Love on the Dole (36 page)

Mrs Hardcastle sniffed: There’s t’other thing,’ she whimpered: ‘Her an’ Mr Grundy. Ah don’t like it. … It’s — It’s. … We’ve allus bin respectable. An’ now neighbours ‘re all talking.’

‘Lerrem talk. While they’re talkin’ about you, they’re leavin’ other folks be.’ She gazed at Mrs Hardcastle, critically: ‘Y’know,’ she said: ‘Ah do believe y’ thinkin’ more about y’self than about yon lass. Yah,
do
y’ understand y’r own daughter? A bellyful o’ trouble she’s had, aye, a proper bellyful. Her pa comes out o’ work; then the bloke she’s set on marryin’ dies. She’s workin’ at mill an’ all her money’s goin’ t’ keep your house goin’. Yaa. Y’ve bin tekkin’ too much for granted, like a few more Ah know. Y’ want t’ forget y’self for a bit an’ try t’ understand how t’ young ‘uns must feel about all these here goin’s on i’ t’ world t’day. Every cent they earn bein’ tuk in keepin’ their owld folks an’ any o’ t’ family as is out o’ work. World ain’t wot it used t’ be when we wus young, an’ don’t forget it, neither. Let me tell y’ this: if she’d ‘ad much more of it Ah’m certain that she’d ha’ done wot yon poor soul i’ next street did yesterday … cut his throat an’ jumped out o’ bedroom window when he got letter from Guardians sayin’ he’d got t’ give five bob a week to his wife’s people wot come under Means Test. Five bob a week, poor soul, an’ he couldn’t keep his own, proper. Yes, Ah could see it i’ your Sal’s face all right; moonin’ about like a lost soul; sittin’, night after night on this here couch gawpin’ at nowt. … It all come out night as y’ ‘usbant landed her one, now didn’t it, now? Wot she said was only wot she’d bin tbinkin’ e’er sin’ Larry kicked bucket,’ a deep breath: ‘Aye, she’s had a bellyful all right. An’ she’d ha’ gone melancholy mad if it’d ha’ lasted much longer. An’ it’s glad y’ ought t’ be, all o’ y’, that chance come for her t’ get away from it all. Bless the lass, she’s seen none o’ you go short.’

Helen sighed: ‘If it hadn’t bin for her, Mrs Bull, Ah don’t know what me’n Harry would ha’ done. …’ With restrained excitement: ‘We’ve got th’ ‘ouse at top o’ the street An’ we’re goin’, t’night, t’ see about gettin’ the furniture on the weekly (the instalment plan). Y’see,. Ah’m startin’ work agen soon so we’ll be able t’ pay money off quicker. An’ Ah’ll want somebody t’ luk after baby. … Y’ve bin so good. … Ah wondered, like. … Ah’d pay y’ if y’d see to her durin’ day for me. … Would…?’

‘Aye, lass, she’ll be all right wi’ me.’ She gazed at Helen, steadfastly, ‘An’ if y’ tek my advice, lass, y’ll mek this one y’ last One’s too many sometimes where workin’ folk’re concerned. ‘Tain’t fair t’ you an’ ‘tain’t fair t’ t’ child. Luk at Mrs Cranford. One reg’lar every year, an’ half of ‘em dead. An’ Kate Narkey shapin’ same way. Yah, them two fellers ought t’ be casterated.’

Helen shifted uncomfortably, glanced at the clock then said, in genuine alarm: ‘Ooo, luk at time. … Harry’s tea’ll ne’er be ready when he comes,’ smiling at her mother-in-law and Mrs Bull: ‘Ah’ll have t’ be goin’. He’ll be home in a minute,’ rising and arranging the baby’s shawl: ‘Ay, Ah bet he’s excited - drawin’ his first week’s wages t’day. G’night, Mrs Hardcastle. G’night, Mrs Bull….’ She went out, hurrying to Mrs Dorbell’s, a set smile on her lips.

A young man strode down Hankinson Street, beaming, full of self-confidence. His right hand, thrust deep into the pocket of his trousers, clutched a small envelope containing a week’s pay. The seal of the envelope was unbroken. To open it was Helen’s privilege. Oh, to see her face when he placed it into her hands! ‘Blimey, an’ think of it, though! T’night Ah’ll ha’ some money o’ me own t’ do what Ah like wi’! Blimey, though! Blimey!’

Harry, in his exuberance, lengthened his stride. Then, suddenly, his pace slackened as he caught sight of a solitary figure standing on the corner of North Street. The smile died on his lips.

Jack Lindsay.

He was standing there as motionless as a statue, cap neb pulled over his eyes, gaze fixed on pavement, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, the bitter wind blowing his thin trousers tightly against his legs. Waste paper and dust blew about him in spirals, the papers making harsh sounds as they slid on the pavement.

No influential person to pull strings on his behalf; no wages for him tonight; no planning for the morrow. He was an anonymous unit of an army of three millions for whom there was no tomorrow.

Harry faltered, licked his lips then stole away, guiltily, down a back entry unable to summon the nerve to face his friend.

5.30 AM.

A drizzle was falling.

Ned Narkey, on his beat, paused under the street lamp at the corner of North Street. Its staring beams lit the million globules of fine rain powdering his cape. A cat, sitting on the doorstep of Mr Hulkington’s, the grocer’s shop, blinked at Ned, rose, tail in air, and pushed its body against Ned’s legs.

‘Gaaa-cher bloody thing,’ he muttered, and lifted it a couple of yards with his boot. Then he glanced up and down Hankinson Street, afterwards footing it quietly to his house to rouse his wife. The idea of her lying abed whilst he was exposed to the raw elements annoyed him. Anyway, he would be finished work in a half hour; she should be up and preparing against his return. … Aye, and that blasted Sal Hardcastle and Sam Grundy. Damn ‘em both! Sam had worked his cards prettily. Yaaa! What y’ can do when y’ve got money!…

A man wearing clogs and carrying a long pole tipped with a bunch of wires came clattering into North Street. His back was bent, beard untrimmed, rusty black bowler hat tipped over his eyes. He stopped at No. 17, raised his pole and laid the wires against the window, rattling them loudly against the panes. A voice responded. Joe moved on to Mrs Dorbell’s, where he repeated the performance. ‘Come thee on, lass,’ he said, when Helen’s voice acknowledged the summons: ‘Come thee on, lass. Hafe past five, Monday mornin’ an’ pourin’ o’ rain.’ He shouldered his pole and clattered out of the street. Those who were unemployed slumbered on.

Silence.

Lights began to appear in some of the lower windows of the houses.

The grocer’s shop at the street corner blazed forth electrically. Occasionally, women, wearing shawls so disposed as to conceal from the elements whatever it was they carried in their arms, passed, ghostlike, the street comer. In the gloom they looked like fat cassocked monks with cowls drawn.

In Mrs Dorbell’s house, Helen came downstairs, ‘Ah-ah-ing’ sleepily. She groped on the tiny kitchen’s mantelpiece for the matches, struck one and lit the gas. The glare hurt her eyes; she blinked, stifled a yawn, scratched her head with one hand whilst she stretched with the other. She shivered and shrugged. It was cold. She stooped, raked out the grate and stuffed it with paper, picked up the shovel and trudged to the backyard, pausing by the stairs to shout: ‘Come on, Harry, lad. Five an’ twenty t’ six, Monday mornin’ an’ pourin’ o’ rain.’

She unbolted the door and went to the corner where the coal was stored. Other people in neighbouring backyards were shovelling coal, the gratings of the shovels rasped harshly in the still air of early morning.

The melancholy hoot of a ship’s siren sounded from the Salford Docks…