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Acclaim for Our Kid :
‘Reading Our Kid was a very moving experience! I was born in Salford and so you can understand my deep emotion at reading your wonderfully written, deeply touching, extremely heart-warming memoirs. Congratulations!’ John Sherlock, Hollywood producer
‘I half-read my mother’s copy of Our Kid when the team was playing in Italy. Enjoyed it so much I thought I’d better order my own copy’ Brian Kidd, Deputy Team Manager, Manchester United
‘Enjoyed Our Kid thoroughly. Read it in two days flat. Hardly paused for breath’ William Mowbray, retired headmaster, France
‘I read Our Kid on the train and I laughed so much I was getting funny looks off my fellow passengers’ John Kennedy, Catholic Pictorial
‘This rag to riches tale, set in my own lifetime, recalls wartime boyhood, is packed with nostalgia, filled with laughter and is often tinged with pain. As a tale it is compelling and difficult to put down’ Robin Hull, Professor of General Practice
‘Our Kid was so enjoyable that I did not want to come to the end of it’ Jennie Me William, General Practitioner
‘Altogether a very enjoyable read’ Bradford Telegraph and Argus
‘Our Kid awoke in me so many memories: school life, bullies, pastimes, family rows, pals, escapades, day dreams, ambitions - and the war’ Dan Murphy, retired school teacher
‘I nestled into Our Kid like an old easy chair. I found it entertaining, endearing, charming’ Shirley Kent, singer and composer
‘Congratulations on an excellent book. I laughed and cried, it was so delightfully warm and funny’ Mrs Anne Greenhalgh, Sorrento, W. Australia
‘I read Our Kid quickly within two days of receiving it, and then took it with me to Turkey, to read more slowly and to savour. I think it is every bit as good as Roddy Doyle’s Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha which won the Booker Prize. Your book deserves to be widely praised’ Joan Kennedy, Manchester
‘The book is like a best friend - no one likes to see the friendship come to an end - and that’s just how I felt when I reached [the last] page’ Visiter
‘I just finished your book, in tears. It just got better as I went. So much for the image of the cold, distant Englishman - you just blew that away. You write very well, with honesty, and with a lot of human passion. Thank you for a terrific book.’ Robert Stever, MD, Seattle, USA
Billy Hopkins, who is better known to his family and friends as Wilfred Hopkins, was born in Collyhurst in 1928 and attended schools in Manchester. Before going into higher education, he worked as a copy boy for the Manchester Guardian. He later studied at the Universities of London, Manchester and Leeds and has been involved in school-teaching and teacher-training in Liverpool, Manchester, Salford and Glasgow. He also worked in African universities in Kenya, Zimbabwe and Malawi.
Billy Hopkins is married with six grown-up children and now lives in retirement with his wife in Southport.
Our Kid was first published under the pseudonym Tim Lally.
For Clare
‘Give me the child for the first seven years, and you may do what you like with him afterwards’ Attributed as a Jesuit maxim, in Lean s Collectanea vol. 3 (1903) p. 472
‘If only it were true!’ Jesuit priest, 1998
‘Come on now, Kate. Y’re no’ really tryin’,’ said the midwife. ‘Pull on the towel and push! Push!’
‘I am bloody well pushing,’ Kate shouted back. ‘I can’t push any harder. Pull and push. It’s like rowing a boat on Heaton Park lake. You’d think God would have thought of an easier way of having kids.’
‘It won’t be long now, luv,’ said Lily Goodhart, her next-door neighbour, wiping Kate’s glistening forehead.
‘That dose o’ castor oil should speed things up,’ said Nurse McDonagh. ‘Anyway, it’s no’ as if it’s your first wean.’
‘Aye, but it never gets any easier, no matter what they say,’ said Kate.
A sudden contraction convulsed her.
‘Glory be t’God, that was like a red-hot poker going through me!’ she gasped.
‘Bite on your hanky when it gets too bad, Kate,’ said the nurse. ‘We don’t want the neighbours to hear. And your kids are in the other bedroom. Is your husband no’ around?’
‘No, I told him to take himself off to the pub outa the road. He’d only be in the way. Besides, he doesn’t like trouble, y’know.’
Billy Hopkins
‘Lucky for him! Just the same, I think he should be here, just in case we have to fetch Dr McDowell. Lily, you’d best go across to the pub and bring Tommy over.’
‘Eeh, I don’t think he’ll like that,’ said Lily.
‘Never you mind whether he likes it or no’. Tell him he’s needed over here. Dinna come back without him.’
‘Very well, if you say so,’ said Lily doubtfully as she left the little cramped bedroom.
‘I do hope we don’t have to bring no doctor. I’d be so embarrassed, like . . .’ said Kate after Lily had departed.
‘But he’s a doctor .’
‘It doesn’t matter. He’s a man, isn’t he? I don’t want no man - not even me husband, for that matter - to see me like this. And anyroad, I think .. .’
But the nurse did not discover what it was she thought, for Kate was racked by another agonising spasm and was busy stifling a scream.
‘Come on now, Kate,’ urged the midwife. ‘Nearly there! Now, pull and push! Pull and push!’
It was eight o’clock on that Sunday night in 1928.Tommy was already on his third pint and a feeling of bonhomie and goodwill had begun to flow over him. He felt completely at home and in his true element.
‘This is the place for me,’ he said to Jimmy Dixon, his bosom pal. ‘This is where I really belong. The vault of Tubby Ainsworth’s. Best bloody pub in Collyhurst.’ Its real name was the Dalton Arms, but hardly anyone called it that.
The thick tobacco smoke and the excited babble of twenty male voices talking at once combined to produce in Tommy a deep sense of contentment and comradeship. In here, he felt safe and away from all those goings-on at home.
He took out a packet of Player’s Weights, extracted the last remaining cigarette, tapped it slowly on his yellow, nicotined thumbnail, and struck a match. Puffing contentedly on his fag, he looked up from his cards and gazed round the vault, taking in the picture of the pasty- faced men in their flat caps and woollen mufflers which they wore like a uniform.
‘Eeh, what a bloody fine bunch o’ working men they all are,’ Tommy said.
‘Whadda you mean? Working men! Most of ’em are on the dole!’ said Jimmy.
‘Doesn’t matter, they’re the salt o’ the earth. Except for that bastard Len Sharkey over there,’ he added quickly as his eye lighted on his hated enemy, guffawing as usual with his mates over some joke or other.
They took a long pull at their pints.
In the main, then, Tommy was happy. A pint, a pal and a bit of peace - that was all he wanted. That wasn’t asking too much, was it? But that Sunday night, he had more. It was his lucky night. He was on a winning streak, having just pegged twelve on the cribboard with a double pair royal. No doubt about it. He was well on the way to taking not only the game but the shilling bet that was riding on it. Mind you, Jimmy Dixon was a real Muggins and wasn’t quick enough to add up even his own score, never mind Tommy’s. But what the hell! Friend or no friend, a shilling was a shilling in this rotten old world. He downed the rest of his pint and stood up.
‘My twist, Jimmy. Same again?’
Jimmy drained his own glass. ‘Aye, ta. Don’t mind if I do, Tommy. And see if you can’t buy me a bit o’ bleeding luck while you’re at it.’
Tommy pushed his way through the men standing at the bar.
‘When you’re ready. Tubby. Pint o’ usual for me and a pint o’ bitter for Jimmy there. Oh aye . . . and ten Weights as well. Must have a smoke for the mornin’.’
‘Right, Tommy. Pinta best mild, pint o’ bitter, an’ ten Weights. That’ll be one and eleven altogether,’ Tubby Ainsworth said, drawing the pints.
Tommy paid up, collected the beers and his cigarettes and returned to his seat at the card table.
‘All the best!’ said Jimmy.
‘Bottoms up!’ rejoined Tommy.
It was at that precise moment that his peace of mind was shattered. As he tilted his head back to drink, he saw through the bottom of his glass the shawled figure of Lily Goodhart hurrying towards him.
‘Bugger it! Don’t turn round now, Jimmy, but have you seen who’s coming?’
‘No. How the bloody hell could I?’
‘It’s Lily Goodhart, me next-door neighbour. And I know why she’s here.’
As Lily threaded her way through the unyielding male bodies, she was greeted by various cat-calls.
‘Women not allowed in the vault!’
‘Men only in ’ere.’
‘Go and fill your bloody jug at the snug.’
‘S’all right,’ she said. ‘I just want a word with Tommy there.’
She went up to the card table. Tommy put his pint down.
‘Yes, what is it, Lily?’ he asked irritably - put out by her appearance in the vault and the fact that all eyes were on him. Especially those of Sharkey, who seemed to be enjoying yet another horse-laugh with his cronies.
‘It’s time. Tommy,’ she said in an urgent whisper. ‘It’s Kate. I think you’d better come now. Her waters broke
and the pains are coming faster. I don’t think it’ll be long now.’
‘Bloody hell. No peace for the wicked - not even in the bloody pub. But what do they want me for? Kate told me to bugger off out of the way.’
‘I think it’s in case there’s complications, like, and they have to call the doctor.’
‘A doctor! I can’t afford no two quid for a bloody doctor. Besides, I’ve heard they kill more than they cure with their bloody instruments.’
‘I’m only telling you what they told me.’
‘All right, Lily. I’ll finish this game first. Mind you, I can’t see what bloody use I’ll be. She’d be better off if I just stop where I am. How long’s the midwife been there?’
‘Over half an hour. I think she’s doing her best to hurry things along, like. Anyroad, Tommy, I’d better get out of the vault afore these men here chuck me out. But I promised to come and fetch you. Shall I wait for you?’
‘Look, Lily, there’s no bloody need for that. I’ve said I’ll come when I’ve finished the game, and I will.’
‘All right. If you say so.’
As if for protection, she pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders and hurried out.
Tommy returned to his card game, but his heart was no longer in it. Lily’s visit had put him off and he lost his concentration. He missed an obvious run of four and several other chances on the next deal. Jimmy Dixon wasn’t as daft as Tommy thought and was quick to take advantage of the distraction. He soon caught up, and after a few more deals beat Tommy with a final flush of five, giving him a total of 121. Jimmy picked up his winnings and put them in his pocket.
‘Hard luck, Tommy. I really thought you’d beat me there. Never mind, old son. Have another pint to wet the
new baby’s head. Pint o’ best mild, isn’t it?’
‘Shouldn’t really, Jimmy - the baby’s not been born yet. But... er ... go on then. Y’ve twisted me arm. Better make this the last one, though.’
Deep down he was feeling queasy at the thought of having to listen to Kate in the throes of childbirth.
Jimmy came back with their pints and they each took a long swig.
‘Ah!’ sighed Jimmy, smacking his lips. ‘There’s nowt to beat a drop o’ good ale!’ He leaned forward and adopted a confidential tone. ‘How many kids have y’had now, Tommy?’
‘I think I’ve bloody well lost count. Let’s see.’ He counted off on his fingers. ‘There’s our Flo, Polly, Jim, Sam and Les. How many’s that?’
‘Five.’
‘That’s right. Two girls and three boys and this new one’ll make six if the little bugger makes it. But I’d best be off, Jimmy. Better go and see what’s happening, I suppose. With any luck it’ll all be over by the time I get there.’
He swallowed the rest of his pint and got to his feet.
‘Thanks for the beer, Jimmy - though I won’t say thanks for that bloody game o’crib. I’ll win that bob back from you next time, you’ll see.’
He headed towards the door to a chorus of ribald remarks from the Dalton Arms regulars.
‘About time you was castrated, Tommy!’
‘Y’ought to get yourself doctored!’
‘Y’want to tie a bleeding knot in it,Tommy!’
Tommy turned to face the source of the last remark.
‘And you want to keep that big mouth of yours shut, Sid Hardcastle, afore I fill it for you.’
The speaker went quiet, because he knew that,
although Tommy looked harmless enough, being only a small, bald man with knock knees, he had a vicious temper and was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat. He hadn’t worked and survived in Smithfield Market for thirty-odd years without picking up something about the art of pub brawling.
As Tommy was going out of the door, Len Sharkey said in a loud, sarcastic voice:
‘I don’t know about Tommy . Tom-cat’s more like it, eh, lads?’
His cronies rewarded him with a loud belly-laugh. Encouraged, Len added:
‘Catholics are all the same round here . . . breed like bleeding rabbits.’
Tommy stopped, turned, and walked over to Sharkey. He looked up into the other man’s face.
‘Whadda you mean by all that? Tom-cat, Catholics and bleeding rabbits?’
‘Piss off home, Tommy. I don’t want no trouble. We was only joking.’
‘Sharkey, you’re full o’ Malarkey. And I wanna tell you summat. We’ve got some big fellas in the market.’
‘Oh, yeah. So what?’
‘I’ve never come across a fella as big as you. You must be over six foot.’
‘Six foot three,’ answered Len proudly.
‘I’ve never come across a fella as big as you, with so much muscle. I take me hat off to you,’Tommy continued, whipping off his cap.
Len preened himself.
‘But you must be the only fella in Collyhurst with no balls.’
Then, without warning, in one swift, flowing motion, he nutted Sharkey with the skill of Dixie Dean heading
one home for Everton. Len went sprawling across the floor, and it was a good job there was sawdust down, for his nose began to pour blood as he lay there. There was a momentary pause, and then all hell broke loose. Len’s mates began shouting abuse - ‘You mad bastard!’ ‘You crazy sod!’ - as they helped their leader to his feet. Jimmy Dixon was over at Tommy’s side in a flash, restraining him from further action.
‘Calm down, Tommy lad. Take it easy, mate,’ Jimmy said.
‘Right!’ shouted Tubby Ainsworth, pointing to Tommy and Len Sharkey. ‘You’re both banned! I won’t have no fighting in my pub. Now bugger off home, Tommy, for Christ’s sake. They want you over there!’
‘It’s OK, Tubby,’ said Jimmy, trying to cool the situation. ‘He’s going now. I’ll see he gets on his way.’
He walked Tommy to the door.
‘You’d best get home. Tommy lad, and get someone to see to that cut on top o’your head. But, by God, that Len Sharkey’s been asking for a good hiding for some time now. He’ll not be so free and easy with his mouth in future.’
‘He’d no right saying all that, Jimmy. All that stuff about Catholics. I’d have murdered the get if y’hadn’t stopped me. And now Tubby’s banned me. Me - one of his best customers.’
Jimmy laughed. ‘Banned you, be buggered! If Tubby banned everybody who’d had a fight in the vault, he’d have an empty pub. No, take it from me. He’ll have forgotten it by tomorrow. I’ll call over after, Tommy, and see how you’ve got on.’
Leaving the smoky atmosphere behind, Tommy emerged from the pub into the Collyhurst evening air. It was half
past nine and not quite dark, but already the lamplighter was going his rounds down Collyhurst Road.
Tommy crossed over the road, cursing Len Sharkey for making him lose his rag like that. With his strange, shambling gait, he hurried along by the side of the River Irk - known simply in the district as the Cut.
As he approached the iron bridge which led to the Dwellings, he spotted Polly playing ‘Queenie-o-Co-Co, who’s got the ball?’ with a lot of other kids. ‘See I haven’t got it!’ ‘See I haven’t got it!’ they chorused as they offered alternate hands for inspection.
‘Come on, our Polly,’ he ordered. ‘Time you was in. And bring Jim with you. It’s past his bedtime.’
‘Aw, Dad. Can’t we stay out a bit? S’only early.’
‘No you can’t. Up you go.’
‘Yes, but Dad .. .’
‘Will y’do as you’re told, y’cheeky little sod. And less of your ole buck. Now get up them bloody stairs afore I land you one. It’s time you packed up them bloody daft games. You’re thirteen and you’ll be starting work next year. You should be giving help at home, not playin’ out here. Your mother’s not well, y’know.’
‘Yeah. I know. She’s got that stomach ache again. It’s through eating all them kippers on Friday. But we’re out ’ere ’cos they chucked us out when the nurse came. Sam and Les are already in bed, though.’
‘I should bloody well think so. But now it’s time the two o’ you was in. So up the Molly Dancers!’
Reluctantly, Polly collected her ball and her younger brother. Squeezing past a courting couple who were at it on the steps, she followed her dad up the stairwell until they reached the landing and the lobby which led to their tenement - number 6, Collyhurst Buildings.
★ ★ ★
The door was ajar. Inside, they found Lily stoking up a big fire at the black-leaded kitchen range. Flo, the eldest daughter, was filling a large iron kettle from the tap in the corner of the room.
‘It’s a boy. Dad,’ announced Flo. ‘Seven pounds. And he’s lovely.’
‘Oh aye,’ sighed Tommy, resignedly. ‘I thought it might be a boy the way your mother’s been eating all that apple pie lately.’
‘How d’you mean?’ asked Lily.
‘Well, fancying apple pie means a boy, and cherry pie, a girl. S’well known, that, in Lancashire. But by God, another boy, eh! Another bloody mouth to feed! That’s six kids we’ve got.’
Nurse McDonagh, all bustling and businesslike, appeared from the bedroom carrying a brown paper parcel, which she thrust into the fire.
‘What’s that? It’s not the baby, is it?’ asked Jim, his little face aghast.
‘Never you mind what it is, young man,’ Nurse McDonagh said. ‘And no, it’s no’ the baby. The very idea, indeed!’
She turned to Tommy.
‘So the prodigal son has come back to the fold, eh? And you look as if you’ve been in the wars, as well.’
She fished in her medical bag, pulled out a small bottle of iodine, and applied a little to Tommy’s wound. Tommy winced.
‘It’s only a scratch. Not worth botherin’ about.’
‘Dinna fash yoursel’. I’m no botherin’ that much. If you daft men want to punch each other’s heads at night, it’s no skin off my nose. More like skin off your heid, I’m thinkin’!’
‘You’re a hard woman, Nurse.’
‘Ye’ve got to be in my job. But you took your time gettin’ here. Timed it just right, didn’t you? Like the last time - arrivin’ home when it’s all over. Typical man! You think when you’ve put your wife in the puddin’ club, that’s you out. Your contribution to the birth process!’
‘Now, you know very well I’d have been no use to you. I know nowt about bringing kids into the world, except that you need a lotta hot water.’
‘Aye, and I suppose you think that’s for mixing with your whisky to make yoursel’ a hot toddy! All things considered, though, I think maybe you were better taking yoursel’ off to the pub and keepin’ outa ma way.’
‘But how’s Kate? How’s me wife doing? Is she all right?’
‘You’ve no need to worry on that score. I thought at one point we might need the doctor, but everything’s turned out fine, and mother and son are both doing well. You’ve got a strong, healthy wife there. She had her baby without any fuss - hardly made a sound. The only noise was from your son, and judging by the strength of his lungs, there’s not much wrong with him either.’
‘I know I picked a good ’un when I picked Kate,’ he said proudly.
‘Well, anyway, I’ve cleaned things up as best I can. And now I suppose you’ll be wanting to go in and see the bairn. I don’t see any way I can stop you.’
‘I should bloody well hope not,’ he said indignantly.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm as long as you don’t go breathing your beer fumes and germs all over the baby. Not too much noise, either,’ she said, looking pointedly at the younger end of the family. ‘Now, I’m awa’. I’ve got another case over the road - a lot more urgent than yours. I’ll call in again tomorrow morning to see how things are. See that Kate gets a good sleep tonight.’
She began packing up her mysterious black bag, and Polly asked:
‘Is that what you brought the baby in?’
The nurse gave her an old-fashioned look, hesitated, looked as if she were going to say something, then changed her mind.
‘In a way it is, I suppose/
‘We had a listen at your bag before, and we didn’t hear no baby in there,’ said Polly.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Jim. ‘Everyone knows that babies are brought by an angel. Don’t you know nowt, Polly?’
‘How d’you make that out?’ asked Polly.
‘Well, when one person dies, another one gets born.’
‘Straight away?’
‘No, stupid. When a person dies, he has to go up to this room in the sky where he has to wait for, I dunno, maybe a hundred years until it’s his turn to get born again.’
‘I dinna ken what they’re teachin’ ’em at school these days,’ said Nurse McDonagh, shaking her head.
Tommy gave the nurse a sealed envelope.
‘Ta very much for all you’ve done. Nurse. Though I think we should be getting a discount for quantity.’
‘That’ll be the day - when a Scotswoman gives a discount!’ And with those words. Nurse Flora McDonagh departed from the scene.
Less than a minute after she’d left, a little voice from the second bedroom piped up:
‘Dad, can we come out? We want to see the new baby.’
‘You little buggers should be asleep,’ said Tommy. ‘Not listening to all that’s goin’ on out here.’
‘Go on, Tommy. Don’t be so miserable,’ said Lily Goodhart reprovingly. ‘Let ’em see the baby. It’s not every day that they get a little brother.’
‘Aye, I suppose you’re right, Lily. Go on then. We may as well all go in together - though it’ll be a bit of a squash in that little bedroom. All right then, you little buggers. You can come out. But just for a minute.’
In a wink the two young ’uns, Sam and Les, were out of the bedroom, dressed in their everyday shirts which served also as their nightwear.
‘Right!’ said Tommy. ‘In we all go.’
He knocked gently on the front bedroom door and called softly:
‘Kate, is it all right if we come in?’
All held their breath to catch the answer.
‘Yes. S’all right, Tommy. You can come in now,’ said Kate.
He opened the door quietly, and all seven of them traipsed into the room and gathered round the bed. Kate was sitting up, smiling and looking radiantly happy, whilst the newborn baby - oblivious to all the fuss going on around it - slept soundly in the large wooden drawer which served as a cradle.
‘How do, Kate,’ said Tommy. ‘How y’feeling?’
‘Oh, I’m not so bad, Tommy. Not so bad. But what’s that stuff on your head? You’ve not been fighting again, have you?’
‘No. S’nowt to bother about. I bumped into Len Sharkey, that’s all. You’re the one to worry about - not me.’
‘Did you pay the midwife. Tommy?’
‘Aye, I did that. Ten bob as usual. Is that right?’
‘Aye, that’s right. Same price as last time. Well, what d’you think? Another boy, eh?’
‘Aye, another boy,’ he replied, with feigned brightness. ‘That’s four we’ve got now. And this one’s just as welcome. Just as welcome. He’s got to be fed. We’ll look after him and see he’s all right.’
He took a peek at his son but couldn’t think of anything to say. To him, all babies looked alike. Wrinkly and redfaced - like miniature Chelsea pensioners without their uniforms. But he felt he had to say something.
‘Well, he seems to have everything,’ was the best he could manage. ‘It’s bloody marvellous. He’s even got fingernails! Did y’put a penny on his belly button?’
‘Aye, I did that.’
‘What’s that for?’ asked Flo.
‘That’s to flatten it,’ said Kate.
‘A bit like when they put pennies on a dead person’s eyes,’ said Polly.
‘Well, not quite . ..’ replied Kate.
Meanwhile, the three boys stood silent, taking in the scene: the big brass bedstead, the heavy dressing table with the swivel mirror, the large jug and basin, and the huge mahogany wardrobe with Dad’s pot hat on the top - the one he took down for funerals.
‘Do you want to see your new baby brother?’ Kate asked.
They nodded, and Kate folded back the blanket a little to give them a better view.
‘He looks like a big red tomato,’ observed Jim. ‘Though on second thoughts, p’raps he’s more like a beetroot.’
Jim had recently started a Saturday-morning job helping Joe Ogden, the greengrocer.
Sam and Les looked on. They weren’t too keen on a new baby sharing their things and their space, but as compensation they wondered if they could make use of this tiny doll-like creature as a prop in one of their games.
‘Are we goin’ to keep him? And will he be able to play out with us?’ asked young Sam.
He had in mind the idea of using the baby on Guy Fawkes night, not only to augment their collection of
OUR KID
money but as a possible real-life effigy to put on the fire.
‘Course we can keep him. He’s ours now,’ said Kate. ‘And he’ll play out with you when he’s a bit bigger.’
‘I think he’s got your hair, Tommy,’ Lily announced.
‘Well, some bugger has,’ said Tommy. ‘But it doesn’t matter about his hair as long as he’s not skenny-eyed or hare-lipped or anything like that.’
‘I think he’s the loveliest baby I’ve ever seen,’ said Polly. ‘What are you going to call ’im. Mam? What about Rupert? That’s a lovely name; it’s the name of a prince, you know.’
‘We don’t want no princes in this house,’ said Kate. ‘Though I really haven’t had no time to think about names much. I usually leave that to your father. What do you think, Tommy?’
‘I’ve named them all up to now,’ replied Tommy. ‘But I think we’ve just about run through the Litany o’ Saints. So I don’t mind what you call him as long as it’s not summat like Marmaduke or Archibald . . . or Winston like that bastard Winston Churchill.’ Tommy had never forgiven Churchill for the Dardanelles.
‘What do you think, our Flo?’ asked Kate.
‘Well, the boss at work has ever such a lovely name,’ said Flo. ‘His name’s William Armstrong. . . And then there’s that poet they learned us about in school - William Wordsworth, I think he was called. It was a poem all about daffodils. “I wandered lonely as a cloud” - summat like that. Why don’t we call him William? It’s ever such a nice name.’
‘Aye. I like the sound o’ that,’ said Kate. ‘It’s got a nice ring to it.’ She pronounced the full title in her best imitation of a posh-voiced flunkey announcing an important dignitary at a royal banquet: ‘William Hopkins! Yes, I like it,’ she declared. ‘As long as he
Billy Hopkins
doesn’t get called “Willy” or “Billy”.’
‘I don’t like the name William,’ Polly proclaimed petulantly. ‘I think it sounds dead sissy. And anyroad, if you’re going t’give the names of poets and all that, what about Rupert Brooke? He’s a poet too, isn’t he? They’re learning us a poem by him at school. Something about “If I should die
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ said Tommy, putting both hands on top of his head. ‘She’s got death on the brain! The kid’s only just been born and already she’s talking about dying.’
‘Now, I’ve told you before,’ said Kate. ‘We don’t want no Ruperts and no princes in this house.’
Flo said: ‘Besides, he’d get called Rupie.’
‘Yeah, loopy Rupie!’ added Jim.
Polly pouted. ‘Everybody’s always laughing at me in this rotten house! I’m fed up, I am. If Flo says anything, oh yes, that’s all right. But not if I say it. Everybody just picks on me.’
‘Will you stop causing trouble, our Polly. You’re an awkward little bugger. You should learn to keep that shut,’ said Tommy, indicating his mouth.
‘Then why can’t we give him two names?’ Polly insisted, not to be talked down. ‘What’s wrong with Rupert William?’
‘Listen, you little madam,’ retorted Kate. ‘Two names is for toffs. All our kids have just the one name and that’s enough. Anyroad, there’ll be no more arguments. It’s settled. His name’s William and that’s the end of it.’
The others gave murmurs and nods of agreement. Not that their opinion mattered once Kate had made up her mind.
‘There’s something none of you have noticed,’ Lily declared. ‘Today is Sunday, and you know what they say about a Sunday child: The child who is born on the Sabbath
OUR KID
day Us lucky and happy and good and gay. ’
‘P’raps he’s going to win Littlewoods or the Irish Sweepstake,’ said Tommy.
‘I think you may be right,’ said Kate. ‘I spilt some sugar the other day, and that’s a sure sign that we’re going to have some good luck.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Tommy said. ‘Now then, the nurse said we wasn’t to tire you, Kate. So I think that’ll do for tonight. All told, it’s been a very busy day - you might even say a productive day, especially for you. But not a bad night’s work, eh - even if I say so myself!’
‘Cheeky bugger,’ retorted Kate.
He looked at the big alarm clock on the dressing table, and, thinking about the market, continued: ‘Anyroad, I’ve got to be up at four o’clock tomorrow morning. Someone’s got to earn the money now we’ve another mouth to feed. So come on, you lot. Say good night and off to bed with you.’
After their good nights, they all left. The three boys got into their big bed, top and tail fashion, in the other bedroom, and the two girls climbed into theirs in the Same room.
‘I’ll be on my way now, Tommy,’ Lily said. ‘Me family will be thinking I’ve fell in the Cut. I haven’t seen ’em all day. I’ll call in again tomorrow to see how she is and if there’s anything she wants.’
‘Ta very much, Lily, for all you’ve done,’ Tommy said. ‘We couldn’t ask for a better neighbour. You’re a brick . . . the best.’
‘Oh, don’t mention it, Tommy,’ she said. ‘That’s what neighbours are for.’
When everyone had left. Tommy decided to go on to the front landing of the Buildings for a last smoke. It was a
bright night and the Cut was bathed in moonlight, giving it a beautiful romantic aspect. Lighting his fag, he looked out towards Collyhurst Road. It was closing time at Tubby Ainsworth’s and he could hear the last customers shouting their slurred good nights. From below, he heard a familiar voice calling him. It was Jimmy Dixon, about to go into his ground-floor tenement.
‘Aye, aye, Tommy. How did you get on?’
‘Oh, not so bad. I’ve had another boy.’
‘Another boy, eh? It must be all that bloody Boddies you’ve been supping. We’ll have a pint o’ two to celebrate in Tubby’s tomorrow night. G’night, mate.’
‘G’night, Jimmy.’
Another son, Tommy said to himself. God, look at these here hovels - stone-flagged floors and walls dripping with damp. Three rooms and a lavatory between two adults and six kids. Not much of a place to bring ’em up. The landlords have a bloody cheek charging us five bob a week rent for these holes. They slung these tenements up in the 1880s and called ’em artisans’ dwellings. Well, I don’t know what the bloody artisans thought about ’em but I know what this here bloody market porter thinks about ’em. Slums for the working class, that’s what they are. Only fit for the bloody cockroaches that share the dump with us.
Then there’s the Cut over there. Looks a bit of all right in the moonlight. Like a picture postcard. But it’s nothing but a bloody sewer, and everyone round here dumps their shit in it - especially that dye works up the road. ‘Is it any wonder the kids round ’ere get scarlet fever with all them bloody colours,’ he added aloud, seeing the irony of it.
But this is no bloody place to rear a family, he thought. As for this latest little bugger. . . What chance does he
OUR KID
stand here in Collyhurst? I think we’ll have to flit. There’s got to be something better than this, though I don’t know where.
He ground out his fag and went in to get some sleep.
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