Rags, Bones and Donkey Stones (Sequel)

by B A Lightfoot

  He heard a faint crackle then a voice saying ‘born above her grandmother’s chip shop in Rochdale, she joined a troupe in Blackpool at the age of fourteen.’ He moved the cat’s whisker slightly in the hope of improving the reception, but he lost the voice. Holding his breath so that he wouldn’t cough, he adjusted it back towards its previous position. ‘…sensational at the Royal Command Performance before King George V in 1918,’ the voice continued. ‘She will have you roaring with laughter one minute and weeping the next. Appearing in Manchester this week in her revue, The Tower of London, we are delighted to…’ The door burst open, Edward jumped and the cat’s whisker slid across the crystal.

  ‘Oh, sod it,’ he groaned. ‘Now I’ll never know who they were talking about.’

  Pippin had dashed into the room, breathless and excited. ‘Dad, that’s not a nice way to greet your daughter when she comes in.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, sweetheart. They were just talking about somebody who had been born above a chip shop in Rochdale and had been a sensation at the Royal Command Performance. I lost it when you came rushing in.’

  ‘Dad, listen, I know who it was.’

  Edward looked over his glasses at her, surprised. His eyes were aching again after staring at the end of the cat’s whisker for so long. ‘Well, that is amazing. Who was she?’

  ‘Ellen Connolly,’ his daughter announced triumphantly.

  Her mother put down her knitting and took off her glasses. ‘No, dear, I think that you might be mistaken there. I think that you will find that it was Gracie Fields.’

  ‘No, honestly, Mam. I have just been reading about her at the library and I memorised her name. It was definitely Ellen Connolly.’

  ‘Pip, believe me, it was Gracie Fields,’ her mother said. Her name was Grace Stansfield and she changed it when she became a professional. It’s logical. She just shortened her real name. Why would she call herself Connolly?’

  ‘Mam, why are you going on about Gracie Fields?’

  ‘Because Gracie Fields was born in a chip shop in Rochdale.’

  ‘But she came from Salford. I’ve just been reading about her in the Reporter.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry they must have got it wrong,’ her mother said, exasperated.

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ Edward intervened. ‘I think that your mother is telling me about the woman that they were just talking about on the wireless. They said that she was born in Rochdale. Are you not talking about the same person?’

  ‘No, Dad. I don’t know anything about what they were saying on the wireless. I am trying to tell you about that singer – the Salford Canary woman. She was called Ellen Connolly. I have just been reading about her at the Hippodrome in 1893. They said that she was a ravishing beauty with the voice of an angel. She played to packed houses every night and men queued outside the stage door to give her flowers and chocolates and whatever.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Edward said. ‘We are talking at cross purposes here. You are talking about the woman in the picture that Mr Murphy found a few years back. Well, your description of her certainly fits the bill.’

  ‘A man from the Evening News had called her the Salford Canary and the name had stuck with her. Then later on in the year I found another bit about her that said that she had gone to South Africa at the invitation of the Prince of Wales. It was after we had been in that Boer War. So, wow, how… about… that,’ Pippin said. ‘I wish I could shimmy like my sister Kate,’ she sang twitching her feet and waving her hands in the rebellious yet joyous style of the popular dance culture, soliciting acknowledgement of her achievement.

  ‘You’ve done really well to find that, Pip,’ Edward said. ‘Mr Murphy will be pleased. It completes the story of the mystery woman for him.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Laura said, scrutinising her knitting pattern. ‘I would still like to know what he was doing in the picture in the first place and I would imagine Bridget would be glad of an explanation.’

  Chapter 27

  ‘Mr Molineaux, we know this is a bit of a personal matter but, seeing as we are new here, you are going to have to help us out a bit,’ Amy said, leaning her hands on the table where the thespian was staring absently into space. Occasionally he licked the end of his pencil and became momentarily animated before he relapsed back into a torpid inertia without actually writing anything down. ‘Mr Molineaux can you hear me? Where have you put your dirty washing? I have looked all over and I can’t find it. Could you just join us in this world for a minute, please, so that we can get on with our work?’ she said impatiently.

  A sign of vague recognition flickered in Eppie’s eyes; he heaved a deep, soulful sigh and gestured dramatically with his open hand. ‘My dear, it pains my natural modesty to say that I know how I am famed for my ubiquity throughout this splendid town, but there are times when an artist needs to retreat from the stresses of the physical world and seek solace and stimulus on the fruitful plains of his memory.’

  ‘Well, I am sorry to say this, Mr Molineaux, but from the look on your face those plains looked at though they might be out of season and not bearing much fruit. You looked as though you were miles away. There didn’t seem too much going on in there and we do need to get on.’

  ‘It was not one of my most productive moments, I have to confess. One might be on the cusp of an inspired moment but, sadly, it eludes the frustrated mind,’ he said sheepishly. ‘What was it that you were asking me?’

  Amy wiped the back of her hand over her soot-streaked face. ‘We need your clothes, Mr Molineaux. I have lit the boiler in the cellar and now I need your clothes.’

  Eppie’s copious eyebrows shot up and a look of alarm spread across his face as Pippin joined her determined looking friend. ‘Now wait a minute my good young lady. I do not know what it is that you have been doing in my cellar but, whatever you have planned, I must advise you that it is totally beyond the remit of your job. Mrs Entwistle would be shocked to hear such things emanating from the lips of young ladies for whom she had pledged her trust. My clothes are the cloak of my dignity, my defence against the prying eyes of those who would mock a man who once brought the Bard into their Philistine world. Let me assure you that my clothes are staying where they are and you shall not lay a hand on my person.’

  ‘Well, I have to say, Mr Molineaux that it looks as though they have probably stayed there for a good bit already,’ Amy chided.

  ‘Yes,’ Pippin interjected, ‘I don’t want to offend you but that does look to be the same cardigan and shirt that you had on last Saturday.’

  ‘There is that possibility,’ Eppie said defensively. ‘I have neither the time nor the inclination to keep a diary of what clothes I am wearing on any particular occasion.’

  ‘Actually, what I am looking for is the place where you keep your washing - the clothes that you have taken off that need putting in the laundry,’ Amy said.

  ‘Ah! I see. Then why did you not make yourself more clear,’ Eppie beamed, relieved at the removal of the perceived threat to his respectability. ‘I must explain to you the nature of my work. I offer to the wonderful Salford public a variety of services and, although the monetary reward is but a humble pittance, I strive to carry out my work in the most professional manner. It would not do, when penning a letter of condolence for the loss of a dear one, to be dressed in the garb of a romantic suitor. Could I bring solace to the bereaved in the same clothes in which I pen a letter seeking the hand of a fair lady? I am like a chameleon; I become a part of the situation. The consequence is that, because I constantly change, nothing ever gets dirty enough to require laundering.’

  ‘Mr Molineaux’ Pippin scolded. ‘That really is not good enough. No matter how many times you change, in the end your clothes will get dirty and will need washing. You must look after yourself a bit better.’

  ‘If you want us to clean for you then you will have to realise that you are part of the deal,’ Amy said. ‘Every Saturday morning, you must change your shirt, socks and underwear, espe
cially if you haven’t changed them during the week. You can leave everything on the landing and we will collect them when we arrive.’

  ‘So do you think that you might start now?’ Pippin asked, smiling sweetly at the bewildered scrivener. ‘If you go upstairs and change all your clothes, then we will get them in the boiler along with any towels and sheets that need doing.’

  ‘Be an angel, Mr Molineaux and go and change them now so that we can get on,’ Amy added.

  Eppie disappeared reluctantly upstairs muttering about the interruption of his creative flow and how could he be expected to introduce routines into a life dedicated to responding to the needs and worries of others. He reappeared within five minutes wearing the same cardigan, but this time over a brightly coloured, silk kaftan, no socks and leather slippers.

  ‘You could do with a haircut, Mr Molineaux’ Amy said. ‘You will have to try to get to the barber’s next week. The one next to the Palace does a haircut and a shave at a special price for pensioners.’

  ‘Mr Molineaux’ Pippin called out from the kitchen. ‘Why are you cooking sand in a roasting tin on top of the stove? It is beginning to smell a bit.’

  ‘Oh, my giddy aunt, my precious quills,’ Eppie cried, throwing his hands into the air and rushing into the kitchen with surprising alacrity. He peered underneath the tray, satisfying himself that the gas cooker was not switched on, then took a fork and lifted out six goose feathers that had been pushed into the sand. ‘My dear young lady, you had me alarmed for one moment there. I thought that I had left the gas lit. The tray is there merely for warming the sand to a suitable temperature in order to take the oil out of the cores. A magnificent bird, the goose, but given to oiliness. Come along, ladies, I will demonstrate for you the ancient craft of turning this humble goose feather into a tool for the creation of great art.’

  He took the feathers into the living room, removed a cloth from the table drawer and laid it out on the flat surface. Along the top edge he then carefully arranged some knives, a sharpening stone, a flat piece of wood with some notches carved into it, a leather strop and an inkwell. Measuring one of the quills against the notched wood, he selected a knife and removed the down from the lower section. ‘It is all a matter of personal taste, my dears. I know some people remove all the material from the stem but, for me, this gives more balance. I also feel that by retaining some of that delicate and beautifully patterned down, the poor bird that had grown them on its flightless wings can now soar with me in this creative process.’

  Eppie smoothed the remaining plume on the feather and held it to the light to show the myriad of grey-brown, micro-fine strands, a glowing halo of white edging their tips, some residual downy hairs floating with graceful synchronicity in the silent breath of its admirers. ‘Would we not hold in awestruck admiration any one man who, in his lifetime, managed to replicate a thing of such intense beauty,’ he breathed. ‘How can we not but wonder at this world that God has created for us.’

  ‘It is beautiful,’ Amy agreed.

  ‘It is just so delicate,’ Pippin added.

  ‘When you look at the goose,’ Eppie said thoughtfully, ‘it looks beautiful in the whole. You don’t see the detail, yet each component is magnificent in its own right. What a wonderful and thoughtful designer God is.’

  ‘I wonder if there are differences in geese that we don’t see,’ Amy pondered. ‘I mean, like Pip has red hair and I have fair hair.’

  ‘There must be something,’ Pippin said. ‘Otherwise, how do they tell each other apart?’

  ‘They undoubtedly have their ways,’ Eppie agreed. ‘There are many species in the animal kingdom that mate for life, so clearly they can distinguish one from another without the irksome need for a numbered label.’ He twisted the feather slowly, running his finger along the white edge of the plume, noting how each strand sprang immediately back into its allotted place. ‘What unerring judgement they must be gifted with; to choose the right partner and then stay together until death do them part. Would that we could have the same. How much anguish and pain would be relieved if that were so.’

  ‘Maybe they find it fairly easy to choose a mate,’ Amy said. ‘I mean, all swans look pretty much the same so it is only a case of finding one that is available. It is not like that with humans. You have to fancy somebody before you would think of marrying them.’

  ‘I do believe, my dear, that a relationship between two swans is not entirely without some degree of affection. They do say that they mourn the loss of a partner for some time after the sad event. You must yourselves choose carefully in your lives as the swan so evidently does.’

  ‘Will you be able to write something with that quill or is it not ready yet?’ Pippin asked.

  ‘Oh, ah, no, not just yet. I am most apologetic for that. I had drifted away for the moment and forgotten the important task that I was about to show you.’ He laid the feather on the flat piece of wood then took a knife and ran the blade across the leather strap a number of times. ‘One can only admire the craftsmanship in the way that my penknife has been made. Look at the wonderful engraving on the silver handle. Does it not delight your senses?’

  ‘Aunty Sarah had a compact made from mother-of-pearl like the pattern bit on the handle. She gave it to my mother when she was emigrating to New Zealand. Her husband wanted to be a sheep farmer,’ Pippin said.

  ‘What’s the pattern supposed to be, Mr Molineaux?’ Amy asked. ‘It looks a bit fancy.’

  Eppie’s head dropped forward in solicitous prayer, then he looked directly at the girls. ‘It was my family crest. Papa gave me the penknife when I was sent to boarding school. I was a big disappointment for him, I’m afraid. He would have much preferred me to be a diplomat in India rather than evangelising Shakespeare in Salford. Though I don’t imagine that the bard’s Scottish chap would have been enjoyed with much relish by the wallahs.’

  ‘That must have been hard, Mr Molineaux,’ Pippin said. ‘Being sent away to school like that. Did your family come to visit you often?’

  ‘Only for special events, and then not always. Mama would have come alone but then the whole county would have been gossiping. My father was more comfortable in a gaming house or a rifle shoot than an academic establishment. I am ashamed to say that there were many nights when I fell to sleep sobbing in my pillow. But enough of this maudlin talk. Let us pay homage to the fine bird from which this feather was removed by making it into an instrument of art.’

  ‘I am sure that the goose would be pleased to know that it hadn’t only been eaten,’ Amy said.

  ‘Indeed, its spirit shall soar into the heavens, borne by the knowledge that it has helped to bring solace to the bereaved, comfort to the lonely and some small pleasure to the deprived patrons of the Salford Hippodrome. Look closely at this blade on my penknife. Do you see anything special about it?’

  ‘Well, it’s shiny and quite narrow,’ Pippin offered.

  ‘Yes, yes, but look closely at the edge.’

  ‘It has only been sharpened on one side,’ Amy said, peering closely at the polished steel of the blade.

  ‘It has indeed,’ Eppie exclaimed, as if discovering it himself for the first time. ‘I will demonstrate for you the efficacy of this wonderfully honed tool.’ He laid the quill on the flat piece of wood again and, using the measured notches, he marked a position close to the end of the tip. Opening the table drawer, he took out a leather monocle case, polished the glass carefully and placed it in his eye. ‘Thank you my dear goose for the gift of this beautiful quill,’ he muttered. ‘You flapped and fluttered around your farmyard, admiring the birds that soared so gracefully above your head, wondering, no doubt, as to the point of your own useless appendages. How could you know that for hundreds of years, God had given you such a vital role at the very heart of civilisation? History has been recorded through you, peace pacts between nations have been written because of you, great plays and wondrous sonnets were penned with the help of what you thought were mere ornaments.’

>   He dabbed the tip of his nose with his cuff, adjusted the monocle in his eye then, stretching out both arms to move the sleeves away from his wrists, he took a deep breath and carefully shaved a concave slice from the tip of the core. ‘You see, my dears, the blade is flat on one side and honed to a razor sharpness on the other to allow it to cut this gentle curve more effectively. Now I have to take just a small piece off the end in order to square the edge like this. Then I use the other blade to make a small split down the centre so that the ink will flow evenly.’ Eppie turned the quill slowly and studied the newly formed tip before drawing it slowly over the palm of his hand, feeling for any slight imperfection. ‘We should try it,’ he said, raising it to his lips, kissing it gently as he would a lover that was to be only slowly awakened. He took a sheet of creamy-white paper and wrote in a flowing script, My thanks to Mrs Entwistle for sending these lovely cleaning ladies to me.