Lonely Teardrops (2008)

by Lightfoot, Freda

  Barry Holmes tossed her a rosy red apple, saying it matched her cheeks, which made Rose laugh and feel all girlish.

  The June day was warm with the promise of summer, mingling with the scent from Betty Hemley’s flowers, and Rose sighed with pleasure. How she loved the market. How many years had she lived here? Nearly twenty. A long time. They’d come to Champion Street following the trauma of losing their old house in Ancoats, their lives having gone up in flames. Joyce was already working on the market, helping out at various stalls. Then she’d started up the hairdressing business on her own.

  ‘You have to hand it to that lass of mine,’ Rose muttered to herself. ‘She might not suffer fools gladly, but she doesn’t believe in sitting on her hands and moping.’

  Oh, but nothing had been the same since that day. Everything had changed, in some ways best not remembered at all.

  Rose stopped for a moment to catch her breath and wipe away a stray tear. The war had been over for fifteen years. Let it go, she chided herself. It was a different world. Princess Margaret has married the son of a lawyer instead of a royal prince. A handsome young John F. Kennedy is promising a new dawn, and folk are frightening themselves to death watching that new film, Psycho, at the pictures.

  ‘What is the world coming to?’

  Rose rested her weary limbs on the bench by the ancient horse trough. Her left leg was still playing up, not quite behaving as it should, but good progress was most definitely being made. She massaged her knee, as her old friend had advised her to do. She was grateful to Irma for all the hard work and exercises, difficult though they’d been at times. Today she felt a new woman, not a worry in the world, save for Harriet, of course, and that letter she still carried in her pocket. Unfortunately, Irma had been no real help to her there, merely saying the answer would come to her if she followed her instincts. Rose let her mind again slip back to the past, as old women tended to do.

  She recalled how old Mr Lee, who’d been wounded in the First World War, used to sit here selling his matches. Gone now, poor old chap, although plenty of his colleagues in flat caps and mufflers were still gathered in a huddle, smoking their pipes and putting the world to rights, remembering the good old days.

  The market was changing too. The Lascars were all gone, the Indian seamen, and Rose missed the colour and character they had brought to the street. They used to be on the flat iron market too.

  The grizzled old men were entertaining themselves this morning by watching open- mouthed as the youth of today sauntered past. Dressed in their Italian suits and winkle picker shoes, Slim-Jim ties and fancy waistcoats, they looked proper dandies. And these were just the young men.

  The girls all looked like Brigitte Bardot in their skinny raincoats, or tight-fitting blouses tucked into the waist of their Capri pants. One girl tottered by looking very like Minnie Mouse in her impossibly high-heeled white court shoes, outlandishly dressed in a tight black and white spangled top and the greenest, brightest, checked trousers. She reminded Rose of the clowns that used to feature in the Belle Vue Circus. Eeh, maybe she was getting old.

  Rose thought of her beloved granddaughter, who she hadn’t seen in months, and wondered if Harriet had started wearing outlandish clothes in that band she’d joined. She’d used to telephone and leave messages, and had written many letters and jokey postcards, but there’d been fewer of those lately. Rose was desperate to see her, to give her a hug and a kiss. Rose would know then what she was wearing, wouldn’t she? She’d know if she was well and happy, eating properly and looking after herself, instead of worrying herself sick night and day. In her heart Rose was convinced something was wrong. Harriet would never willingly stay away so long, or keep so quiet. There must be a good reason.

  She dabbed away a stray tear as Dena Dobson came by in a pink slouch cap and blouse, short burgundy skirt, clanking beads and a long crocheted woollen jacket. The young girl paused to tell Rose how delighted she was to see her looking so well, which pleased the old lady.

  ‘I’m in the pink, and so are you by the looks of it,’ Rose dryly remarked. ‘Apart from the length of that skirt, which shows all of your knees I’ll have you know, you look like my maiden aunt in that jacket.’ Rose fingered the fabric with appreciative curiosity. ‘Did you crochet it yourself?’

  Dena laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, I’ve no skills in that direction at all, only with a sewing machine. I’ll accept your remarks as a compliment though, even if you don’t like my knees.’

  ‘What happened to all them fluffy can-can petticoats? They were pretty, they were.’

  ‘They’re on the way out. Things are changing, Rose. Skirts will be going even shorter soon, mark my words. They call them minis. You’ll blush when you see one of those.’

  ‘By heck, standards are slipping. Morals will soon be a thing of the past. It’s all coffee bars, jazz cellars and stiletto heels that drill holes in the floor. And nobody stands up for old ladies on the bus now. Where will it all end? With women flaunting themselves and practically showing their bottoms? Shocking!’

  Dena kissed the old woman fondly. ‘Just make sure you save our market, Rose, and leave the fashion scene to me.’ And Dena sauntered off leaving Rose shaking her head in despair.

  Having rested her bad leg, Rose made a bee-line for Irma’s biscuit stall, anxious to prove to her old friend how well she was doing. ‘Look at me,’ she called, as she approached. ‘I’ll be doing the boogie-woogie next.’

  Irma shouted for her husband. ‘Joe, fetch Rose a chair. She’ll be wanting a rest.’

  Rose protested. ‘Nay, I’m fine. I put me feet up for a while on the bench, so don’t fret about me.’

  But Irma wouldn’t take no for an answer. Joe produced the chair and Irma a mug of tea out of her flask, plus a few chocolate biscuits to help it down. And as folk stopped to ask how she was, Rose felt like the Queen of the market. ‘Watch out, Belle Garside, they’ll have me as Market Superintendent next,’ she chortled. ‘I feel fit for anything.’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ Joe said, ‘then we could do with you this afternoon at the campaign meeting.’

  ‘Right, you’re on. I’ll be there.’

  Chapter Thirty

  True to her word, Rose presented herself, stick in hand, at the meeting to discuss progress on the campaign. She opted to sit at the back, where she could listen to the arguments ranging back and forth.

  As she made herself comfortable, Joe was on his feet talking about high rise flats shooting up everywhere, of people complaining they were being forced out of their much-loved homes and street communities where they’d lived happily for years. ‘It’s cruel. Wicked!’ he fumed. ‘And they’ll do the same to us here in Champion Street, if we let them.’

  Chris George stood up to say that Champion Street was in need of some decent housing, then he quietly announced that his father, who owned the bakery where he and his wife Amy now lived and worked, had decided to sell. ‘I’m sorry, but the decision was taken out of my hands.’

  A dreadful hush fell upon the assembled company. Jimmy Ramsay was the first to recover.

  ‘Nay, lad, that’s a bit of a blow. You’re the second to accept the developer’s offer. Sam Beckett has already taken their money and run. He’s shut up shop and done a moonlight flit. You can’t do this to us.’

  ‘Like I say, I’m sorry,’ Chris said. ‘We need the money. Dad could do with a bit more for his retirement on the Fylde Coast, and me and Amy, well, we’ve two mouths to feed now. And we’re young and ambitious. This money will set us up properly in a business of our own, plus a down payment on a house. It’s not to be sniffed at. Amy’s all for it.’

  Big Molly leaped to her feet, waving her huge fists in the air, as if ready to defend her daughter to the death. ‘I can’t believe our Amy wants to leave the market. She’s been bullied into this by your over-ambitious family which my girl was daft enough to marry into. I knew it would all end in tears.’

  ‘Calm down, Moll,’ Betty Hemley urged,
tugging her friend back down into her seat. ‘The young have to live their own lives. We can’t dictate to them what they should and shouldn’t do.’

  There was a noisy outburst following this, with everyone wanting their say, some folk shouting out that it was the young who were ruining everything, and others objecting that the old ways were not necessarily the best. Names were mentioned of other residents in the street anxious to take advantage of the huge sums being offered by the developers. Things were getting heated and it took Jimmy Ramsay to calm everyone down, his big voice booming out loud and clear, gradually bringing the meeting to order.

  ‘Hold on, hold on, let’s not get too excited. I’ll admit it’s a blow. If some folk have already agreed to sell, then others will surely follow. It puts the rest of us in a weaker position as we’ll find it harder to hold our ground. It’s a chink in our armour, that’s what it is. What we have to do is to plug every hole with new faith in the future of Champion Street Market, otherwise we’ll have a sinking ship on our hands.’

  A small silence followed while folk digested these mixed metaphors, but then tempers flared once more, voices were raised, and matters threatened to again get out of hand. Marco Bertalone and Winnie Homes were arguing so fiercely neither could possibly hear a word the other was saying; Belle Garside was calling for order and nobody was listening; and Big Molly was threatening to lather the floor with her son-in-law’s brains, if he had any.

  Rose struggled awkwardly to her feet, holding up her stick to gain attention. Little by little, out of respect for this long-serving member, only shortly recovered from a serious illness, voices quietened and silence fell upon the assembled company.

  ‘I went to the library the other day and read up all about the history of markets in Manchester,’ Rose quietly began. ‘All about how the Acres Fair, which was held in St. Ann's Square from the thirteenth century, and later moved to Shudehill before turning itself into Campfield. And, as we know, the whole area around Smithfield became the fruit and veg market. Then they started up the wholesale fish market in 1872. An old uncle of mine used to work there, years back. We’d get a box of sardines for pennies in them days. Anyroad, the market has kept on spreading, with more and more traders and barrows, just like we have here. Now there’s talk that the streets are getting too crowded and it’ll have to move soon, with some of it relocated.

  ‘But it’s not only markets that are suffering. There used to be a picture house in every neighbourhood, a couple of churches and half a dozen pubs. Now look what’s happening. They’re being knocked down like ninepins all over Manchester and Salford.

  ‘What I’m saying is, nothing stays the same. We might object to all this demolition, and want it to stop. We might not want great blocks of flats all over the show. We might like our grand Victorian monstrosities, place more value on our industrial heritage than our leaders do, but nothing stays the same. In the end we all have to accept change. I’m not saying we should give up on our fight. Never! We’ll take it right to the wire. I’m suggesting that mebbe we should also start looking for a new home too, instead of just complaining about losing our old one. If we lose this battle, lose our street, then we’ll need somewhere to take our beloved market.’

  The silence following this astonishing statement was thoughtful and prolonged. It was Belle Garside who broke it. ‘Rose has made a valid point I think we should consider.’ A vote was taken and the motion passed.

  But then Rose knew she had a happy knack of putting her finger right on the button. If only she could press the right one to fetch her lovely granddaughter home.

  Harriet was growing bigger by the day and it was far too warm now to hide her bump under a baggy sweater. She bought herself an A-line dress, one size too large, hoping that would hide her condition a bit longer, but really she was growing frantic over Vinny’s continued silence on the subject of their planned Register Office wedding.

  ‘Will we find time soon, or shall we wait till we can wheel the baby there in the pram?’ she joked one day, struggling not to show her desperation.

  ‘That’s an idea. Do they do christenings as well? Two for the price of one, eh?’ he laughed, without lifting his head from his guitar. He’d been practising all morning, trying to learn The Twist, a Chubby Checker number which was turning into a real dance craze. Everyone was asking for it. Music styles were changing and Harriet sensed Vinny was finding it harder to keep pace with the change.

  This wasn’t how she’d expected things to turn out, not at all how it was meant to be. They’d marry soon, she told herself, and he’d give up the band and settle down, then everything would be fine. It was just that he was particularly busy right now, that was all. Harriet knew she was making excuses for him, but didn’t care to consider any other reason why he would drag his heels.

  Love making wasn’t quite what it used to be either, as she was feeling increasingly bulky and awkward, or had to keep running to the lavatory, but Vinny was surprisingly patient with her. One night she simply didn’t feel in the mood at all, yet he didn’t blame her. He simply held her close as she dozed off, Harriet lying contentedly in his arms. She was almost asleep when she became vaguely aware that he’d left her side, but when she woke again, moments later perhaps, he was back beside her, so didn’t trouble to ask where he’d been.

  The same thing happened the next night, and the one after that, until at last she dared to ask, ‘Where’ve you been? Do you have a problem?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ he murmured, smoothing her hair back from her face, all warm and sleepy as he kissed it. ‘Go back to sleep, babe.’

  ‘Don’t keep leaving me on my own then.’

  ‘I won’t, I’ll stay right here.’

  It was a day or two later and Rose was sitting in Belle’s café with Irma enjoying a cup of tea. ‘Will you read me palm and tell me when our Harriet is coming home for good?’

  Irma looked at her friend sadly. ‘It’s not quite that easy.’

  ‘What about the cards then? Is it worth trying them again? I need to know how she is, if she’s well.’

  Irma’s big heart went out to her friend. ‘Yes, I can understand you must be concerned.’ They were interrupted by Belle placing fresh cups of tea before them. She took the opportunity to thank Rose for her little speech at the meeting the other day. ‘You did well, said what I’d been trying to tell them for ages.’

  ‘The battle’s not over yet,’ Rose warned.

  ‘And it could well be a futile one, as you pointed out, so alternative solutions need to be sought. We’ll speak about it some more, Rose. Enjoy your tea. Can I get you anything else, a scone or a bacon sandwich?’ Both women refused, and with a rare smile Belle left them to it.

  Irma looked at Rose’s tea cup. ‘Ah, I can see a few leaves floating on the surface.’

  ‘What does that signify?’

  ‘You’re going to get a visitor.’

  Rose’s wrinkled old face lit with fresh hope. ‘Our Harriet?’

  ‘Tea leaves don’t give names, unfortunately. It could be anyone. I could read your tea leaves, if you like.’

  ‘Eeh, that’d be grand.’

  ‘It’s important for you to relax and enjoy the tea first, let any thoughts come and go in your head. Just let them flow. We’ll enjoy our tea, quietly and comfortably, then you must leave just a small amount of liquid in the bottom.’

  Rose did her best to relax, although she didn’t find it easy. Finally, the tea was drunk and Irma set about her task. She held the cup in her left hand and swirled the liquid around, making sure the tea was well distributed in the bowl of the cup, then she upended it on to the saucer.

  Next, she turned the cup upright to examine the tea leaves left behind. She rotated it in her hands so that the handle was directed towards Rose. ‘We read the leaves in relation to the handle, which is meant to represent you,’ Irma explained. ‘And I can tell right away, by the fact that some of the liquid has remained in the cup, that there will be tears, I’m sorry
to say.’

  Rose paled. ‘Not again. I can’t take no more bad news.’

  Irma looked concerned. ‘Would you prefer me to stop?’

  But Rose shook her head, took a breath and told her friend to carry on. ‘No, I want to know, I need to be prepared. I’ve still a big worry on me mind. Worrying about where our Harriet is and what she is doing is only part of it.’

  ‘Well, from the fact that most of the leaves are some distance to the left of the handle, I would say that your worries are still tied to the past. I believe the cards told us the same thing?’ Irma glanced questioningly at her friend. Rose said nothing.

  ‘There’s a large clump of leaves here which seems to indicate trouble of some sort, and here is a short stalk which could be a woman, possibly she too is from the past. Does that make sense?’

  Still Rose said nothing.

  ‘And here they are slanted, which could mean a person or persons who aren’t entirely trustworthy. Probably, by the shape and size I’d say male this time.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Only something which might represent a kite, in which case prepare yourself for a scandal.’

  ‘Oh, hecky thump, we’ve had enough of them already.’

  Irma set the cup back on the saucer. ‘That’s all, I’m afraid. Nothing particularly helpful then? I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Was there nowt about a letter? The cards mentioned a letter last time.’

  Irma shook her head.

  ‘I have a problem over a letter, d’you see. And I can’t make up me mind what’s best to do about it.’

  Irma looked sympathetic. ‘Then maybe I could help you with that simply as a friend.’

  ‘Aye,’ Rose agreed, ‘maybe you can, when I’m ready to talk about it.’

  ‘When you are,’ Irma gently told her. ‘I’ll listen.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  No one could say she hadn’t tried to make her marriage work, even though events had conspired against her. Remembering those dark days now, Joyce marvelled she’d ever got through them. Although they hadn’t, in a way. Relations between herself and Eileen had gone from bad to worse, soured to a wretched bitterness and near hatred between the two women, culminating in a battle in which someone had to lose, so was it any wonder if things had turned out as they did?