IV. Family

LOOKING FOR A POEM

You should see me in search of a good subject
for a poem. I go brushing past them, looking
in the corners for memories. To direct
me is out of their power, but if only
I could them! Now a warden is showing
them their gasmasks — my face looks white and lonely.
I would like to tell me it was never used.
And that leaflet about Invasion — 'It will
never happen!' I say, but I'm too bemused
to hear. Worst is my parents' war. I sit still
at the table watching me helplessly hear,
without power or purpose to interfere.

MAMMY'S WORK

Was a lot of work Mammy did. On Monday
everyone washed their clothes. A kind of barrel
in ridged galvanized iron (a stick, you would say,
like a policeman's truncheon, for the stirring),
with the gas underneath, and a hand-mangle.
Rainy days, all of it on the rack drying
by the fly-catcher up there, while scones she'd made
were on the table for tea, Mantovani
playing nicely next door on the wireless. Paid
nothing, she cleaned the whole house, nowhere dusty
to be found. And we never washed up. No fun,
but it was, after all, what Granma had done.

WRINGING OUT A CLOTH

As she wrung out a cloth, Mammy always would,
right at the last while she held it tight with her
elbows out, make a couple of shakes. She could
get the last drops free of the cloth in that way.
I'd think, yes, like in blotting-paper, water
would run back in; the cloth loose, it wouldn't stay
on the outside,. 'Capillary action' drew
it up inside. Women had had to wring out
cloths for thousands of years, and all of them knew
that was the thing to do. I wondered about
whether any did think why they kept it tight.
Doesn't matter as long as you do it right.

MAMMY AT THE SUPERMARKET

As I see us at meals eating the wartime
spam and dried egg, I imagine me taking
Mammy off to the supermarket for prime
ham slices, free range eggs, Size '0'. Seeing her
all amazed at the plenty, and explaining
yoghurt was nice, wasn't mares' milk, to gather
up your food off the shelves yourself was okay,
filling this big metal pram right to the top
with the butter and cream and honey. You pay
just with this card at the end. No need to stop
and unload here — our car awaits. The frenzy,
though, of all the next doors, devoured with envy!

AT THE DREAM HOTEL

In a hotel it was in this same daydream.
Lamps that were snowdrops on curvy brass stems, chairs
and settees silken-braided, tables agleam,
clink of cups, smell of cigars, floors of parquet
that were polished like furniture, spacious stairs
more like a mansion's terrace, a long buffet
like a well-lit stage, pillars of flecked marble,
waiters like priests with stoles over one arm, sound
of piano and violins. I marvel,
sitting with Mammy and Daddy, so spellbound
I say nothing at all. The people all seem
to be rich, just like us. Then comes the ice-cream.

THE KENNEDY SYNDROME

It's the Kennedy syndrome. 'Where were you,' they
ask, 'when you heard of the death of Kennedy?'
For me it was a telephone booth, a day
dull — it had just rained. The feel of the phone in
my hand, leaves on a bush outside busily
fluttering, husky voice at my ear, my chin
warm with breath. Such is death for imprinting
memory. Long before that, a low privet hedge
and Vale Avenue's slope, a gutter, hinting
horridly, slyly, a pavement's concrete edge.
Was a place where I stood, insanely angry,
where I longed to assassinate my mammy.

STONY CROFT FARM

It was Stony Croft Farm where Daddy was born.
After the quarrel with Grandad Wright, he would
never go to the place again. Didn't warn
us, but we never went too. Everywhere you
went exploring, Rockhaven and Wilder's Wood,
Two Lads and Stony Brow, but you somehow knew
that that space by the reservoir wasn't there.
Daddy would never say 'Stony Croft', never
say what farming was like. Could have been the heir
just of the farm. Wanted to be a grammar-
school boy. Never was either. It wasn't fair.
So the Croft that was Stony became nowhere.

DADDY'S MISSING GRAMMAR-SCHOOL

Daddy wanted to go to the grammar-school.
All of his brothers had — paid for! Grandfather
Wright, though, wanted him just for the farm. His rule,
strict without change, set them quarrelling. Daddy
had been too good as farmer. But they never
spoke after that. By some magic I'd fancy
that some uncle of ours would give us money
so he could stop work, go to college and study,
show himself just as intelligent. Had cost
a lot that quarrel. Magic, though, could make him
educated now! — There's no magic! Was grim.

DADDY AS DOCTOR

I saw Daddy a surgeon of wireless sets.
They had faces: two knobs for eyes, station slot
for a mouth, or the round fretwork silhouettes
over speakers were wide as Humpty Dumpty's
mouth, but gloomily dumb, unless polyglot
and hysterical screams, groanings, and mumbly
noises shook them insanely. He would extract
all their brains, and I saw the living flicker
of the valves, the condenser expand, contract
like a heart, all the coils wrapped in a wicker-
work of nerves. He began. I smelled the clean tang
of medicinal flux. Soon they spoke and sang.

DADDY AS JOINER

Daddy wasn't a joiner. Electrician,
plumber, and wireless-repairer, leaded-light
sticker-on-er, but not a joiner. Champion
worker at these, his carpentry lacked finish.
In a case of repair he'd put it to rights
straightaway, but his own designs were roughish,
looking sturdy and thick. All the joints were set
solidly, oak-fast and heavy. All the wood
had a blockish look, the radiogram cabinet
more like an Inca temple, and its feet stood
more like pillars. I've seen some gems on a Dark
Age crown: they had the same strong primitive mark.

'LATE FOR WORK'

'LATE FOR WORK' was the headline. My father in
court. He had cycled through a red light. I read
that he's said he was late for work. Was a thin
sort of excuse 'cause the Picture House was there
on the corner itself. Wondered why he said
it. Did it make the judges feel they weren't fair
if they fined him a lot? Where did the money
go when he paid it? It would never come back.
But the headline I didn't like. Was funny —
Did they agree with him? that he'd get the sack
being late? But I thought they had tried to poke
fun at him somehow, having a nasty joke.

DADDY'S WALK

Saw when Daddy was walking, you'd see his right
foot had a swing to it, so it went farther
than his left all the time, and, if it was night,
if we were waiting for him, we could tell that
it was him far away. Though he took bigger
steps as he walked, I was sure when I looked at
just the way that he did it, I could, with care,
walk with that same swing. I'd imitate when we
had to go with him somewhere. I would compare
his steps and mine till I managed it. What glee
I felt one day when Tommy said to the lads,
"Look at him. See his walk is just like his dad's!"

'TH'ART WELCOME, BONNY BRID!'

Sometimes Mammy would say us a poem by
Samuel Laycock. Went, 'Th'art welcome, bonny
brid, Tha shouldn't 'a come just when tha did.' I
heard about 'pobbies', like porridge, and the boy
Jo was short of them. Could you have one pobby?
Trouble was, having the baby was a joy
but the food, it just wouldn't go round. He said
times, they were bad. Wondered why there was more than
one time. What made them bad? The 'brid' would be fed,
that you were sure, because at last you heard the man
tell the baby 'to hutch up close' because he
was his dad,. Yes, a dad always cared 'for thee'.

POCKET-MONEY

I had sixpence and Sarah threepence a week.
She would have sixpence too when she was my age.
I would pile mine till they came to a peak
(hid in my drawer), then I could buy Dinky
Toys. Meccano made 'Conversion' sets — each stage
you could make bigger models. Wasn't stingy
to save money like that, and it was called 'Thrift',
one of the Virtues in the Catechism.
Sarah spent all her money — maybe a gift
sometimes of toffees to all of us. Ate them,
thanked her, but if what she bought tasted funny,
I'd be sorry for her wasting her money.

SARAH AND THE CHOCOLATES

After spending our points, Sarah would always
eat up her chocolates quickly, whereas I
always kept some. As Mammy said, rainy days
had to be planned for, but later I couldn't
eat them all myself — I just couldn't deny
Sarah, she looked so sad. I knew she wouldn't
be so mean as to think of it when she ate
hers, so I had to let her have some. When you
went collecting for whinberries, at the rate
her tin would fill, we'd have none, her mouth all blue
with the juice, but we wouldn't try to stint her
when we opened the bottles in the winter.

A PAINFUL MEMORY

It's like feeling through ashes of a dead fire
looking for memories — many can burn you.
Or like trying to walk blind through a quagmire —
down you go! — find out why afterwards. Sarah's
scar — some mad dog attacked her. That you knew
danger was there then still seemed as unfair as
a deliberate deceit. You try to repeat
all that happened — see Daddy picking her
up in time — or the dog somewhere else (to cheat
fate of its prey). Or rain didn't let her stir
out to play. Or was me that had been bitten.
It's too bad you can't change what time has written.

THROWING THE GUN AT SARAH

Had a base like a cone this gun, and swivelled.
Coloured in naval grey, would point up and down,
side to side, just as big as my hand, levelled
fiercely at enemies, mostly boys playing
with me wars and adventures. Now Mammy's frown.
'How could you throw it?' Was talk of 'betraying'
and 'affection'. A sister as a target?
It was a strange feeling, like standing somewhere
far away, on an island, say, some limit
round you, or high on a tower in the air.
What they said couldn't mean you. Had to rid it
from your mind. You've forgotten why I did it.

'YOUR HEAD WILL NEVER SAVE YOUR LEGS!'

Sometimes it was 'Your head will never save your
legs!' I'd forgotten something upstairs or didn't
go to school with it. Thought, though, there were more
things it could mean. Someone used their heads when they
first invented the motor-car — we haven't
used our legs quite as much since then. You could say
all your going to school was so that, later,
when you'd grown up, you wouldn't have to
use your legs! Those who hadn't become clever,
they had to walk all the farther. It was true,
yes, whatever the work, except Daddy's, though —
no one's legs could be saved by a picture show.

WHO WAS BEST

They said people in Chorley were 'knocked on th'ed'.
Horwich folk weren't, which made us best, but both liked
Gracie Fields and George Formby, spoke like Wilfred
Pickles. Up Brownlow Road all the better class
lived, like insurance men, but later I biked
up there to play with Walter. And on the grass
by the side of the school we laughed at the Yanks
who were so sloppy in their drill — A.T.C.
cadets did better — but they deserved our thanks
in the Ardennes. And should we be with Mammy
and we saw Daddy's fancy woman we'd pass
on the opposite side. She wasn't our class.

'HONEYMOON'

Was a funny word 'honeymoon'. If it meant
moon, then why was it that moons were always what
lovers sang to each other about? They went
'mooning' around with their faces saying 'Oh!'
like the Moon, but why 'honey' then? The foxtrot
'Tea for two', that was the most popular show
on when Mammy and Daddy had theirs. What they
sang then — 'A boy for you, a girl for me' — had
come true. People in love, they would always say
'Honey' 'cause honey was sweet. Couldn't be sad
when you're married. Nothing but joy and laughter.
You always lived happily ever after.

THE LEADED LIGHTS

All their leaded lights Daddy had done. A strip
of thin lead, some adhesive, a piece of wood
with a groove to rub it so it wouldn't slip,
a big book of designs, a paraffin rag,
and a ladder, and he toured the neighbourhood
turning plain glass to fancy gothic, zigzag,
criss-cross, diamond. Tinting cost them extra.
Keeping up the paternity payments on
his small wage was no joke. Though as a worker
he was famous — they all commented upon
it — he would never charge enough. My mother
downstairs went on about her shame and their splendour.

THE CHRISTMAS PRESENT FROM THE FANCY WOMAN

It was Number Three Airplane Construction set.
Not quite Meccano's best, but better than 'One'.
There were three kinds of plane you could make. Could get,
too, an 'Accessory' set later, to turn
it to 'Four'. Lovely blue and white parts. Such fun
fastening them tight with nuts and bolts, and to learn
how to do it was easy. Was an extra
present at Christmas with Mammy's and Daddy's.
Had a greetings from 'Leah. Edna, Mona',
for, you see, they were aunties who weren't aunties.
Later wondered what made the set disappear.
Was 'cause no one could mention Auntie Leah.

THE SIXTH COMMANDMENT

It was 'Thou shalt not commit adultery.'
Didn't know what the last word meant, but it must
be a bad one 'cause found its discovery
such a real problem. I'd heard about 'adult'
films, marked with an 'X' for 'wrong'. They were about lust,
naked girls, something called 'filth'. And the result —
you'd find God wouldn't tick you but tick you off.
Moses had brought it down from Mount Sinai.
In the gospel the elders began to scoff
when Jesus said, 'Don't throw the stones.' And when I
came to ask Mammy, she shouted, pulled a face,
like a firework that bangs all over the place.

LAYTON AND JOHNSTONE *

Turner Layton and Clarence Johnstone sang love
songs, in a 'blue' mood, crooning softly together,
always dressed in their best with black tails, each glove
folded so neatly on their grand piano,
and their bow-ties just so, their patent
leather shoes that were shining like liquorice. So low
and so soft was their singing. 'If I had a
talking picture of you-oo!' Had that record
till in Jubilee year, though we were gladder
'cause of the king, Mammy said she 'abhorred
that man Johnstone!' and broke the record. Of course
she must do it, she said. It was 'that divorce'.

* [Layton and Johnstone were a very popular singing duo in the twenties and thirties, but broke up in 1935 after Johnstone was cited as co-respondent in a sensational divorce case.]

'SIGH NO MORE, LADIES'

We learned Shakespeare at school. He worked at home too.
One of our records was Shakespeare songs: 'Fear no
more the heat o' the sun', and 'Violets blue',
'O mistress mine'. One was 'Sigh no more, ladies',
and while this one was sung, right through Mammy would go
funny and smile strangely. 'Sing no more ditties
of dumps so dull and heavy' it went, because
'men were deceivers ever.' And she would say
that's what women should do. 'The fraud of men was
ever so,' she'd sing, us too, so jolly and gay,
but I knew she couldn't be blithe and bonny,
convert her woe into 'Hey nonny nonny!'

THE HALF-SISTER

Was just once that you saw her, before a red
house with those smooth bricks that you saw in Denton
on Great-Uncle's Augustus's house — they spread
gleamingly trim around the face that's peering
with its bright black eyes, all busy attention
round at the tram and the cars and us, not fearing
a thing, wanting to know, for that's what babies
always are busy with, held safe in Mother's
arms, all wrapped up in white (no longer 'Auntie's'
arms, 'cause that name was forbidden, was others'
now). Those eyes, though, were Daddy's. You couldn't place
them then in your daughter's or grand-daughter's face.

'PASSIONATE' MAMMY

Sometimes Granma said Mammy was 'passionate'.
Mammy would laugh in an awkward way. Later
she would tell us that Granma had 'definite
views of her children that she never would change,'
but she laughed, making us both join in with her.
But I'd think Granma was right. It wasn't strange.
After all, Mammy was passionate. If you
heard how she scolded when I had tide-marks
on my neck, saw how worried she looked the time
Sarah had scarlet fever, and how the sparks
flew about Daddy's fancy woman. To vex
her brought passion. Was nothing to do with sex.

SLACKS

'Call them "slacks", but they're not slack on her!' Mammy
let us all know that she disapproved of those
funny trousers that some women wore. Daddy
didn't say anything, which meant he agreed.
Odd that they didn't have flies. Why was it they chose
something that men wore? She said they didn't need
to. 'She's showing all she's got to offer!'
So did all women offer, and some a lot
more than others? Why was it 'improper'
showing yout bottom like that? Only the 'hot'
women did. As the others had bottoms too,
did they 'offer' them just the same, out of view?

'A CROSS TO BEAR'

And when something went wrong for you, you would hear
Mammy say, 'All of us have a cross to bear.'
Didn't like hearing that. Was something to fear
far in the future, she said, but I thought
that the future was meant to be bright and fair,
promising lovely things like presents. It ought
to be just like your birthday or Christmas, not
Good Friday. Think of poor Jesus staggering
along under the weight, with people spitting
at him, the thorns in the crown pricking
deep, and knowing that he was to be crucified.
No, there's nothing like that in life, till you died.

DADDY'S JOKE

'...and the char-à-banc went so fast down the hill
that the passenger said, "Some speed!" and an old
lady said, "I have!"' Mammy blushed, and said, 'Bill,
not the kind of thing — ' Daddy was looking at
us for laughs at his joke. But Pat, the pearl-gold
girl I wanted to kiss, was with us, and Pat
was a middle-class girl, was shaking her head
looking puzzled, and saying 'she didn't need
to be told what the point was', and I, now red
as my mammy, I wouldn't see that 'Some speed!'
could mean 'Some's peed!', would rather secretly blame,
didn't see you could be ashamed of a shame.

THE GIRL DRESSED IN RED

When he told it the third time I couldn't laugh.
Once in a film, he said, Eddie Cantor saw
a girl all dressed in red, with a short skirt half-
way up her thighs, but he could only see her
from the back, so he followed her. You could draw
all of her curves in S's. Was just near
enough, ready to speak, when she turned round. He
goggled, so ugly she was! But now I thought,
but she might have been nice and kind. Could it be
all girls would shock you like that? But then you ought
not to follow them. Could it be Daddy had
followed one and found out she was really bad?

SEXUAL EDUCATION FROM MAMMY

Was erect after masturbating in the
outside lavatory. 'There's something wrong there
with your fly, with your fly!' Since it was winter,
to stay out in the cold to let it go down
was no joke. 'Something wrong!' It was such a scare
to hear Mammy go on, to see her bend her frown
at my groin. Something wrong? What could it be then?
That was what we were asking — what could it be
that was wrong? I did up my buttons again
that were fastened (as if I had had a pee)
without unfastening them. She was satisfied
with my act, hiding what we wanted to hide.

THE WAR

I found death left its marks. Those old postcards
dating from 1917. The tommy
looking up into heaven, and a graveyard's
crosses and lilies, the sweetheart's hands at prayer —
all were merged in a shadowy brown. Crepy
medals in dusty plush, the clasp loose. A pair
of binoculars tight in worn leather. Shell
polished as umbrella-stand. And a pistol
of his uncle's, to fit giant hands, its smell
oily and waxy. And I had an uncle
who had died in the war, solemn in a frame
in my auntie's room. Knew my name was the same.

AUNT EDNA AND THE GREAT WAR

Everywhere in the rooms of Aunt Edna,
lying about, were things that reminded you
of the Great War, like noses of shells, brighter
polished than doorknobs, cap badges showing guns,
little jewellery cases made of dark blue
plush with stiff ribbons in. They had fought with Huns
in dark brown faded photographs with a wreath
round the black edge with a pretty girl's face in
the brown smoke in the sky. A sword in a sheath,
lots of thick books with shiny pages, a tin
hat. Aunt Edna gave us sweets and she had a
weak smile, much as to say, I'm really sadder.

GROWN-UPS' TALK

So much talking the grown-ups did. Was all right
when they had brought their children along — we went
out to play. On wet days we crawled out of sight
under the table and played; now and again
though, they called us out, asking us something, meant
us to show off some clothes, or once more explain
what it was that Miss Hester said of us in
that week at school. It was boring to hear them
go on gossiping, talking of medicine,
politics, food, other people and tiresome
things like that. Now we talk, keep the tradition,
for we listened without seeming to listen.

PLUMBING

Uncle Gus, Uncle John and sometimes Daddy
all worked as plumbers. At Uncle John's, basins,
sinks, baths, lavatories, stood about, all empty,
only black holes showing where the taps should go —
useless, labelled, enamelled weights, paper skins
peeling off. Copper pipes, through which you could blow,
lead ones, coiled up huge reels like a giant's
cotton; and water-taps, old-fashioned pistols,
that were sitting on shelves as strange ornaments.
Lead veins in houses were mended by uncles,
lapping joints with their solder, smoothing it, so
that the water flowed to where it should go.

UNCLE JOHN

Uncle John ran a plumbing business. Up on
Winter Hey Lane a dignified shop. Gleaming
baths and basins and toilets, too many, shone
in one bathroom by themselves. No customers
did I ever see when we were there. Seeming
never to want to be used, more like sculptures,
these enamelled pink troughs and fonts like polished
sugared almonds, nobody bought. Mammy said,
'John has no head for business.' His distinguished
long face, large spectacles, thin hair, high forehead
became signs of the failure. Was such a shame!
(But the Thirties' Depression's really to blame.)

'TUBES'

Uncle Richard was strange. Was a marvellous
doctor, and rich. But he'd had a 'breakdown' when
he was studying. Studied too hard. So when he tried
to explain all the body, whatever you
chose, was made out of a tube, it seemed cock-eyed
to me. If you said teeth, there were tubes that ran
down to the gums. If you said bones, the marrow
was inside every one. Each part of a man
worked in a tube. Whether puffed up or narrow,
there were tubes everywhere. I thought that it made
things much simpler, but it wasn't much of an aid.

AUNTIE GERTIE

Auntie Gertie, said Daddy, had gone to bed
once with her hair wet and next morning couldn't
speak the normal way. Some nerve-things in her head
upset the way her tongue and her lips moved, so
now she sounded like something that you shouldn't
do to a gramophone record, make it go
slow or fast with your finger. To understand
her was so difficult but Uncle Jesse
knew at once what she said. Was all nonsense and
noise to my ears, no more than all the messy
whinings, garglings and moans of a clumsy freak,
but he heard an intelligent woman speak.

AUNTIE EDITH AND UNCLE CHARLIE

Auntie Edith and Uncle Charlie often
came down. Eleven o'clock mass was their choice. Rich
people chose that. He'd fill the whole room, deafen
us with his laugh, a six-foot-plus grizzly-bear
of a man. When he talked, he would bewitch
us in some way, for everybody would stare
just at him and at no one else. His big hand
ruffled my hair. He seemed to encourage you:
'Be of good cheer!' his face said. Auntie would stand
smiling beside him, all quiet, always drew
herself back. I knew she could alter her role
as if he were a dog that she could control.

UNCLE JACK AND AUNTIE MAY

Was a little afraid of Uncle Jack. Was
one of those fathers who used 'the belt', so I
found his laugh very reassuring because
if he was laughing, the belt couldn't be on
his mind. 'Gassed in the war', Mammy said, 'so try
always to be very polite.' That reason
was mixed up with the other — Did he favour
using the belt because he'd been gassed? He knew
what a man's world was, using his bad temper
only to keep it steady. Auntie May, you
felt, knew better, so meek and quiet and sane,
always smiling and soothing away all pain.

AUNTIE FREDA'S PHRASE

Auntie Freda would say one phrase so many
times. Was 'You know that, don't you!' Not a question
but a telling-you-so. Wished she'd use any
other remark. Was like an old record stuck
in a groove. And she gave you the impression,
over and over, was no use trying to buck
the conclusion: that you had fully agreed
long before, you'd admitted something else that
proved you couldn't claim this right now, couldn't plead
ever again what you wanted, pinned down flat
like upholstery, trapped before you'd begun.
She would smile. With 'You know that, don't you!' she won.

UNCLE GUS'S APPLE TREE

Uncle Gus had an apple tree at the back.
It was not much of a garden, little grass
on a terrace and whitewashed walls and neat black
paint on the lavatory. But the big tree,
with its blossom in spring, apples that surpass
any before or since — that garden for me
was an Eden. A clean cold green their skin, like
that green you find in malachite, and their taste
sharp and sweet. Here beneath our Rivington Pike
this special tree had chosen to grow, as placed
there by magic, a Horwich tree. Words to speak
of its taste all must fail. All called it 'unique'.

AUNTIE ANNIE

From a memory you can remember more
than the unthinking child took in. See Auntie
Annie smiling and welcoming always, or
eager to offer the tea and the Eccles
cake, or ready to laugh, crinkling her sparkly
black eyes at you behind her round spectacles
as she turned round her tight, stout, aproned body
fetching this, reaching that. But there is a shy
unease there in the laugh, in the look. Jolly
smiles hide a fear that she won't understand. I,
the brash grammar-school boy, am quite unaware
that what she understands is both love and care.

NOT PLEASING AUNTIE ANNIE

When I told Auntie Annie about acting
up at the school as Captain Absolute, I
explained all the 'irony', his being
really the man that her aunt had chosen for her,
though she didn't know. Had to tell her this lie.
She was romantic and silly: if they were
to get married with money and her aunt's free
blessing, why, that would have spoiled it all. Such fun
from the misunderstandings! Been told to me
clearly by Miss Macarthy. But, when I'd done,
Auntie smiled with a frown I didn't enjoy:
she grown wary of me, the grammar-school boy.

'GOOD HEALING FLESH'

When you'd scratched yourself, grazed your knee, Mammy said,
specially should a neighbour be in, 'He's got
very good healing flesh.' Saw that, when the cut bled,
soon it went gluey and dark like damson jam,
and the skin went all puckered around the clot.
Something was working there. When you asked, 'Who am
I?' and grown-ups just gave your name, you'd think that
names didn't say it all, because there's your flesh
doing things you don't know about. Inside, fat,
bones, muscles, veins, were all in a sort of mesh
busy keeping you here, but, grown-up or kid,
found you couldn't control whatever they did.

THE FAMILY FACES

Sort of pleased I had twenty aunts and uncles,
more if they'd lived, and over forty cousins,
but not all stayed in Horwich. All those couples,
see, had a husband or wife not of the Wright
or the Brocklehurst families, so children's
faces were different. But I stare at the sight
of the dark eyes of Grandmother Hulse, the red
hair of my grandfather Wright, the smooth face,
very pretty, of Grannie, the fine broad head
Grandad was born with, and think we were a race
of our own, when the children and grandchildren
had them. Not ours, though, but nature's own pattern.

'PUTTING'

In the galvanized-iron bins dogs and cats
had been 'put to sleep'. Glass tops allowed you to
look inside at the emptiness. All the rats
in the Town's Yard were 'put down', deep in their holes
out of sight. Auntie Sadie's grave hid from view
one I had never seen, 'put at rest', with souls
above, under. 'Where have I put it?' they said
when they lost things they couldn't find. And their
distant cousin who they heard had 'put his head
in a gas-oven', his end they couldn't bear
anyone talking of. I'd take care not to see
any 'putting' — or could it be done to me?

' 'NEATH THE GREEN TURF'

There were so many people those days who could
play the piano. There we all were around
in the lamplight (was early in my childhood
while we were with Grandad and Granma) singing
the old songs. I could join in the chorus. Found
everyone knew them. We set glasses ringing
to the swing of the tune. Watched Mammy's fingers
open and close, wobble and press to the black
and white ovals in necklaces the singers
followed too, faces floating in like a pack
of balloons. Hear them now: '...where're I may rove.
She sleeps 'neath the green turf down by the ash grove.'

THE SCARY SONGS

At the parties we all sang jolly songs. Some
songs, though, had words that left you wondering why
you were singing about them, for you would come,
quite without warning, to the Three Crows who'd 'pick
his eyes out one by one'. In 'When I die',
soon you were asking then to take your bones and stick
them in alcohol, pickle them. In 'Ilkley
Moor 'baht 'at' worms came along to 'et up thee',
and we all smiled the more, the more there'd be
all these reminders of death. Was nice to see
how they showed you could smile away all the dread,
and it's nice to remember, now that they're dead.

NOT GHOSTS

As I go on my searches through that Horwich
they are all there to be seen and to talk to
me. They laugh and are serious. They bewitch
me with their old normality. See the school
coming out, rushing home down the avenue.
There's not a sign they are ghosts. I'd be a fool
if I tried now to tell them. Granma, Grandad,
Mammy and Daddy, Auntie Hattie, here today
they all greet me so freely, as if I had
really gone back. To call them 'ghosts', though — that may
hide their legacy: weight of fear, dejection,
pull of hope, and the help of their affection.

A COUPLE

Uncle Leonard would put his finger in his
collar as if he was uncomfortable;
and his smile, sort of shy, as if his wishes
should be the last anyone should think about,
but they said that he 'got out his belt'. Uncle,
yes — not my daddy, though. But there was no doubt
Auntie Nellie was nice. She would make such fun —
little like us, she was — of stuck-up, bossy
people. Her eyes would say, 'What is it we've done?',
flashing behind her flashing glasses, and she,
with her finger on lips, would go stepping round
like a stork, and we hadn't to make a sound.

' 'NEATH THE GREEN TURF'

UNCLE TOM AT THE WINE-SHOP

Uncle Tom at his counter moved sideways and
back. He would slap money down like someone who
played an instrument, swinging, reaching his hand
up for a bottle as if he was dancing,
all so stylish and smart to show he knew
safely where everything was, his eyes meeting
with the customer's eyes as much as to say
'We'll be efficient for you! Your choice is so
right!' You'd hear the cash-register ring so gay,
just like the triangle I played 'staccato'
up at school. It made port, champagne, beer and wine
all such fun. But his eyes would never meet mine.

GHOST STORY

Daddy told me a story that really
happened. A cousin of his once went into
an old house in the dark night. A shadowy
passage stretched out right in front of him. He heard
a low moan, very hoarse, at the end. He knew
well there was nobody in. Thought something stirred
in the gloom there ahead, something white. Then he
heard the same noise, and again saw something move.
Then a big white ghost, hooting so loud, jumped out at
him and he ran for his life. It was to prove
just to be an old boiler's escaping steam.
Nice to think that all scares are not what they seem.

THE VISIT TO BUCKINGHAM PALACE

Was 'cause Alban had boasted. He had been to
London and gone in the Tower and gone in
the cathedrals, St. Paul's and Westminster. Knew
Uncle Tom had more money than us. Was true
what he said. In these boasting games you could win
easy with money behind you. Very few
journeys I'd been, but I knew I had been
up on the train to the capital too, so
it was Buckingham Palace I said we'd seen,
going inside. To his mother he said, 'Know
what? He says that he's been inside the Palace!'
And she stared. He had done it to embarrass.

A VISIT TO UNCLE DENIS, GOVERNOR OF STRANGEWAYS

Through the huge wooden gates they hurried us. Why
did they look worried and serious? Why did
they all whisper? Great chained keys hung on his thigh;
up they were lifted to open gates
in the bars that filled the high arch, a grid
keeping the grey men away, or giant grates
to make sure we were safe — but they slouched along,
looking so tame and so quiet. Why were we
rushed so quickly through corridors? What was wrong?
Nods let us in. No one spoke. We were so free
in the prison. 'Should have given me a warning,'
Uncle said, 'for a man was hanged this morning.'

THE MILK-BOTTLE TOPS

Cousin Petie became a land-girl. Once we
all were invited to the farm where she worked
by the farmer and kind farmer's wife. To see
all of the cows and the pigs was good, but there
was such heavy rain. Bored for a while, we perked
up when the farmer brought from the dairy spare
milk-tops, all in long tubes, to play with. Funny
seeing them all together like that. At school
in the morning we pushed our thumbs eagerly
through the small hole (for the straw). Now we could fool
about just as we liked. What was so pleasant
was our turning them into something different.

THE PAST

There was one place you couldn't go to. Grandad,
Granma, had been there. It was the past. Other
places — they could be far away, too — you had
always the chance of a visit. Travel
was a thing you could do, see all the splendour
hidden in India, say, or unravel
wondrous trails in the jungle. But it was no
use to set out up Church Street through old Horwich,
though it seemed to me sometimes if you did go
up to the top of the road there's be a stitch
in time suddenly — beautiful light seven
times as nice, though from dull clouds, would be heaven.

AN OPPORTUNITY NOT MISSED

Went to visit Great-Uncle Augustus in
Denton, a cold, dull March day, the journey by
train. Felt Mammy keen, it being her kin,
whom she'd not seen for a long time, and bringing
the great-nephew and niece. And so what have I
kept in my memory of that day, that's still ringing
through the years? The bright smooth red of the clean bricks;
stained-glass the door-window had; and the bald head
of a friendly man. And last among the tricks
memory plays, I watched as my car sped
over valleys and hills on a croft outside.
Couldn't ask him about his life's noontide.

A CHORUS FROM THE MESSIAH

'Unto us a child is bo-orn, unto us
a son is given!' Mammy had heard that song
at Victoria Methodists, a chorus
Grandad would play sometimes on his gramophone.
Was from Handel's Messiah. I liked its strong
rhythm, the bit when He had got upon His throne —
'And the gov-er-ment shall be upon His shou-
o - o - o - o - oulders!' Mammy puzzled me,
though. She said it was funny to see a row
all of old maids singing with such energy
'Unto us a child is born!' Seemed she thought it true
she was better than them having had us two.

REFLEX

Uncle Richard, the doctor, would hit your knee.
Kicked out in front of me, and I hadn't moved.
It was funny it feel it kicking, to see
something out there that was you flying about
on its own. Uncle told us that what it proved
was that a 'reflex' did it. This gadabout
leg obeyed something other than you. Your eyelid
fluttered like that, and we hunch our shoulders when
we are startled. But yet, seemed to me stupid —
Should a tap make you kick again and again?
Might be walking along, and you get a tap,
you might kick so hard that you hurt some chap.

ELECTRIC SHOCKS

Had an uncle a doctor, who gave us a box,
polished mahogany. Inside, terminals
made of brass that was gleaming. It gave you shocks.
Daddy said solenoids built up the voltage.
You could see a sharp spark between the metals.
There was a rod you pushed in. The average
you could bear was halfway. Push it further in,
found that your arms began moving on their own
and a tingling pain shook you inside your skin.
But it was strange: although it would make you groan,
and it nearly prevented you letting go,
you were tempted to push it right in, to know.

THE CAMEL THAT WAS NOT A CAMEL

Auntie Lilian Johnson and her husband
lived a long time in India and their rooms
were all scattered with treasures out of legend:
elephants; elephant-gods; dancing gods with six
arms, with satisfied faces, waving plumes
made out of ivory; platters of brass; sticks
carved as cobras; an elephant's-foot brolly
stand. But a picture held me while Auntie and
Mammy talked. Was a camel, but a pony
leaped as its hump, its open mouth the hand
of a monkey, its body and legs all packed
tight with other beasts. So what was there in fact?

THE SOLA TOPI

Uncle Arnold had lived in India. He
had what was called a 'sola topi'. Wasn't
spelled with an 'r' as in 'solar system', you see,
even though topis keep off the sun. 'Sola'
was the pith it was made of, he said. Shouldn't
make that mistake. It was big as a bowler,
and all thick like a sea-shell, though you picked it
up so much more quickly than you expected to,
and it felt to the hand like a dry biscuit.
Wearing that you could order all your Hindoo
men to charge in the Khyber Pass. You would hurl
it away as you rushed in to kiss the girl.

HIS AUNTIE'S READING OF THE TEA-LEAVES

In the tea-leaves you saw your future, she said.
How could swirling some dregs round fix what you'd be?
When she said that the smudgy bit was a head
with a mortar-board, I saw a big black eye
with a tear. Up above she said you could see
where a man and a woman held hands, but I
saw a couple of clothes-pegs clipped to a line.
And her house with a garden was the Black Knight's
helmet, empty-eyed, hollow-mouthed, and that fine
motor-car speeding along past the traffic-lights
at green turned into buffers. What could tea-leaves do
to make either come true? Perhaps both came true.

RESPONSIBILITY

It was simple to press the bell. The steward
took my order — an orange — in spite of my
being only nine. Uncle Barney murmured
a complaint. 'Extra tips — we are not first class.'
A reproof — but to whom does it now apply?
Not to him for not warning me. Does it pass
to my parents, whose son was now suffering
from their differences, wanting an orange to
suck? Or those who prevented Daddy going
to the grammar-school? Those who gave a debut
to my mother to London wealth? Whoever
it was, I was the guilt-ridden passenger.

BITING MY FOREFINGER

I was told off by Uncle Barney for my
picking my forefinger. When he held it tight
and examined it, all flaky, did his eye
then understand what the trouble was? I did
not like having it looked at, because to bite
over and over was my thing. To forbid
it was useless: it went on just when you weren't
watching, so how could you stop it? Was no point
even thinking about it. Things that you learnt,
school things, were used, but this nibbling at the joint
was like smoking, or eating that made you fat —
and so what was the problem in doing that?

'HOURS'

In the ski and toboggan shop in Oslo,
eager, entranced, I helped Uncle Barney choose
which my skis were to be. The toboggans, though,
not to be bought, lay around in the wrong place,
nowhere near lovely snow. He had to refuse
getting one for me, for I had had the face
to ask him. Said that 'Too many hours had gone
into the making of them!' I looked at the wood,
finely jointed and polished, steering-wheels on
some of them, silvery runners — Yes, you should
keep in mind all those hours — What a lot you'd owe!
But you'd use up the hours sliding on the snow!

X-RAYING MY FOOT

In the ski-store in Oslo, as well as skis they
sold all the ski-boots, specially made to fit
to the skis and to you. They had an X-ray
stand where you put in your foot and you could see
all the bones that were there. You saw then all lit
up in a kind of cloudy blue. You were free
to let toes go all loose and cramp them in tight.
Something inside you worked just like a machine.
Made me think there must be a lot out of sight
under your skin, inside your head, never seen
but deciding things for you. While you were out
walking, I thought they'd be walking you about.

THE PRESENT OF SKIS

I had skis as a souvenir of Norway,
Uncle Barney's gift (journey and skis). No one
else had skis, for the war came. I'd go and play
in the snow with my friends. I would demonstrate
how to snowplough, to lean forward on the run
(not very well). They knew how to skate,
but to ski was my private mystique, envied
by all. 'Let me!' 'No, me first!' It was only
fair to let them. I had to do as they did
with their toys. It was hard though to stand lonely
in the cold. 'Look at me! Look at me!' they cried,
as I looked at the gift that I was denied.

THE BEST PART OF TRAVELLING ABROAD

I found ski-ing was difficult. The best time
I can remember in Norway was turning
a huge pile of snow, one so big you could climb
up on the top and be higher than people,
to an igloo. Through the snow cars had been churning
up right in front of the hotel went a tunnel
and we scooped out a cave inside, with lovely
green light and two rooms with a tunnel between.
Was a bluey-green light over the happy
face of the Belgian boy who had been so keen
to join with me to make it. That happy face
is my happiest memory of that place.