So that’s my story as far as it goes. What happened to the people I met in my life? They went their different ways.
In America, my cousin Lizzie remained as a nanny in the employ of the O’Hagan family on Long Island; she never married or had children of her own. Susie, the exparlour maid, stayed in Ferrygate and ran the post office with her husband, Bob. She had three boys and her husband survived the Great War though he lost his left arm. Danny’s widow, Hilda, went back to live with her family when they were released from the internment camp. For many years they have run a highly successful and popular pork butcher’s shop on the corner of Corporation Street and Miller’s Lane. Madge Kenyon married again after the war. I suppose with her two pensions she was considered a good catch, though someone told me that a war widow lost her pension if she re-married. Eddie remained at his job as security guard with the Refuge Assurance but later married a nice giri called Mona and lives in Greengate, Salford* So far, they’ve had no children. Mam continued running her second-hand clothing business but she bought, a small market stall on Frank’s insurance money. She went to live with her two children in a little house in Salford.
Angela and Jimmy became our neighbours for, at their
suggestion, we flitted to a new home in the Artisan’s Dwellings in Collyhurst. I was glad to move because every day I saw young Alice, the little girl who used to take Mary to school. She would be playing or skipping along the street and it always brought back painful memories. Our new tenement home was on the first landing whilst Angela and Jimmy lived on the ground floor. They never did have any children of their own but they were always kind to ours, especially at Christmas, like that of 1927. As usual I played the part of Santa Claus as Tommy always celebrated the birth of Christ in the Queen’s Arms. Flo was out at a party but the rest of the kids hung up the biggest stockings they could find, not that it ever made any difference since they all got the same things every year. Like my own mam used to do, I kept the presents simple: a Woolworth’s torch, a tangerine, an apple, a few grapes, and half a bar of Cadbury’s fruit and nut. On Christmas Eve, I crept into their bedroom, though I knew they would all be pretending to be asleep. Polly and Jim knew I was Father Christmas, and I knew that they knew but we kept up the pretence for the young ’uns. As soon as I’d gone, they’d be up eating their chocolate and shining their torches - making monster faces and playing at shadows on the wall. By the time morning came, the torch batteries would be used up. They wouldn’t be able to get any more ’cos they wouldn’t have the money and anyway, the shops would be closed. This particular Christmas was different because after Mass, Angela and Jimmy came round with expensive presents for everyone: a record of selections from The Desert Song for the family, dresses for the girls, a fort and toy soldiers for Jim, a drum for Sam, and a squeaky rubber doll for Les. We were truly grateful to them, except maybe for the drum.
Cissie, who was married to Ernie, the twin brother of
Keith who was killed at the Somme, had four children - all girls. She gave up trying for a boy when she had the fourth. Cissie lived in Salford but was a regular visitor to us in Collyhurst Buildings.
On 1 January 1928 Cissie brought her family round to celebrate the New Year.
‘Well, Kate,’ she sighed. ‘Another year, eh?’
‘Another year,’ I said. ‘The years simply whiz by.’
‘We’ve seen some rum times, you and me, haven’t we, Kate? Glad times and sad times. What were they all about?’
‘Who knows? But you’re right about us seeing both joy and sorrow. Maybe that’s what life is - tears and laughter, joy and sorrow.’
‘Aye, but it’s usually the poor who have the sorrow, Kate, while the rich have the joy.’
‘Not always, Cissie. Wealth has nothing to do with happiness. It’s more the way you feel inside and the way you look at things. I always try to look on the bright side if I can, and I think caring for other people and listening to their problems are the things that really matter.’
‘That’s true. Weren’t we always taught at school, Kate, that it’s better to give than to receive?’
‘That’s right, Cissie, as long as it’s not Spanish flu.’
She laughed. ‘Or a Gypsy curse. But I often wish we could go back to those happy days before the workhouse when Dad was still alive.’
‘I used to long for that as well, Cissie, but not any more. There’s no harm in reminiscing and thinking back about the good old days but the' one thing I have learned is that you can never turn the clock back.’
‘I agree, Kate. We must turn our minds to the future, mustn’t we?’
‘I’m not even sure about that, Cissie. As I see it, there’s more to life than dwelling on the past or worrying about
tomorrow. The important thing is to get on with things now .’
‘It sounds a bit of a miserable way of looking at things, Kate.’
‘Not at all. I live for each day and I’ve come to appreciate the wonderful things around me, like the family sitting round the table or the smile on a neighbour’s face when you’ve shown her how to bake bread. That sort of thing. That’s what makes me happy.’
‘And so you ought to be. You’ve got Tommy and five wonderful kids. Your family’s complete and you can start to take life easy.’
‘All true, Cissie. Except for one small thing.’
‘What’s that, Kate?’
‘I’m pregnant again.’
Headline hopes you have enjoyed reading Kate's Story and invites you to sample the beginning of Billy Hopkins’ Our Kid , which takes up the story of the Hopkins family where Kate's Story leaves off. Our Kid is also available in Headline paperback.