The family settled into a new routine, and a year later Collyhurst Buildings and the Cut seemed like another world, a million years and a million miles away.
It was a Saturday morning in July. Billy had recently had his eighth birthday - not that anyone had noticed. Today he awoke at his usual time, around seven o’clock, and lay in bed thinking. Saturday! His favourite day of the week. No school, of course. Instead he would be going to the matinee at the local flea-pit. But more important, it was money-making day!
All the family seemed to be at it! What Dad did for a living, Billy wasn’t too sure. He only knew that Dad got up very early in the morning and went off to Smithfield Market, where he carried things about on a cart. But beyond that, Billy was pretty vague.There were two things, though, he was sure about. Dad was always bringing home lots of fresh fruit and vegetables. And fish! Loads and loads of it! To the point where he felt that he had eaten so much of the stuff his true home was not Red Bank but Dogger Bank! The other thing Billy knew for sure was that after work, Dad drank enough beer to float a battleship, and if he went over his limit - as he usually did
on a Saturday - it was best to keep well out of his road or else!
The rest of the family were also on the money-earning trail. Jim had started work in a warehouse on Salford Docks, whilst Sam and Les had their paper rounds at Blount’s, the newsagent’s on Cheetham Hill Road.
But it was Flo and Polly who had hit the jackpot with their sideline. They worked as seamstresses for Northcotes, the fur-coat manufacturer, on Oldham Road, and one of the perks of the job was being allowed to take home any useless fur remnants left lying around the factory. With typical Collyhurst acumen they had spotted a golden opportunity and had built up a lucrative business making fur mittens at fourpence a pair from the unwanted scraps. Already they seemed to have kitted out most of the residents of Honeypot Street, and several streets beyond. A few months previously, they had boldly introduced a new line in Cossack hats, using larger fragments of fur - which the family had to assume were true waste scraps and not deliberate errors made by fellow workers hoping for a share of the profits. The hats had been an immediate winner, as people had soon realised that they could double as tea-cosies when not being used as headgear. So popular were the hats in winter, the neighbours had begun to look like extras in a Chekhov play. Billy’s part in this Russianisation of the Red Bank residents had been to hire out his hands - at the reasonable charge of a farthing a pair - as templates for children’s gloves. He had to make a living too.
Apart from this, Billy had his own ways of coining it - in the heating and lighting business. It had taken him some considerable time to build up his clientele and win their goodwill. The thing was, he had his eye on a beautiful model yacht which he had seen displayed in the big plate-
glass window of Baxendale’s store on Miller Street. For several weeks now he had drooled over this magnificent boat, and had even spent one or two hours sketching it in his drawing book. To raise the seventy-five shillings required to secure this glittering prize, he had worked out that he would need to put aside one shilling and sixpence a week for one whole year, and already he was halfway to reaching his goal. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself at the end of the year proudly carrying the boat under his arm up to Queen’s Park lake, to launch the vessel on her maiden voyage to the applause and envy of all his friends and brothers.
‘I now christen this ship the SS Jolly Jim. May God bless her and all who sail in her!’ said King Edward. He could dream, couldn’t he? He emerged from his fantasy world and went down to breakfast.
Mam also had her dreams. That same morning, she looked at her bank book. With compressed lips, she carried out a complex mental calculation, counting with her fingers on her chin and throwing away imaginary numbers into the air - as she had been taught at the Board School many years ago. It had taken almost twenty-five years of scrimping and saving to put aside the amount she had. She checked the total - £42.17.3d. She prided herself on being a good manager; that is, being able to make a little go a long way. In her world, the worst insult for a housewife was to be called a bad manager - one who spent more than the family earned and who relied on tick to buy the groceries. Hire purchase was something those funny Americans did, and certainly nobody in the working class - nobody who wanted to be thought respectable, at any rate - would even dream of buying on the never- never. Anyway, today Kate was going to spend a good
part of her nest egg. She didn’t know how Tommy would take it. Sometimes he didn’t take kindly to the idea of her buying something as important as furniture without first asking him.
But, she thought to herself, I know how to pacify him all right. An hour in bed with him this afternoon will soften him up. I’ll tell him about it after we’ve done it; that’s when he’s in a good mood - the daft ha’porth - and he’ll agree to anything.
Kate’s attitude to sex was simple - it was a duty women had to put up with in order to satisfy a man’s bestial nature and keep the peace. She took no pleasure, and indeed expected none, for herself. On the other hand, she saw no harm in occasionally exploiting the situation and making use of Tommy’s Achilles’ heel - though in fact, she thought naughtily, his weakness was situated at the other end of his leg.
After a breakfast of toast and tea, she called Flo and Polly together.
‘I want you to come to town with me this morning,’ she said.
‘What for?’ asked Polly, her usual agreeable self.
‘I’m going in for a new three-piece suite, and I want you to help me pick one out.’
‘Oh, that’s smashing, Mam,’ said Polly. ‘I’ve seen some lovely ones in Dobbins, that new store on Oldham Street.’
‘We’re not going to no Dobbins. We’re going to the Co-op in Downing Street where we’ll get a sensible suite and the divvy as well. Should be a lot of divvy on furniture.’
‘Oh, that’ll be really good,’ said Flo. ‘We can make that room look lovely. And me and our Polly have got a few pounds saved from selling our mittens. You can have some of that to buy a few bits and bobs to finish off the room.
Y’know - pictures, mirrors and oilcloth, and all that.’
‘And p’raps we can have a few friends round as well, if we’ve got a nice parlour,’ said Polly - though she wasn’t too keen on Flo mentioning their ‘mitten money’, as she had earmarked her own share for her bottom-drawer. Her two-year courtship with Steve Keenan had developed into a full-blown romance, and they were now officially engaged. Hence her desire for parties, and the chance to bring him home to introduce him to all her family and friends.
Billy had already met this boyfriend for a few minutes, and those moments were indelibly imprinted on his mind.
It had been one early Sunday morning - was it only two weeks ago? - that he had been coming down the stairs still rubbing the dreams from his eyes. Suddenly there had been a rat-a-tat-tat on the front door. After drawing back the two bolts, he had opened the door and there, silhouetted against the newly risen sun, had towered the apparition of Douglas Fairbanks, the aviator star of Dawn Patrol. The colossus had been rigged out in full battle regalia of leather suit, helmet and goggles. Billy had simply gaped open-mouthed. And the giant, god-like creature had spoken in a deep, sonorous voice:
‘Hello, young man. You must be Billy. I’ve heard a lot about you from your sister Pauline.’
Mam had appeared and had said in her poshest, upmarket voice:
‘Oh, good morning, Mr Keenan. Won’t you step h’inside for a moment. Polly won’t be too long.’
‘Many thanks, Mrs Hopkins. That’s fine. Please call me Steve, by the way.’
The hero had actually stood waiting in their living room whilst Polly had been putting the finishing touches to her outfit. Why, even Dad had cringed and deferred
before this well-spoken visitor. But then he always did when he felt he was in the presence of anyone ‘higher- up’. If he’d had a forelock he’d have tugged it.
‘So, young Billy,’ said Steve. ‘Pauline tells me you’re very clever at school.’
Billy’s chest swelled with pride and he took an immediate liking to this tall, handsome stranger.
‘What’s your teacher’s name?’ he asked.
‘Miss McGurk.’
‘Is she kind or is she nasty?’
‘A bit of both, I think.’
‘What’s your favourite subject?’
‘I’ve got two really - composition and sums.’
‘You’ll not go far wrong with those. You can write a book and then count all the money you’ll make from it, eh?’
Polly, looking like Amy Johnson, had come downstairs then, and the couple had greeted each other fondly. But none of that kissing or anything. Not in front of Mam and Dad.
‘We’ll be off now, folks,’ Steve said. ‘We’re going for a run over to Scarborough.’
‘Where’s Scarborough?’ asked Billy. It might have been on the other side of the world for all he knew.
‘On the east coast of Yorkshire. It’s about two hundred miles there and back,’ he’d replied nonchalantly.
Two hundred miles! said Billy to himself. I was right. It is on the other side of the world!
Douglas Fairbanks and Amy Johnson had then mounted Steve’s 250cc BSA motorbike and roared off into the unknown.
Now Billy was brought back to the present by Mam’s reaction to Polly’s suggestion of a party.
‘Now I’ve told you before. You’d better not let your
father hear you talking about having friends round,’ she said. ‘He’ll throw a fit.’
Tommy was a very strict father and ruled the household with an iron hand. All the kids were afraid of him because they knew how easily he could flare up, especially after the pub. Sometimes, like dogs with hypersensitive hearing, they sensed his approach long before he arrived, and when he walked through the front door, a hush fell over the living room.
‘I’ll be careful, Mam,’ said Polly. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘What’ll we do with our Billy?’ asked Flo. ‘All the lads are out and he’s there in the back yard by himself.’
‘Well, we can’t take him with us,’ said Polly. ‘It’d take too long to get him cleaned up.’
Billy came in from the lavatory.
‘Listen,’ said Mam. ‘We’re going into town. Why don’t you go and play with Les and Sam?’
‘They won’t let me go with ’em. They’ve gone off with their gang to Queen’s Park. They told me to scram.’
‘Why’ve they done that?’ asked Mam.
‘They said I’m a telltale just ’cos I told you when they went swimming in their bare skins in Cauley’s Millpond. When I try to go with ’em now, Alfie Rigsby - ’e’s the boss of the Honeypot Street gang - says: “Eh, Sam and Les. Tell your kid to scram. He’ll tell on us”.’
‘P’raps it’s because you are a telltale! You’re telling on ’em now! You should learn to keep that shut,’ said Polly, pointing to her mouth - a mannerism learned from her father.
‘Well, Billy,’ said Mam. ‘What are you going to do with yourself while we’re in town?’
‘I’ve got a very busy morning ahead of me,’ replied Billy. ‘First my religious work with the Jewish people. Then Henry Sykes is coming round and his dad’s brought
him an old kitchen door that we’re gonna chop up for firewood. When we’ve sold the bundles of wood, we should have enough money for the pictures and some toffees.’
‘All right,’ said Mam. ‘See that you do your chopping in the back entry, though - not in the yard. Your father’ll go mad if he sees a mess. Now, we’ll be back about twelve o’clock to make the dinner for your father coming in. See that you behave yourself.’
The three females of the Hopkins family put on their best coats and departed to catch the 62 bus to town.
Billy went into the house and checked the time. Half past nine and time to start the Saturday-morning routine - fires and lights. The quickest money he’d ever made.
He went first to the easiest job of the day, at the Beth Shalom Synagogue on Cheetham Hill Road. Rabbi Greenberg was in charge, an oddball who’d claimed last week that, according to his Jewish calendar, the date was 5696. But his money was good. The rabbi was already waiting, and as soon as Billy arrived, he indicated the electricity control cupboard. Billy stood on a chair to reach the panel of light switches, and, on a signal from the rabbi, flicked them all on, flooding the synagogue in bright illumination. That was it! He was told to return just before one o’clock to switch them all off again.
It’s a mad world we live in, he said to himself, quoting one of his mam’s favourite sayings.
Next in line was the firelighting end of the business - equally puzzling but equally rewarding. First port of call was in Stock Street to Mrs Gluckman, a superstitious old soul if ever there was one.
‘So, come in then, William,’ she said. ‘The fire’s already
set. Try to jump over the step though, or we’ll have bad luck.’
Billy was ushered into the front room, where an ancient Jewess at least two hundred years old lay propped up on pillows on the bed. There was an overpowering smell of camphor oil and embrocation. Casting a professional eye over the arrangement of newspapers, firewood, clinkers and coal, he selected a lump of coal, which he placed on the pyramid in the grate with the delicate touch of a master-craftsman.
When he was sure that all was in order, he applied the match and the fire ignited. That was not the end of it, however, for he now had to apply a blower to encourage a good, healthy blaze. There were on the market metal blowers, but none of his customers had ever taken the trouble to afford one and it was necessary to get by with a makeshift device consisting of a shovel balanced on the bars of the grate with a large sheet of newspaper placed across it. Suction from the chimney then activated the blaze, but great care had to be taken to avoid setting the paper blower itself alight - a disaster which had happened to him on one or two occasions. For this simple service he was paid the princely sum of threepence.
As he left the room, he took a surreptitious look at the decrepit old woman, who reminded him of a hideous old witch in a Grimm Brothers’ fairy tale. At that moment, the old crone sneezed loudly. Mrs Gluckman shot over to her like a rocket and tugged both her ears in an upward direction.
‘To long, lucky years,’ she recited piously.
The old woman’s ears might be long, but they weren’t so lucky, thought Billy as he prepared to leave. Still, it was none of his business. He shrugged his shoulders, pocketed
his wage and walked happily along the lobby whistling ‘We’re in the Money’.
‘Stop!’ cried Mrs Gluckman, holding up her hands in horror. ‘Shaydem! Shaydem! Demons. Whistling attracts them, didn’t you know that? Aren’t there enough things to go wrong in this house without inviting them in?’
She ran back into the house and emerged with a large packet of Sankey’s salt, which she sprinkled liberally about the lobby and the threshold.
‘That should fix ’em!’ she said.
‘Sorry about that, Mrs Gluckman,’ said Billy. ‘See you next Saturday.’
I’ll never understand adults, he thought as he strode off. What’s that other thing me Mam says: ‘There’s nowt so quare as fowk.’
On from there to Mrs Levy. Another fire. Another threepence.
‘I’m well on my way to buying a yacht,’ he remarked to Mrs Levy as he was leaving.
‘With your head for business, I’m not surprised,’ answered the woman.
His final domestic job involved quite a long walk to Elizabeth Street, to the house of old Mr Benjamin Hymans, who always wore his skull cap and prayer-shawl on Saturdays and who always haggled over the price. This week was no different.
‘Come in, Villiam,’ he mumbled as he shuffled back into his kitchen. ‘So, this veek I need two fires. Von in the kitchen for me and von in the bedroom for Becky, my vife, who is not very veil. So it should be cheaper for two. Vat d’y say? Fo’pence for two.’
‘Sorry, Mr Hymans,’ Billy said. ‘The best I can do is fivepence - a cut price - specially for you as an old customer.’
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‘Then we split the difference,’ said Benjamin. ‘Fourpence ha’penny.’
‘It’s a deal. Just for you,’ said Billy. ‘But please don’t tell the others or they’ll all want a cut price.’
This last job finished, Billy ran like the wind to get back and join his pal, Henry, in the firewood-production end of the enterprise.
Billy and Henry were experienced woodchoppers. They had never counted how many bundles of firewood they had chopped but it must have run into many hundreds - even thousands, who knows? Their method of breaking up a kitchen door was simplicity itself. Though they lacked a knowledge of basic mechanics, they knew that the weakest part of an object was its centre point. So, resting the door against a wall, they were able to break it apart by heaving a very heavy stone on to its middle. Once the door had cracked into two parts, it was child’s play to break it down further by leaning the pieces against a big stone and jumping on to the wood with both feet, preferably wearing heavy boots.
The final stages required tools, and Billy went inside the house to fetch his dad’s hammer and pincers. An axe - or better still a hatchet like those Indians had in Last of the Mohicans - would have made the job easier, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He and Henry worked hard with skill and dedication, splitting the kindling with the claw end of the hammer. Inside an hour, they had twelve bundles all neatly tied up and ready for sale. They placed the firewood in the wooden cart they had made earlier in the year from a soap box and a set of pram wheels. Mr Sykes’s profession really had proved most fruitful in the matter of supplying raw materials for that particular joint enterprise.
With a full load on board, they set about the business of selling the morning’s production.
Their first call was on the Hardman family at the bottom end of Honeypot Street. It was not a success. There were ten kids in the Hardman family, five dogs and Billy didn’t know how many cats. The Hardmans were also noted for their strong on-going relationship with the police: almost every other day, a representative of the law seemed to call at their home to pay his respects. Billy knocked at their door nervously, afraid they might drag him in and eat him for dinner. His knocking triggered off hysterical weeping from several babies and ferocious barking from a pack of hounds somewhere in the bowels of the house. Eventually, after much rattling of chains and the sound of bolts being drawn back, Wally Hardman - looking like one of the meths drinkers Billy had seen on Barney’s brickyard - appeared, restraining a big, snarling Alsatian that obviously fancied Billy as a tasty tit-bit.
‘Yeah. Whaddya want?’ demanded Wally.
‘D’you want to buy any firewood, Mr Hardman?’ Billy asked anxiously. ‘Only a penny a bundle.’
‘Me! Buy firewood!’ bawled Wally Hardman. ‘Bloody ’ell! That’ll be the day! If we want firewood, son - which we don’t - we just tear out one o’them bloody railway posts growing at the end o’ the yard. Now go on! Bugger off! Try somebody else!’
They walked on and reached old Mrs Finkelstein’s house. Here they had better luck - but they had to bargain a little with her.
‘Very well, lads,’ she said. ‘So I’ll take three bundles already. Threepence, you said. But what about a bit o’ discount for an old lady? Say tuppence for three.’
‘Sorry, Mrs Finkelstein. No discount,’ said Billy. He’d
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learned the ways of Cheetham Hill at a very early stage in his career as a salesman. ‘Business is business. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Today’s Saturday and you’re not supposed to light fires yourself, right? So I’ll light yours for you for an extra penny. I usually charge thr’pence for lighting a fire. Today I’m feeling generous, so give us fourpence for the lot and we’ll call it square.’
The old lady thought for a minute. Billy was right - the going rate was threepence to get a youngster to come and light the fire on a Saturday. She made a rapid mental calculation and came to a prompt decision:
‘All right. If you light the gas stove as well, it’s a deal. You should be in business, Billy,’ she said. ‘Oh, and by the way, would you untie the bundles for me? We’re not allowed to do that ourselves on a Saturday either.’
Billy thought she was asking a lot for the extra penny but puzzled by all these do’s and don’ts, he went into her house, lit a burner on the stove, applied a match to the fire and collected fourpence. On the way out he asked:
‘Tell me, Mrs Finkelstein. Why do Jewish people have so many rules about this and that?’
‘So, we’re not allowed to work on the Sabbath; it’s in the Old Testament. There are thirty-nine things we’re not allowed to do; lighting a fire and untying things are just two of ’em.’
Billy joined Henry, who was waiting in the street.
‘Thank God,’ he said, ‘I belong to a nice, simple, straightforward religion like the Catholic Church. No daft rules for us!’
Further along the street, they called on the Priestleys - a very religious Catholic family made up of mother, father and three children - two daughters and one son. The daughters were fairly grown-up: Jean, aged sixteen, was very pretty, always bright and cheerful, and had been
seen once or twice lately in the company of Billy’s brother Jim; Teresa, aged fourteen, never smiled because she was going to be a nun. David, the only son, was eleven years old.
The family was obviously a cut above the rest of the street, as the father smoked a pipe and possessed a clarinet which he kept on top of a cupboard. No one had heard him play it, but that wasn’t the point. To top it all, he wore a trilby instead of a flat cap like the other men. When it came to the social ladder of the street, Billy had often tried to puzzle out just where his own family stood. It wasn’t easy to work out. He knew they were higher than the Hardmans. But the Priestleys? Billy’s dad smoked lowly Player’s Weights, and the only musical instrument they had in the house was Les’s mouth organ, which probably didn’t count. Then again, their house did have six steps and three feet of a sort-of garden at the front. So he supposed they cancelled out the pipe, the clarinet and the trilby. On balance, he thought, that made them about equal. But if that was the case, it meant that the Sykes family was top of the street, because they had not only six steps and three feet of garden, but also a piano - out of tune, admittedly - which Henry’s dad had saved from the rubbish tip. Billy gave up trying to solve the sociological problem; it was too complicated.
Mrs Priestley was a very solemn but friendly lady, who gave the impression of being very efficient and someone who would stand for no nonsense.
‘Come in, William,’ she said. ‘You too, Henry. What is it you’re selling? Firewood? And at a penny a bundle! That’s a lot cheaper than the shop. I’ll take them all. Take your cart out to our back yard and put the wood in the shed.’
Billy and Henry could hardly believe their ears and
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their luck as she handed ninepence to them.
As they were going out, Mrs Priestley looked at Billy and asked:
‘Why are you wearing that big scarf on a hot day like today, William? It’s summer and I’m sure you don’t need it.’
‘That’s to hide me dirty neck,’ said Billy truthfully.
And for some reason that he never understood, the whole family - except for Teresa, of course, who succeeded in holding herself back - broke out into paroxysms of laughter as if they had heard the funniest joke in the world. Even Mrs Priestley smiled. Forever after that, Billy was regarded as a natural comedian by the Priestley family, and whenever he appeared they broke out into amused smiles and waited for him to say something funny.
‘P’raps they’re not used to telling each other the truth,’ Billy said to Henry.
They left pushing their empty cart before them and with one shilling and a penny in their pockets from the firewood end of the enterprise.
‘We’re in the money! We’re in the money!’ they sang laughingly as they strutted up back Honeypot Street to their back doors.
‘That’s sixpence ha’penny each,’ said Billy. ‘We can go to the matinee at the Shakespeare; it’s Buck Jones in McKenna of the Mounted. Should be smashing.’
‘I’d rather ’ave Ken Maynard,’ sighed Henry. ‘But I suppose Buck Jones will ’ave to do. Have we got enough for a toffee apple?’
‘Of course we have,’ replied Billy, the accountant. ‘We can afford not only a toffee apple but some pear drops and all. See you after dinner, Henery.’
Billy ran back to the synagogue to complete his duties there. He was a trifle early when he arrived but he always
liked to get there a little ahead of time to watch and listen to the closing ceremony. He went in through the main door and up to the gallery from where all the ladies observed the proceedings. Standing behind them, he had a first-class view.
There were one or two men wearing wide-rimmed fur hats - might be some additional business here for Flo and Polly, thought Billy - embroidered silk caftans, white half- length stockings and, strangest thing of all, slippers! But the great majority c^f the men were dressed like black- bearded undertakers, with long, untidy tufts of hair straggling out from under their black homburgs - which, horror of horrors, they were wearing in church! - whilst on their feet they wore white plimsolls. Over their ‘mourning’ suits, they had draped black-and-blue-striped bedsheets, and four of the worshippers began processing down the main aisle carrying a large canopy above Rabbi Greenberg. As all this was going on, the whole congregation, sounding as if they were in great pain, wailed sorrowfully and pitifully in Yiddish. Young skull-capped boys then went out in turn to a central altar where, under a shawl held by one of their friends, they chanted in singsong fashion from a large parchment scroll. After each reading, the congregation rocked back and forth and chorused what sounded like: ‘Whadda shame!’
These curious rituals were rounded off by the rabbi taking a collection, placing the proceeds in a large red handkerchief and whirling it-around his head three times, at the same time intoning Jewish prayers to which the people responded once again with their exclamation: ‘Whadda shame!’ perhaps referring to the shameful way in which the rabbi was treating their good money. The day’s ceremonies concluded with the blowing of a very long and very old horn whose strong, piercing sound
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almost blasted Billy out of his perch in the gallery.
The tantivy signalled the end of the strange and weird service, and the congregation filed out of the synagogue. When the last one had departed, Billy went downstairs to meet the rabbi, who showed him to the control panel once again. A quick flick of the switches, off went the lights and the job was done! For this he collected eightpence - a small fortune for a small job of work.
‘It’s a mad, mad, mad world,’ said Billy aloud to himselfi ‘And I’m buggered if I can make any sense out of it!’
He strode triumphantly down Derby Street with a jingle of coins in his pocket, a dream of a yacht in his heart and a song of joy on his lips.
About the time that Billy was doing his fire and light round, Tommy, his dad, was finishing a seven-hour stint of portering in Smithfield Market. He had worked hard and fast until gone eleven o’clock, when the pace had finally slowed down and the market had become relatively quiet.
That’ll do for today, he said to himself. Not a bad day. Nearly fifteen shillings and a good lot o’ stuff to take home. I think I’ve earned meself a drink o’ two. He made his way to the Hare and Hounds on Shudehill, and as he went in he was met by that lovely, familiar, inviting smell of beer and tobacco smoke and the buzz of the market porters’ heated arguments about football players and racehorses.
‘Pint o’ the usual?’ said Geoff Docherty, the landlord, as Tommy walked through the door.
‘Aye, ta,’ said Tommy. ‘Who d’you fancy for the Steward’s Cup today, Geoff?’
‘I like the look of that Solerina,’ said Geoff. ‘Might be worth having a little flutter on it.’
Two hours and six pints later, Tommy thought it was time to be making tracks. As he wobbled his way back, he thought about the nice dinner Kate would have ready on the table for him.
I like Sat’day, he said to himself. Life’s not so bad now we’re in Honeypot Street. I’ll go home now and have a kip after me dinner. P’raps Kate might get into bed with me if the kids go out. Now she’s forty-eight there’s no danger of kids no more, thank God.
Thinking of kids suddenly reminded him that he’d promised her he would try and mend Les’s boots on his shoe-last - though he usually made a pig’s ear of it and had to take them to the cobbler in the end.
‘Aye, I’ll do them right after me dinner,’ he said aloud. ‘It’ll save a few bob.’ A sensual thought struck him. ‘That should please her. It might just get her in the right mood.’
Speeding up his erratic walk a little, he planned the details of his campaign for a Saturday-afternoon seduction.
Tommy and Kate had certain signals to indicate to each other a willingness or otherwise to have sex. He was still somewhat shy on the subject. Despite all their kids, for example, he’d never seen Kate naked. When he came to think of it, she’d never seen him naked either. And when it came to asking for his oats, he hadn’t the cheek to come straight out with a direct request like he imagined the toffs might do. He had to be more subtle and throw out hints in suggestive remarks. At night, he might say:
‘I don’t think I’ll be long out o’ bed tonight, Kate. I want to be up early.’
Kate knew what he meant by ‘up’, and if she felt in the mood she would answer:
‘Go on up then. Tommy, and I’ll join you.’
For an afternoon session, he would say:
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Tm feeling tired, Kate. I’ve had a hard day. I wouldn’t mind going to bed for a bit.’
If Kate was willing, she would answer:
‘Aye, I wouldn’t mind getting off me pins for a while and lying down for a bit meself.’
Thinking these salacious thoughts, Tommy felt a stirring in his loins and, swaying a little, hurried back to Honeypot Street.
Billy reached home well after one o’clock and found Dad reading the Daily Dispatch while Mam and his two sisters prepared his favourite dinner - chips and egg. They had bought some tripe and onions from the UCP shop in town for Dad. They sat down to their meal, and whilst Billy made chip and egg butties, Dad slurped his tripe noisily.
‘I’ve had a little bet on a horse called Solerina, Kate,’ announced Dad. ‘Only a bob each way. A tip from Geoff Docherty.’
‘That’ll be the day, when you win summat,’ she said.
They continued eating. After a while. Dad said:
‘I see here in the paper that some writer-fella called McMahon has tried to shoot King Edward.’
Dad often read out choice items of news from the paper to Mam. It was his way of educating her and keeping her up to date on current affairs.
‘I hope they caught him,’ she said.
‘Aye. They caught him red-handed, all right. With a bloody loaded revolver in his hand.’ Changing the subject, Tommy asked: ‘Where are the lads, then?’
‘Well, our Jim’s upstairs, getting himself all spruced up to take that Jean Priestley from across the road out rowing on Heaton Park lake this afternoon.’
Jim was now sixteen and had discovered girls. Which
explained why he had become very fastidious about his personal appearance, spending a lot of time shining his shoes, brilliantining his hair and examining his face in the mirror for spots. It had to be said, though, that the green suit he had bought from Weaver to Wearer left something to be desired in the matter of taste. He was earning quite a decent wage - about 17s.6d. a week - as a labourer in a bonded warehouse on Salford Docks. In the evenings, however, he continued his boxing lessons at the Welcome Club, and had now achieved a creditable standard, and had won several cups and medals. He had also been giving Billy lessons in the art of self-defence for a couple of years - since the skenny-eyed kid incident - and he too had reached quite a good level for his age. Fortunately, though, there had been no footpads on Red Bank and so Billy’s boxing skills had never been put to the test.
‘Aye,’ said Dad. ‘What about the other lads?’
‘They’ve all gone out to Queen’s Park for the day, sailing their boats,’ said Mam. ‘Oh, and Tommy, me and the girls’ve been out this morning doing a bit o’ shopping to beautify the front room, like. I’ll tell you about it later. I think you’ll be pleased.’
‘Aye, we’re definitely going lah-de-dah, Kate,’ he said. ‘A posh parlour. What next? The neighbours’ll soon be calling us stuck-up if we’re not careful.’
He began to lead up gradually towards the subject uppermost in his mind - the one that had been gnawing at him since he’d left the pub.
‘Well, it’s Sat’day. What’s everybody doing today?’ he asked brightly, looking round the table.
‘Me and Polly are going out to tea at Patty Bristow’s. Then we’re going to the pictures at the Temple,’ said Flo.
‘And I’m going to the Shaky with Henry Sykes to see Buck Jones,’ said Billy.
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Tommy’s hopes began to rise.
‘I thought I might mend Les’s best boots after me dinner and then go and lie down for a bit,’ said Tommy, throwing out the hint.
Still thinking about her three-piece with its brown rexine cover and brass studs, Kate took the bait and said warmly:
‘Aye, that’ll be good if you mend Les’s boots. You’ve been promising to do that for weeks. And, er. . . I wouldn’t mind a rest meself for a bit, after all that walking about I did this morning. And I thought, if you fancy it, we might go for a drink tonight in Capper’s.’
It’s on. I’m on a winner here, thought Tommy. He could hardly wait to get the boot-mending bit over with. He went into the scullery to his tool-box. It was then that he made the discovery!
‘Have you seen me hammer and pinchers?’ he asked Kate.
‘No,’ said Mam. ‘Why, aren’t they there?’
She turned to Billy, who had gone white to the lips.
‘Have you had ’em, Billy?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Yeah, I had ’em,’ mumbled Billy. ‘But, er, I thought I put ’em back. They must still be in the back entry.’
He ran out to check, followed closely by his dad.
In the entry, there was no sign of any tools.
‘You stupid little bastard!’ yelled Dad. ‘I’ll give you losing me ’ammer.’ And he hit Billy a smack across the face that knocked him off his feet. ‘You stupid, stupid little get,’ he bawled, now beside himself with rage, and continued to smack Billy across the legs mercilessly, propelling him back across the yard. ‘I’ll bleedin’ show you who’s boss in this bleedin’ house,’ he bellowed, removing the belt from around his waist. He was about to strike when Kate got between them.
‘Don’t you bloody well dare hit my son with that bloody belt or you’ll get a taste o’ this,’ she screamed, brandishing the poker. ‘Now I’m warning you. Tommy. I’ll swing for you, God help me, I will.’
Then Dad took the whimpering Billy by the scruff of the neck and thrust him into the cellar, slamming the door behind him. Sobbing uncontrollably, Billy sat in the dark on the cellar steps whilst the screaming and the shouting continued unabated in the scullery.
‘I never wanted the bloody kid in the first place,’ Tommy roared. ‘Now he’s messing up me life losing all me tools. He deserves a bloody good hiding to teach him a lesson. You’re too bloody soft with ’im.’
‘Oh, shurrup, you bloody big bully,’ Mam screeched. ‘I’ll buy you a bloody hammer and pinchers if that’s all you’re worried about.’
Jim’s voice could be heard shouting angrily above the fracas:
‘Listen, you. If you ever hit our Billy like that again, you’ll have me to reckon with. I don’t care if y’are me father. I’ll thump you, mark my words.’
Billy listened to the rowing and the wrangling through the cellar door. Gradually, very gradually, the commotion died down. After half an hour or so, Mam called softly through the door:
‘Are y’all right, our Billy? Y’can come out now. The big bully’s gone to bed to sleep it off.’
Filled with self-pity and still racked by involuntary sobs, Billy emerged from the gloom of the cellar.
‘I’m not staying in this house. I’ll run away and join the circus,’ he said tearfully. ‘I’m going to see me pal next door.’ And he ran out of the house.
Henry came out of the back door as soon as Billy called his name.
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‘Are we going to the Shaky then?’ he asked.
‘No, Fm not going now,’ replied Billy. Tm running away from home.’
‘I’ll come wi’ you,’ said Henry without hesitation. ‘Where’ll we go?’
‘Dunno,’ said Billy, still choking back the occasional catch in his voice. ‘What about them gypsies you see at the fair on the croft sometimes? P’raps they would have us.’
‘We could run away to Africa. Stow away on a boat,’ said Henry.
‘Yeah, and they’d never see us again. Then they’d be sorry. We might even get killed by the Fuzzy Wuzzies and then when we were dead they’d be crying when they saw us in our coffins in altar boy’s clothes and then it’d be too late. And I’d be dead glad,’ said Billy. But the thought of his own death and funeral nearly started him off whimpering again.
‘Wait there,’ said Henry, ‘and I’ll get some of that cold toast left over from our breakfast this morning, and we’ve got a big bottle of dandelion and burdock.’
‘We’ll run away to Barney’s,’ said Billy, ‘and join the army with Mad Jack. They’ll never find us there.’
The two friends set off together across Barney’s waste- ground until they reached Mad Jack’s cabin. Here was a man they admired and looked up to. He was dressed in a ragged army greatcoat secured around the waist by a piece of string, whilst on his head he wore a faded military cap at a lop-sided angle matching his disfigured, lopsided face. On his arm he wore three faded stripes. Sergeant Mad Jack was a shell-shock victim from the Great War, and he lived with his flea-bitten, one-eyed dog in a ramshackle hut which he had built with his own hands out of oil drums and corrugated-iron sheets in an
attempt to create a replica of his dugout. He cooked his own food - usually bacon and sausage plus a potato baked on the end of a fork at a coke fire at the entrance to his shack. Here was true happiness!
‘I’ll bet his dad doesn’t belt him for losing his hammer,’ Billy said to Henry. ‘He can come and go as he pleases, like that poem they’re learning us at school:
‘Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me.
Bed in the bush, with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river.
There’s the life for a man like me.
There’s the life forever ’
‘Yak,’ exclaimed Henry. ‘Don’t think I fancy bread dipped in a river. It’d be all soggy, like - a bit like them pobs me dad had to have when they took all his teeth out.’
Bubbles of spittle appeared round Mad Jack’s mouth and he broke out into one of his babbling fits, having an imaginary conversation with unseen companions:
‘Yes, Lieutenant Marsh. Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Jerries at three o’clock in no man’s land. Take aim. Fire. Got that one, sir. Get your ’eads down, lads. Here comes a whizzbang!’
‘Private Billy and Private Henry reporting for duty, Sarge,’ said Billy, saluting.
‘Have you two lads taken the shilling?’ Mad Jack asked.
‘Yes, Sarge,’ they answered in unison.
‘On Saturday I’m willing ,’ Jack sang. ‘If you’ll only take the shilling. To make a man of any one of you.’
‘Have you been over the top today, Sarge, into no man’s land?’ asked Henry.
‘Any chep not going over the top when I blow my
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whistle will get a bullet in the back of the head/ recited Mad Jack in a public-school accent.
Billy and Henry ate their toast, offering some to Mad Jack and his derelict dog, both of whom gladly accepted their visitors’ hospitality. When it came to the dandelion and burdock, though, Billy didn’t fancy drinking any of it after Mad Jack and his dog had had their swig. As they sat there sharing their fare and their conversation with the Old Contemptible and his mongrel, they really felt that they had run away and left their homes forever. They were never, never going back as long as they both lived. Though exactly why Henry had run away was not entirely clear.
‘How’s the weather been, Sarge?’ asked Billy.
‘ Raining , raining , raining ,’ sang Jack. ‘ Always bloody well raining. I Raining all the morning/And raining all the day .’
‘ ’Ow many Jerries have you shot today, Sarge?’ asked Henry.
'If you vant to see your Vater und der Vaterland ,’ sang Jack. ‘Keep your ’ead down Fritzy boy .’
After about an hour of this, Henry said: ‘It’ll be getting dark soon, Billy.’
‘D’you fancy staying the night in Jack’s dugout?’ asked Billy.
‘I would, Billy,’ said Henry, ‘but we alius have beans on toast for tea at home on Sat’days. What d’you think, eh? Is it time to go back yet?’
‘Yeah, OK then. I think we’ve taught ’em all a lesson. I think that’s enough. They won’t try hitting me again. ’Cos if they do, I’ll run away again. Next time to Africa. Come on, Henry, we’ll go back.’
After saying goodbye to Mad Jack, who gave them a smart military salute, they wandered home and parted at Henry’s back yard gate.
★ ★ ★
Billy went in by the rear door and found Mam, his two sisters and Jim, along with Jean Priestley, sitting round the table waiting for him.
‘Where’ve you been, our Billy?’ Mam asked. ‘We thought you’d run away to the circus and left us forever. While you’ve been out, Mrs Priestley, Jean’s mam, has been over to see us. And guess what? You left the hammer and the pinchers at their house in their shed. So all that ranting and raving was for nowt. And that big bully upstairs can go to hell. I won’t be talking to him for a while. You can be sure about that.’
When he heard all this, Billy’s lip began to tremble and he almost started blubbering again at the thought of the terrible injustice he had suffered. However, he managed to control his tearfulness and Flo said:
‘We’ve talked it over while you were gone and we’ve got a nice little surprise for you. We’ve all changed our plans and we’re going to take you to the Rivoli.’
‘You’ve never been to the Rivoli, have you?’ said Polly. ‘It’s the poshest picture house in the whole o’ Manchester.’
At this news, Billy’s eyes filled up once again, at the idea of such kindness after all the brutality.
‘What’s on?’ he asked tearfully.
‘Freddie Bartholomew in David Copperfield ,’ answered Mam.
They went - six of them - to the first house, in the best seats at the front of the balcony. Sixpence each for the grown-ups and threepence for him. The cinema was more like a royal palace than a picture house. Such magnificence! The only cinema he’d ever visited had been the Saturday-afternoon matinee in Collyhurst where the seats were hard wooden benches. Now, here
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in the Rivoli - fragrant with exotic perfumes - there was subtle, subdued lighting and silk illuminated pendant drapes on a giant stage which gave the whole place an air of mystery and elegance. Before the big picture started, a theatre organ played the popular number of the day: ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ after which the organist announced:
‘And now for the song made famous by Lancashire’s own star comedian, Mr George Formby.’
There followed the most popular song of all, ‘When I’m Cleaning Windows’. This was high living indeed! The theatre lights began to dim and the organ, still playing as if protesting at the interruption, descended miraculously into the orchestra stalls. The huge velvet curtain opened slowly and noisily on its track rods, revealing yet more layers of silk curtain which rolled back one after another until at last there was the silver screen.
As for the film! Billy sat in a trance as he was transported into the fantasy world of Dickens’ favourite child.
They were about ten minutes into the film when Billy turned to Mam and whispered:
‘Who was Betsy Trotwood, Mam?’
‘That was David’s father’s aunt, d’y’see?’ she replied - a bit too loudly for Billy’s liking.
A lady behind spoke up:
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
Here it comes, Billy said to himself. She’s going to tell us to hush up.
But he was quite wrong, for the lady continued:
‘Does that mean she’s David’s great-aunt, then?’
‘Correct,’ Mam answered authoritatively.
‘Wasn’t Betsy married?’ asked the lady’s husband.
‘Yes, she was. But her husband died in India,’ Billy’s all-wise mam answered.
‘Then why is she called Miss Betsy Trotwood?’ another gent asked triumphantly.
‘Because she didn’t like her husband so she decided to go back to her maiden name. Now d’you understand?’ said Mam.
It looked very much as if a full-scale debate and discussion might soon develop, but an usherette came and, flashing her torch, ordered silence.
As Dickens’ story unfolded, four of Billy’s companions wept unashamedly with tears overflowing and even Jim gave an occasional sniff as they watched Basil Rathbone being heartless and cruel to Freddie Bartholomew. What a coincidence that Billy should witness such hard-heartedness on this day of days. Mind you, Mrs Murdstone was weak and did little to stand up to Basil Rathbone and defend little David. Not like his own mam, who was brave and defied bullies by threatening them with pokers. And then David didn’t have a brother like Jim either.
Ninety minutes later, they left the cinema cleansed and purged, having identified closely with the characters and the story. Aristotle would have been pleased to see that his cathartic principle had been so roundly vindicated.
‘What did you think of it all, then?’ asked Mam.
‘I thought it was the best picture I’ve ever seen in all me life,’ replied Billy.
‘And what about the picture house itself?’ asked Polly. ‘I told you it was the poshest place in all Manchester.’
‘It was all right, I suppose,’ answered Billy. ‘But I didn’t think much o’ their seats.They was dead hard and narrow.’
‘How d’you mean?’ asked Flo, puzzled. Then it dawned on her. ‘You forgot to turn the seat down, y’daft devil!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve sat on that upturned seat for over two hours!’
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And they laughed and laughed as they walked home. Then for a minute or two they all went quiet, until suddenly one of them remembered and set the others off. So they laughed all the way back.