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Authors: Walter Greenwood

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BOOK: Love on the Dole
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‘Come on,’ said Sally, with determination, as the patrons of the public-house noisily vacated the place.

Ned was one of the last to leave. The doors slammed behind him and the bolts were shot as he stepped heavily into the street where he stood awhile thumbs in belt, staring about him with an air of indecision.

Sally tapped him on the arm. He turned. She interrupted his unspoken greeting, eyes blazing, breathing quick and sharp. She said: ‘Ah want t’ talk to you.’ She turned about, walked a half-dozen paces or so from the groups in front the public-house. With a blank expression of mystification he followed, not seeing Kate standing by the dark house walls staring at him with fascinated fixity.

‘What’s up?’ he asked, perplexed, halting in front of Sally and staring down at her.

She curled her lip: ‘You ought to know what’s up. You and Kate Malloy,’ glaring at him: ‘Well, what about it?’

‘Worrabout wot? Worrabout wot?’ he asked, his mouth slightly agape, brows raised.

‘Kate’s in family way and you’re father.’

‘Me? Me?’ he blustered: ‘Aw, come off’n it! Blimey, Ah ain’t th’ only one as’s bin wi’ her.’

‘Ooo! You dirty dog. You’re a specimen, you are,’ she exclaimed, supremely contemptuous. She turned to Kate who was holding a hand to her mouth and whimpering: ‘Come here, Kate,’ she said. Kate obeyed, avoiding Narkey’s frowning expression: ‘Y’ heard what he said. D’ y’ still want t’ have owt t’ do w’ such a rotten lot?’

“Ere, ‘ere. Shut y’ trap, or Ah’ll shut it for y’,’ Narkey cried, savagely.

‘Yes, and the likes o’ you
would,
too,’ she snapped back, defiantly: ‘You. … You …’ eyeing him from head to foot: ‘Yaa! You ain’t a man. Ten a penny, that’s what your kind are. Ten a penny. Allus y’ fit for’s t’ tek best out of a girl like Kate what’ll let y’ do what y’ like, then blame it on somebody else.’

‘What about that bloody swine as y’ let muck about wi’ you? How many times has ‘e had wot ‘e wants?’ he demanded, thickly: ‘Up another street wi’ him, eh?’

‘Leave him out of it,’ she replied. Tossing her head, proudly: ‘He’s doin’ more for me than you’ll do for her. He
will
marry me.’

‘An’ so would Ah ha’ done. Ah asked y’ … ‘

‘An’ y’ asked Kate, too… Till y’ got what y’ wanted out of her… ‘

‘Augh! Her!’ He turned on Kate, angrily: ‘Y’ gawmless-lookin’ bitch, y’. Why didn’t y’ do as Ah told y’? Ma Haddock would ha’ shifted it for y’. Jesus,’ desperately: ‘ ‘n how do Ah know it’s mine.’

‘Oh, Ned, Ned,’ Kate whimpered: ‘Y’ know there ain’t nobody but you.’

‘More fool you, Kate. You shouldn’t ha … ‘

‘You shut it,’ snapped Narkey. He raised his fist and sent Sally reeling against the wall with a blow to her bosom: Think on, y’ bloody interferin’ bitch, y’. Ah’ll get even with that bastard y’ sweet on. S’elp me. Ah ain’t done wi’ him. Don’t you forget it.’

White, holding her hand to the injured spot, she faced him and forced a provocative smile. She tossed her head.

‘Ah’ll … ‘ he began. Then a sudden thought arrested further speech. He paused. If he declined to marry Kate there would be an affiliation order which wouldn’t take into consideration the uncertainty of his work. But, if he married Kate he could send her to work after her confinement! She was complaisant, was passionately infatuated with him; the kind who would obey him absolutely, who never would have the nerve to question his comings or goings or the manner he wished to spend his time and with whom he wished to spend it. She would be perfectly subservient. He turned to Sally: ‘Ah’ll show y’ what kind of a bloke Ah am. Ah’ll marry her,’ to Kate: ‘D’y’ hear?’ with rising impulsiveness: ‘Ah’ll marry y’ this week-end,’ to Sally: ‘D’y’ hear, y’ interferin’ bitch?’

‘So y’ ought Y’ doin’ her no favour.’

He snarled an oath, turned on his heel and stamped off to his lodgings, nursing bitter grudges against Sally, Larry and Kate. Already he was repenting his impulsiveness. Kate followed in his shadow, a timid smile transfiguring her face.

Sally sighed, stood there awhile staring into nothingness, responding expansively, to the inevitable comparison between Larry and Ned.

Within a fortnight she and Larry would be married! At last she had overcome his caution. Yes, and in the face of their inability to save enough money to buy their furnishings cash down. What few pounds had been saved had been given as deposit against the hire purchase of the furniture now in store. He hadn’t anything left, now. Neither had she. And they were in debt to the tune of the balance of the furniture money. Well, she would prove to him that happiness did not depend on money. She would show him how quickly her wages would pay off the debt. She would prove him to be wrong. A soaring of the spirits; an intoxicating picture of themselves in a home of their own.

A door opened opposite; an oblong beam of gaslight stabbed her eyes and attracted her attention. A shabby young man came out and closed the door. He thrust his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders and trudged to No. 17 with a slouching gait

She frowned petulantly; pouted, asking herself, plaintively, whether she could help it if her father and Harry were unemployed. Anyway, Harry should have taken the job in an office when he left school; he wouldn’t be advised. Oh, she couldn’t take all the world’s troubles on her shoulders. Hadn’t she enough of her own? Peeved, she followed Harry into the house.

CHAPTER 6
A MAN OF LEISURE

IT got you slowly, with the slippered stealth of an unsuspected, malignant disease.

You fell into the habit of slouching, of putting your hands into your pockets and keeping them there; of glancing at people, furtively, ashamed of your secret, until you fancied that everybody eyed you with suspicion. You knew that your shabbiness betrayed you; it was apparent for all to see. You prayed for the winter evenings and the kindly darkness. Darkness, poverty’s cloak. Breeches backside patched and re-patched; patches on knees, on elbows. Jesus! All bloody patches. Gor’ blimey!

‘Remember t’ day when me ma bought me new pair overalls !’ he murmured, to himself.

He halted, unconsciously, by a street corner, stood staring at nothing, seeing himself, on that occasion, stalking the streets a beaming smile on his lips: rejuvenated, full of confidence and daring. Unashamed; hopeful.

Daring! Round Trafford Park and to all the other engineering shops: ‘Any chance of a job, mister?’

‘No.’

‘Any vacancies, mate?’

Snappily: ‘Get off, out of it Open y’ eyes,’ a thumb jerked towards a board:
no hands wanted.

Trudging home, dispirited, tired. Pausing on Trafford Bridge to stare at the ships in the Ship Canal.

Ships! Cliffs; afterglow on calm seas; gulls; blue skies, heather and gorse; tiny, whitewashed cottage ‘To Let’, half a crown a week. Walking home with Helen in the bright moonlight.

Helen! He saw her face in the murky water below; felt tight in the throat, turned away to slink homewards. Home! His spirits retched with nausea. How much longer? Daren’t go to see Helen. Couldn’t bear to look at that question eternally in her eyes: ‘Have you got a job, yet?’

No money. She’d be like you, fed up. ‘Ah’m goin’ barmy. Ah’ll jump in cut one o’ these days.’

There was a dull vacuity in his eyes nowadays; he became listless, hard of hearing, saying, ‘Eh?’ when anybody asked him a question.

Nothing to do with time; nothing to spend; nothing to do tomorrow nor the day after; nothing to wear; can’t get married. A living corpse; a unit of the spectral army of three million lost men.

Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, he would slink round the by-streets to the billiard hall, glad to be somewhere out of the way of the public gaze, any place where there were no girls to see him in his threadbare jacket and patched overalls. Stealing into the place like a shadow to seat himself in a corner of one of the wall seats to watch the prosperous young men who had jobs and who could afford billiards, cigarettes and good clothes.

Watch that bloke there, Harry. … He’ll be chucking his tab-end away in a minute. There it goes! Stoop, surreptitiously, pretend you are fastening your bootlace. Grab the cigarette end now … there’s no one looking. Aaaah! A long puff; tastes good. But it wasn’t always so easy as that Sometimes his vigilant eyes would see the butt end disappear into the spittoon, or its careless owner might crush it beneath his heel.

At other times his heart would vomit at the thought of the billiard hall. He would saunter about the streets, aimlessly; kick at a tin can lying in the gutter, shoo an alley cat: ‘Pshhhh! Gerrout of it!’ hum or whistle some daft jazz tune, stand transfixed at street corners, brain a blank. Then, waking to a deep hungering for a smoke, would drift inevitably, to the billiard hall. Or he might forget where he was going; have his attention diverted by the play-bills of the picture theatres; half-naked tarts being mauled by dark haired men in evening clothes. Daft Sometimes there were interesting police notices in the chip shop window: ‘Lost, a Toy Dog. £5 Reward.’ Jesus! A fiver for a blasted mongrel. Go’n look for it, Harry. A fiver, though! ‘Wanted for Murder’. A fellow who’s murdered a bank clerk for money: ‘All y’ve got t’ do, Harry, is t’ sneak into a bank, land the clerk a good ‘un over the head then help y’self.’

‘Oh, it’s daft. Ah’m barmy,’ he said, aloud. A passing woman looked at him and wondered. He read the movie play-bills again, groaned, inwardly, that he lacked the necessary threepence - no, sixpence, threepence each for Helen and he.

They’d have a night at the Flecky Parlour and he’d buy her a tanner’s worth of chocolate, a box of twenty cigarettes; a new suit for himself and a rig-out for her; afterwards they’d catch the train, off for their honeymoon. Barmy. What am Ah talking about? Dreaming daft day-dreams until you were dizzy. Oh, Oh, how much longer? Fall, pitchy night, he now was a creature of the dark. This sunlight was reproachful; it sang of the cliffs and the bracken. The very houses pained the inward eye; spoke of homes, of happy marriages. He eyed them, hungrily, saw himself coming home from work, Helen, bright and clean, meeting him at the door. Blind ole Riley! Imagine it! Having a home of your own where you could love Helen and be sure that nobody could trespass upon your lovemaking! No more dodging it on Dawney’s Hill or in a dark back entry. Blimey! Allus Ah want is a job an’ we could do it! A job; money!

Money.

‘Ah may as well be in bloody prison.’ He suddenly wakened to the fact that he was a prisoner. The walls of the shops, houses and places of amusement were his prison walls; lacking money to buy his way into them the doors were all closed against him. That was the function of doors and walls; they were there to keep out those who hadn’t any money. He was a prisoner at large. Instantly, the confines of the world shrank. He felt a contraction within him; tremors plucked his heart; stare-eyed fears tiptoed through his brain. Walls and doors everywhere closing in on him; towering, taking upon themselves ominous qualities. No matter where he went there would be walls and doors and he would have to remain on their outsides. Walls and doors guarding from him the things he wanted. Where can a man go who hasn’t any money? Wide, wide world; boundless firmament He stood, wide-eyed, staring, palpitant, afraid.

There were other ways of killing time than brooding. The boiler-house at Marlowe’s cotton mill. The firehole gave on to the street. And Bob Russell, whose backyard door faced the Hardcastle’s, worked here as stoker. Fascinating to stand there watching him stripped to the waist, his body bathed in the fierce yellow glare of the firehole; glorious the sight of the sweep of Bob’s strong arms as he chucked shovel after shovel of fuel into the heart of the fire. Harry could feel energy creeping up his arms, tingling under his skin: ‘Hey, Bob, lad … let’s have a try, will y’?’ ingratiatingly: ‘Go on. Just one or two shovels.’

Bob grinned, flicked a sweat rag out of his belt and wiped the back of his neck: ‘Aw reet. He’y’are,’ he said. Harry, grinning, slid down the heaped fuel eagerly, threw aside his coat and picked up the shovel whilst Bob watched him, smiling. After two or three minutes Harry paused, breathless, exhausted, unable to continue. Bob laughed: ‘Y’re out o’ fettle, Harry, lad. Here, gie us y’ shovel. Tha’ll ha’ fire goin’ out.’ Guiltily, Harry put on his coat and drifted away.

This vicious fear of deterioration drove him to seek the companionship of the others, Jack Lindsay and the rest. Being all in the same boat, as it were, was something of a consolation.

Swinbury Park, about a couple of miles in a westerly direction from Hanky Park, a place of meadows, trees, with a wealthy person’s mansion here and there, was their favourite haunt. The attraction was the new Liverpool-Manchester road, the spectacle of its making was interesting. A brand new thirty-odd-mile road, magnet for unemployed men of all trades who lined the cutting, lounging in the grass. Not in the expectation of work; it was merely an interesting way of killing time. Men of all trades, joiners, painters, bricklayers, engineers, dockers, miners and navvies; all watching a handful of men working. Watching.

This section of the new road ran through undulating parkland skirting a golf course. Progress had razed to the ground some of the mansions of the wealthy Manchester merchant princes, had driven a line through the park’s centre, devouring, crushing all in its path.

Modern progress; a handful of men working; crowds of unemployed watching. The road grew, perceptibly. A light, narrow gauge railway, a line of jubilee wagons and a steam-navvy demolished inclines and tipped the superflux into declivities making the crooked straight and the rough places plain.

BOOK: Love on the Dole
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