Authors: Freda Lightfoot
‘Ta ra,’ the women called as one by one they peeled off and went home to make dinner for their children, trying not to worry about what the next week, the next day might bring.
By the time the remaining stragglers turned the corner into Pansy Street, a long string of a street which jostled with many another around the canal basin, they’d almost convinced themselves that they were doing a public service by allowing themselves to be sacked. Even so there was much bitter talk about how eager the bosses had been to take them on at the start of hostilities when men were scarce on the ground.
‘It’s all right for you,’ Maisie Wright said, as she and Polly broke their linked arms for a moment to dodge a young lad wheeling a barrow load of coal to one of the barges moored on the canal. ‘You can start up your precious carpet business again. It’s the likes of me who are up the Swanee. What am I supposed to do? I’m too old to go on the streets. I’d have to pay them to take me on,’ she joked.
‘Nay lass, you do yourself a disservice, Maggie Stubbs told her. ‘It’s experience what counts every time,’ and chuckling at her own drollness, was already yelling to her brood to ‘get t’kettle on’ even as she strode in through her own open front door.
Perhaps, Polly thought, ready as always to look on the bright side, Maisie was right. Could this be an omen? Someone up above giving her a kick up the backside and telling her to do something different with her life. ‘Tis mebbe true,’ she agreed. ‘I could take over the carrier’s warehouse and fill it with carpets, so I could.’
‘Aye, that’d be grand,’ Maisie agreed, happy to go along with the fantasy. ‘You could have the swanky manager’s office and I’d be foreman and have the pleasure of giving po-faced Jack Lawson the boot. Both women enjoyed a good laugh at the prospect, but the chuckles soon faded as they neared their own doorsteps.
‘Well, me darlin’, the war might be over, but we still have a fight on our hands,’ Polly said, ‘if only to earn a decent living. But then we’re expert at looking after ourselves, so we are.’
Even so as she gently closed her own front door behind her, some of the shine and laughter slipped from her face and a flicker of pain and worry seeped through.
In no time at all it seemed, the women were back on their doorsteps doing a bit of ‘camping’, revelling in the undercurrent of buzzing excitement, arms folded over their pinnies, as excited as the children at the prospect of the street party that afternoon to celebrate VJ Day. Others sat on their window sills, the sash windows pulled down to their knees to hold them secure while they vigorously polished already gleaming glass. Today was a day when spit and polish was important, for a husband, son or father could at any minute walk in.
At the far end of Pansy street, a young woman knelt scrubbing a doorstep, her neat figure moving with the rhythm of her effort, nose pert and mouth tight with concentration. A lock of soft brown hair fell across her brow and Lucy Shackleton pushed it away with a tired hand then sat back on her heels to survey the length of the street.
‘Have you not finished yon steps yet? You want to shape yourself. I haven’t got all day.’
Lucy didn’t even need to glance up to picture the pale oval face and blackcurrant eyes watching her through the window. It was a favourite occupation of Minnie Hopkins, owner of this fine double doorstep which, as she was so often at pains to remind her, should be clean enough to eat your dinner off, if you’d a mind. Lucy tried to imagine the woman pulling up her rocking chair, which she rarely left, to eat her pie and pickles off the whitened steps. It almost made her laugh out loud but Lucy smothered the eruption of giggles with the flat of her hand just in time.
‘Rightio, Mrs Hopkins. I’ve nearly done, then I’ll get you a nice cuppa,’ she called, as cheerfully as she could, then slid the donkey-stone with a final flourish along the edges of each step, to add an artistic touch.
‘You said that an hour back.’
Lucy did not respond, merely surveyed the two steps she’d just spent the best part of an hour cleaning. She’d scrubbed them with a solution of washing soda so strong her hands were red raw, then whitened them with a donkey-stone got from the rag-and-bone man. They must be the cleanest steps in all of Pansy street and that was saying something. But then nobody in this part of Castlefield would be seen dead with a dirty doorstep, despite all the muck dropped onto them from the movement of coal from barge to warehouse and back again, not to mention factory chimneys belching smoke in this city.
Manchester’s chief claim to fame was that although its rows of back-to-back houses might be black, its cotton was the whitest and finest in the north, if not the world; it’s men the most inventive and skilful, and its women the hardest working and most good humoured. Give or take one or two notable exceptions, Lucy thought as she rubbed at an itch and deposited a smear of dirt on one round pink cheek.
‘I suppose you’re pushing to get off to that party. I’ll have no slacking here, nor any work skimped.’
Biting her lip Lucy managed to hold her silence, which was ever the best armour against Minnie Hopkin’s razor sharp tongue. She happily began wringing out her cloth and swilling the dirty water down the gutter. Today she didn’t care about an old woman who picked a fight for no good reason. Today aprons and shawls had been abandoned in favour of summer frocks and flower-decked hats in honour of the occasion. Eager hands spread margarine and potted meat on thick slices of bread, set out cakes, decanted jellies and wobbly pink blancmanges with a recklessness that defied the self-sacrifice it had taken to save sufficient coupons to purchase such treats. There was laughter in the air, a voice singing
Take me back to dear old Blighty
, and Lucy could almost smell the very real scent of freedom along with the tar bubbles and sunshine.
Today she refused to fret about the fact she was bone weary yet had to do every job twice over in this house, though she’d no complaints from the other houses in which she worked as a cleaner in order to earn an honest living to feed her two children. What did it matter if here, at number 179, she was considered to be the lowest of the low, hardly fit to polish the mahogany dresser that took up the whole of one wall in the front parlour. She’d cheerfully dusted the many ornaments, the glass lamps with their crystal droplets around the rim, the gloomy pictures, mainly of highland cattle or young girls in smock dresses without complaint for today was a special day. Today was the end of the war.
Lucy lifted her gaze to examine the clear blue sky, cherishing the warmth of sun on her face and the blissful surge of happiness that swelled in her heart for she knew that soon, very soon, her Tom would be home.
She’d worried about him quite a lot lately, what with there being no word for a while - a long while actually. But that’d happened before, she told herself. She’d hear nothing for months then got a bunch of letters all at once. War seemed to be funny that way. Oh, but she would welcome him home, just see if she didn’t.
The women were covering the food with cloths now, keeping a weather eye out for marauders and enjoying a brew of tea and a chin-wag before facing the onslaught of the afternoon’s festivities. Down at the corner shop, Lucy could see Gladys Benson leaning over her counter to have a natter with her friend Lily Gantry. No doubt swapping tales about the failings and misdemeanours of their respective husbands, both of whom had already returned from the war to less than a jubilant welcome from their wives.
In her mind’s eye she could see Tom striding up the street, kit-bag resting on his broad shoulder, a wide grin on his handsome face, fair hair shining. He’d swing Sarah Jane up into his arms and give her a big smacking kiss. Young Sean would be next. Then he’d look teasingly into Lucy’s eyes, give her a big wink and she’d know that her man was home at last and that he still wanted her. Later, when the children were tucked up in bed, perhaps hugging presents from a father they’d hardly ever set eyes on before, Lucy would slip into bed with this handsome stranger who was her own husband and they’d start to get to know each other all over again.
If she was honest Lucy was a bit nervous about this part of her fantasy. Would he still fancy her? Would she still fancy him? She wasn’t the giddy young girl she’d been when he went away. She’d become a responsible mother to her two children, though Polly would mind them sometimes so she could enjoy a bit of fun, like going to a dance or the Gaumont with her pals, shouting ‘Put a Penny in’ at the projectionist whenever the film broke down which was a frequent occurrence.
She’d held down several different jobs during the long war, had money in her purse, run her own life exactly as she pleased. Lucy knew that she’d changed. Perhaps Tom had too. He’d once seemed so strong, so forceful, sweeping her off her feet and arranging for them to be married in a hurry at the local registry office, for all Tom had known that Lucy had longed for a white wedding in the Catholic Church. They’d been hard up and far too young, had two children far too quickly, each following one of Tom’s leaves home. Only this time he would be home for good. Filled suddenly with a mixture of apprehension and longing, she didn’t at first hear the slam of the door behind her.
‘What the hangment are you up to, dilly-dallying in the gutter? I don’t pay you for day dreaming.’ Startled by the sound of the sharp voice so close to her ear, Lucy dropped the bucket, which rolled noisily away.
Minnie Hopkins stood arms akimbo, brows beetled, small mouth sucked into empty gums. Her false teeth, kept largely for best, would be reposing in a glass on the bamboo table by her high brass bedstead. She’d slip them in later, when she deigned to put in an appearance at the street party, for all she’d stick chiefly to the jellies. In honour of the occasion she was wearing her best brown chenille frock with a marquisette clasp at the vee of the collar. Above this was tucked a lace front, that hid the scrawny neck as high as the chin. She looked like a miniature Victorian schoolmistress, holding a broom handle in lieu of a cane. Minnie Hopkins was famous for her battles with her yard brush. It was said that she’d chased away every likely suitor with it, which was why at well into her sixties, she was still unwed.
You don’t pay me at all, your nephew does, you bad tempered old goat, Lucy longed to say as she gave chase to the bucket which seemed set on rolling all the way to the bottom of Pansy street. Moments later, marching down the narrow lobby into the back kitchen, she deposited brushes, bucket and cleaning materials under the sink wondering, not for the first time, how the old bat’s nephew could tolerate her as well as he did. He must be hard up, to manage to stop on with an aunt as mad as this one. Or else he had a patience born either of long practice or budding sainthood.
‘I’ve done now. How about that cuppa?’
‘I don’t pay thee for idling over pots of tea neither.’
‘I thought it was you what wanted one.’ Cut her own nose off to spite her face, Lucy thought. Aloud she said, ‘I’ve plenty other jobs waiting for me when I get done here, so if you don’t want anything more, I’m off.’
‘Meaning yer doing me a favour by finding time to come at all, is that it?’
‘It’s always good to be appreciated,’ Lucy drily remarked, smiling politely and not quite meeting the sour gaze in case the old woman should interpret the merry glint in her hazel eyes as insolence and sack her on the spot. This had been threatened so often, that there were moments when Lucy almost wished she’d carry out the threat.
Coming twice a week to clean this big draughty house with its seven high- ceilinged bedrooms and heavy Victorian furniture was no joy, and with more criticism than thanks at the end of it. But then Lucy would think of Sarah Jane and Sean, the rent and gas and other bills that had to be paid, war or no war and, as now, she’d bite her lip, placate and calm the quick-tempered old woman, and go home at least with a sense of pride that she was doing her bit without complaint.
She’d made more money when she was working in munitions with Sal her sister-in-law, but that had meant leaving the children on their own too much. With cleaning, she could always take them with her if they were a bit off colour. And though it was hard work, she’d done all right, got a bit put by for a rainy day. Even so, she’d be glad enough for Tom to come home and take over this bread winning lark, so that she could tell Minnie Hopkins to stick her job and settle down to enjoying her children. What a treat that would be.
‘So where did you find money to pay for a party, eh?’ Minnie pulled out the bucket and cleaning materials that Lucy had just stowed away, and put them all back again in a different order. ‘Or have you a fancy man wi’ deep pockets tucked away some place?’
‘Oh, you badmouthed old ...’ Lucy stopped, seeing the glint of satisfaction in the old woman’s eyes. There was nothing Minnie Hopkins liked better than to stir up trouble but unlike many, Lucy had remained faithful to her husband throughout the duration so she refused to defend herself to this nasty minded old woman. ’We’ve all put in coupons.
Which is more than you have, you mean old bat
,’ she finished under her breath.
‘Go on, what am I?’
‘Nothing.’ Drat the woman for only being deaf when it suited her. Lucy yanked the curtain across the sink, nearly breaking the wire that held it. Her colour was high, though not nearly so high as her temper as she strode away, spine rigid.
Minnie Hopkins, not one to be outdone, or miss the opportunity to have the last word, galloped after her for several paces along the passage. ‘Don’t you give me any lip, madam. You’re that sharp, you should take care not to cut yerself in the knife drawer. You can collect your cards for that bit of insolence, so don’t bother coming in tomorrow. There’ll be no job to come to.’