Rags, Bones and Donkey Stones (Sequel)

by B A Lightfoot

‘I don’t know how they can do it. Come on; let’s hurry up and get down to Grandma Higgins’s before we freeze to death.’

  Reaching Ordsall Lane, they turned down the narrow lane that led to the river, dominated along most of its length by forbidding factories belching sulphurous smoke. They headed towards the short row of terraced cottages lining the first half of one side of the street, cowering under the sooty domination of their massive industrial neighbours. They hovered hesitantly in front of the dark doorway, neither of them willing to be the one who raised the cast iron knocker. A stuffed, ginger cat gazed down menacingly at them from the half-round glass panel above the peeling door. Eventually, Pippin, as the instigator of the mission, decided it was her responsibility. She raised the knocker slowly then brought it down quickly, giving three sharp raps. Amy looked at her fearfully. ‘Careful, Pip,’ she whispered. ‘We don’t want to upset her.’

  ‘She will have all her doors closed in this weather,’ Pippin reassured her. ‘She probably wouldn’t hear us if we didn’t bang.’

  ‘This might not be one of your better ideas.’ Amy said nervously. ‘Perhaps I should have volunteered for the rat catching instead.’

  ‘Stop worrying, Ames. We’ll be fine. Mam says she is very clever really. She is just a bit eccentric, that’s all.’ Pippin rapped the heavy knocker again, this time even harder.

  ‘Oh, my God, Pip. Go easy. Eccentric is bad enough but angry eccentric could be frightening.’

  They heard shuffling clogs coming down the hall and a yapping dog yelped as it was nudged to one side. ‘Well, how am I supposed to see you hiding under there?’ Granny Higgins grumbled at the offending animal. ‘Hello, hello,’ she shouted through the door. ‘Now where have I put that key? Who’ll be coming on a day like this?’

  The key clicked in the lock and the door opened. Granny Higgins’s proportions were severely distorted by the volume of clothing that she wore. The girls could see at least three thick woollen skirts, a dark green blouse under a blue and grey striped sweater and a man’s blue denim work jacket with the arms of a waiter’s white coat stitched into it. Tufts of grey hair stuck out erratically from the edge of a red linen helmet that was fastened under her chin and surmounted by a brown, soft felt hat. A long, knitted scarf was wrapped many times about her neck and her hands were covered by frayed woollen gloves through which some of her fingers protruded.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Higgins,’ Pippin called brightly. Amy, sheltering discreetly behind her friend, gave a feeble wave.

  The old lady peered at them briefly over the rim of her tiny glasses before rummaging in a deep pocket and producing a lorgnette through which she carefully assessed them. ‘Ah. Hmmm. Growing up into bonny girls. Can’t be doing with it. Time flying. How’s that father of yours? Come for something for him, have you?’

  ‘No, thanks, Mrs Higgins. Mam had some stuff a few weeks ago and he seems to be a bit better now. Thank you anyway. We… we came to ask…’

  ‘For some advice,’ Amy added helpfully.

  ‘Advice? Well now. Advice. You’d better come in then. Come in, come in,’ she said ushering her visitors through the door. ‘Mind, it’s just as cold in here as it is out there. That new stuff they brought doesn’t work. Progress, they say. Where’s progress when you can’t get a flicker of a flame?’

  The girls gasped at the pungent smell of cabbage, cats and carbolic that hit them as they walked up the dark hall. Granny Higgins steered them towards the chaise longue with her stick before settling herself in a creaking rocking chair. Pippin stared at the glass dome on the sideboard, looking for reassurance that the dormouse peeping through the sheaves of grass and red poppies was, indeed, an inert part of the display. The wallpaper in the room was stained dark by the years of smoking fires, the furniture heavy Victorian mahogany, but behind the rocking chair was a huge, walnut bookshelf crammed with a fascinating array of books; so many, in fact, that some were laid across the tops of the rows standing on the shelves.

  ‘Have you been having some problems lighting your fire, Mrs Higgins?’ Amy asked, indicating the pile of spent matches and charred paper that littered the hearth.

  ‘Fire? Fire? There’s not a chance of a flame from it. Wait till that coalman comes here again. He can take it all back. Bring me some proper coal, that’s what I need. Where are they getting this grey stuff from? Probably some foreign rubbish.’

  ‘It’s coke, Mrs Higgins,’ Pippin said helpfully. ‘It isn’t coal. This is from the gas works.’

  ‘It doesn’t light very easily,’ Amy said. ‘You need some proper coal to get it started. Once it get’s going, it is really hot.’

  ‘Fine chance of that. I’ve used half a bag of sugar on it already and it’s still not burning.’

  ‘Would you like me to light it for you?’ Amy asked. ‘Have you still got some coal, the proper black stuff?’

  ‘There might still be a bit down in the cellar.’

  ‘I’ll have a look,’ Amy said, glad of the distraction.

  Whilst she was gone, Granny Higgins pointed to the open book that lay on the small table at the side of her chair. ‘Galsworthy trilogy. Read it three times now. This is what you young girls ought to be reading, not this Louisa M Alcott stuff. Do you like reading?’

  ‘I do. Very much,’ Pippin answered. ‘But it can be very difficult sometimes when you have a big family round you.’

  ‘Find yourself a corner and look after your books. Keep your books and you’ll have riches for life. Look at this shelf behind me. Think how much knowledge is concentrated into that small space. I can see the world from the comfort of my armchair through those books. I can share the pain, the hardship and the happiness of others through my own imagination with those precious pages.’

  Amy clattered through the door lugging a bucket full of coal. ‘You’ve got plenty of this in your cellar. I’ll have the fire going in no time.’ She cleared all the coke out of the grate and placed screwed up paper in the bottom. She then placed on top some thin pieces of wood from the pile at the side of the hearth, followed by a layer of coal then filled it over the top with coke. Reaching up to the lace-fringed mantelpiece for the safety matches, she turned to Pippin. ‘Does Mrs Higgins remember this singer then?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t asked her yet.’

  ‘Haven’t asked me what?’ the old woman said sharply. ‘Why don’t you just ask me if you have something to say, instead of gossiping about other things?’

  Pippin flushed slightly. ‘Well, it’s something or nothing really. We had just heard about somebody and we thought that you might remember her name.’

  ‘Or maybe tell us something about her,’ Amy said.

  ‘She seems to be something of a mystery,’ Pippin contributed.

  ‘The fire is going quite well now, Mrs Higgins.’

  ‘It does, it does. You’re a clever child. It shows how good the old stuff is. They bring out all these new things but they’re never as good. What seems to be a mystery? Are you turning yourselves into detectives or something?’ Granny Higgins asked conspiratorially. ‘Has anybody found the body?’

  ‘Oh, no. There’s no body,’ Pippin said. ‘There’s nothing like that. It’s just that we heard a story about somebody from Salford and she sounded quite interesting.’

  ‘Somebody from years ago, maybe,’ Amy added.

  ‘Yes, and we know that you have been in Salford for lots of years.’

  ‘And know masses of people.’

  ‘And we just wondered if you might have heard of her.’

  ‘Well now, well now. That’s a possibility, I suppose,’ Granny Higgins said, peering at them over her glasses. ‘I might, indeed, know something about her. I might have known her family well. I might have helped to get rid of a few ailments for her. On the other hand, it could be that I know nothing at all apart from the fact that she is female.’

  The girls looked at each other blankly. ‘Sorry, Mrs Higgins, you’ve lost me there,’ Amy said, shrugging.

&nbs
p; ‘You said that it is a ‘her’ but you haven’t said anything else. I might be old but my hearing is alright.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Mrs Higgins,’ Pippin said. ‘I see what you mean now. We don’t know very much, really. We saw this picture of this lady and she was very beautiful. The grown-ups were puzzling as to who it might be.’

  ‘We think that she might have been a singer,’ Amy added.

  ‘But we don’t know when from. Billy Murphy’s dad had heard that they used to call her the Salford Canary.’

  Granny Higgin’s face became suddenly taut, her eyes dull and fearful. ‘Where have you seen a picture of that one?’

  Both girls, sensing that they had stumbled into an area that was painful and troubling for the old lady, became very hesitant. ‘Er, it was found by Mr Murphy,’ Pippin eventually said. ‘We don’t know where it came from.’

  ‘She was a bad one, a real bad one. Broke many a heart, she did, including that of my lad. He was a fine lad with a good future until she took it all away. Finished up in the River Irwell because of that evil woman. I’d have swung for her if I could have laid hands on her.’

  ‘I… I’m sorry, Mrs Higgins,’ Pippin said. ‘I…, we…, well, we didn’t realise. We just thought that you might have heard of her.’

  ‘Aye, well, I’ve heard of her alright.’ She rummaged in her pocket and took out a lace edged handkerchief and blew her nose into it. ‘You are right; she was a singer amongst other things. She became well known in the nineties singing in theatres round Salford and Manchester then just disappeared. We did hear that she made quite a name for herself in London.’

  ‘Do you know what her name was, Mrs Higgins?’ Amy asked.

  ‘I do, but I’ve said enough now. Pains me to talk about such an evil little witch. They do say least said, soonest mended. I’ve never offered you a cup of tea. Would you like one?’

  ‘Oh, no thank you very much. We’ll be getting on our way now,’ Amy answered for them both. ‘Don’t forget to give the fire a poke. And mix some proper coal in when you are making it or you’ll never get it going.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. You have been very helpful. Pull the door to behind you; I’ll just try and warm up a bit.’

  Chapter 19

  Pushing his chair back, Edward Craigie collected the few remaining plates that were left on the table. He was always last to finish; something to do with the very small mouthfuls that he had got into the habit of taking. It was easier in case he felt a sudden need to cough. He found it remarkable that his wife could still manage to occasionally get hold of some bacon to make their Sunday morning breakfast that little bit special.

  He took the plates and cutlery into the kitchen and washed them carefully. The enamel bowl still had the warm water in it from when Laura had done the rest of the washing up. Laura had already left and gone down the street to her mother’s house; helping the old lady get ready for church. The two of them preferred the structured worship of the Church of England establishment, Stowells Church, whilst the children opted for the more relaxed services and, frankly, the more extensive social life of the Congregationalist Salford Central Mission. For Edward, this was a chance to have half an hour of relaxation with his mug of tea and his Sunday newspaper, The People, before starting on one of the jobs that needed doing.

  He was running a bit late this morning because he had had a bad bout of coughing when the cold air outside had caught his throat as he had visited the toilet. He had spent too long there as his attention had been drawn to an article on the squares of newspaper that were hung on the nail and, having got to the bottom of a sheet, he had been unable to find the continuation of it on another piece. His furious, hacking cough had brought Laura out with some of Granny Higgins’ linctus which had quickly had a calming effect.

  He placed his pint mug of tea on the cast iron hob close to the glowing fire, adjusting it to the optimum position to prevent overheating of the handle, and settled himself back into the rocking chair. He enjoyed these few moments of tranquillity, an interlude of calm and quiet before the start of his increasingly occupied, and tiring, week. Giving Liam a hand for a few hours in the mornings had turned into a full time job and he was grateful when Saturday lunchtime arrived with its opportunity for a couple of pints in the Railway followed by a visit to either the football or the rugby. Young Edward, his son, had been taken on as an apprentice at an engineering firm up Cross Lane and often came to the football with them, spending the rest of his free time on the preening parade on Regent Road. The lads still walked down one side then back up the other, just like they had done in his day.

  He picked up the paper and turned to the back page to check the results from yesterday. Perhaps they would have a walk up to his mother’s later; it didn’t seem right to be doing too many jobs on a Sunday afternoon. Liverpool had struggled against Port Vale but he was quietly pleased to see that arch rivals, Manchester City, had lost to Bolton Wanderers.

  He was startled by the door behind him banging open and turned to see his daughter coming into the room. ‘Hiya, Dad. Did I make you jump? Have you fed the cat this morning or should I do her? Is there any hot water in the kettle? I think that I will have a cup of Bovril.’

  ‘Hello, Pip. Yes, you did, a bit, because I thought that you had all gone out, no I haven’t because she hasn’t come in yet and yes, there should be enough,’ he said, trying to order his responses into the sequence of the rapidly delivered questions. The training that he had had with her mother in responding to a simultaneously delivered series of pent up thoughts, stood him in good stead with their daughter. ‘How come you haven’t gone to church?

  ‘Mam asked me to stay here and look after our Mary. She’s got a bit of a cold and has stayed in bed. She said that she had shouted down the yard to you but didn’t know if you had heard. I’ll take her a mug of Bovril and a round of bread for her dinner later. Mam said that there are some fish heads in the cupboard if Spot comes in. I heard you coughing in the back yard this morning. Perhaps you should go up to the hospital. I’ll come up with you later if you like. Amy might call afterwards, so we could both come up with you.’

  ‘I’m ok, thanks, darling. I go to the Army doctor for a check up and I have got some of Granny Higgins’ cough mixture. That always seems to help.’

  ‘We went to see her yesterday. How do you know these things are any good? People go to her with warts and stomach aches. Where does she get all her cures from? Or does she give everybody the same thing?’

  ‘Well, I believe that it’s handed down through the family. I know that her mother used to do the same thing and the knowledge has probably been handed down through many generations.’

  ‘What? Are they real witches then? She doesn’t use insects and dead mice does she?’

  Edward laughed at the look of shock and disgust on his daughter’s face. ‘No, Pip. They came from near Northwich originally so they are probably old country remedies.’

  ‘That’s in Cheshire. What did they come to Salford for?’

  ‘I heard that her father was a rock getter in the salt mines. Thought that the grass was greener on this side but finished up just being a carter because he knew about horses.’

  ‘That must be why she speaks funny then if she comes from the country. Grandad still sounds funny because he’s from Yorkshire.’

  ‘Well, Grandma comes from Yorkshire as well. Doesn’t she sound funny?’

  ‘Not as much. Grandad says things like “Tha’ll cop for the back of my ‘and if tha’s not careful,”’ she said with a comic exaggeration of her grandad’s accent.

  ‘Why? You’ve not been upsetting him, have you?’

  ‘No, it was to that Maltese kid from next door,’ Pippin answered. ‘Grandad told him to take his football down the street and use the coal yard door for his goals and he used a naughty word. He told Granddad to f something off.’

  ‘Where has he learnt a word like that? He hardly speaks much English.’

  ‘He helps his dad at that
café down Trafford Road. He’s probably heard the sailors swearing.’

  ‘Well, you tell him that he shouldn’t say that word in that way. It is a legal term and should only be used by policemen.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, you are just kidding me now.’

  ‘No, I’m not, honestly. I suppose that you know what the word rape means?’

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ she answered, with the air of patient tolerance used by daughters when questioned by a parent on a subject normally in the grown-ups’ domain. ‘It’s what the Vikings used to do to the women when they invaded a country.’

  ‘Well, yes, roughly. The legal term for that is “For unlawful carnal knowledge.” Hundreds of years ago, it used to be a very common crime in the big cities.’

  ‘What? Do you mean in the Dark Ages? Is that why they called them the Dark Ages? I’m glad that we didn’t live in them. I bet that’s why Mam says don’t talk to any of these coolies off the ships. She says that men can get a bit funny when they’ve been at sea for a long time and they’re not to be trusted. Those Vikings in the Dark Ages must have been at sea for months and it sent them a bit mad.’

  Edward had a sudden bout of coughing as he tried to interject in his daughter’s flow of expressed thoughts. ‘Yes, Pip,’ he finally managed to get out after a soothing sip of his tea and then lighting a cigarette. ‘I’m sure that your Mother is right but I think that this might have been a bit after the Dark Ages.’

  ‘Well, then, Dad, it was probably all the sailors who had been out exploring the world. They were away for years sometimes.’

  ‘Yes, darling. You might be right. I’m not sure that it was just the sailors but it doesn’t matter. It is best if you don’t speak to them, especially now that you are growing into a young lady.’

  ‘No, we don’t, Dad. But what has all this with the sailors got to do with this legal carnal knowledge?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was the clerks in the courts. They had to write the details of the crimes and punishments in the court ledgers and they got fed up with writing “For unlawful carnal knowledge” so many times so they started to abbreviate it and just wrote the initial letters.’