Rags, Bones and
Donkey Stones
a sequel to ‘Made in Myrtle Street’
by B A Lightfoot
Kindle edition
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Copyright 2012 B A Lightfoot
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise
circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a
similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by B A Lightfoot
(with a sideways glance at Lowry)
Published by B A Lightfoot 2012
Returning home from France in April 1919, scarred both mentally and physically, Liam Murphy looked forward to rebuilding his life. But so much had now changed. His wife, Bridget, was doing the household repairs; his son was sitting in his Dad’s chair; jobs that the men had left when they enlisted were now taken by women; and Liam’s trade as a carter was rapidly being taken over by the motorised trucks.
Frustrated and despairing, his family hungry, he acquires a rag-and-bone round and is astonished when he feels in the inside pocket of a suit given to him by the formidable, recently widowed, Nellie Grimshaw. He finds a small, high quality painting of a young couple. The woman, with expensive jewellery and clothes, is lustrously beautiful whilst the man at her side is - him. Liam, with no recall of either the woman or the painting, struggles for an explanation and is haunted by its implication of his infidelity.
In this sequel to Made in Myrtle Street, B A Lightfoot explores with both humour and poignancy the tribulations of those returning from service in WW1. Struggling to build his family life and his business, despite fierce intimidation from the bullying Clarence Meredith, Liam is tormented by his inability to remember anything of the young woman at his side in the small oil painting. When Pip, the teenage daughter of his lifelong pal, and her friend, Amy, decide to become involved, their enquiries lead to some uncomfortable revelations.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Book One
Chapter 1
It was a hot, languid day for Paddy Murphy’s funeral; a faint yellow, sulphurous haze shrouding the church tower like an old spinster’s unused wedding veil. The lych gate at the entrance to the church, its repeated coats of black paint now aged into the pattern of a maiden aunt’s seersucker dress, mournfully groaned on its rusting spring to the odd group that stood around the hearse; a cluster of perspiring, dishevelled black forms, crowded for relief from the hot sun into the small shadow cast by the cuneiform porch roof. Intruding noisily into the respectful hush, two pigeons squabbled angrily for suitor’s rights to a female who watched them with a feigned disinterest from the slated ridge. Uncle Henry and Uncle Dermot lurked to the rear of the family, catching a quick cigarette before accompanying the dearly departed on the final stage of his journey.
Encouraged by the solicitous hand of Arthur Blenkinsop, the longest serving, most doggedly loyal member of Musgrave’s Funeral Directors, the sombre members of the family, accompanied by a handful of inquisitive neighbours and a gaggle of florid-faced drinking partners of the deceased, were assembled carefully into an approximation of a line.
Liam Murphy’s suit, bought fifteen years before for his wedding, hung with a loose incongruity over his now spare frame, whilst Callum, his young nephew, tugged constantly on the sleeves of his jacket. Inherited from his father, now lying splendidly attired in his best suit in the coffin that they were lined up to shoulder, Callum’s outfit struggled to contain his lanky frame.
Liam’s wife, Bridget, standing close to the spalled brick wall, shared a protecting umbrella with Callum’s newly-widowed mother. Liam had been doubtful about his wife’s decision to turn up the hem of her black dress to the more fashionable calf length but, looking at her now, he could see that she looked cooler and very attractive. The two women spoke quietly through the black net veils of their hats, Bridget stretching out her hand, placating the agitated widow.
Liam allowed himself to be respectfully eased into position, under the centre of the light oak, brass-handled coffin, by Arthur Blenkinsop’s hand gently guiding his elbow. Being the smallest of the six family members that had been selected to act as pall bearers for Uncle Paddy, it was the logical place.
There was an aura of disinfectant still persisting about the coffin, remnants of the death-veiling odour from the dish of Jeyes Fluid that had been placed under the body during its three days of lying in state in the parlour. Callum was directed into place just in front of Liam, an arrangement that normally would have pleased him as his nephew was taller and stronger and would be taking the strain for both of them. Today, however, the younger man looked very uncomfortable, running his finger constantly round his heavily starched, tight white collar. Callum had already been pushing both hands into the pockets of the trousers, forcing them down to achieve some proximity between his turn-ups and his boots, but this, in turn, had exposed a greater expanse of white shirt below the ill-fitting waistcoat.
Liam sympathised with the collar problem, his own felt like a constricting band, and he knew that Callum never felt totally at ease anyway in a family gathering. Although many of them had never set foot in any part of Ireland, they enthusiastically celebrated in traditional Irish style all family wakes, weddings, Christenings and St Patrick’s Days. For Callum, who was studiously quiet and rarely drank, the anticipation of such occasions filled him with dread for days beforehand. The propensity for the playful chiding and goading between the numerous male members of the family to deteriorate into physical violence, involving almost all of them, dismayed the less ebullient young man.
Before they had left the house, Liam had seen Uncle Seamus pressing another glass of whisky into the unwilling hand of Callum as they stood quietly round the table where his father lay, finally and eternally silent, whilst the last respects were paid. ‘Have another crapper, lad,’ Uncle Seamus had instructed, thrusting a large glass into his hand. ‘It’ll give you the strength to put the ould sod down.’
With Arthur Blenkinsop standing at the side of the coffin, head bowed, hands folded across his groin in that moment of reverential calm before the lid was finally secured, Liam had seen Callum take a sip of the whisky and then place the almost full measure into his father’s hand, covering it with the edge of the white silk lining. ‘He’ll enjoy it more than I would,’ he
muttered apologetically as he noticed Liam watching him.
‘Aye, he might well need it if it’s a long journey.’
Now Arthur raised his hand to hush the mourners, commanding attention for the well rehearsed and oft-repeated lines that he was about to deliver. He often pondered, staring into his lonely glass of beer at night, how he might change the modulation in his voice, the inflection of a particular word, the authority in his stance, to lend more drama to his part whilst staying within the required boundaries of reverential respect.
‘Would the mourners take up their positions behind the hearse, please,’ Arthur intoned in a voice that demanded the extinguishing of cigarettes and the cessation of pointless chatter, ‘with Mrs Murphy and her son positioned immediately behind the deceased.’ He had only once, in his early days, emerged briefly from his cocoon of eternal gloom to suggest to his employers that they might put an advertisement in the Salford Reporter with the punchy slogan of Box Clever with Musgrave’s Funeral Directors. Mr Musgrave senior had put on his pince-nez to read the text but the prematurely pleased Arthur had been somewhat surprised to find that the expression on Mr Musgrave senior’s face had not relaxed into one of instant admiration. Rather, it had begun to turn a vivid puce, Arthur deducing from the spluttering and frantic gestures that his boss didn’t feel this particular marketing campaign worth pursuing.
Mr Musgrave senior had died soon after that, leaving Arthur with the uncomfortable belief that his humble attempts at creative thinking might have hastened the old man’s departure. Mr Musgrave junior had taken over the business but his world had been shattered when, in 1916, his son had died with the Salford Pals on the Somme. His dream of protecting and preserving the family tradition of passing the business on to the next generation had been destroyed in an instant. When, within months, he had also buried his wife, Mr Musgrave had turned to drink for solace and to help him sleep at nights. Initially, it had been just the odd one or two but now he always had a bottle of whisky in his desk drawer and another in a filing cabinet.
Arthur had once been approached to manage the local Co-operative Funeral Service but had declined, choosing instead to give his loyal and unsmiling support to the increasingly unsteady Musgrave.
The funeral director now ushered Mrs Murphy, accompanied by Bridget, into position behind the pallbearers who were attempting to shrug their burden into a more comfortable and secure position. ‘Shall we proceed?’ droned the monotone voice of Arthur and the bearers moved forward, feet stuttering as they tried to match each other’s pace. The long grey, buttercup-scattered stone slabs of the steps up into the churchyard proved challenging. Liam struggled to restrain the coffin as the combination of Callum’s greater height and the steep incline gave the heavy wooden container a backwards momentum.
‘Ah, you bloody eejit. Can’t you even go to your Maker without creating a fuss,’ his widow remonstrated, addressing the shining brass plate at the rear of the coffin. ‘What’s the matter with you now, Paddy? You’ve been desisted for nearly a week and you’re still getting the shakes when it gets past your opening time.’
‘Shush, Mam,’ Callum pleaded, stumbling up a step as he tried to rebuke his mother. ‘And he’s deceased.’
‘That’s just what I said. And why would I want to shush? He’s spent all these years acting the maggot round every pub in Salford, disappearing for days on end when I didn’t have a crumb of bread to put into your mouth.’
Bridget put her arm across the widow’s shoulders and gave her one of Liam’s khaki handkerchiefs. ‘It’s alright, love. You are just a bit upset.’
‘Upset! Hmmpph. I’m glad to see the back of the ould sod.’ She again stared fiercely at the brass plate on the coffin as if this helped her to envisage its occupant. ‘And where do you think the money is coming from to pay for all this then?’ she demanded of her unresponsive husband. ‘You go without a by-your-leave and expect me to find the money to pay for this fancy parade.’
Arthur Blenkinsop, head lowered rigidly in mourner position, spoke to the pallbearers with a hushed impatience. ‘One moment, please, gentlemen.’ Head still bowed and hands clasped across his groin, he sidled over to the irate widow. ‘Mrs Murphy, you shouldn’t allow yourself to be burdened by such matters at this distressing time. I think that you will find that satisfactory arrangements have already been made.’
He turned to resume his position ahead of the coffin but the widow was not mollified. ‘Arrangements?’ she shouted after him. ‘You come here with a face sour enough to frighten the flies away and you tell me arrangements have been made.’
Becoming increasingly flustered, the funeral director turned and, in a barely perceptible transition, returned to the widow’s side. He glanced over at two black-veiled women who were standing at a non-inclusive distance from the main party of mourners. There was a vaguely disapproving shake of the header from the stouter of the pair.
‘Mrs Murphy,’ Arthur began, coughing politely behind his hand. ‘I am not at liberty to disclose the benefactor; indeed, I am only party to it myself because of a chance word and a little subterfuge. But I am sure that you will take comfort from knowing that the details and obligations regarding your late husband’s funeral have already been satisfactorily dealt with. This is why I indicated to you at the outset that you need not concern yourself with the detail; that we would take care of all the arrangements.’ Head bowed, he moved smoothly back to the head of the increasingly unsteady procession.
Mrs Murphy was not to be so easily appeased. ‘Well, who is arranging brass handles and oak when all the while he’s been taking the rent money out of my purse for a drink?’ the widow demanded loudly. ‘He was never happy without he was falling over. I’ve had three days of him lying there in the parlour with a silly smile on his face while every man jack of his relatives has been turning up expecting a glass of whisky. He’s even got a brass plate with his name on, would you believe.’
The priest, who had now joined them at the top of the steps, looked sternly at the angry widow. ‘Please, Mrs Murphy. Shall we show some respect for the deceased?’
Deferring to the collar, she calmed slightly, blowing her nose loudly on Liam’s handkerchief. ‘When did the miserable old drunk ever show any respect for us?’ she muttered to Bridget. ‘And as for old Father Rip-rap over there,’ she added vehemently, ‘he’s just as bad. Pair of drunken spalpeens together, they were. Take a drink off anyone who offered.’
‘Mam, please,’ Callum groaned. ‘Can we just get this over with? I’m hot, this is heavy and I’m not feeling so good.’
‘Aye,’ Liam offered, ‘and the way this coffin is shaking about, I think you might have woken the old sod up.’
‘Ah, póg mo thón,’ the widow retorted scornfully through the black net veil of her hat, tapping her buttock to clarify the instruction. She snorted again into the large cotton handkerchief before dropping her head in a feigned mark of respect.
Chapter 2
Folding up the rear edges of the wings on the aeroplane that he was experimenting with, Callum Murphy took it over to the open window of his bedroom. He had made the model plane from pages ripped out of an old copy of Illustrated Weekly, having first read the latest adventures of the two tramps, Weary Willie and Tired Tim.
Callum had marvelled at the aeroplanes that he had seen in France, wondering at the technology that allowed them to be lifted and sustained in the air. An aircraft mechanic had explained to him how the shape of the wings caused the airflow to create a vacuum over the wing and pressure under it. But Callum had lost count now of how many model bi-planes he had made and failed to fly. He had managed to get the rigidity in the wings but the design appeared to require a drive mechanism to power it. Watching a seagull from the docks floating above his head, however, had determined him on a new approach. Maybe if he could achieve a greater wing surface area with a different design it might help.
He had experimented with sheets from various newspapers, the Manchester Guardian, Daily Ex
press and the Manchester Evening News along with pages from a Tatler magazine that he had rescued from the waiting room at Crewe railway station when he was on the way back from France. He wanted to see which gave the best flight performance with the design that he had developed and he was intrigued to discover the differences in performance produced by minor adjustments to the structure. His early efforts had failed dramatically until a fellow employee in the Corporation’s vehicle maintenance workshop had suggested how to stiffen the wings by folding the paper into a triangular shape. The heavier pages of the Tatler magazine had flown the straightest line but had arced rapidly into the backyard below the open bedroom window. The models produced with the newspapers had stayed airborne for longer but had been more erratic in flight. Two had landed in their neighbour’s backyard, one had sailed over the wall and into the entry, whilst another was being eyed suspiciously by their cat, Kitchener, on the roof of the outside toilet.
He could hear the faint strains of Lily of Laguna being sung in the tremulous wailing voice of his mother. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had heard her sing. She was ironing on a blanket covered table in the kitchen downstairs, her vaguely tuneful singing intermingled at regular intervals with cries of ‘Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ and ‘Ouch, you little sod,’ as she inadvertently touched the black, cast iron smoother. Callum smiled as he thought how these small inconveniences failed to dampen her enjoyment of the domestic chores. Since his father had died a month before, she had begun to take more pleasure, and a good deal more pride, in these household drudgeries. Paddy Murphy had been a charmer, a tall, handsome raconteur of some note with a prolific capacity for alcoholic drink that he rarely paid for. He had only occasionally worked and his extreme munificence when he had been paid meant that money only lodged in his pocket for the briefest of times. On such occasions he could be missing for a few days then would return home, initially contrite before erupting into a volcanic temper, demanding recompense for his ill-feeling by way of food, money and, occasionally, imaginatively conceived but poorly performed, unrewarding minutes of sex. Any resistance from his wife would result in uncontrolled violence towards her and their few possessions. Afterwards, he would fall into a noisy, snorting sleep before getting up, having a wash and shave and going out again to do the rounds of the Salford pubs.
Rags, Bones and Donkey Stones (Sequel) Page 1
