He looked at Nellie’s face, slightly softer round the eyes which, when she smiled, had been uncomfortably reminiscent of something that he couldn’t bring to mind. Now the traces of the smile had disappeared again. ‘I’m sorry about that, Mrs Grimshaw,’ Liam mumbled. ‘I’m afraid that I let off steam a bit.’
‘Think nothing of it. Couldn’t have asked for better. And just remember, they’ll give you nothing unless you fight for it. I’ve been in prison you know.’
Liam’s jaw dropped as he gaped in astonishment at this surprise revelation. ‘What. Do you mean actually in…, er, prison, or do you mean just visiting somebody inside?’
‘As a prisoner, of course,’ Nellie snorted. ‘You have to make sacrifices in the fight for what you want and what I want are proper rights for women. We’re getting there slowly but we’ve a long way to go yet.’
‘Oh, you mean like those suffragettes and things?’
‘Aye, I’m a suffragist right enough. It was me who helped bring Selina Cooper to that big meeting at Central Hall in 1909. Do you remember that? Was your good lady there?’
‘Well, no. She doesn’t disagree, mind. She didn’t want the trouble with the police; breaking windows and all that. Not when she had the kids to think about.’
‘She would have been alright with that lot. They just wanted to hold peaceful demonstrations. I didn’t mind supporting them but sometimes peaceful is not enough to get what should be your basic rights.’
‘But what difference will it make in the end? Nothing will change.’
Nellie’s feathers were visibly ruffled as she expanded like a preening cock pigeon and glared haughtily at Liam, regretting already his carelessly chosen words. ‘Things will indeed change, young man,’ she declaimed. ‘You mark my words, they will change. Why do men think that they are the only ones who should have the right to vote and decide how to run things? Women could do a much better job anyway, best part of the time.’
‘I… I’m sorry. I wasn’t meaning to suggest that women shouldn’t have a say.’
‘No. The problem for you lads is that you went over there fighting for King and Country but what did his royal worthless and his cohorts care? They care about themselves and protecting their interests, that’s all. The working classes? — playthings and toys to be used and discarded as they see fit. Don’t give me King and Country. The Germans needed to be stopped because they are just as bad but the time has come to settle the account. Too many families paid too big a price and now’s the time to give them what’s their due.’
Liam stared at this intimidating, puzzling anomaly of a woman; at once fiercely anti-establishment yet enjoying a standard of living way beyond the aspirations of any of his circle of friends. ‘You’re probably right,’ he finally ventured.
‘Of course I’m right,’ Nellie asserted, but with considerably less venom in her voice. ‘There’s no question about it. Now, what about this vegetable business? Have you got many supplying you?’
‘I’m getting it mostly from the allotments down Howard Street and some from up Seedley.’
‘Are there others who can supply you?’
‘There are some big pitches in Weaste, some on the Height, some down Littleton Road. They’re all over the place, really. But I don’t want to work against the greengrocers; that’s just taking the bread out of their mouths.’
‘Who said anything about working against them?’ Nellie snapped. ‘But what about working with them?’ Liam had begun to understand that Nellie Grimshaw didn’t waste words but he was struggling to comprehend the significance of this latest cryptic delivery. ‘You’ve proved with what you are doing that people think that your stuff is alright,’ she continued. ‘We have more than twenty greengrocers within a mile of here and a lot more down Broughton. They are nearly all supplied by Meredith’s who work out of Smithfield Market. He’s a right twister. Gives the smaller shops stuff that is going off and just looks after his big customers. He would hardly notice it if somebody started putting in some decent stuff from the local allotments.’
‘I suppose that might work,’ Liam said, warming to the idea. ‘The lads on the allotments would probably welcome a bit of beer money as well.’
‘It would work. Artingstall’s and Robinson’s have both told me they would be willing to give it a go with some of your stuff, so that’s a start. Now then, there’s an empty shop down Regent Road — used to sell furniture. There is a yard at the back with a big storage shed. Go down and have a look at it and take your wife with you. That shop might be a much better place for her than the Flat Iron Market. First month rent free. It’s yours if you want it.’
Liam gasped at the pace of the conversation. ‘Well, er, thanks. I’ll have a word with Brig. Do you think…?’ But Nellie had already set off for the front door. It was clear that the interview had finished.
‘Don’t dither, lad. Go in the morning then go and see Captain Brown at the Salford Charter Bank. He’ll sort it out.’
Within seconds, Liam found himself standing on the front door step. ‘Well, thanks very much. I’ll get something sorted out.’ He made to set off but turned back again. ‘By the way, Mrs Grimshaw.’
‘Yes.’ The fiercely challenging, steady stare had returned. Their business had finished.
‘Oh, er… nothing. It can wait.’
Chapter 15
Watching the excitedly gossiping groups filtering slowly into the room, Liam realised that many of them, like both himself and Edward, would be stretching their drinks to minimise their outlay. The employed, especially those at Westinghouse in Trafford Park, would be freer with their spending. Whatever, they were all here to escape their street worries and to enjoy themselves. Throughout the day, he had been feeling a sense of eager anticipation about tonight. Maybe this was because, for the first time since being demobilised twelve months before, he could feel that he was both looking and going forward in his life. It was only the beginnings but at least he had something to get up for in the mornings. His business was slowly expanding and he had now enrolled more collectors into his scheme. But the arrival of the dark haired, beautiful baby girl three months before had given a huge new impetus to his life. Between himself, Billy, Amy and Pippin, they had developed a work pattern that enabled them to cover for the absence of Bridget in the business. He was working long, tiring hours but he was fulfilled and happy. He had been frantic with worry during the delivery but when his wife, lank hair brushed off her sweating brow, had held his hand, smiled up at him and whispered ‘It’s a girl,’ he had almost erupted with pleasure. ‘God has been kind to us,’ Bridget had said and they called her Grace.
Tonight was going to be good for him and for all the others, now finding seats, ordering drinks, laughing with their neighbours and calling out to friends across the room.
The grandly named London and North Western Hotel, or the Norwest, as it was more commonly known locally, was on a much grander scale than the Railway Hotel that Liam and Eddie normally went in. With its huge concert room, it was also more suitable for special occasions such as this one tonight. Epiglottis, playing the role for the evening of a theatrical impresario, had announced that he would bring in some of the Company that he had been rehearsing his most recent sketch with prior to its presentation at the Hippodrome. Such nights were always popular with the locals as the performers loved to entertain and they, in return, were always generously rewarded with free drinks by both the locals and the landlord.
These concerts were often noisy and boisterous but, with the spirit of good-hearted, neighbourly self-regulation, it was rare for it to go beyond loud verbal exchanges. Unlike its neighbour, the Ship, only a hundred yards down the road, it wasn’t frequented by the sailors from the vessels that were visiting the Docks.
In a public house such as the Ship, where female affections could be bought for a very modest consideration, a badly timed or poorly directed enquiry as to a woman’s availability could quickly erupt into a serious fracas in which broken glasses
and bottles were often the weapons of choice.
The Norwest, on the other hand, was generally patronised by commercial travellers, or those who were otherwise in mid-journey, along with just a few locals. Apart from the weekends, its size meant that, except for wedding parties, coming-of-age celebrations and evenings of entertainment such as this one, it never appeared particularly busy.
Liam leant on the bar, watching the two recently-arrived barmen listlessly polishing the newly washed glasses, their attention focused on their discussion of the following day’s United match. A waiter hovered solicitously over a couple who were just settling themselves into their chairs. The concert room was quickly filling up and buzzed with anticipation as new arrivals greeted friends and reorganised the seating arrangements. The preference was generally for the drab, beer stained moquette covered bench seats round the wall rather than the bentwood chairs that were precisely aligned around the small circular tables in the centre. The slight smoke haze that was already accumulating was barely disturbed by the lazily turning punkah-wallah fans in the ceiling.
Epiglottis, swooping around the room like a tall, demented crow trying to gather its unruly brood together into one corner, startled the gathering crowd with a dramatic groan. ‘OH, MY GOD,’ he bellowed as if enunciating a passage from Hamlet. Flinging his frayed black cloak over his shoulder before straightening his silk top hat, he turned to address the now hushed audience. His heavy eyebrows and creased forehead convolved into an expression of pained puzzlement and he held out his cane to extract maximum drama from the brief pause. ‘I have the cream of British artistic talent gathered round me, yet not one is skilled in the fine art of the piano,’ he declaimed. His eyes resolved into a hawk-like stare as he cast around the audience searching for a volunteer. He spotted Tommy Pearson sitting at a table with his wife, Elsie, and his face beamed with sudden pleasure. Tommy, a smallish man with grey hair arranged smoothly across his head and an engaging smile playing constantly across his mouth, was a talented but unconventional pianist, being unable to read a note of music. Elsie was slim and waspish, with sandy hair, neatly plucked eyebrows and an ascetic reluctance to be seen enjoying herself. Epiglottis flung his arms out wide, jumped off the stage and advanced on the smiling Tommy. ‘Tommy Pearson,’ he enthused, his pronounced Adam’s apple jumping in excited animation. ‘How good it is of you to come along to our humble gathering. I wonder if I might beg of you the small favour of accompanying our artists on the piano keyboard. Such a talent as yours appears to be absent from our group of otherwise highly gifted artists.’ He took hold of Tommy’s hand to urge him forward, the pianist showing a hesitant reluctance until Elsie nodded her simpering assent, whereupon he strode towards the piano flexing his talented fingers. ‘I’m sure our friends in the audience will show their appreciation to you and your good lady with a few small libations,’ Epiglottis feigned to whisper in his stage-prompt sotto-voce, smiling benignly at the hushed crowd.
Tommy stepped onto the stage where a slim, dapper man with a silver silk tie, sleeked-down hair and a black dress suit with a red cummerbund, was shuffling uneasily in anticipation of his imminent appearance. The small, dapper man straightened up, licked his finger, wiping it nervously over his moustache before risking an apologetic cough to the assembled audience. Some impatient ladies at the front hissed ‘Shush’ to the inattentive drinkers at the bar. This imperative, along with a few dramatic chords from Tommy, produced the required level of order. The singer coughed again. ‘Good evening everybody,’ he began, staring fearfully around the audience. ‘Thank you so much for coming along to our informal concert at the London and North Western Hotel. I would like to begin with a number that was made famous by the wonderful Miss Vesta Tilley.’
He whispered his request for music to Tommy, who nodded and played a quick scattering of notes. The singer began falteringly but the audience were forgiving, assisting his nervous performance by joining in the chorus. Eventually, his rendition of Burlington Bertie, strutting up and down the small stage, extravagantly waving his silver-topped cane, drew a moderately encouraging response.
Bolstered by the applause, he turned to Tommy. ‘Can you play If You Were the Only Girl in the World for me? I haven’t been able to sing it for such a long time but I shall try to be brave tonight.’
He fidgeted with his cane, took out his handkerchief to mop his brow and moustache and smiled feebly at the audience. ‘I want to sing you a song that has a special meaning for me,’ he gulped, ‘as it brings back floods of memories of someone who showed much kindness to me at a time of great need and who suffered much as a consequence. I want to dedicate this song to the beautiful Miss Dorothy de Vine.’
A number in the audience nudged their neighbours, muttering animatedly as Tommy played the opening bars of the number. The dapper man began the first faltering few notes, a tear glistening in his eye, but he gained in confidence as the performer in him began to take over. The song drew a polite, if restrained, applause from the audience. He thanked Tommy for his accompaniment and bowed to the audience, milking the applause a little more than would have been thought seemly, but clearly relieved at having reached the end of his performance.
‘You wouldn’t have chanced that if Big Charlie had been here, you cheeky little sod,’ a man in overalls standing near the bar shouted out.
‘No, what right have you abusing his wife’s memory like that?’ a thin lady wearing a shawl cried out. ‘You did enough damage with your goings on.’
‘Aye, and got what you deserved,’ another woman yelled out. ‘Which is more than you can say for Dorothy.’
The dapper man’s graceful bow convolved into a violent shudder whilst the audience became transfixed with worried anticipation as the singer froze on his supporting cane. Fear spread across the quaking performer’s face as he heard once again the name that was locked like a block of ice deep within his soul; Big Charlie. The big man’s woeful misinterpretation of the dapper man’s presence in his home, when he had returned on leave, had produced a violent response; the consequences had been dire.
The man at the bar shouted again. ‘Don’t bloody stand there looking like a wet weekend. Sod off.’
More voices were raised and people began to throw beer mats and empty cigarette packets. A stout lady heaved herself to her feet and, brandishing a brutal walking stick, approached the stage. ‘How dare you insult Big Charlie like that, you lily livered pestilence,’ she shouted. Other women got to their feet and joined the abuse of the hapless entertainer.
Liam, standing at the bar with Edward, shook his head in disbelief. He had looked forward to this evening so much but it was now in danger of being ruined by the increasingly nasty situation that was developing. He took a quick drink of his beer, strode quickly from the back of the room and, putting one hand on the dapper man’s shoulder, he held the other up, placating the angry audience. ‘Friends,’ he shouted. ‘Friends, please. Let’s have some order please.’ The women settled back in their seats and calm began to return. ‘Our friend here has just done probably the hardest thing in his life, to confront his fears, and those of you who were out in France know how hard that is. And don’t forget, this poor sod had no officers shouting at him and blowing bloody whistles.’
‘He had Eppie at the back of the stage threatening him with his pointy cane, though,’ the stout lady, now resident again behind her foaming glass of porter, roared out then rocked with mirth at her own contribution. Others began to laugh, grateful for the relaxing of the tense atmosphere.
‘Could be, could be,’ Liam continued, smiling. ‘But I want to tell you that Big Charlie bore no grudges for what he regarded in the end as an unfortunate incident. If he had been here tonight he would have just wanted you to enjoy yourselves. God knows, there are enough problems out there for us to worry about: what with no jobs, no money and Salford Rugby team with no half backs because of injuries – they’ll be asking me and Eddie to turn out, they’re getting so desperate.’
‘Wel
l, don’t be asking me to turn out at prop,’ big Cyril Whitehouse shouted from the room. ‘I’ve still got a sore arse from the last time you asked me.’ He looked round the room for plaudits but the wide grin soon waned as he ducked to avoid his wife’s arcing hand and it withered completely under her rebuking tongue.
‘You’ll have to get your missus to rub some calamine cream on it for you,’ Liam answered, grateful that Cyril seemed to be now taking a more relaxed view about that particularly painful experience.
‘There’s not much chance of that,’ Cyril’s wife retorted. ‘You’ll not catch me rubbing anything on that ugly, hairy thing.’ A burst of laughter and applause stifled the mortified man’s attempts to quieten his wife. ‘What?’ she asked, turning to her appreciative audience. ‘It was bad enough bathing the other side after he fell asleep with a hot mug of tea in his hand.’ Women shrieked with laughter whilst the men chortled in quiet sympathy.
‘Bet that curbed his enthusiasm for a bit,’ screamed the stout lady with the glass of porter. The room erupted with laughter whilst the now totally humiliated Cyril pleaded with his wife to be quiet. She was not, however, to be denied her moment in the spotlight, even though this public opprobrium would kill for ever her husband’s priapic boastings in the bars of Cross Lane. Oblivious to the discomfort of her profusely sweating husband, she stood and announced to the room, ‘That’s about the best you could say about it – a bit. Lucky if he can remember where he has tucked it away sometimes.’ Cyril writhed in his chair, lowering his head in an effort to prevent the public witness of his glowing shame. ‘But he’s a big pet, really,’ she added, patting the squirming Cyril on the head.
Liam struggled to restore order, finally managing to quieten the chuckling crowd. ‘Friends,’ he shouted. ‘There’s a lot more to come yet. Let’s just do what Big Charlie would have wanted us to do and give the singer a nice round of applause.’ The audience clapped loudly, albeit mainly for the performances of Liam and Cyril Whitehouse’s wife. The dapper man managed a feeble, if fearful, smile and waved timidly before being ushered off by a robust lady with a brightly flowered dress.
Rags, Bones and Donkey Stones (Sequel) Page 13
