A Whisper to the Living (25 page)

‘The mills are finished, Lofty. Oh aye, it’ll take a few more years for it to peter out altogether, but they’ve already started on that rayon and nylon – there’s not always going to be cotton mills, you know.’

Lofty thought about this. If there was no cotton, then there’d be no Bolton. Martin must be wrong for once. ‘How come you found all that out then?’ he asked.

‘Something I read in a paper, Lofty. They reckon that foreigners can turn out cotton a lot cheaper than what we can. They’ll be importing it by the mile in five or ten years. Then there’s all these cheap new materials – I’m telling you now, the mills will close.’

Lofty had never given the future a lot of thought. All he wanted was a couple of bob a week to spend and a few more inches in height then he could get into the pub with his mates on a Saturday night. But he knew one thing – he wanted Martin with him. They’d been together since the nursery and Martin had always been his best mate. Lofty shuffled about uncomfortably. He hadn’t the vocabulary to tell his friend how he really felt.

‘What are you goin’ to do instead, then?’

‘I’m going down the
Evening News
, see if they’ll take me on as teaboy, sweeper-up, dogsbody or whatever.’

‘You what? Your mam’ll bleedin’ kill you! They only get shillin’s fer that!’

‘I’m not thinking about my Mam. Oh, I know she’s a good laugh, but she doesn’t really bother about me, you know. All she wants is a few more bob in her purse, but I’m thinking about the future, Lofty, planning my future. And the future’s a long time to think about. The thing is, you and I have had no education, like.’ He looked at his small friend who could scarcely read and write, though he could work out his dad’s betting slips as quick as a flash. ‘I want a start in life, Lofty and it has to be now. Seventeen or eighteen will be too late.’

Lofty felt lost. He couldn’t, for the life of him, work out how Martin could turn down a good job just like that, a weaver’s job with a bit of brass and proper learning for a trade. Then a thought struck him and he brightened visibly. ‘But runnin’ errands is not a good job, Martin. That’s the sort o’ thing I’ll be doin’ fer t’ ring-spinners. Any bloody fool can run messages, even me. But you could be a weaver, a real weaver. Best I can ’ope for is the cardin’ shop. I’ll bet I never even get up to doffin’. And they’ll always want weavers, won’t they? Better a weaver than runnin’ errands fer t’ paper.’

This was one of the longest speeches Lofty had ever made and Martin smiled at him before saying, ‘Even if they do want weavers, they’re not having me. And running errands is just a start. They’ll likely let me do a bit of office work after a few months, then I could learn how to take snaps and that, go to weddings and christenings.’ He couldn’t tell even Lofty what he really hoped, that he’d find a story, a story so good that they’d stop the presses and hold the front page while Martin Cullen typed his piece. That was another thing he’d have to learn – typing. ‘We can still get together, Lofty. I can meet you after work and at the weekends.’

‘It won’t be the same.’

‘I know it won’t be the same, but it’ll have to do.’

Lofty brightened once more. ‘They might not take you on.’

‘Makes no difference. I’m not going in the mill and that’s the end of it.’

Annie’s back gate swung open and she stepped out into the street. Martin felt the colour rising in his cheeks and, to cover his embarrassment, he threw back his head and laughed loudly, as if he had just heard a good joke. The laughter died abruptly as Simon Pritchard followed Annie out onto the narrow pavement, a school satchel clutched under his arm.

The street was narrow – just wide enough for the ragman’s cart and Lamp Eel’s new van, so Martin could hear every word that passed between the two near the gate.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, Simon – if you can get away. In the library at ten o’clock – that should give us plenty of time.’

‘Good. I’ll look forward to that. Cheerio . . . oh, hello Martin.’

Martin made no reply to the friendly greeting and Simon walked a few paces then set off at a run towards the corner, turning left for the main road.

‘Been doing a bit of homework, then?’ Martin’s voice was mocking and cold. ‘I see his mam’s letting him out these days – happen she’s got him weaned up to Farley’s rusks now.’

‘I wish you’d mind your own business, Martin Cullen. I’m tired of falling over you every time I step out of the house.’

‘Ooh, pardon me, your royalness. Tell you what, get the corporation to shift me next time they do the middens and the bins.’

‘There’s a thought now.’ Her eyes darted towards Lofty. ‘I’ll tell them to scrape your shadow up at the same time.’

‘Hecky thump, Lofty. Let’s get the riff-raff off the streets, eh lad? Let’s keep them under lock and key or chuck ’em in with the pig-swill.’

Annie sighed. ‘You know I don’t mean it, Martin. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’ She turned towards the house.

‘Hang on a minute!’ called Martin. He fished a threepenny bit from his pocket and threw it at Lofty. ‘Here. Get yourself a comic and a penny lolly.’ Lofty caught the coin deftly and made off in the direction of Bryant’s shop.

Martin sauntered with studied carelessness over to Annie and, trying to keep his tone casual, he asked, ‘Are you . . . going with him?’ He stared at his shoes.

‘Am I going with whom?’

He suddenly felt choked and reached to undo the top button of his shirt. ‘Him. The doctor’s lad, Salmon bloody Pilchard, otherwise known as Ole Fish Face. Are you going with him?’

‘Going where?’

‘Any bloody where.’

‘No.’

‘Then why was he in your house?’ He felt stupid. His voice was high-pitched like it used to be before it broke.

‘We were studying together, Martin.’

He took a few paces and leaned against the wall, not looking at her but oh, he could smell her. Like flowers, she smelled, like rain on a summer’s day up on the moors . . . oh God, he couldn’t look at her.

‘I . . . don’t want you going with nobody, Annie.’ He could feel his cheeks burning.

‘That’s not right.’

‘I know it’s not right, but it’s how I bloody feel!’ He turned away and almost shouted this last part down the street.

‘It’s “I don’t want you going with anybody”, Martin.’

For a split second, his hopes soared, then he realized that she was just being superior again, was just pulling him to bits and correcting his English.

‘I do know how to talk,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s just that all the lads talk Bolton and they’d think I was a right girl’s blouse if I started talking proper, like. I mean properly.’

‘I know what you mean. And I’m sorry for teasing you.’

He managed to look at her now, but he could not quite meet her eyes, so he fixed his gaze somewhere in the region of her nose – he was close enough to count the freckles. ‘I’m . . . er . . . I’m not going in t’ mill.’ He gritted his teeth. The mill, not t’ mill. ‘I’m going to try and make something of meself. It’ll take a few years, but . . .’

‘Martin! I’m so pleased. What are you going to do?’

He weighed his words. If he said ‘I’m going to be a reporter’, she might laugh. And what if he didn’t make it? ‘Office work – to start off with, like.’ Oh why did he keep saying ‘like’ at the end of a sentence?

‘Where?’ She seemed genuinely interested now.

‘Well, I’ve a few ideas – interviews and that – lined up.’

‘Good.’ She paused. ‘Martin?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t go dressed like that, will you?’

There she was, taking the mickey again. Briefly, he glanced at her eyes and found no mockery in them, only friendliness and what looked like genuine concern.

‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ he said lamely.

‘Hasn’t Gerard any clothes that aren’t . . . well . . . modern?’

She knew! She knew he was wearing his cousin’s cast-offs! Christ, Bertha Cullen and her big mouth. Just wait till he got home, he’d tell his Mam off for letting Annie know. ‘No, he hasn’t,’ he answered now.

‘What about your uniform? The navy trousers – if you got hold of a decent tie, you might be able to get away without a jacket in this weather.’

‘I’ll think of something, ta.’

‘Good luck then.’ She turned towards the house.

‘Annie!’ She faced him again. It was now or never. He had to say something now. ‘Your hair . . . it suits you that way.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re . . .’ He couldn’t say it. Not beautiful, it would sound daft. ‘You’re a nice-looking girl . . .’

She held the gate wide. ‘Look, Martin – I know what you’re asking and the answer’s yes. But I’m . . . not ready yet. I’ve a lot to do, you see. But I promise you I won’t “go” with anyone else.’

‘But you’ll . . . go with me?’

‘Sometime, yes. When I’m ready. Alright?’

‘Yes . . . yes!’ He knew he was grinning like a gorilla again.

‘Bye, Martin.’ She closed the gate.

He ran to the corner. Lofty was leaning in the shop doorway leafing through the
Beano.
Martin picked him up in a fireman’s lift and whirled round until they were both dizzy. They flopped on to the pavement.

‘Come on, Lofty. I’ll read your comic with you.’ And he led a puzzled Lofty up to the top field. It was turning out to be a great day, this was.

Life, for Edna Pritchard, was a constant battle with soot and grime. She would never understand why David insisted that they live here, right on the corner of Long Moor Lane and Enfield Avenue, with all the buses rattling past and the dirt from mill chimneys floating up from the town when the wind was in the right direction. They could have got a nice bungalow up in Bradshaw or Affetside, somewhere pleasant yet not too far from the surgery. But oh no, David had to be on the spot for his precious patients. Mrs Clancy, their housekeeper, did her best, but the rooms were always filled with dust even though they were cleaned every day.

Edna examined the lace curtains at a front bedroom window. Her sharp eyes picked out some small black specks nestling between crocheted roses and, with an impatient tutting sound, she released the curtain wire from its end hook. Twice in a month she had washed these. It was hopeless, absolutely hopeless.

She looked round the room at the rich mahogany furniture which gleamed with many applications of beeswax and hard polishing. She wasn’t going to lower her standards just because she was forced to live here. Though what poor Mother and Father would say if they could see her now – well, she shuddered to think. They had been so pleased and thrilled when Edna had taken up with young Dr Pritchard; after all, he was a professional man and the Hulmes, in spite of their wealth, were only too happy to gain a doctor as son-in-law. Their money had been acquired through trade and Edna’s alliance with an educated man had been a feather in their caps. Would they still be pleased if they could see that their grandson was being raised in a working-class area?

Edna was the only daughter of the late Richard Hulme, owner of two ropeworks – or ropewalks as the locals called them – and a highly respected Conservative alderman in his time. His wife, Elizabeth, a shy and retiring creature, had been horrified when Alderman Hulme had been elected Mayor, but Edna had revelled in it, enjoying the few functions she had been allowed to attend in her dresses of lace and velvet, waving cheerfully but in a ladylike fashion from her seat in the Mayor’s coach as they rode through the town. After all, she’d been educated by a governess, taught the arts that would equip her to be a lady, like embroidery, tapestry, needlepoint and flower-pressing. Her father, a hardened tradesman with two sons to take the reins after him, had doted on Edna, sheltered her from the grim realities of the world, treated her like some rare hothouse plant, educated her to feel and act like a lady. But now, Mummy and Daddy were dead and Edna was left to the mercies of her husband’s whims, must survive as best she could in an environment for which she had never been prepared.

‘Don’t worry now,’ her father had whispered on his deathbed. ‘That man of yours has his head screwed on. I’ve left you enough for a proper practice. Get him to Rodney Street in Liverpool – that’s where the pickings are for doctors and the like.’

But Edna’s inheritance had remained in the bank. David was stubborn. He didn’t want a private practice, he had fought for, voted for and was glad of the National Health Service and he cared deeply, too deeply for the snivelling creatures that filled his waiting room three times a day Monday to Friday and twice on a Saturday.

It might be more bearable if they had some sort of social life, she thought as she carried the curtains downstairs. But no, if he hadn’t a surgery, then he was out on calls. On Sundays, he tinkered with his car and on the rare occasions when he did take a rest, he would read and snooze in his chair until he was needed yet again by one of his beloved patients. Sundays in particular were dreadful. He was always under his car in the avenue at the side of the house, acting like a common working man, up to his elbows in oil and grease, usually surrounded by interested onlookers who would stop for a chat and stay on to offer advice and opinions about the vagaries of the internal combustion engine.

She could not say that she had married beneath her. Her husband was, after all, a qualified practitioner. But the domestic environment was not what she would have chosen and David had turned out to be rather more . . . enthusiastic and down-to-earth than Edna would have preferred. Their interests did not match. David was not keen on bridge or gin rummy and when he did get a holiday by employing a locum, he would not attend the theatre, refused point-blank to accompany her to concerts in Manchester – could scarcely stir himself to go up to the school and discuss Simon’s progress.

And that was proving to be yet another worry. Simon was not doing well. The teachers were all concerned as, indeed, was she. David simply was not being realistic. He believed that Simon was a late starter because of being a premature baby, that he would come on in a year or two, find his own level in time. Edna knew differently. Simon was a dreamer. He had inherited what she considered to be David’s weaker traits and showed no signs of repeating his father’s academic achievements. The trouble she had had with that boy! Trouble David chose to ignore or not to worry about. She remembered the time a few years ago when Simon had taken up with that Anne Byrne from across the road, a seemingly streetwise and waif-like creature with long plaits and darned socks. That would never have happened if they had lived at the better end of town, Chorley New Road perhaps, where Simon had attended his expensive preparatory school. Simon would have been able to mix with others of his own kind, the sons of doctors and lawyers instead of being stuck here in the midst of slums.