Chapter Four

Oh No! Not Another Sermon!

‘No man can serve two masters,’ Canon Calder had said. ‘Ye cannot serve God and Mammon.’

Billy didn’t see why not. Yesterday he had served Mammon, and today, Sunday, he’d serve God. Simple.

The day after the flare-up, Dad was abashed and abased. Earlier that morning Billy had heard him - an habitual early riser - come upstairs to Mam with a cup of tea as an olive branch.

‘I’ve brought you a nice cuppa tea, Kate,’ he said humbly.

‘Don’t bother. I don’t want no tea from you, thenk y’very much,’ she had retorted. ‘Drink it yourself, Mussolini. You’re nowt but a big bully like . . . er. . .’

She was temporarily stuck for a word, but then it came to her.

‘Like ... er. . . Basil Rathbone!’ she shouted triumphantly.

Uh-oh! thought Billy. War’s been declared!

Immediately he felt sorry for Dad, as he was about to get the fish-eye treatment - God help him! The whole family knew what it was like when Mam decided to freeze somebody out. It was all a question of how long she

would keep it up; she had been known to go for a whole week, like the occasion when Dad had been particularly loathsome after a marathon drinking session. Billy hoped it wouldn’t last that long this time. Still, there was nothing he could do about it.

He put on his best pants, thumbed his braces over his shirt and went downstairs to have a cold-water ‘swill’ at the scullery slopstone. He had to go to the nine o’clock children’s Mass at St Chad’s on Cheetham Hill Road.

In the living room, he found that Dad had already made and raked the fire, put the big kettle on the hob, and was busy blacking and buffing all the family’s shoes. He wore a contrite and hangdog expression,

‘How are you, our Billy?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I’ve blacked your boots and you can see your face in ’em now.’

‘Ta, Dad,’ answered Billy, ready to let bygones be bygones.

‘What d’you want for your breakfast, son?’ Dad asked gently.

It was hard to believe that this man, who only yesterday had been a roaring, raging bull, had now become this quiet, subdued character cleaning shoes and enquiring about his breakfast.

‘It’s Sunday, Dad,’ Billy answered. ‘An’ I’m going to Communion. I always have my breakfast when I come back.’

‘Righto, son. Then just have a cuppa tea. It’s freshly made.’

‘Can’t, Dad. The rule says “fasting from midnight”, and if I swallowed even one tiny drop o’ water, I couldn’t go.’

‘No one’ll know. Just us two. And I’ll not tell.’

‘No good, Dad. God’d know and then I’d go to hell for

ever and ever. Miss McGurk said.’

‘That seems a bit unfair. Just for a drop o’ water.’

Mam came downstairs looking as if she’d sucked half a pound of lemons.

‘I’ve done all the shoes, Kate,’ said Tommy ingratiatingly.

‘So I see,’ she said icily, looking straight through him.

Addressing Billy, she said:

‘When you’ve had your swill, our Billy, your Sunday jersey and your stockings are laid out on y’bed. And tell the others to get a move on or we’re gonna be late.’

Mam was in the Catholic Mothers’ Union whilst Flo and Polly were both members of the Children of Mary. Every Sunday the three ladies of the family and the three younger boys went to the same Mass, though the lads preferred to make their own way there. As for Jim, he supposedly went to a later service but Billy knew that secretly he went to a nearby croft and played pitch-and- toss.

There had even been a time when Dad had started going to Mass. How much praying he did was very much in question, for he always returned with detailed accounts not only of who was there, but of what they had been wearing, together with scathing comments on their moral and financial standing.

‘I saw that Mrs O’Brien there - all done up to the nines,’ he would say. ‘Mutton dressed as lamb. I wouldn’t mind but they’ve not got two bloody ha’pennies to rub together, that lot. As for him, he wants to try doing a day’s work for a change.’

When they told him that he went to church to pray, perhaps he thought they meant ‘prey’.

As Billy was about to go through the back door, Dad called out:

‘Whilst you’re on Cheetham Hill, Billy, you can take the accumulator to Forman’s radio shop for an exchange. Here’s a bob and y’can keep the change, son. I backed a winner yesterday, y’see,’ he added by way of explanation.

Here was real generosity, as the refill for their big Cossor wireless cost only a tanner. At this price, Billy thought it was almost worth getting belted.

‘Mind y’don’t spill acid down your new stockings,’ said Mam. ‘And don’t wiggle the accumulator about or you’ll get the programmes mixed up and we’ll be getting Hilversum when we want the BBC.’

After dropping off the used accumulator at Forman’s, Billy went into St Chad’s Church, where Mass was about to begin. The front rows were reserved for the pupils and teachers of the school, the remaining rows being occupied by the various church organisations - the Children of Mary, the Men’s Confraternity, and the Mothers’ Union. The high altar was bedecked with a profusion of beautiful summer flowers - roses, carnations and lilies - and the various brass ornaments gleamed in the candlelight.

The sanctuary bell signalled the beginning of Mass. Mr Thomas, the headmaster, led the school prayers, the rest of the congregation joining in:

‘O my God, I offer this Mass; first to give Thee supreme honour and glory; secondly to thank Thee for all the blessings I have received from Thee.’

Billy followed the Mass with the others.

The whole congregation rose to its feet when, in clear, ringing tones, Canon Calder announced:

‘A reading from the Holy Gospel according to Matthew: “Jesus said to his disciples: ‘You have learnt how it was said: An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. But I say this to you: offer the wicked man no resistance. On the contrary, if anyone hits you on the

right cheek, offer him the other as well. . .’ ” 5

Then the Canon sermonised movingly and passionately on the theme of loving your enemy.

Tn the Lord’s Prayer, we all say: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” But do we mean it? Do we understand it? Do we apply it in, our daily lives? Turn the other cheek! It means you must not bear hatred for your brother in your heart! It means you must openly tell him, your neighbour, of his offence; this way you will not take a sin upon yourself. You must not exact vengeance nor must you bear a grudge. It means you must love your neighbour as yourself no matter what he has done.’

Billy wondered if Mam was taking any of this in, and he could not resist taking a quick peek to see if she was listening, but her deadpan expression gave nothing away. Oddly enough, though, his brother Sam had a strange look in his eye, and appeared to be paying unusually close attention.

Wonder what’s got into our Sam? Billy asked himself. Let him try turning the other cheek in St Chad’s school yard and he’ll find out what’ll happen!

At the Consecration - the gravest part of the Mass - the warning bell sounded. Billy had never seen what happened at this juncture because Mr Thomas always made everyone bow down their heads as he intoned: ‘My Lord and My God!’

Finally, ‘ Domine non sum dignus\ Billy struck his breast three times and joined the line of kids queueing up at the altar rail. Canon Calder, in his magnificent silk vestments, bearing the chalice, progressed along the kneeling figures, repeating, ‘ Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam. Amen,’ over and over again as he placed the consecrated host in the mouth of

each communicant. The wafer felt large and tasteless on Billy’s tongue, and in his dry mouth it stuck to his palate, but although he was tempted to release it with his finger, he knew that to do so would mean eternal damnation and suffering in the fires of hell. Miss McGurk had said so. So he buried his face in his hands and, freeing the host with his tongue, managed to work up enough saliva to swallow it. Then he joined the congregation in the prayers after Communion.

After Mass, Billy picked up the spare accumulator from Forman’s and, having rolled his stockings down, carried it gingerly in his right hand, away from his legs. He crossed Cheetham Hill Road to make his way home and had walked only a few yards down St Chad Street when he was joined by David Priestley, who’d been one of the altar boys who’d served the Mass.

‘Hello, Billy,’ he said. ‘I’ll walk back with you, if that’s OK.’

‘Sure. But it’ll be best if you walk on the side away from the accumulator.’

They walked on a little while in silence until Billy asked:

‘How d’you like serving on the altar?’

‘Oh, it’s really great. The Canon even gives us a little cash at the end of the week, if we’ve served our full quota.’

At the mention of cash, Billy’s ears pricked up. He was still thinking about that yacht.

‘What d’you have to do to be an altar boy?’

‘Well, if you fancy it, you’d have to learn the Latin, but I can teach that to you if you’re really interested. I know there is a shortage of servers at the moment. The Canon was saying we need a few more.’

‘I’m not sure I have the brains to learn all the Latin that’s said in the Mass.’

Billy Hopkins

‘Sure you have. Say this: “Dominus, have the biscuits come?” 5

‘OK. “Dominus, have the biscuits come?” So, what is it - a daft game?’

‘No, no. Now say: “Yes, and the spirits too.” ’

‘Seems barmy to me, but OK. “Yes, and the spirits too.” ’

‘You’ve just had your first Latin lesson. Try it. I say: “Dominus, have the biscuits come?” and you say. . .’

‘Yes, and the spirits too.’

‘Got it first time. Now I’ll tell you a daft joke. There were once three men. Now, two of them were Irishmen - one called Carey and the other Christy; the third man was a Jew called Abie. They all wanted to open a shop and so they applied to the town hall for a licence. After a week, the two Irishmen got their licences but Abie got nothing. “How did you two manage it so quickly?” he asked the Irish fellas. “We went to Mass and prayed,” they said. “Why don’t you do the same?” So Abie went to Mass, and when it came to the Kyrie, the priest turned to the people and said: “Kyrie Eleison. Christe Eleison .” Straightaway, Abie stood up in the church and shouted: “Never mind ‘Carey a licence’ and ‘Christy a licence’! They’ve already got licences! It’s Abie who needs the licence!” ’

Billy laughed heartily. ‘That’s a good’un,’ he said.

‘That’s your second lesson,’ said David. ‘I’ll tell you what. Come with me on the altar tomorrow at half past seven Mass. You won’t have to do anything and we’ll see if you remember the Latin you’ve just learned.’

‘OK, I’ll give it a go. But which people speak Latin anyway?’

‘It’s a dead language.’

‘You mean it’s spoken by the dead, by ghosts?’

OUR KID

‘No, no,’ laughed David. ‘I mean that it’s no longer used by normal living people.’

‘I see. Just us in the Catholic Church.’

Billy was trying to live up to his reputation in the Priestley family of being the street comedian.

‘I’ll soon be learning the language properly,’ said David. ‘I’ve just heard that I’ve passed the scholarship.’

‘The scholarship? What’s that?’

‘It’s a test you can take when you’re about eleven, and if you pass you go to a grammar school. I’m going to Damian College.’

‘What’s wrong with St Chad’s? It’s good enough for me.’

‘Nothing wrong with St Chad’s, but I’d like to be a priest one day, like my uncle in Aberystwyth.’

‘With a name like yours, what choice do you have? But can’t 3'ou be a priest from St Chad’s?’

‘You could - but it wouldn’t be easy. Better to go to grammar school first and then to a seminary. If you stay at St Chad’s you’d leave at fourteen and go out to work.’

‘I think that’s what me dad wants me and me brothers to do. He says that the best jobs are at the Wallworks factory on Red Bank.’

They had reached home.

‘I’ll call for you tomorrow about seven o’clock. Make sure you’re ready,’ said David as he crossed the street.

Inside, Billy’s mam said:

‘I hope you didn’t spill no acid on your stockings.’

‘No. I rolled me stockings down but I spilt a tiny bit on me leg.’

‘That’s all right then. As long as you didn’t spill none on your new stockings.’

He handed over the accumulator to Dad - who was

apparently still in the dog-box - and he made a great show connecting it up to the wireless as if it was a complicated operation like brain surgery.

Billy sat down at the table with the others for the special Sunday breakfast which Mam and his sisters had already prepared. For a while there was temporary silence as they all concentrated on the serious business of tucking into their bacon and egg.

‘ “Hunger’s the best sauce”,’ announced Mam after a while, quoting one of her many sayings. ‘Oh, and by the way, our Polly,’ she continued. ‘I noticed you weren’t at Communion this morning. Why was that, may I ask?’

‘Oh, Mam!’ exclaimed Polly, turning red. ‘I think that’s my business!’

‘I know why she didn’t go,’ said Billy darkly.

‘Oh, and why was that, clever clogs?’ asked Mam, now very interested.

‘ ’Cos she’s on a diet!’

Everyone laughed except Polly, who got to her feet angrily.

‘You’ve been going through my things,’ she snapped.

‘I saw him go into your room,’ said Sam maliciously. ‘And he was in there a very long time.’

‘That’s not very nice,’ said Flo. ‘Our room’s supposed to be private. Have you really been going through our things, our Billy?’

Now it was Billy’s turn to go red.

‘No, I haven’t,’ he protested. ‘I haven’t been going through your rotten things.’

But Billy was telling fibs! He had indeed been in their room and had pried through their things. On Friday, his mam had asked him to take up their clean clothes, and whilst in there, he had become fascinated by all their

OUR KID

belongings. On their dressing table he’d noticed the couple of books Polly had been reading. One, called Release the Real You!, asked:

Do you know what to say but don’t know how to say it?

Cat got your TONGUE?

Do you wish to be SILVER-TONGUED?

Then amaze your friends with this miraculous new method!

WHO you are and WHAT you are depend on your COMMAND OF LANGUAGE!

SPEAK THE KING’S ENGLISH CORRECTLY!

The other book was entitled A Slimmer, SlenderYou! A Diet For The Modern Miss.

Billy had skipped through the books quickly, for his interest had been drawn to his sisters’ clothes - especially their underwear, which they had left lying about the room in their hurry to get out to work. There was something about the room that was essentially feminine: perhaps it was the smell of face powder and cream, or perhaps that strange, mysterious perfume. Whatever it was, he found that he was enjoying a new and inexplicable pleasure in examining the various items of female apparel - silk slips, suspender belts and girdles, bras and lace panties. He had experienced the same peculiar thrill a couple of weeks back when he’d looked at women in their undies in the Empire mail-order catalogue. Was it sinful? It must have been because he’d enjoyed it, and therefore he’d had to tell it in Confession.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned against the sixth commandment,’ he’d said.

‘Oh? In what way?’ Father Maguire, the curate, had asked.

‘I looked at women in their corsets.’

‘I see, my son. And exactly where did you see these women?’

‘On page 216 in the Empire catalogue,’ said Billy, always ready to supply detailed information to anyone interested.

The priest had given him a penance of five Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. Billy had never unravelled the mystery of how the priests managed to arrive at these numbers, and how they assessed the value of each sin in terms of prayers. Maybe they had a ready reckoner drawn up by the Pope. As he recited his act of contrition, the priest had said: ‘Ego te absolvo in nomine Patris , et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen'

Then he’d added:

‘And pray for me, my son.’

Perhaps he has the same problem, said Billy to himself. Perhaps he’s even been lookin’ at the same catalogue.

Now his mind came back to the breakfast table, however, and he said:

‘Mam told me to take up your clean clothes and I just happened to see your book on the table.’

‘It’s true,’ Mam said. ‘I did ask him.’

Billy was saved any further recriminations by the appearance of Jim, who came downstairs for his breakfast. As he was sixteen, working and a man, there was no pressure on him to go to Holy Communion. He was his own boss.

Billy seized the opportunity to go upstairs to change out of his best things and make his escape. In Back Honeypot Street, he met Henry, who had acquired a huge lorry tyre - courtesy of his scrap-dealer dad. Henry didn’t appreciate how lucky he was to have a father with access to such rich booty. For the next half-hour, they took turns at crouching inside the rim and pushing each

OUR KID

other down the slope of the street until the tyre crashed into a wall at the bottom.

After a while, Jim, dressed in his hideous green suit, appeared on the street.

Tm just going on Barney’s tip for a game of pitch- and-toss,’ he said. ‘You can earn a tanner between you if you dog-out for us.’

‘I thought you were supposed to be going to eleven o’clock Mass,’ said Billy mischievously.

‘Nah. I went last month. That’s enough for me. Come on, the two o’ you. Watch out for the rozzers and if you see one coming, whistle as loud as you can.’

‘OK, our Jim,’ said Billy. ‘We was getting tired of that game anyroad.’

‘Huh! Funny!’ said Jim.

On the tip Jim joined a number of his mates in the illegal game of pitch-and-toss, which involved gambling on the outcome of tossing five ha’pennies into the air. Why it should be illegal was anybody’s guess but, if anything, its illicit nature was one of its chief attractions. Billy and Henry left off their tyre game and climbed into good spots in two withered trees on top of the hill. From these vantage points, they kept a sharp lookout, like two eagles surveying their territory from high up in their eyries. Each time the coins were tossed into the air, there was an excited shout from all the young men, engaged in their own particular form of Sunday worship. An hour later, Jim came down the hill, whistling. A sure sign that he’d won. He threw a thr’penny bit to each of his sentries.

‘That’ll do for today,’ he said. ‘Right, Billy. Time for your boxing lesson in the back yard. Let’s go!’

Pushing the two of them inside the tyre along the back street, Jim started to sing:

‘Red stains on the carpet Red stains on the stairs . . .’

‘That’s supposed to be “Red sails in the sunset”,’ called Billy from inside the tyre. ‘We’ve got the record by Gracie Fields. What’re you singin’ them words for?’

‘It’s because of that murder by Dr Buck Ruxton,’ Jim shouted back. ‘Didn’t you hear about it? He cut up his missus and her maid. He was hanged at Strangeways a few weeks ago. There’s another one we sing about him as well:

‘ When you grow too cold to steam ril have you to dismember . . .’

‘That should be “When I grow too old to dream”,’ called out Henry.

They reached their back doors. The young ’uns disembarked, and Henry managed, with Jim’s help, to push the giant tyre into his own back yard.

Jim went inside the house while Billy waited in the yard. Five minutes later Jim appeared in full boxing regalia - shorts, shirt and canvas shoes - and carrying two pairs of boxing gloves. He tied one pair on to Billy’s fists, leaving his own on loosely.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘What are the four things ever to be remembered?’

‘Death, Judgement, Hell and Heaven,’ replied Billy promptly.

‘No, daftie. In boxing!’

‘Oh, right! The rules, the stance, correct punching and active defence.’

‘Good lad! You’re not behind the door. Now, why do we box?’

OUR KID

‘To score points. To hit the opponent more than he hits you.’

‘OK. Take up your position like I showed you.’

Billy took up his boxing stance, with his left foot a little forward, the toes of both feet pointing to the right.

‘Good,’ said Jim. ‘Feel the floor with the balls of your feet. That’s it. Now take up the peek-a-boo style that I learnt you. Carry your hands high, close to your cheeks, and punch from that defensive position. That’s it! You’ve got it!’

Billy went into his shadow-boxing routine with all the skill of two years’ practice.

‘Elbows in! Chin into your left shoulder! Great! Light on your feet like you was dancing. Good! Good!’

Jim started to dance around, from time to time holding out an open glove for Billy to punch into. Billy’s reflexes had been well trained, and every time Jim proffered a glove, he gave it a sharp, swift jab, varying the routine with the occasional uppercut.

‘You’ve done well, our Billy. I can see you now in the ring against Jock McAvoy.’

‘Don’t act daft, Jim.’

‘OK! OK! Remember - a boxer is a kind o’ liar. A feint is a lie. You pretend you’re gonna hit your opponent in one place, he covers the spot, and what d’you do?’

‘You punch him on the other side instead!’

‘Right! A punch that starts out as a left jab then turns into a left hook - that’s a lie! Like starting with a straight “I” then making it into an “L”. Making openings - that’s what it’s all about, see! You start a conversation with your left fist - say three or four quick jabs - so that your other fist can come out of its shell and hit your opponent like a rocket. Got it!’

‘Got it!’

‘Right! Let’s get Bennie out.’

Bennie, short for ‘Benito’, was Jim’s own invention. It was a special apparatus consisting of a mattress wrapped around a post which had been sunk in a bucket of concrete. An obese human figure had been painted on it in white, and superimposed on this Jim had put numbers on all the vulnerable spots (jaw, ribs, solar plexus, stomach).

‘OK, Billy, get down in the Benny Lynch crouch.That’s it! And duck, bob and weave! Duck, bob and weave! You’ve got it! Ready! When I call out the numbers, let’s see you hit ’em! Right, 7-2-1!’

Billy dodged from side to side and let fly with a left jab, a straight right and a left hook - all on target on the wretched inanimate Bennie.

‘Good! Good!’ Jim called excitedly. ‘Now 4-2-1!’

Like quicksilver, Billy hit a right uppercut, a right cross and a left hook. Poor Bennie! He was taking a hammering!

‘That’s enough with Bennie,’ said Jim. ‘He can’t hit back. So you can now have a go at me!’

Jim fastened two small pads to his knees and knelt to bring himself down to his brother’s height.

‘Okey-doke,’ he said. ‘Let’s see you hit me!’

The two of them moved around the yard - Billy dancing lightly and Jim shuffling around clumsily. Billy tried to land a punch but in vain, as his brother was too quick for him in his ducking and his dodging. Billy’s punches simply bounced off his gloves. Jim then moved forward and, with the speed of a cobra, gave Billy three rapid light jabs in quick succession - one-two-three.

‘Just stop for a minute,’ he said. ‘If you were standing on railway lines and the train came, what would you do?’

‘Jump to the side, of course.’

‘Right. Well, do that when your opponent comes

OUR KID

forward at you. Weave to the side and watch for an opening. If you’re ever in a fight, it’s not just a matter of who’s strongest or biggest, it’s more a question of who’s got the most skill and the most determination. Spirit is what counts! Remember that. One day you’ll thank me for these boxing lessons, because you’ll know how to take care of yourself. You’ll see!’

‘Ta for the sermon, our Jim. That’s the second I’ve had today.’

Mam appeared at the back door.

‘Come on, you two. Time for dinner.’

Lowering his gloves, Jim turned in her direction.

‘OK, Mam. We’ve just finished.’

Like lightning, Billy landed three quick light jabs to his head - rat-a-tat-tat.

‘Always keep your guard up, Jim! And you did say look for an opening, didn’t you!’

‘Y’cheeky little bugger,’ said Jim, laughing.

Together, they went inside.

Whilst Billy was having a wash at the slopstone, he heard Dad giving Mam the nearest thing to an apology.

Thank God! Billy said to himself. At least they’ve started talking again. He hated the strained atmosphere in the house when Mam went into one of her ‘freezing- off’ moods.

‘I’d had a skinful, y’see, Kate. Too much o’ the bevy,’ Billy heard his dad say.

‘There’s nowt wrong with having a drink, Tommy, but you always go too far. I know a man needs his pint and his smoke, but within reason is what I always say. Otherwise, you’ll drink us out of house and home.’

‘Aye, you’re right there, Kate. Never no more. I’ll not touch another drop.’

‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ she said.

She called up the stairs.

‘Right, you lot. Dinner is served.’

The rest of the family - with the exception of Polly - appeared and sat down to Sunday dinner, the main meal of the week. Mam believed firmly in having a good table, and this meant a fully stocked one rather than a balanced diet. Her family wanted something solid down ’em - none of that rabbit food for dinner. The Sunday midday meal was a family ritual which never, never varied. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, cabbage - or sprouts or cauliflower, whichever happened to be in season - green peas, boiled potatoes, and one - and only one - roast potato each, the whole lot being covered by a generous helping of ‘Ah, Bisto!’ gravy. This first course was consumed and savoured in reverent silence and with near-religious dedication, so beautifully cooked and tastily flavoured was the fare. Pudding time, however, was the time for talking, and as Flo and Mam brought in the rice pudding, the three youngest boys chorused:

‘No skin on ours!’

‘I’ll have their share,’ announced Jim promptly - a bit too promptly.

Mam was almost sure that at some point in the past, Jim had put the young ones off the skin by telling them it was human skin and only fit for cannibals, but she couldn’t prove it.

‘Where’s our Polly?’ asked Dad. ‘She was actin’ a bit funny this mornin’, wasn’t she?’

‘Oh, she’s all right. Just a funny mood. It’s her time of the month,’ Kate whispered. ‘Anyroad,’ she continued, ‘she’s gone off to Southport with Steve on his motorbike. They said they’d be back for a bit o’ tea about six o’clock.’

‘Oh, aye,’ answered Dad. ‘Then we’d best get the good cups out.’

‘You mean the ones with the handles,’ said Billy.

There was a few moments’ silence as they turned their attention to the rice pudding. Jim had already reached the stage of scraping the skin from the large dish.

‘I see in the Empire News> Kate, that the GPO have started a speaking clock on the telephones,’ announced Dad.

‘Isn’t it marvellous what they can do nowadays. How does it work?’

Dad made funny shapes with his hands, as if trying to explain the intricacies of the telephone system.

‘Oh, it’s too complicated, Kate. Wouldn’t understand it.’

‘I see,’ she said, looking straight at him.

‘I’ve heard one of them clocks on the telephone at work,’ said Jim. ‘There’s a woman keeps giving the time over and over again. She says: “At the third stroke, it will be three twenty-five precisely.” She goes on and on all day long.’

‘What a boring job!’ remarked Les.

‘What if she wants to go to the lavatory?’ asked Sam.

‘She has to take the phone in with her!’ said Billy, not to be left out of the speculations.

‘That means she has to sit there with the phone in her hand, telling people the time,’ added Les. ‘I definitely wouldn’t fancy that for a job.’

‘Anyroad,’ said Dad. ‘Over a quarter of a million rung up to ask the time during the first week.’

‘Eeh,’ observed Flo. ‘She must have been hoarse!’

‘And wouldn’t you think the toffs with telephones could afford clocks of their own like ours?’ remarked Mam.

Dinner over, Flo and Mam sided the table and washed

up, after which the family dispersed to their various Sunday-afternoon recreations. Sam and Les went out to join in the never-ending activity of their gang; Jim announced that he was taking Jean Priestley rowing on Heaton Park lake - postponed from the previous day; Flo said she would be going out to tea again with her friend Patty Bristow; and Billy that he would be spending the afternoon reading his comics - Chips , Film Fun and the Rover.

As for Kate and Tommy, they too had a postponed appointment.

‘Right, our Billy. No noise, d’y hear me? Me and your father’s going for a lay-down for an hour. Then you and me’ll go and see your Auntie Cissie and your Uncle Eddy over in Greengate. So think on.’

For the next hour and a half, peace and tranquillity reigned over the Hopkins household.