Rags, Bones and Donkey Stones (Sequel)

by B A Lightfoot

  ‘Well, I wish you the best of luck, son. But what is the next step going to be? You’ll be wanting to bring her down here, I suppose. Ah, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, if you don’t scare the B’Jesus out of me. If you want to invite her to meet your family you will have to give me plenty of notice. We’ll have to do a lot of Hail Marys before that can happen.’

  ‘Just do a few for me this afternoon, Mam, and then we’ll take it from there.’

  The proscriptive notices on the front gate, alongside the warning sign for the dog, had caused some confusion for Callum, already tense with worry about his forthcoming encounter. After a moment’s hesitation, he had decided that the one directing tradesmen to the back door covered the category that he best fitted. Having then made his way through the wisteria-laden pergola to the rear of the house, he was received with coy affability by the maid. When he told her that he had come to see Miss Peterson, however, her attitude changed to one of almost mocking disdain. She was clearly a maid of some discernment, recognising immediately the futility of his spurious aspirations.

  Jean, however, was reassuring and generous, telling him that it would have been fine if he had just come to the front door. Taking his shaking hand, she led him up the stairs and they emerged into a wide, Axminster-carpeted hall where a curved wooden balustrade swept alongside the staircase to the upper floors. The stained glass panelling round the main entrance door dappled the pale green wall with splashes of blue, red and yellow and sparked vivid rainbows through the crystal prisms of the chandelier. Unsynchronised patches of colour landed haphazardly on photographs of cricket teams, golf club presentations, motor cars with their drivers standing proudly at their side, a vaguely familiar, beautiful woman being presented with a bouquet of flowers, a Japanese woman in a silk kimono, and a duetting couple in front of a costumed chorus line in the setting of a magnificent Venetian square. ‘It’s going to be fine, honest,’ she assured him, squeezing his hand. ‘Dada has just won his game of golf so he is feeling quite jubilant.’ She ushered him through a heavy doorway and he tried to stifle the groan as he was struck on the hip by the large brass door knob.

  ‘This is my father,’ she said, introducing him, as they walked into the lavishly furnished reception room, to a tall man with wavy, iron-grey hair. ‘Dada, this is Callum.’

  ‘Ah, Murphy,’ her father said, shaking his hand with an almost unnecessary vigour. ‘Pleased to meet you. Would you like a gin and tonic?’

  ‘Oh, er, no thank you, sir,’ Callum responded with the ascetic stringency of someone who has been conditioned by years of maternal lecturing on the evils of gin. ‘Do you think that I might have just a glass of water, please?’

  ‘A glass of water?’ Mr Peterson guffawed. ‘Are you not going to help me celebrate my success in this year’s handicap?’

  ‘Well, if it is alright with you, I think that maybe I should just stick to water.’

  ‘Oh, don’t let Dada talk you into getting drunk with him,’ Jean said, pulling him over to a tall, austere but once beautiful, woman with greying hair. ‘This is my mother. Mummy, this is Callum.’

  ‘I am pleased to meet you, Mr Murphy. Jean has told us a lot about you. I understand that you have a keen interest in music.’

  Callum looked at the appraising blue eyes of this modishly dressed woman and knew that his answer, though registered, would be of little consequence. ‘Er, yes. I do enjoy going to the Hallé whenever I get the chance.’

  ‘What do you think about this man, Elgar?’

  ‘Oh, well, I think that he has written some pretty rousing stuff.’

  ‘Indeed. He is a Catholic you know. Are you a Catholic, Mr Murphy?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, to be honest. If I am, I am a very lapsed one. In fact, the only services that I go to are at Salford Central which is Congregational.’

  ‘Ah, you are a separatist, then. How interesting.’

  Callum stared at Mrs Peterson, unable to comprehend the significance of being regarded as a separatist or, indeed, understanding the consequence of that in her assessment of him. Jean linked her arm in his, steering him away from his inquisitor as she pointed to a girl in her late teens who was lolling in a Chesterfield armchair. ‘That is my sister, Charlotte. She will allow you to call her ‘Charlie’ if she decides that she approves of you. She is in love with the film star, Douglas Fairbanks, and is being pursued by Timmy Hampson who lives on Cholmondely Road. She doesn’t know what to do with her life if Fairbanks doesn’t scoop her up and carry her off to some exotic, far off land but now there is all that awful gossip about him and Mary Pickford. She thinks that she might become a missionary in Africa but will probably become a music teacher. She is a very talented pianist and she also plays the violin.’

  Callum looked at the young woman whose large blue eyes were carefully appraising him. She had her older sister’s good looks but she had had her hair cut short in the defiant style that was becoming increasingly popular in the Women’s Movement. He could easily appreciate what was driving Timmy Hampson in his forlorn quest for her affections. Jean pushed him across the room to her sister. ‘Charlie, this is Callum. Callum, this is my sister Charlotte.’

  She shook his hand with languid disinterest before a sudden smile lit up her face. ‘You didn’t purposely divert through the kitchen just to set poor Mary’s heart fluttering, did you Callum?’

  ‘Oh, ah, no,’ he stuttered, perplexed for a moment by her mischievous humour. ‘I thought that it might be a safe refuge after reading the sign warning me about the dog.’

  ‘Oh dear, no. You might have been safer taking your chance with the dog.’ Charlotte teased. ‘Still, you survived unscathed. Jean tells me that you are going to come to our meetings to support us.’

  ‘I do believe that it is a just cause, and I admire you all for the determination that you have shown.’

  ‘It is not the way that I brought them up I can assure you, Mr Murphy,’ Mrs Peterson said sniffily. ‘Carrying on like they do; shouting at members of the public and breaking windows. That is no way for ladies to behave.’

  ‘We are fighting for our rights, Mama,’ Charlotte responded. ‘We have achieved an extension of the franchise but it is not enough. We want the same rights as men. Why should they have the vote at twenty one when we don’t?’

  ‘Why can’t you just leave it to the men to sort these things out?’ her mother asked. ‘They have the knowledge to understand these things. We have enough to think about with running the house and bringing up the family.’

  Mr Peterson laid his hand on his wife’s arm. ‘They are like all young people, dear. They want to change the world, just as we believed that we could when we were young.’

  ‘And change it we will, Dada, and believe me, it will be all the better for it,’ Jean answered fiercely.

  ‘Well, leave some space in it for us humble males, won’t you, darling?’ her father said smiling. ‘You’ve already pushed our little man out of things.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Simon,’ she said, putting her hand to her mouth. ‘Callum, come over here and meet my brother. He can be a little horror like most boys but he does have his better moments.’ She directed him towards the pubescent boy who was sitting uncomfortably on the Chesterfield settee, tugging constantly on the hem of his short trousers. ‘Simon, just put down your Film Fun for a minute and meet Callum. Callum, this is Simon. His worldly ambition has now elevated from being a train driver to appearing in a Buster Keaton film.’

  Callum took the outstretched hand and shook it formally. ‘That’s not a bad ambition,’ he said, winking at the lad. ‘I wouldn’t mind appearing in a Buster Keaton film myself.’

  ‘Oh, wow. Have you seen The Garage’? He is in it with Fatty Arbuckle.’

  ‘No, not yet. Is it one that I could take your sister to see? Do you think that she would enjoy it?’

  ‘No, no chance. She wouldn’t think it was very funny. Girls don’t have much of a sense of humour. Jean said that you were in the army.’

&n
bsp; ‘That’s right. I was. We came home in April.’

  ‘Did you kill many Germans?’

  ‘Well, no. I didn’t actually kill any. I was a despatch rider on a motor bike and that didn’t involve doing any shooting. More being shot at, really.’

  Mr Peterson, who had wandered across with the glass of water for Callum, interrupted the conversation. ‘What was that? You used to ride motor bikes?’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Peterson. That’s right, until, that is, they discovered that I was quite good with engines and they put me in charge of maintaining the trucks.’

  ‘What sort of a motor bike did you have?’

  ‘I started with a Douglas 2, the 350cc model, but then I got a Triumph.’

  ‘What? It wasn’t the type A, the one with the 550cc engine?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. You know it?’

  ‘I do indeed. What a lovely beast of a bike that was. I enjoy a good motorcycle ride but my wife thinks that it is a bit common, don’t you dear?’

  ‘I don’t know what you see in them,’ his wife retorted. ‘They must be very uncomfortable apart from being extremely smelly.’

  Mr Peterson chortled and clapped a hand on Callum’s shoulder. ‘I’ve got a little beauty in the garage. The first model made by Lea-Francis.’

  Callum was astonished. ‘No,’ he said, his mouth gaping open. ‘The 1912 with the chain drive?’ This bike had been revolutionary when it was introduced by bicycle maker Lea-Francis. Motor bikes before that had had belt drives. He remembered his excitement and envy as a fifteen year old when a customer had brought one to the workshop where he was apprenticed.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Jean’s father enthused. ‘Two speed gearbox as well. She has a 430cc engine and she runs as smooth as a bird. Come and have a look at her. She is a real dream.’

  The family watched, totally bemused, as the two men disappeared out of the room, the older one with his arm round the shoulders of the younger, both chatting excitedly.

  Chapter 18

  ‘They were after volunteers to work this afternoon and lots of us put our hands up because we thought that it might be a bit of extra money,’ Amy said as she tucked the woollen scarf more tightly round her friend’s throat. ‘There you are, Pip. That should be a bit better. It’ll help to keep some of this freezing wind out. You’d best bring that la-di-dah fur muffler that your Aunty Sarah gave you. Do you think that your mother will mind if I borrow that black leather one that she doesn’t like. My fingers felt as though they were dropping off when I came round.’

  ‘I am sure that will be fine. What are you doing here then?’

  ‘What? Oh, you mean and not at the mill. One of the women asked the chargehand what we would be doing and he said that it was a health exercise. Eventually he told us that the Corporation have set this week to be Rat Week. That’s what he wanted us to do – catch rats. No pay, just catch rats. Edna Minshull said, “You can’t feed a family on rats,” and the chargehand told her she should do it to be public spirited.’

  Pippin laughed. ‘She’s quick to speak her mind. What did Edna say to that?’

  ‘She said, “Go and tell the Corporation that when they send somebody down to do my washing and ironing then that’s when I’ll come and chase their rats for them.”’

  ‘What’s going to happen then, if nobody wants to volunteer?’

  ‘They’ll try and get the lads to do it. They enjoy killing them when they see them. None of the girls would have gone, anyway. We’ve found out that they wanted us to do it out at the back and everybody says that it is haunted there.’

  ‘That sounds horrible.’

  ‘It is. They keep finding dead bodies floating past. It’s where the hot water from the boilers empties into the canal,’ Amy said.

  ‘Oh, God. That is really frightening. I wouldn’t go out there.’

  ‘Nor me. It’s weird, isn’t it? If you are going to kill yourself, why would you prefer the warmer water?’

  ‘Perhaps it just gives them a bit of comfort in their troubles. I think that I would prefer the warmer water if I was going to commit suicide,’ Pippin said thoughtfully.

  ‘Perhaps so. You wouldn’t want to think that life was that bad, even right to the last minute.’

  ‘If the warm water is too nice, though, you might change your mind. Then what would you do?’

  ‘Wish that you hadn’t left your heavy clogs on, probably,’ Amy said, grimacing.

  The girls giggled at the audacity of their discussion. ‘Are we ready to go now?’ Pippin asked.

  ‘Yes, come on. Let’s go and get frozen. Where should we go?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about Mr Murphy,’ Pippin said.

  ‘And the picture?’

  ‘Yes, and the picture.’

  ‘It’s worrying him,’ Amy said, her face becoming quickly clouded.

  ‘I know. I have been thinking whether there was any way that we could help him. It could be quite exciting if we found something out.’

  ‘It would be great. I’ve been trying to think of something that we could do but couldn’t come up with any bright ideas. Have you thought of anything?’

  ‘Well, I just thought that we have never heard of this Salford Canary singer, so she must be from before our time,’ Pippin reasoned.

  ‘But none of the old ones had heard of her either.’

  ‘All apart from that strange man that they call Eppie,’ Pippin said.

  ‘We can’t ask him. He’s frightening.’

  ‘I know. But I thought whether we could ask somebody who is as old as he is.’

  ‘But he’s about a hundred,’ Amy said, astonished. ‘There can’t be anyone else who’s that old.’

  ‘What about Granny Higgins?’

  ‘What! The old witch who lives down Ordsall Lane? The one who gives you a mix of her magic soot and milk if you have boils?’

  ‘Yes, her. Mam took me to see her when I had cut my leg and she fixed it with some cobwebs out of her shed.’

  ‘I remember that. She is a bit ancient, I suppose,’ Amy agreed. ‘But I’m not going to that creepy hovel with those mad cats.’

  ‘We’ve no choice if we want to see her. She hardly ever goes out of the house.’

  ‘Can’t you get your Edward to come with us?’

  ‘He’s gone to the match. We’ll be alright if we go together,’ Pippin reassured her.

  ‘She might put a spell on us. Look what she did to Rumpy Watkin’s dog after he called her an old bat. It died the next day.’

  ‘It was old and moth-eaten anyway. We can stand outside to ask her if she remembers. She’s been around forever so she might do.’

  ‘Tell your mother where we are going so that somebody knows,’ Amy said. ‘You can’t be too cautious.’

  ‘Ames! Come on. We’ll be alright. Let’s go and ask her. It’s the only chance that we’ve got to help Mr Murphy. And just think how impressed Billy Murphy will be if we do find something that helps his dad,’ Pippin added mischievously.

  Amy flushed slightly and headed for the door. ‘Huh. I’m not bothered about Billy Murphy and I’m not frightened of Granny Higgins either.’

  The girls headed off down Trafford Road, their heads bowed against the biting wind. The bitter weather ensured that there were less people out than normal for a Saturday afternoon. A few women, shrouded in heavy woollen shawls, struggled with the bags and canvas sacks of their weekly shopping. Some stragglers, hands thrust deep into their trouser pockets, hurried down for the match at Old Trafford where the eager crowd were already roaring their enthusiastic pre-match support. A man with thick, black hair and a black overcoat was offering a helping hand to a thin, dishevelled young woman huddled in the doorway of an empty shop. The whimpering cry of a baby drifted weakly from under the canopy of cardboard beneath which she was trying to shelter. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Roff,’ Pippin called brightly.

  ‘Ah, good afternoon girls,’ the minister from the local church answered. ‘I am just offering thi
s unfortunate lady the comfort and warmth of our soup kitchen.’

  ‘My mother said that she was coming down later with some buns that she has made,’ Pippin said.

  ‘Good, good. Your mother’s buns are always well received. She has a great talent for baking. And how is your father today?’

  ‘He’s had a bad night with his coughing,’ Pippin answered. ‘He seemed a bit better this morning after his medicine and his pot of tea.’

  At the corner of Tatton Street they peered into the Chinese Laundry, enjoying the steamy, astringent warmth that flowed through the open window. Two bleary-eyed Chinamen, cigarettes clenched between their lips with ash dropping onto their white linen jackets, folded piles of blue cotton shirts with an unhurried somnolence induced by the atmosphere of the laundry. Two huge drying racks, loaded with seaman’s trousers, hung from the ceiling. Through the open door on the far side of the room they could see another man with a wooden, three-legged dolly, pummelling clothes in a huge, steaming, copper boiler.

  ‘No wonder their hair is like that working in that horrible atmosphere,’ Amy said.