Billy was six and he knew how to whistle. He had many other accomplishments, of course: he could read, tell the time, throw stones, catch a ball, and climb the railway fence. But his whistle was the thing he was most proud of; he simply puckered up his lips, blew, and out came the one and only tune he knew: ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever’, which he’d heard on his Dad’s HMV wind-up gramophone. ‘Whistling Rufus’, Mam called him. Only that morning when he’d been on their veranda lavatory, she’d called through the door:
‘Come on out, Whistling Rufus - come an’ wet your whistle.’
She had a funny way of saying things like that. Why, at breakfast, when he was eating his Quaker Oats, she’d said:
‘That’s right. Get that down you; it’ll stick to your ribs.’
The idea of all that gooey porridge clinging to the inside of his ribs didn’t appeal to him at all. But then her list of wise sayings was endless:
‘Crusts make your hair curly.’
‘Fish makes you brainy.’
OUR KID
‘Stew puts a lining on your stomach.’
All true, of course, because Mam was forty-seven and knew everything.
Whistling Sousa’s march, he set out for school and soon crossed the bridge over the Cut, which that morning was flowing a sickly yellow. He waited on the edging of Collyhurst Road and, like he’d been told, looked both ways, finding the speed of the horses and carts easy to judge but not so the post office vans which came tearing out of the recently built depot. He made it safely to the other side, however, and stopped just outside the Rechabite Hall and looked up at the big sign-board emblazoned with the words:
ORDER OF RECHABITES: FOUNDED 1835 TEMPERANCE MISSIONARY HALL
Billy thought about the truly wonderful Christmas party they’d had in there the previous night. But at the same time he felt a twinge of guilt on account of the sin he’d committed by attending it.
Now, it was common knowledge amongst the Catholics of Collyhurst that the Rechabites - despite the fame of their kazoo and comb-and-paper band - were misguided heretics who were bound to go straight to hell for not believing in the right religioji. At Holy Mass only yesterday, hadn’t Father O’Brien, the parish priest, warned everyone about the dangers of false religions and the worship of false gods. From his pulpit, he had thundered:
‘Remember, my dear brethren, that God has said, “Thou shalt not have strange gods before me!” Any Catholic who takes part in the worship or prayers of a false religion is guilty of a grievous sin and will be doomed to hell for all eternity.’
On the other hand, it was common knowledge amongst the people of Collyhurst that the Rechabites organised an annual children’s Christmas party of breathtaking magnificence. For those children who were lucky enough to get a ticket, the party was undoubtedly a never-to-be-forgotten affair. And Billy had a ticket! Given to him by Dad! It was the equivalent of a Cup Final ticket for an adult, and how his dad had come by it was anybody’s guess - certainly not for any feat of sobriety. Perhaps he’d won it in a game of crib, or found it outside Tubby Ainsworth’s pub. But Billy wasn’t interested in the whys and wherefores - he had a ticket, and that was good enough for him!
The party was due to start at six o’clock. Before Billy was allowed to put a foot outside the tenement, Mam washed him and scrubbed him until he shone like a polished red apple. Then on with his best jersey, navy- blue trousers with striped elastic belt, long stockings with the colourful tops, and finally his black leather boots which Dad had buffed and buffed until they were gleaming. Mam issued dire warnings about not losing the cup and saucer he had to take, and about being on his best behaviour. At last a spotless, luminous Billy set out with a final piece of advice ringing in his ears:
‘Eat their cakes an’ jelly, son,’ Mam had said. ‘But try not to join in their prayers and hymns if you can help it. That’s a good boy.’
Over at the Rechabite Hall, ten tables had been laid with colourful paper covers, serviettes, crackers and party hats - the latter being the well-made, expensive variety - not the cheap, flimsy kind. The eyes of all the children, however, were focused not on the tables but on the open kitchen doors through which they could see the waiting banquet. Around the sides of the hall stood the Rechabite Sunday-school staff smiling in welcome but dressed in
OUR KID
sombre clothes as if going to a funeral.
So that’s what heretics look like, thought Billy. But what’s making them smile like that?
Seated at the tables, sixty boisterous kids - nearly wetting themselves with excitement - all looking unnaturally clean and laundered, and holding a motley collection of crockery of different shapes, sizes and colours, waited impatiently for the festivities to begin. At six fifteen, a tall, bearded gentleman in a black suit - not unlike the pictures of Abraham Lincoln that Billy had seen at school - appeared on the stage, clapped his hands for attention and intoned in his best church voice:
‘It does my heart good to see so many bright and shining little faces here before me. The Lord Jesus has said: “Suffer the little children to come unto me.” And this is what we are doing tonight, for the dear little children of Collyhurst have indeed come unto us to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. But before we begin our feast, my dear children, let us stand, bow our heads and thank the great Lord above for his munificence.’
For the young listeners, this speech was not only incomprehensible but unbearably long, for they were eager to get on with the serious business in hand, namely the dispatch of all that seductive food sitting out there in the kitchen. The kids of Collyhurst, however, had learned a pragmatism that John Dewey would have been proud of. They knew which side their bread was buttered on, and if to get at all those lovely comestibles they had to take part in a few curious rituals, so be it.
Billy was worried, though, about that word ‘suffer’ the Lincoln character had used. He’d met the word before, in ‘Suffered under Pontius Pilate’, and he wasn’t too happy about what these Rechabites had in mind.
All present bowed their heads. Surreptitiously, Billy made a cross with his two index fingers, like he’d seen in a Dracula picture, to ward off evil spirits.
The Rechabite intoned solemnly:
‘O let Israel bless the Lord: let him praise and exalt him above all for ever. We give thanks to Thee, O Lord most holy. Father almighty, God everlasting, for this bounteous food which Thou hast placed before us in celebration of the birth of Thy son, Jesus Christ. Impart unto us, we beseech Thee, O Lord, the grace to quench within ourselves the fire of evil desires; grant that no flame of guilt lay waste the souls of Thy servants here present tonight. Amen.’
This strange incantation was enough for Billy. Lucifer had been summoned up as the unseen guest.
But now the food was brought on, and any thoughts of Lucifer were temporarily suspended. For some time, the only sound in the hall was kids chomping their way through mountains of food. And what food! They had never seen such a spread! Potted meat sandwiches, quickly gobbled up, followed by mince pies, chocolate cake and a choice of three kinds of jelly - the whole lot being washed down with copious quantities of sweet, milky tea served by the funereal Rechabites from large metal tea-pots.
When the repast had been devoured, it became time to pay the piper, and the price was the singing of hymns - Rechabite hymns and only just short of devil-worship. The kazoo band assembled on stage and began to tune up like the Halle Orchestra. A large grubby chart containing the words of the heretical hymns was rolled out on display. The band struck up with its tinny zuzzing sound and they were off. With great gusto, the Rechabites and their followers sang out, their voices ringing to the rafters.
The first one, ‘Stand up! Stand up for Jesus’, sounded
OUR KID
particularly depraved, but there followed others equally wicked, like ‘Fight the Good Fight’ and ‘Tell me the old, old story’. As not a single one of these had ever been heard in St Patrick’s Church, Billy became more and more convinced that his soul was turning blacker and blacker with every note he sang.
There was a temporary respite from all this, however, when silent films were shown on an 8 mm projector, featuring celebrities like Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd and Buster Keaton. The memory of the hymn-singing episode was soon lost in laughter at the antics of Charlie and the deadpan face of Buster.
Like any good production, the party had a finale. An authentically dressed Father Christmas ho-hoed his way into the hall and proceeded to give out presents of all kinds of games and toys. The fact that they were distributed by a sinful Rechabite Santa - or was that Satan? - was irrelevant since they were lavish beyond the Collyhurst kids’ wildest dreams. The red-robed figure must have been mad. With wild abandon he handed out boxed games of ludo, lotto, draughts, tiddlywinks, and snakes and ladders.
But like all the other delights that evening, they had to be paid for. This time with the prayers of this misguided religion.
What would Father O’Brien say if he could see me now? thought Billy. He could hear the priest’s voice echoing in his head: ‘Prayers of a false religion . . . grievous sin . . . doomed to hell for ever.’ Meanwhile, the staff had lined up on the stage - like the cast at a pantomime taking its final bows - for the concluding ceremony.
Now the sinfulness of the hymn-singing was compounded by the recitation of Rechabite versions of well-known prayers, like their unauthorised phrasing of
the Lord’s Prayer which contained various words different from those Billy was used to: ‘Our Father Which art in heaven’ instead of the orthodox and correct ‘Our Father Who art in heaven’. And sin of sins - surely the work of Old Nick himself - there was a postscript at the end, which instead of finishing at ‘deliver us from evil. Amen’ actually went on with ‘For Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, For ever and ever. Amen.’ As Billy uttered this final sinful supplement, he felt sure that he’d sold his soul to the devil for a set of snakes and ladders.
Maybe he had. But then it really was a very good set.
Now Billy awoke from his reverie and continued his journey. At Dalton Street, he was joined by his two best friends, Teddy Smith and Joey Murray.
‘Hiya, Billy,’ said Teddy. ‘Goin’ to school?’
‘Course I am!’ replied Billy. ‘D’you think I’m wagging it or somethin’?’
Teddy’s pants had more patches than pant, his shoes were scuffed dusty grey, there were great spuds in his stockings, and he had a snotty nose. Just the same, he was well-liked - after all, he was a very good fighter and a very good stone-thrower.
Joey Murray was better dressed because his dad had a job with a pension at the new post office depot and consequently had a position to keep up.
‘What a stink!’ said Teddy as they passed the Phillips rubber works. ‘It’s nearly as bad as the Cut.’
‘Aye, but not as bad as the boneworks over there,’ remarked Joey.
‘I wonder what do they do at the boneworks,’ said Teddy suspiciously.
‘Dunno,’ said Billy. ‘But me mam says they make glue out of bones.’
OUR KID
‘Whose bones? They don’t use dead people, do they?’ Teddy asked in horror.
‘No, I think they use mainly horses. But I suppose they must use people sometimes - if there’s a shortage,’ said Billy, always a mine of information.
They passed under the big railway arches at Aspin Lane.
‘I played in the Cut yesterday,’ said Teddy. ‘It was dead smashin’. We was all throwing stones at the rats. I hit one a beauty.’
‘I’ll bet y’had it for your Sunday dinner,’ said Joey.
‘Oh no we didn’t,’ replied Teddy defiantly. ‘Me mam got a sheep’s head from the butcher’s, so there!’
‘Oh yeah,’ replied Billy. ‘Well, me and our Les climbed over the railway fence an’ went picking coke an’ cinders on the tip. An’ after, we followed a cart out o’ the gas works; it was piled up with coke - warm an’ steaming, like. We picked up some really big pieces what fell off. We got nearly half a bag for me mam. But me dad wouldn’t half belt us if he knew we’d been on the tip.’
At Sharp Street Ragged School, Teddy asked:
‘Why do they call it the Ragged School, I wonder?’
‘P’raps it’s because all the kids who go there are ragged,’ said Billy.
‘Like you, eh, Teddy?’ said Joey.
‘Don’t be such a cheeky sod, Joey, or I’ll belt you one,’ said Teddy, giving him a friendly cuff.
‘Hey, I saw a dead body yesterday,’ said Billy. ‘In a coffin.’
‘Did yer heck,’ said Teddy. ‘Where?’
‘In the Fannings’ toffee shop. It was their lad; I think he’d swallowed a huge tube o’ summat. They said he’d died of a tube o’ colossal. That’s what it sounded like,
anyroad. He looked dead beltin’ in his coffin’; he was smiling, like, as if he’d just heard a good joke, an’ he was dressed up in altar boy’s clothes. Funny, that, ’cos they’re not Catholics.’
‘I wonder what it’s like bein’ dead,’ said Teddy. ‘I’ll bet it’s smashin’. Like being in the pictures all the time an’ watchin’ Mickey Mouse an’ with as many toffees as you can eat.’
‘You might have to go to purgatory first,’ said Joey, ‘if you’ve done a lotta sins.’
‘How long for?’ asked Teddy.
‘About ten billion billion years,’ replied Billy pessimistically. ‘That’s what Miss Gibson says, anyroad.’
At Dantzig Street, there was a newspaper boy yelling in a street-seller’s sing-song voice: ‘News! Latest News! Hitler next German Chancellor! Gordon Richards now champion jockey! Loch Ness Monster seen again!’
Teddy couldn’t help having a go at the paper boy’s strident call:
‘News! Latest new-ew-ews! Donald Duck dead!’ he bawled in an uncannily accurate imitation.
They arrived at the Salvation Army hostel, where they crouched down with knees bent to peer into the basement dining hall at the down-and-outs slurping their soup at the long wooden tables. There was a powerful pong of stew and steaming underpants and singlets coming through the open windows.
The three boys poked their heads in and shouted: ‘Get your hair cut!’
Immediately one of the derelicts left his place at the table and came running towards the window, bawling:
‘Get away with you. Cheeky little buggers.’
They ran off quickly up Angel Meadow, chanting as
OUR KID
they did so a rhyme that was compulsory for Collyhurst children passing that way:
‘ Jack , Jack , turn around!Turn your face to the Burial Ground .’
‘Jack’ was the revolving air-vent on the top of the CWS Tobacco factory, whilst the Burial Ground was St Michael’s Flags - an ancient parish cemetery now being used as a recreation ground.
‘Are there any people buried under there?’ asked Teddy, pointing to the stone flags now worn smooth by the feet of two centuries.
‘Miss Gibson said there are thousands and thousands,’ said Billy. ‘They all died of some collar disease.’
‘How do you die of a collar disease?’ asked Teddy, anxiously fingering his neck.
‘I dunno. I suppose it’s when your collar’s too tight. But don’t ask me!’ said Billy, getting a little impatient. He could see himself being cast in the role of medical consultant just because he’d seen a dead body. ‘I don’t know everything!’
‘Is it haunted, do you think?’ asked Teddy nervously.
‘Don’t be daft, Teddy,’ answered Billy. ‘Course it is. Must be. I wouldn’t come down here on a dark night. Not for anything. You’d see all the ghosts come out moaning an’ clutching their collars.’
At the bacon warehouse, they followed their usual routine with the man at the bacon hoist:
‘Got any rickers, mister?’ Billy called out.
‘Got any knickers, mister?’ Joey shouted cheekily.
‘Here!’ said the man, throwing out a whole lot of small, flat pieces of wood which the boys then put between two fingers and clicked like castanets. Rattling their rickers, they turned the corner into Sinclair Street. Straight into trouble!
There, lying in wait for them, was their hated and feared enemy, the skenny-eyed kid. His squint seemed to have given him the distinct advantage of being able to look in two directions at once, like the swivel eyes of a chameleon. He was about thirteen years old, and his close- cropped, basin-barbered head and the area around his mouth were painted with a hideous purple ointment - the standard treatment for ringworm and impetigo at the school clinic. In his hand he held a large catapult, which he pointed at the three youngsters.
‘Right, what’ve you gorr on yer? Empty your pockets or you get this,’ he snarled, indicating the fully loaded catapult.
The three boys took out all their prized possessions and placed them at the feet of the highway robber. The booty consisted of one yo-yo, one piece of chalk, one tin soldier, three pairs of rickers, two marbles, a piece of string, and one Uncle Joe’s mint ball.
‘Whorrabout money? Where’s yer money?’ the robber demanded.
The three lads shook their heads in reply.
‘Right,’ the young thug said. ‘Next time I see you lot, you berra ’ave money!’
The three victims were then allowed to go on their way. Trembling with fear, they reached the sanctuary of the yard of St Wilfred’s Mixed Infants.
The school was accommodated in a large hall which served as a church on Sundays and a place of learning on weekdays - curtains being the only means of separating the classes. As the boys arrived. Sister Helen of the Santa Maria Order was ringing her large handbell to start the school day.
Sister Helen! Beautiful Sister Helen! What mixed
OUR KID
thoughts her name conjured up in Billy’s mind. When he had first started school two years previously, he had looked up to her as a saint. Even in appearance she resembled his statue of St Therese of Lisieux, the Little Flower of Jesus, which he had won for answering catechism questions.
After his mam, Sister had been his favourite person. When all was said and done, she had been the one who had taught him to read when he was only four; the one who’d called him in from the playground to tell him that he had made such progress in his reading that he was to be promoted. She had said:
‘William’ - only teachers, priests and others in authority ever gave him his full title - ‘you are the first in the class at reading and so you are to come off cards and start on a real book!’
The book in question was all about a family where the dad wore a suit and a tie, the mother a lovely silk dress, and they had a pretty little daughter named Kitty who spent all her time playing with their pedigree Collie dog called Rover. They all lived together in a big house with a large garden in which the dog would run about freely whenever a member of the family gave it the command: ‘Run, Rover, run’ At which they exclaimed to each other with obvious pride: ‘Rover is running. See Rover run’
Again, Sister had been the one to award him countless religious prizes for his ever-widening religious knowledge, until his drawer at home had become a veritable Aladdin’s cave of crucifixes, rosary beads, holy pictures, statues of major saints, holy water fonts, and enough medals to make an African general jealous.
Yes, Billy had placed Sister on a pedestal, and from his lowly position, he had sat at her feet and worshipped her and hung on to her every word.
But the relationship was too fervent and did not - indeed, could not - last. One dark day, he found that his heroine had feet of clay. She used bad language! He found her out in lesson time. She was teaching nursery rhymes, and the children had had all the usual stuff about amorous Georgie Porgie and the neurotic Miss Muffet when Sister turned to a new one which went:
Curly locks , Curly locks.
Wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash dishes Nor yet feed the swine;
But sit on a cushion And sew a fine seam.
And feed upon strawberries,
Sugar and cream.
Billy could not believe his ears. The term ‘swine’ was a very bad swearword in Collyhurst, as in the expression: ‘Bugger off, you little swine.’ And here was the holy nun using the ‘S’ word in a nursery rhyme! Billy had reported the obscenity to Mam, but she had merely laughed and told him not to worry.
Nevertheless, in his mind, the reputation of his heroine had become tarnished. And there was worse to come. His suspicion about her tendency to use profane words was confirmed when towards Christmas he heard her employing yet another ‘S’ word. She was teaching a carol all about some king called Wenceslas who was having problems with snow and ice. Everything had been going fine until she reached the fifth verse, when he heard her sing:
In his master’s steps he trod,
Where the snow lay dinted.
OUR KID
Heat was in the very sod Which the saint had printed.
Everyone knew that the word ‘sod’ was a major term of abuse, as in the phrase: ‘You cheeky little sod’ or the command: ‘Sod off!’ Once again, Billy reported the matter at home. And once again. Mam laughed and advised him not to worry. He found this very difficult to understand, for on the odd occasion when he had tried using these words himself, he had been given a swift clip round the ear and told not to be such a cheeky little bugger.
In his turn, he let Sister down. In the playground one day he made a disgrace of himself by failing to make it to the lavatory in time. His brother Les had to be called out of class to take a weeping, wet William home for a change of pants. So ended a beautiful relationship.
At the age of six, Billy was promoted to Miss Gibson’s class. Sarah Gibson was a dark-haired, frosty-faced spinster about forty years old, her powerful pebble glasses giving her the look of a bullfrog. On her upper lip there was a hint of a moustache, whilst on her cheek she had a large hairy mole. In her class, he devoted nearly all of his time to the hard grind of the three Rs and the acquisition of basic literacy and numeracy. Day by day, he fought his way through book after book and table after table until he had reached the dizzy heights of his five times. In religion, he had completed the initial training for his First Confession and First Communion whilst at the same time battling through the Penny Catechism until his store of religious emblems had grown to the point where he was considering opening a shop specialising in the sale of sacred objects.
There was no doubt, though, that his favourite lessons
were fairy tales and poetry - especially the nonsense verses of Lewis Carroll:
‘Will you walk a little faster? ’ said a whiting to a snail,
‘There's a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on
my tail ’
and:
‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said,
‘To talk of many things;
Of shoes - and ships - and sealing wax - Of cabbages - and kings - And why the sea is boiling hot - And whether pigs have wings’
They also recited poetry all about ‘The house that Jack built’ and the maiden all forlorn who had a cow with a crumpled horn.
Came the day when Miss Gibson thought she would round off the afternoon lessons with a half-hour of class entertainment.
‘Who would like to make a start?’ she asked. ‘Will anyone here sing or dance for us?’
Her request was met with complete silence. Most of the children of Collyhurst had learned at an early age the first rule of survival: never volunteer for anything - unless you’re going to get paid for it!
‘Come along, children,’ she said impatiently. ‘Surely someone can do something.’
Unable to stand the tension any longer, Billy raised his hand.
‘I can dance like Fred Astaire, miss,’ he said.
‘Come along then, William. Let’s see this dance of yours.’
OUR KID
He went to the front of the class and executed a kind of tap dance a la Fred Astaire but more economical, as Billy used only one foot - his right. When he felt that his audience had had enough, he stopped to assess their reactions. He need not have worried. Miss Gibson said:
‘That was very good, William. I think it deserves a round of applause. Come along, children. 5
The clapping and the admiration which followed were meat and drink to Billy - especially that of June Gladwin, his sweetheart, who sat in the front row watching him admiringly. He sat down triumphantly.
‘Now, I’m sure there must be somebody else who wants to do their little party piece, 5 Miss Gibson said.
Silence, while most of the kids tried to puzzle out what she meant by ‘little party piece 5 .
‘Come along now, children. Surely there must be someone else, 5 she coaxed, sounding a little desperate.
For Billy, this lack of response became unbearable, and he wondered if he should volunteer his services again to solve Miss Gibson’s embarrassment. He remembered a little act of his which always caused great laughter and amusement at home with Mam and his two sisters when they were fooling around with the latest craze from America, the Shimmy - danced to a pop song of the day, ‘I wish I could shimmy like my sister Kate 5 .
He raised his hand again.
‘I know another dance if you want, miss. 5
‘Very well, William. You seem to be the only one who’s willing to do anything today. Let us see this other dance. 5
Billy went out to the front and began his rendering of the Shimmy. This involved raising both arms above his head and wiggling his hips voluptuously in the style of Miss Dorothy Lamour doing a hula-hula dance in the
South Sea Islands. Miss Gibson took one look and frowned.
‘Sit down,’ she commanded. ‘That is disgusting.’
Billy sat down deflated - bewildered that his performance could cause happy laughter in one place and disgust in another. There was no understanding the adult world!
Perhaps the Shimmy was associated with sin in Miss Gibson’s mind, because before they finished school that day, she said:
‘Remember, children, that tomorrow morning our young curate, Father Conroy, is coming over to hear practice confessions. Remember to have a sin ready to tell him, and don’t forget all that I have taught you.’
After the usual prayers, Miss Gibson dismissed the class.
On the way home, Billy and his friends - boys and girls - gathered together in a little secluded corner near the Burial Ground to play their favourite game - Truth or Dare. The boys consisted of Teddy Smith, Joey Murray and Billy, whilst the girls - also a trio - were Patsy McGivern, Wendy Killick and June Gladwin. Patsy McGivern was a brown-eyed belle with dark hair arranged in a neat fringe across her forehead; Wendy a rosy-cheeked girl with fair hair plaited in two long tails; but the greatest beauty of all was June Gladwin, with her gentle blue eyes, her long light-brown tresses which cascaded down her back, and a lovely little smile that could melt a heart of stone. Billy was hopelessly in love with her.
The game started with Joey Murray asking the questions.
‘Truth or Dare?’ he enquired of Teddy Smith.
‘Dare!’ said Teddy, always ready for action.
‘I dare you to climb up that lamppost, swing round it, spit twice, and then come back to your place.’
OUR KID
Teddy executed the deed with the skill of a Hollywood stuntman and was back in his place in a flash.
‘Truth or Dare?’ to June Gladwin.
‘Truth,’ said Billy’s heroine.
‘Is it true you love Billy?’
‘Yes, it’s true,’ she said, blushing. Billy’s heart leapt for joy.
‘Truth or Dare?’ to Wendy Killick.
‘Dare,’ she answered.
‘I dare you to hug me,’ Joey said.
Typically selfish, thought Billy.
Then came his turn:
‘Truth or Dare?’
‘Dare,’ answered Billy boldly.
‘I dare you to kiss June Gladwin,’ said Joey obligingly.
Billy carried out the command readily by giving June a smacker on the cheek.
‘Awwww!’ exclaimed the other two girls admiringly. ‘He went and did it!’
Joey now turned to Patsy McGivern: ‘Truth or Dare?’
‘Dare,’ she said, not to be outdone by her friend Wendy.
‘I dare you to show us your knickers!’ said Joey.
A long-drawn-out ‘Awwwww!’ came from the three girls. Then, ‘We’re telling on you . . .’ And on that shocked note, the game broke up.
Disconsolately, Billy and the other two boys began the journey back together until they reached the forge, where they parted company. Billy wanted to watch the horses being shod, but the other two had to get back to help with babies at home.
Through the open top half of the smithy door, he watched fascinated as the blacksmith and his mate hammered and shaped the white-hot metal into a horse-
shoe, which they then nailed on to the horse’s hoof.
Why, he asked himself, doesn’t the poor horse feel the hot shoes being nailed on to its feet?
Still puzzling about this, he set off for home. But as he turned into Collyhurst Road, there was the skenny-eyed kid! For the second time that day! Waylaid by the wretch who seemed to have a grudge against the rest of the world.
‘Stop! You’re not going past! Worravyer gorrin yer pockets, kid?’ he demanded.
‘Nothin’. Honest to God. You took everythin’ this morning.’
‘I told you to get some money for the next time I saw yer, din’t I?’ he said. ‘An’ you ’aven’t got it, ’ave you? So just for that, you get this.’
He wrestled with Billy and pulled him to the ground. Then, kneeling on him, he took from his pocket a box of ointment - the very same evil-smelling purple ointment which was smeared on his own head and mouth.
‘Try some of this, you little bastard,’ he snarled, rubbing the foul stuff on Billy’s face and head. ‘Now let that be a bloody lesson to you, you little sod. Next time, ’ave some money or else you’ll get some more!’ the juvenile footpad growled.
Released from the bully’s grip, Billy wept and wailed his way down the length of Collyhurst Road, causing passers-by to tut-tut in sympathy.
‘What’ve they done to you, son?’
‘What’s that horrible purple stuff on your face, son?’
‘They should set the coppers on to ’em.’
These sympathetic noises only served to make Billy howl the louder. He reached his own door at last and for good effect turned up the volume of his bawling by several decibels as he crossed the threshold. Mam was black-
OUR KID
leading the grate with Zebo when she clapped eyes on him. He made such a sorry sight, she almost went berserk.
‘Who in God’s name has done that to you? And what is that awful stuff? Whoever done this should be locked up! If I get my hands on the swine . . .’
Billy never did find out what she’d have done to the skenny-eyed kid because she was too busy putting pans of water on the gas rings. In double-quick time, she began washing his hair so vigorously that she got soap in his eyes and his ears, thus causing a fresh outburst of blubbing. Then it was all over and his natural colour was restored. As a special treat for being so brave, she cut him a very thin slice of Mother’s Pride, covering it generously with ‘best’ butter.
That night the family gathered round the table for their evening tea of ‘tater-ash’ - Lancashire hot-pot covered over with a golden pastry crust. The conversation turned to the bullying and brigandry of the skenny-eyed kid and the effect it was having on ‘our kid’, who had now become frightened to walk home from school on his own.
Billy’s hero was his brother Jim, who was now thirteen years of age and in his last year at St Chad’s Elementary School in Cheetham. Every night after school, he could be seen running home down Collyhurst Road to do his paper round at the Fannings’ corner shop. In the evenings however, he had been receiving boxing instruction for some considerable time at the Welcome Boys’ Recreation Club just near the Dwellings. Now, when he heard this conversation at the dinner table, his ears pricked up.
‘What time does this cock-eyed kid start his bullyin’?’ he asked Billy.
‘After school lets out - at half past three.’
‘Right. We let out at four o’clock. So if I run fast. . .’ said Jim, working out some calculation. ‘OK. Leave
Billy Hopkins
it to me, 5 he said finally. ‘An’ I think it’s time I started givin’ you boxing lessons so you can look after yourself.’
After tea, there occurred a rare event. Dad climbed on to a chair and, reaching up to the very top shelf of the built-in wall cupboard, took down his most prized possession - the one which had a picture of a dog listening to a loudspeaker horn on its lid. His portable gramophone! Nobody, but nobody - except himself - was ever allowed to operate this piece of amazing technology. In fact, the machine was only brought down on very special occasions, for example when Dad was in an unusually happy frame of mind, or alternatively when there had been perhaps a minor family crisis and someone needed to be cheered up. This particular evening seemed to slot into the latter category. The trouble was that there was only a limited selection of records to choose from. But that evening. Dad played the complete repertoire. There was, of course, ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever’, and in additionWaldteufl’s ‘Skater’s Waltz’, Arthur Tracy’s street-singer’s ‘Marta’, Harry Richman’s ‘King for a Day’, Sandy Powell’s monologues (‘Can y’hear me, Mother?’) and the top songs of 1934 - recently purchased by Billy’s two sisters - ‘Sing as We Go’ and ‘Isle of Capri’, both sung by Lancashire’s own Gracie Fields.
Billy’s favourite was still ‘Underneath the Arches’ sung by Flanagan and Allen, because it reminded him of that Christmas two years ago and his wonderful first visit to town with Flo and Polly when they had bought the record at Woolworth’s. He would never forget that trip - not as long as he lived. He had been just four years of age, and his two sisters had met him after school at the top of Angel Meadow. Together they
OUR KID
had walked down Thompson Street and Oldham Street, and the sheer splendour of the scene - the bright lights, the gleaming store windows, the honking of the traffic, and the visit to meet Father Christmas in Lewis’s store - had so filled him with awe and wonder that he could only gaze open-mouthed at the fairyland world to which he had been transported. On the way back, they had bought black puddings as a special treat for Mam and Dad, plus, of course, the record. As these thoughts went through his head, Sam and Jim began their Flanagan and Allen act, singing and strolling about the tenement.
Mam brought him back to the land of the living.
‘Come on, tough guy. Time for bed.’
The day of drama ended on a happy note. As Mam was tucking him into bed, she asked him the question she always liked to ask:
‘What are you?’
And he gave the James Cagney answer she wanted to hear:
‘A smart guy and a tough kid!’
‘Now,’ she said, ‘time for sleep. Before you close your eyes, say the prayer our Flo learned you.’
He began, ‘Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.’ And as a postscript, he added: ‘And by the way, God, if I meet the skenny-eyed kid tomorrow, will You please fix it so that I can run faster than him!’
The next day began like any other. The journey to school had become a routine. Billy whistled as he strode across the bridge. His two friends joined him at Dalton Street, and they shouted their usual ‘Get yer hair cut’ through
Billy Hopkins
the Sally Army’s window, and collected more rickers from the bacon man at the hoist.
The skenny-eyed kid, however, was nowhere to be seen that morning.
School started off as usual, but on this particular morning, religious instruction was devoted to role-playing confessions with Father Conroy. As Billy watched his adorable June Gladwin go in first, he wondered what sins this lovely blue-eyed creature could possibly have committed. How could an angel sin? The class of children waited their turn to be called to the confessional box - each one anxious not to make a mistake, each one ready with a sin. As the queue went down, their nervousness went up. Like waiting to be shot, thought Billy. Too soon, Miss Gibson called:
‘Next - William Hopkins.’
His heart fluttering, Billy entered the confessional box and began:
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession.’
‘Good boy, William,’ said Father Conroy. ‘Now the sin part. Tell me a sin.’
‘Please, Father, Joey Murray asked Patsy McGivern to show him her knickers.’
There was a long pause before Father Conroy continued. He appeared to be weeping, because he had a handkerchief up to his eyes and he was making little snorting noises. Billy didn’t think that Joey’s sin was that serious.
‘Now, William, tell me your sin,’ Father Conroy said when he had recovered his composure. .
Billy didn’t really have another sin ready, as they’d been told to prepare just one for practice. He thought very quickly and came up with:
OUR KID
‘Please, Father, I did the Shimmy dance.’
He didn’t know what it was, but Father Conroy had started crying again.
Billy began the walk home after school feeling very nervous and apprehensive. This journey back - fraught with danger and possible violence - was beginning to resemble a walk through a dark African forest with wild animals lurking behind every bush. He passed the corner where he had been attacked - now forever associated with assault and evil-smelling ointment. He strode bravely alongside the Cut, whistling his tune to cover up his nervousness - when suddenly, he was there! The skenny- eyed kid! Legs astride, catapult in hand.
‘Right, kid,’ he rasped. ‘Empty yer pockets. Where’s yer money?’
Billy was about to answer but didn’t get a chance. For without warning, the bully was sent reeling by a blow of the ox-felling kind. Jim stood over him and said:
‘If I ever see you near our kid again, I’ll give you the hiding of your life. Now scram!’
Jim then continued his run to Fanning’s so as not to be late for his paper round.
Now it was the turn of the squint-eyed mugger to howl. But before the young thug could obey the order to scram, Billy got in the final word:
‘Listen, kid! That was me brother and he’s a boxer, see. You pick on me and you pick on me family.’
And he stepped over the prostrate body and swaggered home, whistling ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever’.
The following Monday, Billy set off for school as usual. At Dalton Street he was met - as usual - by Joey Murray. But there was no sign of Teddy Smith.
Later that morning, Sister Helen called a meeting of the whole school and announced that Teddy Smith had drowned in the River Irk whilst throwing stones at the water rats. He had fallen in at a deep part of the Cut, where the swift current had swept him away into the sewers.
On the way home, Joey and Billy stopped at the railings of the Cut. They looked down at the river, which was a dirty grey cesspool of filth and garbage containing rusty bedsteads, decayed mattresses, twisted bicycles and decomposing dogs. But over near the bank, there was a tiny section of the river where the water swirled and eddied in a whirlpool of technicolour dyes, and as it pirouetted over stones and rocks, it seemed to be enjoying a fit of bubbling laughter.
‘Poor Teddy,’ said Billy. ‘I wonder if he’s down there watching Mickey Mouse, and with all the toffees he can eat.’