On Sunday afternoon, I moved into Mrs Hudson’s furnished room in Sherratt Court. She was a little more friendly on this occasion. Perhaps it was because, in the hope of making a good start, I decided to lash out and pay her a whole month in advance.
Tm sorry, love,’ she whined as she pocketed the cash, ‘if I sounded a bit suspicious when you first came. But I have to be careful who I take in, being so near to Piccadilly where the ladies of the night hang out. They’d turn this place into a brothel as soon as look at you.’
The following day, I was up with the lark and the adventurous part of me was looking forward to starting the new job at Westmacott’s but the nervous Nellie in me wondered how I’d get on with my fellow workers. If their rendering of ‘Lily of Laguna’ was anything to go by, they were a happy-go-lucky crowd. I dressed in the waterproof overall and big clogs I had been issued with after my interview, ate a breakfast of porridge and toast, and then clickety-clacked my way Up Oldham Road, along with the other women workers who were going to jobs in mills, factories, and warehouses. I felt strange in this uniform and I half expected the other workers to point a finger at me and say, ‘Look at that girl pretending to be one of us.’ But there was no problem; many of them greeted me with
a ‘Good morning, love. Nice day,’ which told me that I was accepted and part of the scene.
At Westmacott’s I had to wait outside the office till Declan was free to explain my duties to me. At half past eight, he bustled in with a cheery ‘Top o’ the mornin’ to you, young Kate. We’ll waste no time in getting you started.’
He introduced me to Mr Foden, the office clerk, who wrote down my details in a big register, after which Declan took me into the works to show me the job.
‘Let me tell you what happens here,’ he began. ‘We produce various mineral waters in this factory, as you probably know. The most popular are Sarsaparilla and Dandelion and Burdock. The men on the floor above prepare what we call the syrup, made up of sugar, flavour, herbs, and colouring, and we dilute that with water. We have the latest machinery from America and most of the processes are done automatically. We have to keep up with the competition. The Americans have brought in a new drink called Coca-Cola but I don’t think it’ll ever catch on. It sounds too much like cocoa and who wants a bedtime drink when they’re gasping with thirst?’
‘This talk about automatic machinery, Mr Dowd, sounds complicated. Where do I fit into this?’
‘Nothing to worry about. You’ll be working in the bottlewashing department.
Ah, bottle-washing. That was more my line.
‘Come along,’ he said. ‘I’ll introduce you to your fellow workers. The bottle-washers work in teams of three.’
He took me into a large open room that reminded me of a laundry wash-house because all round the sides were lots of big sinks, at each of which a group of women were sloshing water about. The floor was already several inches deep and now I understood why I had to wear clogs. The
noise of the machinery and the clatter of thousands of bottles was deafening.
‘You’ll be working here,’ Mr Dowd yelled, pointing to two ladies busy rinsing out bottles at one of the sinks. ‘Next to Angela, one of our best workers, who’ll show you the ropes, and Hilda who’s new like yourself.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere, Declan,’ Angela laughed, giving him the glad eye.
‘That’s enough of that come-hither look from you, Angela, and me a respectable married man,’ Declan joked.
‘Married, maybe,’ called another woman. ‘I don’t know about the respectable bit.’
‘You get on with your bottle-washing, Brigid Riley,’ Declan roared, ‘and stop casting aspersions.’
When Declan had gone, Angela showed me the basics of the job. I was to do the first rinse, Hilda the next using a bottle brush, and the final check and shake was done by Angela.
‘Doesn’t the noise in here get you down, Angela?’ I called.
‘Noise? What noise?’ she yelled back.
‘I thought it was deafening when I first came,’ Hilda shouted as she brushed vigorously at a brown-stained bottle, ‘but after only two weeks I’m getting used to it.’
‘Hey, you lot!’ Angela bawled, addressing the rest of the bottle-washers. ‘This is Kate and she’ll be working with Hilda and me.’
‘How do, Kate!’ the cries came back. ‘You’re welcome, love. But don’t take too much notice of Angela there. She’ll lead you astray.’ ' *
‘Hey, Kate,’ a middle-aged woman yelled across. ‘What do virgins eat for breakfast?’
‘I don’t know,’ I replied, falling for it.
‘I thought so,’ the woman replied, which caused a ripple of guffaws around the room.
‘Take no notice of Tessie, Kate/ Angela said. ‘They’re all man-haters here, always making dirty cracks about them and saying that men think of nothing but sex.’
‘It’s true,’ screeched Tessie. ‘Men think of nowt but sex.’
‘There’s only one way to stop a man from wanting sex all the time,’ Brigid shrieked.
‘Well, clever clogs, and what’s that?’Tessie roared.
‘Marry him!’ Brigid shouted.
‘You’re talking rubbish,’ said Angela. ‘My boyfriend Jimmy treats me with great respect and puts me on a pedestal.’
‘You know why he puts you on a pedestal,’ Brigid leered. ‘It’s so he can look up your clothes.’
The women held their sides, cackling like a lot of hens.
‘If my old man ever puts me on a pedestal,’ bawled Tessie, ‘it’s so I can bloody well paint the ceiling.’
The rest of the morning continued along these lines - loud-mouthed banter and a great deal of leg-pulling. They were the happiest, and the bawdiest crowd I’d ever met. When they ran out of wisecracks, they broke out into melody, their repertoire including every popular song of the day: ‘After the Ball’, ‘Down at the Old Bull and Bush’, ‘She’s a Lassie From Lancashire’, and ‘Stop Your Ticklin’, Jock’. Good innocent fun although this last song contained a number of verses which had me blushing to the roots because it wasn’t ‘ticklin’ ’ that Jock was asked to stop. What would the upstairs people back in Macclesfield have said if they’d heard the singing in this place? I have to say that I preferred the honest atmosphere of the Westmacotts’ mineral waterworks to the stuffiness of the Lamport- Smythes.
That first day at work, Angela, my bottle-washing companion, told me her life story: how she lived with her
retired parents in Angel Meadow, had worked at Westmacott’s for three years, and had a boyfriend named Jimmy Dixon who she was hoping to marry in the near future. Jimmy was a mechanic and had a good job at Henry Wallwork’s on Red Bank. By the time Angela had finished, I felt I knew as much about her and her background as I did about my own family. Hilda was more reserved - the kind who did more listening than talking - and didn’t say too much about herself. As for me, I kept my own counsel - there would be plenty of time for talking in the days ahead.
‘I think maybe we’re going to make a good team,’ Angela said as the hooter sounded, signalling the end of my first day.
‘I’m positive we’re going to be a good team,’ I answered.
‘What makes you so sure?’ Hilda asked.
‘Because,’ I said smilingly, ‘you, Angela, are tall and dark - why, you could be half Italian - whilst you, Hilda, are petite, blue-eyed, fair-haired and could be Swedish or German. As for me, I’d say I’m somewhere in between the two of you - in age, height and even in my colouring ’cos my hair is auburn and my eyes green. That’s my Irish origins, I suppose.’
‘You’re right about me being half Italian’, said Angela. ‘My full name is Angela Rocca and my father used to be an ice cream merchant before he retired.’
‘And you’re not far wrong about me, either,’ added Hilda. ‘My grandparents came from Germany many years ago and my full name is Hilda Muller though we’re hoping to change the Muller to Miller by deed poll. So now we have an international team of workers - Italian, German and Irish.’
My route home took me down Oldham Road, past my Aunt Sarah’s, and I developed the habit of calling on them
after work. Mam was happy with her newly decorated room and she seemed to have taken on a new lease of life. There was only one problem and it was the usual one - money!
‘You’ve been kind to us, Kate,’ she said one evening, ‘but we can’t keep taking your hard-earned cash. I’ll have to go back to my job in the bagging factory soon and I’m dreading it. The thought of it sends shivers down my spine. There was so much dust and fluff in the air, you could hardly breathe. Sometimes I used to think I was going to choke. Your Aunt Sarah finds it the same.’
‘I know how much you hate it. Mam, but if we’re going to get Cissie and Danny home, we’ll have to find a house to rent, and that takes money. They’re under the Guardians till they’re eighteen and they won’t release them unless the place where they’re going to stay has been passed by their inspectors.’
‘I know that, Kate. We’ll have to get a few bob together but I’m not even sure the bagging factory will want me back ’cos I had so much time off when I was pregnant. What I need is a job in the fresh air.’
‘Somehow, Mam, I can’t see you as a bricklayer,’ I joked, ‘or even as a labourer.’
‘Don’t talk daft, Kate. No, I’m thinking more of a job on a market stall, selling things.’
‘What sort of things, Mam? What have we got to sell?’
‘I dunno. Ornaments, hardware, second-hand clothes - stuff like that.’
Suddenly a thought struck me.
‘Mam,’ I exclaimed. ‘I’m about to be brilliant.’
‘Again?’ She laughed. ‘What’s the brainwave this time?’
‘When I worked in Macclesfield, the daughter of the house, Miss Emma, opened up a charity shop selling second-hand clothes and it made a small fortune. We could
do something similar here.’ I said nothing about the few items of clothing I’d nabbed.
‘You’ve lost me, Kate. How would it work, this secondhand shop?’
I became keyed up as the idea began to take shape in my mind.
‘You’ll need capital. I can help you there. I could draw out some of my savings to get you started. We could bring in Aunt Sarah, if she’s interested. That is, if she’s forgiven me for insulting her by offering her money.’
‘Of course she’s forgiven you, Kate. She was a bit touchy that day as Barney had not been very well. Sarah will do anything to get out of that terrible bagging factory. I’m sure she’d take a chance.’
‘As I see it,’ I said, warming to my subject, ‘you would need to go round the big houses in the posh districts and ask for their cast-offs. You wouldn’t believe what rich people throw out. They’re always changing their clothes to keep up with the latest fashions and they often give their castoffs to their servants.’
‘Wait a minute, Kate,’ Mam said, her imagination now roused. ‘I must bring Sarah into this.’
Sarah joined us and though she was a bit doubtful at first, she was soon caught up in the excitement.
‘But the servants won’t give their clothes away,’ she objected. ‘We’d have to offer them something in exchange.’
‘We talk to the housekeeper or the house steward. They’re always ready to do a deal, believe me. When Mam and I were shopping for crockery at Shufflebotham’s on Rochdale Road, I noticed some beautiful china tea sets going at reasonable prices. I’m sure if you bought in quantity, you could get them at wholesale. You could also offer pot plants in exchange - aspidistras, cactuses, and so on.They’re all the rage. We could offer these to the servants
who would then approach their employers for their castoffs. I know how the minds of these servants work. If we printed handbills and stuffed them in letter boxes, we’re bound to get a response. It’ll work, I’m sure of it.’
Once I’d stimulated the imagination of Mam and Aunt Sarah, there was no stopping them.
‘What about selling the second-hand clothes?’ Mam said. ‘We’d need a stall on a market, say Tib Street.’
‘I think we can do better than that,’ I replied. ‘What about renting a shop on Oldham Road? On the way to work, I’ve seen one to let not far from Westmacott’s. If we opened one there, we’d attract the women from the factories and mills from around the district.’
‘Let’s do it!’ Sarah said. ‘I tell you, the idea of leaving that bagging factory fills me with joy. All my prayers answered. Why, we’d be our own bosses. We could choose our own hours. I’d be able to spend more time with Barney and look after him better.’
‘Perfect,’ Mam agreed. ‘And if I were to leave the baby with you, Sarah, I could do the buying in the morning and you could do the selling at dinnertimes and in the evenings when the workers have finished their shifts.’
‘We’d be glad to look after the baby and young Eddie as well,’ Sarah said. ‘Uncle Barney loves children and it’ll give him an interest in life.’
For a brief moment I had visions of Barney coughing and spluttering over the two young ones but I dismissed it as unworthy.
‘We’re getting so carried away, Celia,’ Sarah continued looking at Mam, ‘we’re forgetting to ask Kate what part she wants to play. Maybe she’d like to do the buying ’cos after all she’ll be financing the operation. And there’s the small matter of how we pay her back.’
‘No need to worry about that. If this business is a
success and you make it work, that’s enough reward for me. As for my own job, I’m happy washing bottles at Westmacott’s as I’ve made lots of friends there. Besides, I think one of us should earn a regular wage in case anything should go wrong.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Kate,’ they chorused. ‘What could go wrong?’
That was the day Mam and Aunt Sarah changed their prospects. I drew out ten pounds from my savings and on Saturday afternoon the three of us, along with the baby and young Eddie, visited Shufflebotham’s and chose a selection of beautiful tea sets in attractive packages.
‘Sprats to catch mackerel,’ Aunt Sarah remarked.
We were in business.
‘It’ll never work,’ said Frank McGuinness when he heard about it.
He was wrong. The business did work. Pretty soon, Mam and Sarah were getting postcards from lots of people offering second-hand clothes and asking them to call. Mam showed a flair for buying good quality items from the toffs - dresses, silk underwear, men’s suits and overcoats, and there was a steady demand for shoes for both sexes. Within six months, they were building up their own capital and the idea of finding a house to rent was definitely on the cards. Even Frank McGuinness was optimistic.
‘We must keep our eyes peeled for suitable accommodation,’ he said to me one day.
When I heard him say this, deep down I had a vague feeling of unease, even dismay, for I hadn’t seen him as part of the overall plan. Besides, on one or two occasions, I’d found him, Mam and Aunt Sarah supping up at the Land o’ Cakes when I’d visited after work.
‘A business meeting,’ they said. ‘Planning our strategy for tomorrow.’
Huh!
The baby had been left with my consumptive Uncle Barney and they’d given our poor Eddie a packet of Smith’s crisps to keep him quiet. He looked lost.
I pushed any niggling thoughts I had to the back of my mind. Everything, I told myself, would work out fine once we were back together again.
Around this time, we had a visit from Danny. He was now seventeen and was living in lodgings in Collyhurst. He was still under supervision by the Guardians but they’d allowed him to take a job as a carpenter. What a handsome young man he’d turned out to be. Tall, dark-haired and with those laughing blue eyes that reminded me of Dad.
‘I’m hoping to join the Territorial Army when I’m eighteen,’ he told us. ‘I loved playing in the cadet band at Swinton, so it’s the soldier’s life for me. Meanwhile I’d love to have a room in the family house if we can swing it. My digs are OK but it’s not the same as having your own home.’
‘When you think about it,’ I said, ‘it makes sense for all of us to get back together. Here I am paying rent for a furnished room, so’s Danny, and so’s Mam, and Cissie is still in Swinton. Surely it’d be cheaper all round if we rented our own house. Provided we can find one, of course.’
We swung into action and began scouring the district for a suitable place. There were scores of houses of the two-up, two-down variety but we were looking for something bigger. If the Guardians were going to inspect it before releasing Cissie, it would have to have at least three bedrooms.
It was Angela’s Jimmy who found it for us, or to be more precise, his uncle, a train driver with the LMS.The railway company had a few houses to rent and it was one
of these that Jimmy’s uncle earmarked for us. Number 5 Angel Meadow, overlooking St Michael’s burial ground and opposite a goods yard. Angel Meadow. What a beautiful name! But many of the streets in the district had names equally beautiful: Blossom Street, Primrose Court, Hendham Vale, Red Bank. All slums. The people who named these streets either never visited them or had a sick sense of humour.
The house was exactly what we were looking for. It had three bedrooms, a parlour, a living room, a scullery, a nice big yard with our own lavatory. The LMS required references from an employer and for a while we thought we had a problem because Mam worked for herself and couldn’t ask for one from the bagging factory where her reputation had not been so good. It was left to me to get the reference from Mr Dowd and I felt embarrassed approaching him as I had been working there only six months.
‘A reference already, Kate?’ he said, looking up from his desk in the office. ‘Surely you’re not leaving us so soon?’
‘No, it’s not that, Mr Dowd. We’re hoping to rent a house so’s the family can live under one roof.’
‘No problem, Kate. I’ve been happy with your work and, more important, the way you get on with your fellow workers. I’ll see the reference is typed and signed before you leave tonight.’
Happily, you might even say triumphantly, I carried the document home to Mam that night. She wasn’t in when I got there. She was in the pub as usual with Sarah and the McGuinness man, planning their strategy. I was getting more and more worried about these so-called planning sessions. They were becoming a habit.