When the school bell finally rang, there was a mad rush to escape. Woe betide any member of the public who got in the way of that tide of young humanity which erupted from the school gates like lava from a volcano.
Billy ran all the way home, as his energetic morning had given him a tremendous appetite. Monday meant nourishing lentil soup made up of the stock from the remainder of the Sunday joint plus a mixture of sundry vegetables. Mam had had an energetic morning too, for Monday meant wash-day in the front cellar. Somehow she always managed the miracle of preparing a lunch for five people at the same time as washing, mangling, wringing, drying and ironing the clothes for eight.
‘What have you been doing to your nose?’ she asked as they sat at the table. ‘Have you been fighting?’
‘Yeah,’ Billy answered. ‘I was nutted by StanWTiite.’
‘You should be taking lessons from your father then - not from Jim. Your dad can show you what to do in a dirty fight.’
‘P’raps you’re right.’
‘Anyroad,’ Mam continued, ‘your hair needs cutting badly.’
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‘I’d rather get it cut properly.’
‘Stop acting daft,’ she said. ‘I want you to go and get your hair cut this afternoon. Your Aunt Cissie says it’ll help you keep your strength up. Your father alius likes Larry’s on Cheetham Hill - specially as it only costs fourpence.’
After dinner, Billy set off for the barber’s but not to Larry’s. Billy knew another barber - Lenny’s, on Rochdale Road, who charged only threepence provided you didn’t cry out during the comb-and-scissors bit. He walked along by the railway fence, over the big bridge until he reached the top of the steps, from where he spotted a big lorry way below pulling out of the dyeworks yard. The big truck was heading slowly towards Collyhurst Road, where it would have to stop. Billy leapt pell-mell down the steps and reached the bottom in time to catch up to the lorry as it was crawling the last thirty yards to the major road. Just in time to steal a ride on the back for that short distance. The vehicle manufacturers had thoughtfully provided a rail for the purpose at exactly the right height. Gleefully, feeling like a trapeze artist at the circus, Billy hung on to the back.
This is smashing fun, he thought, as the lorry crawled out of the compound.
Suddenly there was a rapid change of gears and the lorry accelerated at breakneck speed down Collyhurst Road, with Billy clinging for dear life on to the back. Instinctively, he sensed that to release his grip meant certain death. His head would have smashed like an egg on the cobbled road rushing giddily behind and away from him.
Screaming desperately for help, he grasped the metal bar in a grip of iron as the vehicle tore at full speed down the road. Streets, shops, pubs, factories became one dizzy
blur in a crazy, nightmare whirl through Collyhurst. Completely unaware of his hysterical stowaway passenger swinging wildly on the rail at the back, the driver, in carefree mood, whistled ‘Pennies from Heaven’ as he took his load, the last of the day, on its routine journey back to the depot.
Billy’s screams rang across the district, alerting pedestrians and bystanders on the pavements. But always too late to signal to the driver.
The huge truck changed gear to negotiate an incline, and as it did so, it began belching suffocating exhaust fumes into Billy’s face.The acrid smoke got into his throat and his lungs. He felt himself losing consciousness. He could not hang on much longer. His grip was weakening.
‘Move over Teddy Smith and make room for one more at the picture show,’ he said aloud to himself. ‘And save me a few toffees as well!’
But Billy’s time had not come. By some miracle never fully explained or understood - perhaps his Guardian Angel had applied the brakes - the lorry stopped its ride of death. Simply stopped at the corner of Roger Street. Billy dropped off the back like a wet dishcloth, got to his feet and fled down a side street howling like a wounded animal.
He managed to totter into Lenny’s shop, where he got himself a good haircut. Throughout the whole shearing operation, he was strangely silent, not even uttering a sound when it came to the scissors-and-comb bit, and earned himself a penny discount.
Home for the ritual hair-wash which always followed the school nurse’s inspection and a visit to the barber’s. Mam went at the task with passionate fervour.
‘Just look at the dirt rolling out!’ she exclaimed. ‘Have you ever seen such muck? I’m not kidding, you could
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grow taters in your hair, you could!’
Billy enjoyed the sensual experience of having his scalp massaged, but then followed the part he hated most.
‘Close your eyes and get your head down!’ ordered Mam.
He set up a howl of protest when she poured a large jug of hot water over his head. She always managed to get a considerable quantity down his earhole, an occurrence which was to have long-term repercussions.
After the hair-drying stage came the hunt for any lice or nits that had miraculously survived this intensive decontamination. This had all the excitement and drama of a big-time African safari. Operation Dragnet began! The search for the parasites called for specialist equipment, and a fine-tooth comb was brought out and tugged through the tangled locks to trap any hardy and unwary survivors hiding with their offspring in the undergrowth. Short work was made of them as Mam, now the female White Hunter, cracked them on the comb under her thumb nail with dramatic commentary and cries of: ‘Here’s a big ’un! Gotcher!’
Feeling thoroughly purged and purified, Billy escaped into the street for an afternoon of freedom and frivolity. No school! No teachers! No Miss McGurk! A shiver of sheer pleasure and ecstasy ran through his body at the thought of the five weeks of liberty which lay ahead.
There was no such thing as being bored in Honeypot Street, as there was always something going on - a wedding or a funeral, an attempted suicide, an ambulance, a street-singer or a knife-sharpener, a chimney on fire, or a family fight that could be heard several streets away.
But most enthralling of all for Billy were the street games, with the flagstones, the red pillar box and the lamppost serving as props.
Billy and his pals played only with boys. After all, who wanted to join in with the girls, who were always playing sissy games like ‘Hospitals’ or ‘House’ - especially if they could borrow somebody’s baby. If not that, they were always skipping to daft poems like:
Who’s that coming down the street?
Mrs Simpson’s sweaty feet!
She’s been married twice before ,
Now she’s knocking on Eddie’s door.
Boys’ games were more intelligent, even though they changed with the seasons. Last month, yo-yos had been the thing, and the month before that whips-and-tops, but the current game was alleys - what the posh people called ‘marbles’ - which were ranked in status according to colour and killing-power - blood-reds being the most scarce and the most valuable. Billy was the proud possessor of six murderous ‘bloodies’.
But the real favourite amongst his pals was bowling their hoops, or ‘garfs’, along the street - propelling them with a stick round impossible obstacles. Billy and Henry were the envy of all the other lads, as their garfs were bicycle wheels with pumped-up tyres.
‘Watch this, Henery!’ Billy called to his pal as he executed a particularly difficult bit of garf-guiding in and out of a set of bricks specially laid out for the purpose. He had completed the obstacle course when he was thrown off his stride by the roar of a motorbike coming down the street. It was Steve Keenan on his BSA.
‘Righto, Billy,’ called Steve above the noise of his engine. ‘I promised you a ride on my motorbike. How about now? You still want a ride, don’t you?’
‘Do I!’ exclaimed Billy. ‘Let’s go and tell me mam!
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Quick, afore you change your mind!’
Mam wasn’t too keen on the idea at first. She eventually came round but insisted on a big clean-up and a change into Sunday best.
‘But I’m going on a motorbike - not to church.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Someone might see you!’
Steve made him put on a helmet and goggles and they went out into the street, where a gang of admiring kids were inspecting the motorbike. Their eyes nearly popped out of their heads when they saw young Billy ‘Biggies’ appear.
‘By Jove, you young chaps, kindly stand aside, will you,’ ordered Billy. ‘My chum and I here are just going for a jolly old spin before tea, don’cha know!’
He sat astride the pillion and Steve started the engine.
‘We’ll go for a ride to Heaton Park. Hang on tight!’
With a roar, the two of them rode down Honeypot Street, leaving behind a gang of goggle-eyed kids.
‘This is the greatest day of my life!’ Billy called out as they sped along Cheetham Hill Road.
Street after street, shop after shop seemed to whizz by as the bike zipped through Cheetham Village and past the halfway house - a journey which took ages by bus and eternity on foot. In no time they had reached Heaton Park gates, but instead of turning in to the park, Steve steered the bike into a very affluent housing estate. They stopped outside a detached red-bricked house.
‘Come in and meet the rest of the Keenan family,’ he said.
Billy had seen one of these houses before - in his first reading book at St Wilfred’s. He’d never thought he would ever go into one. Steve opened up the garden gate and wheeled his bike along the path.
They found Steve’s parents and his sister, Constance,
sitting on deckchairs on the patio at the back of the house.
Mr Keenan Senior, in his early sixties and well over six feet in height, was a distinguished-looking gentleman with a silver George V beard. He was smartly dressed in flannels, white shirt and blue tie, and looked as if he had just stepped off a film set. Steve’s mother was wearing a blue flowery summer dress, whilst Constance had on a smart tweed two-piece costume.
Straight out of the Beacon readers, Billy said to himself. The only thing missing is that pedigree dog.
As if it had read his thoughts, a beautiful sheepdog bounded into the garden and began licking his hand.
‘This is Pauline’s youngest brother, Billy,’ announced Steve.
‘How do you do?’ said Constance. ‘So nice to meet you.’
‘Don’t listen to her,’ said Steve playfully. ‘She’s a teacher and doesn’t know anything.’
‘Glad to know you, young man,’ said Steve’s George V father.
‘Now, Billy,’ said Mrs Keenan. ‘What about a nice glass of cold home-made lemonade on this hot afternoon?’
‘Ta very much,’ he answered. ‘That ud be smashing.’
‘With ice?’ she asked.
‘No, ta,’ he replied, not used to being treated in this royal fashion. And anyway, ice-cream didn’t go with lemonade.
He sat quietly in the deckchair that was offered to him, not daring to speak in case he said the wrong thing or put his foot in it. His mam had always told him: ‘Speak only when you’re spoke to and then your mouth won’t get you into trouble.’
Mrs Keenan returned with his lemonade in a tall glass with a striped straw sticking out of it. Here was a new world, a new style of living.
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This I could get used to, said Billy to himself, imitating one of his Jewish friends’ expressions.
As the conversation flowed Billy swivelled his head from person to person. He listened to their adult talk about the weather, about the news, about the cost of the living, about Mussolini, about Constance’s planned holiday in Italy, about the dog, and about the garden.
‘I must say. Mother,’ Constance observed, ‘your petunias are looking very colourful this year.’
‘Yes, aren’t they? And they go on flowering for such a long time throughout the summer. That’s why I like them.’
‘Petunias are very nice,’ said Mr Keenan, not to be left out. ‘But my favourites are geraniums - they’re always so bright and cheerful.’
‘Do you have a garden, Billy?’ asked Mrs Keenan.
‘We do have a little patch at the front of our house where me dad’s growing thistles, dock-leaves and dandelion and burdock. And me mam has a window-box in the back scullery - but I think she’s growing water-cress. Either that or shamrocks.’
To Billy’s bewilderment, this contribution to the horticultural discussion caused great amusement - especially to Mrs Keenan, who laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.
‘Steve told us you were a comedian,’ she said, dabbing her eyes.
‘I’ve even got the red nose for it,’ Billy said.
‘It looks quite sore, Billy. How did it happen?’ asked Constance.
‘Yeah,’ replied Billy. ‘I had a scrap at school today with the class bully. A lad called Stan White. He give me a Wigan kiss.’
‘A Wigan kiss?’ asked Mrs Keenan.
‘Yeah, he tupped me with his head. Butted me, y’know.’
‘I do hope you managed to hit him back,’ said Mr Keenan.
‘Oh, yeah. I socked him a beauty with a right uppercut.’
‘Oh, I am glad to hear that,’ said Constance. ‘We mustn’t let bullies get away with it, must we? Not in school. Not on the political scene. Not anywhere!’
I like her, thought Billy. It’s not her fault she can’t talk properly. And I like this family, their garden and their dog. I hope our Polly stops acting daft and marries this fella and gets to live in a house like this.
‘Well, I’ll have to take this young chap home, as I promised not to keep him out too long,’ said Steve. ‘If there’s time, though, I thought we might take a little excursion before I drive him back. Come on, Billy ‘Laugh- a-Minute’ Hopkins, let’s go!’
As they got up to leave, Mrs Keenan thrust a shilling into Billy’s hand.
‘You’re worth a guinea a box. Here you are. Buy yourself something.’
‘Ta very much. I’ve been very pleased to meetcha,’ he said, and he meant it. ‘By the way, what kind of dog is this?’
‘It’s a Collie type,’ said Constance.
‘So am I!’ said Billy. ‘And what’s ’is name?’
‘Why, it’s Rover!’ replied Constance.
‘Thought so!’ said Billy, as he waved goodbye.
They went back in the direction of Heaton Park.
‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’ Steve called over his shoulder, and they drove into the park until they reached an open space. Steve parked and locked his bike.
‘Come on, Billy. Let’s hire a motorboat!’
First a motorbike! Then a motorboat! Billy’s heart turned somersaults at the thought of riding around the
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lake in one of those mechanised boats-for-two which he had seen but had never hoped to ride in. More than that, Steve actually trusted him enough to let him drive!
With both hands holding the steering wheel in a tight grip, Billy guided the chugging craft around the island and into the wide expanse that was Heaton Park lake.
After a while, Steve asked casually:
‘How’s Pauline today?’
‘She was all upset last night, but she was OK when she went off to work this morning.’
‘Yes, but how did she seem? I mean, did she look happy or what?’
‘Oh no, she didn’t seem happy. But she can be moody sometimes,’ said Billy, more interested in the small family of ducks he had narrowly avoided decapitating.
‘I wonder if she’ll see me again.’
‘I’m sure she will.’
‘Perhaps if I wrote her a letter she might come round to seeing me once more . . .’
‘I know how to get round our Polly - sorry, I mean Pauline.’
‘Tell me, O great wise one!’
‘Easy! Flowers! Especially roses. She loves them. That’s your answer! Send her roses.’
‘You think they might work?’
‘I know they will.’
They finished their tour of the lake confining their attention and their conversation to more mundane, nautical matters. At the quayside, the lake attendant held their bobbing boat steady with his hook whilst they clambered out.
‘Come on, young ’un,’ said Steve. ‘Time to get you home or I’ll be in deeper trouble with your sister!’
On the way back, Steve stopped off at a florist’s on
Queens Road, and a few minutes later he emerged with a beautiful bunch of red roses wrapped in cellophane.
‘Billy,’ he said, ‘I want you to give these to Pauline for me. Tell her I need to have a reply by tomorrow night. I’ll come by Honeypot Street at about half past four to get her answer from you. You can be our go-between.’
‘Go-between!’ said Billy. ‘That’s a new word on me, or is it two words?’
Steve dropped him off outside number 17, remounted his mechanical steed and sped off.
Billy rushed into the house bearing Steve’s peace offering. He found Polly sitting at the kitchen table in earnest conversation with Mam.
‘Polly! Polly!’ he blurted, not stopping to catch his breath. ‘I’ve been for a ride on Steve’s motorbike and we went on a motorboat as well on Heaton Park lake. And I met all his family. And he’s sent you these. And he says I’m to be your go-between.’
‘Really?’ she answered haughtily. ‘Calm down! Come upstairs and tell me all about it.’
In her room, she put the bouquet on the dressing table.
‘Just look at these flowers he’s sent, Polly,’ Billy said. ‘Aren’t they smashing?’
‘Sending me flowers doesn’t change nothing,’ she said, not too convincingly.
With her young brother looking over her shoulder, Polly read the card attached to the cellophane:
O my Luve’s like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June:
O my Luve’s like the melodie That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
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‘That poem’s a belter,’ said Billy. ‘But that Robbie Burns fella didn’t know how to spell, did he?’
‘Never mind all that. I don’t want nowt to do with them. They’ll all have to go back anyway. I can’t be bribed with a few flowers. Steve’s just trying to get round me, that’s all. What did you think of his family, anyroad? Didn’t you think they were a bit stuck-up?’
‘Oh, no. Not a bit! I like ’em.. They all talk very posh; his mam and dad sound as if they’ve each got a plum in their mouth, and their Constance as if she’s got two. But they can’t help it if they talk funny. And I still like ’em. They’re nice and friendly.’
‘What about Steve? D’you like Steve? How did he look? Was he happy? Was he depressed? Did he talk about me?’
‘I think he’s great. I like him no matter what you say about him. He’s very kind and he thinks the world of you, our Polly. He was talkin’ about you nearly all the time. And he did look a bit depressed, like, ’cos he’s missing you already. Not only that, he’s nice-looking and all. Reminds me of Douglas Fairbanks without his moustache.’
Polly looked pleased.
‘And what about me?’ she asked. ‘Who do I remind you of?’
Billy thought for a minute or so. He had to be careful here.
‘Ginger Rogers. Definitely. Only her hair is sort of gold and - er. . . yours is light brown. But, yeah. Ginger Rogers!’
‘Ginger Rogers! D’you really think so?’ Obviously enjoying the game of‘Look-alike’, she asked, ‘What about our Flo? Who’s she like?’
‘Grade Fields!’ answered Billy promptly.
‘What about our Jim?’
‘Easy. He’s the spitting image of James Cagney. Sometimes he thinks he is James Cagney. Combs his hair like him, and dresses like him. But what about me then? Who am I like? I suppose you’re going to say Freddie Bartholomew.’
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘He’s much too sissy. No, you’re more like that lad in Treasure Island. Jackie Cooper, I think his name was.’
Billy felt ten feet tall, as it so happened that Jackie Cooper was one of his favourites.
‘Oh, there’s one thing I’ve been wanting to ask you,’ he said. ‘Why have you changed your name to Pauline? I like it ’cos it sounds real posh. But what was wrong with Polly?’
‘I think the name Polly’s horrible. Whoever heard of a heroine called Polly? It rhymes with Dolly, and Golly. And besides, it’s the name of a parrot.’
‘You’re wrong, Polly. Look at the heroine in that song “Sweet Polly Oliver”. And what about my name? Sometimes kids call me Silly Billy. Then there’s our Flo. I won’t say what her name rhymes with.’
Polly laughed, and she really did look like Ginger Rogers.
‘Honestly, do you like the name Pauline or are you just saying that to please me?’
‘No, honestly, I do like it. You’re named after one of the saints - St Paul. And at school they’ve learnt us not only that song “Polly Oliver” but another one called “Pretty Pollie Pillicote”. So what more do you want?’
‘Oh, I do like talking to you, our Billy.’
‘Remember, I’m your go-between,’ Billy replied. ‘What do you want me to tell Steve tomorrow?’
‘Well, William Go-Between,’ she said. ‘Just tell Steve
the flowers were lovely. He’ll know what I mean.’
★ ★ ★
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Three months later, Steve and Pauline were married at St Chad’s Church. Billy and his friend David Priestley served the Nuptial Mass, and their tips were wildly generous.
A week after the wedding, Billy - accompanied by his brothers, Jim, Sam and Les, plus, of course, his pal Henry Sykes - launched a beautiful yacht called Jolly Jim on Queen’s Park lake.
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