success,’ Belle told him.

  ‘Would they agree to meet us on site, to come and view our properties and discuss the matter more fully? Do we know what kind of flats they intend to build, and when they hope to start? Do you have the answer to any of those questions, Belle?’

  Belle didn’t.

  Rose, who had other plans for her day besides being cooped up in a stuffy meeting room, finally made up her mind to speak. ‘Seems to me, what we need is someone to investigate the matter further. We need to gather more information, to find out exactly who this company is and what they intend to do with Champion Street, if and when they’ve bought up everyone’s property.’

  ‘By heck, she’s right,’ Jimmy Ramsay agreed, slapping one huge thigh with the flat of his hand. ‘We need to form a special committee to investigate the matter. And if they should discover that this development company mean to destroy everything, the market and all the houses in Champion Street, then our task must be to start a campaign to save it.’

  This proposal was put to the meeting and voted upon almost unanimously. A group of stalwarts was quickly selected for the task, Rose included. She did notice, however, that Sam Beckett, and the Georges, abstained, which she found rather interesting.

  The sprawl of the market was spreading. The number of barrows in the surrounding area from Tonman Street to Deansgate, as well as all along Champion Street itself, was steadily increasing, adding to the liveliness and popularity of the place. One side of the market hall now had an extension, hygienically enclosing the new meat and fish market beneath a glass roof.

  Irma Southworth, tilting her biscuit tins at just the right angle for her customers to make a selection as she did every morning, felt compelled, much against her better judgement, to admit that this was one improvement at least that Belle Garside had achieved. It was something her own husband Joe had failed to do when he was market superintendent. It grieved her to have to concede this fact as Belle had at one time enjoyed what she termed ‘a little fling’ with Irma’s husband. And despite her having known Belle for years, Irma could still barely speak a civil word to the woman.

  Nevertheless, as a consequence of the recent improvements she’d made, people now came from far and wide to explore the market to taste Bertalones’ ice cream, buy Lizzie Pringle’s chocolate mints and whirligig lollies, savour Big Molly Poulson’s meat and potato pies and Jimmy Ramsay’s pork sausages. They loved to listen to the stallholders’ banter, watch plates being juggled, take part in a mock auction and buy something they never wanted at a knock-down price they simply couldn’t resist.

  It was a tragedy that, if the rumours were true, all of this would soon have to go, swept away in a thorough cleansing of everything that was old and Victorian in the city’s relentless quest for progress.

  Irma loved the market. Her family had been involved with markets and fairs for generations. She could remember a time when the stallholders used a language all their own. They’d turn a word upside down so that one became eno, and ten turned into net. She couldn’t remember why. She also recalled the flower gazers that used to cluster along Piccadilly. They’d carry huge baskets hung on a strap round their neck and would have to stand in the gutter to do their selling, not allowed to even set foot on the pavement or they’d be fined.

  The flower gazers were all gone now in this rapidly changing, modern world, so it was a real treat to see Betty Hemley setting out her flower buckets, still trying to hang on to the old ways. There wasn’t much Betty missed seated there amongst her flowers. She not only knew the language of flowers, she understood people and what made them tick. Betty liked tradition, for things to stay the way they were, and Irma felt exactly the same.

  She rather thought it was because she, like Betty Hemley, was so set in her ways, a bit old fashioned she supposed, that Joe had grown bored with her. Belle Garside had been only one of several women over the years who had fired his blood, encouraging him to grasp at a youth long gone. He had one on the go at the moment. Though Irma had her suspicions, she couldn’t quite make up her mind who it was. It couldn’t be Betty’s daughter Lynda, because she was having an on-off affair with Terry Hall. Besides, she was far too young.

  Nor could it be Judy Beckett because she was embroiled in a bitter divorce with her husband, Sam, who ran the ironmongery stall, not to mention a fierce custody battle over their two children. What a mess that marriage was in. It was always worse where children were involved.

  As things had turned out, Irma was thankful that she had only the one son. Ian was thirty now, and seemed to be very happily married, thank goodness. She also had two delightful grandchildren who were the light of her life.

  There had been a time when Irma had wanted more babies of her own, but none had come along, and then once Ian had left home, and because of her husband’s philandering, she and Joe had moved into separate bedrooms not simply separate beds. After nearly thirty-two years it was a sterile marriage, no sort of a life at all really.

  He’d seemed such a harmless sort of chap when she’d wed him, but he’d never been the same since he came back from Italy after the war. Irma knew she should have booted Joe out long since but he was such a wet lettuce she’d felt sorry for him. She was too soft for her own good, that was her trouble, far too easy-going. She probably only let him stay for the sake of appearances. Irma had seen her young romantic dreams fade away one by one, till now the only thing they had in common was the market stall - the biscuit business they’d built up together over the years.

  Betty Hemley herself was suffering from an ex-husband having returned to the marital home uninvited, and causing any a
mount of grief. Word had it he was something of a violent bully. Poor Betty. Irma felt sorry for her old friend. She supposed she should be grateful that although Joe might be a bit useless on the romance front, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He wasn’t a bit of bother to look after, and his high jinks could easily be ignored.

  A customer interrupted her musings, wanting a pound of mixed biscuits.

  ‘How about a few Garibaldi?’ Irma suggested, instantly adopting the bright smile she always used with her customers.

  Irma Southworth was a large woman, the wrap-over apron she always wore was so Persil white it made you blink and it strained over her ample bosom and hips. Button-bright blue eyes were alert and kind, and her silver-grey hair was shiny and bouncy about a round, smiling face. She was well liked on the market: for her friendly cheerfulness, her helpful manner and the care she took over the cakes she made to suit those special moments in a person’s life. She would certainly never be known for her stunning beauty, her rosy cheeks being somewhat flabby and her chin having long since given up any pretence of being firm.

  But, unlike these new-fangled supermarkets they were bringing in with girls who yawned at their cash desks and looked right through you, Irma cared about her customers, and knew most of them by name.

  ‘Custard creams for you, eh, Mrs Cartwright? Ginger snaps and fig rolls for your two girls? And one or two delicious Bourbons perhaps?’

  ‘Aye, and put in half a dozen fruit shortcakes. My Phil loves them.’

  When the woman had gone, a half pound of broken biscuits at a special discounted price also added to her basket, Irma couldn’t help pondering on how nice it must be to care about a man so much you made a point of picking out his favourite biscuits.

  But then not every man was a selfish womaniser like Joe. You’d’ve thought he would have developed a bit of sense now that he was past the fifty mark, but he showed no sign of doing so.