XVIII. Words
'CLEVELEYS'
As I played on a horse-hair couch with my car
(horse-hair stuffed tightly inside a shiny black
cover, silver tacks gleaming against this tar-
bright smoothness, cold to the hand), someone mentioned
'Cleveleys', some place I'd never heard of. Shellac
shine on those tight ebony rounds, tensioned
mounds, smooth to my car, became that 'Cleveleys'.
Cleveleys was near-bursting like that, all blown out
like a trumpeter's cheeks, like Humpty-Dumpty's.
Liquorice-black Cleveleys, polished, cold and stout,
and so bouncy. At four-years-old, what I'd heard
put a meaning where none was firm, in a word.
ONOMATOPŒIA
I would open and close the kitchen door to
hear it say its own name — 'Creak!' But it wouldn't
pronounce it very clearly. The doves said 'Coo!'
but their English was not of the best. The cock
tried to 'crow' every morning, but he couldn't.
Wouldn't know if he did. And 'Tick-tock'
was too hard for our clock, and how to whistle
would escape all the steam from the spout of our
kettle. Fat in the pan would try to sizzle
as it cooked and it didn't always have the power
to do that as it should. The world hadn't heard,
as it should, where the power lay in the word.
'THE CLOUD'
As we couldn't learn all of 'The Cloud', she chose
six of us, shared it out. I had the longest
verse, about Lightning, the pilot. When you compose
poetry, said Miss Hester, you try to keep
all the sound of the words suiting the sense. Best
out of the lot was 'aghast', for 'while I sleep
in the arms of the blast' you'd hear the pine trees
groan in the wind and 'aghast' sounded just like
it. You'd see the white snow, even felt it freeze.
Funny that words do that when their meanings strike
you. I didn't know why Shelley's Cloud was hurled
about so, but it took you over the world.
THE FOXGLOVE
Didn't see how they could be gloves for foxes.
They would tear through as soon as the fox tried to
trot. Just a name someone thought up centuries
back and it caught on. So I'd think, it has no
name in fact. You could call it instead 'foxshoe'.
More like a tall bonnet, its mouth like the 'O'
baby birds make, inside leopard- or cowrie-shell-
spotted. So you could call it 'bonnet', 'baby
bird' or leopard' or 'cowrie' — or 'dancer's bells'
or 'procession of trumpets', and nobody
can mind as long as they know just what you intend.
For the Foxglove's no name — we all just pretend.
'TA' AND 'TAR'
There was 'Ta' to say thank you and 'tar' to say
all that black pitchy stuff that they poured between
bricks and cobbles to make them stick. If you say
'Ta' then the person is likely to do it
again for you. Say 'tar' if you want to mean
'That's what the black stuff is that holds all the grit
so the road will be smooth for everybody.'
But I would wonder what the roadmen would do
if they wanted some tar given them quickly
when they'd just been given something else. Would be true
to say 'Tar!' Not much use though, Why, you could call
ten times! Would be like talking to a brick wall.
'ST. CLEMENT'S' (I)
We sang '"Oranges and lemons" say the bells
of St. Clement's!' It wasn't a proper
rhyme — we sang 'Clemons'. The way that Teacher spells
didn't affect us. She didn't notice it.
But the word seemed so odd. Wanted to bother
me. It wasn't a fruit, but it seemed to fit
with that 'cler' and that 'ser' 1 as if saliva
all round your tongue meant you were ready to eat.
And then, if it was someone's name, to rhyme a
fruit-word with yours wasn't nice — some boys would greet
you with jeers of 'Old Lemons!' They would take 'Wright'
and then call down the street, 'Here's shabby old Shite!'
1 Take 'cler' and 'ser' as the phonemes /kl/ and /s/.
'ST. CLEMENT'S' II
'. . . say the bells of St. Clement's.' Was something odd
listening to words. What was it about 'Clement's'
that would always start bothering me? Would prod
me as if saying 'Don't you remember it?'
It just wasn't the same with the rhyme 'lemons',
though it reminded me sometimes just a bit
of the something that I couldn't be reminded
of! It was like someone knew something about
me and wouldn't say what. Hidden behind it
something important, nice or nasty. The doubt
kept me saying it secretly, as if I
would find out at last what, how, where, when and why.
THE ALIENS' LANGUAGE
In a comic about the future, they talked
using a light on their heads. Thought about that.
To mean 'red' they could use a red light, and chalked
using a red chalk when they wrote it. And 'blue'
could be blue. Suppose they wanted to say 'fat':
they could begin very dim and then grow to
brighter. 'Sharp' could be suddenly stopping or
starting. A 'nasty smell' could go orange-green-
purple. For a good alphabet there'd be more:
violet, darkened, for heavy things; to mean
light things, happy ones — yellow, dazzling white.
They'd make wonderful poems out of the light.
OUR NONSENSE-WORDS
'Bibbibooniboroosa', a nonsense-word,
lasted three months or so. Together we'd say
it, and chant it too, Sarah and I. You heard
it in the rustling of leaves and the grumbling
of the engines of lorries. Wouldn't betray
it to the grown-ups. You would hear us mumbling
'Bibbibooniboroosa' secretly while
they were talking. Was our language that we
knew and they didn't ever. It would make us smile
seeing a bibby in a pram, or to be
told that Moscow's in Roosa, a boon's a bone.
Then we'd make up another word just our own.
MÖBIUS STRIP
When you made Christmas chains out of paper, you
could for a joke put a twist in one, sticking
the white inside end onto the red or blue
outside end, just as the maths master said, for
there was one side then. Something real was tricking
you, for, if you traced with your finger, you saw
it was one side that changed its colour from red
over to white and then back again. You'd see
that there was on the other side, though, instead,
opposite colour. Was as if you weren't free
to use 'side' as a word and still mean the same.
Was as if using words was more like a game.
'LUV'
When a beggar said, 'Luv', he didn't really
mean it, so Mammy said. Only your mother
or your father did that. 'A penny, dearie!
Go in and ask your mam for a penny for
a poor old gipsy woman!' She'd want another
next week if Mammy gave her one. Gipsies or
tramps soon knew who was soft, so you mustn't give
money away just because they called you 'Chick'
of 'My duck' or 'Nice kiddie'. To work was to live —
that was what God told Adam. 'Luv' was a trick
word that people might use. Didn't mean hugging —
it was just said to get something for nothing.
'LIP'
I'd think, when Mr. Holroyd said to someone,
'None of your lip!' that he was using the word
'lip' a funny way. It was a sort of pun,
meaning the cheekiness and not the borders
of the mouth. When he said it, of course, you heard
cheekiness 'cause boys hadn't obeyed orders,
talking back when they shouldn't, and they used their
lips to be cheeky and Holly seemed to say
all they'd done was to move their lips; didn't care
what their remarks had been. Was a sort of play,
so was just like the cheekiness. Then I'd skip
to the thought it was true of the word a 'lip'.
'ROTTERS'
You called someone a 'rotter' if they weren't good.
Rotters would make something rot. Whatever it was
inside apples and oranges, stuff that could
turn a nice jam into grey-green fluff, that made
leaves turn brown, black, and then fall apart, all because
life had been spoiled somehow, made the flowers fade
and a big trunk go crumbly-wet, and a dead
bird fall in like a smashed umbrella, or
a dead sheep push its teeth through its face, or bread
stiffen and grow blue blotches, a dinosaur
just become like the picture on a penny.
Those were 'rotters'. I wished we hadn't any.
'HARD-ON'
Coming out of the A.T.C., Jack (Sergeant
Duff), whom I liked), looked at my pants and then said,
'I say, have you got a hard-on?' But I couldn't
see what he meant for a second. 'A hard-on?' What
could that be? Then I knew in a flash, turned red,
stammered, 'Why, no.' As I stood there, feeling hot,
I was saying inside, 'Hard-on's an adjective.
Can't become noun just because someone's vulgar.'
But another voice, whispering, made me misgive:
'Didn't you hear Miss Macarthy say under
Parts of Speech any word could go?' So his smut
was like Shakespeare: 'But me no buts!' — even but.
THE WORD 'STENCIL'
Could make patterns with stencils. Was a funny
word 'stencil'. Meant that the picture had spaces
in between, sort of rounded, spotty, fuzzy:
something you saw through a fence; fretwork designs.
Was as if what you drew had left ghost traces,
shadows or brandmarks. You filled in all the lines
with your eye. So was special, and this one word
stood for it all. Miss Macarthy said it came
from 'scintilla' — that's flashing of light. They heard
'Stincilla'. Changed round the sounds. But all the same
it was strange that that word all by itself might
do to remind you. Was more than 'flashing of light'.
'GROWN-UPS'
I thought 'grown-ups' a funny word. They would say
'turn-ups' for folds at the bottom of trousers.
and then 'fry-ups' for cooking of what you may
have as a left-over. 'Lock-ups' were prisons,
and a 'pick-me-up' picked you up, and actors
put on their 'make-up'. I wondered if Martians
would be able to guess what we meant. Older
people were bigger than you. You looked up: they
looked down, patting your head, hand on your shoulder.
High up, they'd grown, just like cats did from kittens. You
were 'grown-down', but you worked out the simple clue.
JEPSON'S CLOUGH, WILDER'S WOOD...
Jepson's Clough, Wilderswood, Sharrock's Farm, Old Hart's
Farm — all these names around Horwich were of men
who once lived there, forgotten now, only parts,
said without thought, of the name of a ravine
or a wood or a farm or a place where then,
so long ago, a farm was. But when you mean
with a word, it's your memory helps you, I'd
think, and so once those who used it remembered
Mr. Jepson and Mr. Wilder to guide
them to which clough and which wood they'd discovered
for the very first time, and they'd understand.
It was special and friendly in a strange land.
BOLTON-LE-MOORS
There was Bolton-le-Sands and Bolton-le-Dale.
Bolton was called Bolton-le-Moors. 'Sands', 'Dale', 'Moors' —
it was so that you wouldn't get mixed up, fail
knowing which Bolton you meant. With our Bolton
having the moors at one end of its streets ensures
there can be no mistake and any postman
knows at once which it is without the extra
word. What if there were lots of Horwiches!
Could be 'Horwich-le-Pike', 'Horwich-le-Picture
House', perhaps 'Horwich-le-Works' or 'le-Moonlit'
'cause gray houses looked nice then. Could even name
it '-le-Heaven', -le-Hell' — it would be the same.
'UP RIVINGTON'
We are going 'up Rivington' you always
said. It was always 'down Bolton'. Was funny
thinking that, for you didn't rise, nothing would raise
you in Rivington unless you chose to
climb the Pike; and in Bolton on a sunny
day if you looked along Bradshawgate the view
showed you lots of its houses on hills. The word
'up', then, just meant where you went, perhaps a long
way, 'cause 'up' meant a lot. The same when you heard
'down', seemed you got right in. You wouldn't go wrong
when you went in the tramcar. Sort of riddle.
And it put our own Horwich in the middle.
'X-Y-Z'
I collected some savings stamps — they were for
'X-Y-Z'. These three letters stood for the tent
I was going to buy. In the blue stamps I saw
holiday skies. The points in the ration book
stood for sweets: I could see a line as a dent
in the chocolate, though the page didn't look
very eatable. On my National card which showed
my identity, N-V-E-E could be
E's for 'Edmond'; the number the only code
for me, no one else — 2-8-4-2, you see,
makes sixteen, that's the age I can use my tent.
If I tried, I could fit what the symbols meant.
'FAVOURS'
'Now that's just what his mother would say!' I'd said
'favours' for being like. It sent me quiet
hearing things like that. Was it Mammy instead
speaking, not me? She'd hold up my hand putting
hers beside it. Was I a kind of parrot
saying the grown-up words, but never knowing
that it wasn't me? Out walking with Daddy,
getting in step wasn't easy 'cause his stride
was much bigger. My pals thought I was swanky
putting my right foot out like him. Couldn't hide
from them I was pretending. But I had off
what they couldn't guess ever: I had his cough.
SARAH'S TRICK
You'd hear Sarah deliberately, carefully
singing in this way: "Mappy Mirthmay moo moo!
Mappy mirthmay moo moo!" She'd say, "You can see
what the words are, can't you!" "But nobody would
sing like that!" I'd say. "What does it matter! — you
know what it is just the same! I even could
sing it 'Mammy mirmay' and you would still know
what I was singing." "That's just silly!" I'd say.
"You could go 'Ah-ee-ur-ay'!" "Well, I will so
there! And you'd still know!" She sang 'Ah-ee-ur-ay!'
like I said. Then she tapped it. Then she just tapped
once. Then just waved her hand. She still had me trapped.
KEZIA DOUGHERTY
Couldn't stand little Kezia Dougherty.
She was a swanky know-all. "'Disintwested'
doesn't mean what you think — my daddy told me.
'Manooal employee' is the correct name
for your father." With other words she tested
you, just to shake her head. One day when they came
we were out in the garden. I was fixing
string for a Dinky Toy airplane to slide down.
"Indistinguishable!" I said. "You're handing
me up the hammer head first! Don't be a clown!
'Indistinguishable' means handle first." She
said, "Inguishable," turning it round to me.
EARLY PUNNING
'"Look what Marma laid!' That's what the chicken said
when it came out of the egg!" — The opening lines
of my comic turn Marmalade. See, instead.
jam became something said by a smart chicken.
I was ten at the time. Knew one word combines
two or more meanings: you could make it a twin
if you put it with other words. 'Egg' became
'Egg-zactly" next or so on. Just like a wave
or a story or joke. Was something the same,
just as completely real, but that's all you'd save,
'cause the new could be two things, not one. Surprise
was the thing, so you'd watch out if you were wise.
PUNNING ON THE BUILDER'S WORDS
You would 'start at the bottom and build up,' he
began, but they had giggled before he got
to the word 'build'. He said we must see
we 'erected a firm scaffolding' — sniggers
again at 'firm'. 'Always choose a vacant lot.'
Heard them whisper 'Engaged!'. followed by titters.
Every 'screw', every 'stud' they would turn to blue
jokes. His words, though, were serious. I thought lust
would distract from building careers. You had to
survey virgin land not spoken for. You must
see where words can mount. If all you did was pun
from one site to the next, nothing would be 'done'.
A FOOLISH CHINAMAN
'Hu Flung Dung was a Chinaman,' Daddy said,
laughing, and Mammy said, 'Billee! ', but you could
tell, the way that she said it, that we, instead
of putting blame on our daddy, could laugh too.
You were laughing because the Chinaman would
not know the meaning his name had. What was true
only we really knew, and he went round not
knowing what everyone else did, that his name
really meant asking who it was that had got
hold of some dung and threw it. He should feel shame
as a fool and he didn't. That was funny.
Meant that we were so pleased not to be dirty.
'TURKISH DELIGHT'
Uncle Jack had a funny record. There were
two comics speaking: one was foreign and slow,
and that one couldn't pronounce English, would slur
words all together. One of his sentences
went like this: 'When they start, Turkish delight go
out!' At that you would hear all the audience's
laughs, because the first man went dotty trying
hard to make sense of it. '"Turkish delight", you
say? Now whatever d'you mean?' So, sighing
sadly, the other man says, 'When they start to
kish, de light go out." Kiss, the word that he spoke.
Was a story about a story, that joke.
RIDDLES
When they told you a riddle, they were scoring
off you. 'What did the big chimney say to the
little chimney?" — 'You're too young to smoke.' Boring
if you had heard it before and you could crow
back at him, but the point was to fix who the
boss was with words, because, if you didn't know,
you were left only guessing what the grown-up chimney
said. You see, he knew that 'smoke' was the one word
fitting chimneys and fathers. You were dummy
not knowing that. It was as if when you heard
what the answer was, he had turned you into
being too young to smoke. And it wasn't true.
'BELL - I - MUD - DUM' (From B. F. SKINNER)
'Bell - I - Mud - Dum!' Repeating this over and
over again makes you say what you don't know
you are saying. What's more, although you scanned
'mud' as a whole word, one complete and entire
thing you count up to one, it's become zero,
vanished uncounted — it's made you a liar
when you thought you spoke true, the world dizzily
otherwise. Jokers will laugh because you are
not the same as you were, but they craftily
knew before you, which is frighteningly bizarre.
You can't learn you, no matter how you study.
So a wave rolls from clear water to muddy.
'THIS'
When some people told stories they always used
'this'. They'd say 'This man met this girl in this flat
and he said that he'd buy her this dress...' Confused
me to hear 'this' all the time. If you use 'this',
what it means is the thing that you're pointing at
stands right in front of you both. How could he miss
understanding a simple word like that? 'This man',
'this girl', and 'this flat' — they weren't there to be seen.
Is as if, as he tells you the joke, he can
see all these people on a sort of brain-screen,
and he thinks using 'this' will force you to see
it as well. But my brain feels only ennui.
WHAT 'HOG' MEANT
'Cause I didn't ask Daddy what 'hog' meant, Miss
Walker had caned me. It would have been
easy to ask. Daddy knew 'hog' meant pig. I knew this
meaning was in his head at breakfast as we
sat together, a treasure I could quickly
have got myself, so near. Why, if I could be
just as close as that, wasn't it good enough?
Daddy and Mammy said they were sorry, but
they were smiling. "Miss Walker once used to cuff
me!" Daddy said. "You haven't to mind a cut
with the cane now and then." But I did a bit —
you remembered the word 'cause you minded it.
'HIGGINBOTHAM' AND 'RAMSBOTTOM'
Couldn't laugh at those people called Death who said
you should pronounce it 'Dee-ath' , or even 'Deeth';
or the Pebodys saying it should be read
'Pebbodys'. Reason was Grandad's middle name —
Higginbotham. You knew well that underneath
was 'Higginbottom'. Course it wasn't the same
for it meant just a hollow sort of valley
where, long ago, there had been oaks. Daddy's
fancy woman, her house, it was a pity
it was in Ramsbottom Road. Was given his
name, the engineer's. 'Wild garlic valley' it
meant, but who would say that thought's the one to fit?
W. C.
Learned that Grandad and Granma Wright had not thought
what they were doing when they decided on
Daddy's names, which were William Cuthbert. Ought
to have seen right away that his initials
meant a lavatory. For now the chance had gone.
Shame stuck to name like it was some criminal's,
and, however you tried and however long,
there it would be as if it was inside you.
Could protest as long as you liked the wrong
really was someone else's, it wasn't true
that you did it — your name now always would be
silly William Cuthbert, W. C.
LANGUAGE TRAPS
In American films when the gangster said,
'Watch it, you guys!', you hadn't to think of Guy
Fawkes Night. When he said, 'I'll fill you full of lead!'
no use thinking of pouring anything
nice, like tea, or of lead soldiers — you would die,
'cause what he meant was bullets. And the meaning
when he said 'Beat it!' wasn't him telling you
Go on and win! — he was telling you that he
didn't want you to stay. A girl 'feeling blue'
wasn't a blue bird going to play with me
in the blue sky — she was crying. When you had
learned the language, they could make you scared or sad.
BOB'S BREW AND TANNER'S BREW
There was Bob's Brew and Tanner's Brew. Wasn't 'Bob'
said as a boy's name, though you could have someone
who was called 'Tanner'. Climbing up was a job,
either o't' brews. It was like having to earn
as you stood on the pedals. If only on
top was a Bob with a bob, you would soon learn
all the pain in your legs didn't much matter.
Panting and sweating would be nothing if there
was a little old man called Mister Tanner
handing you sixpence. He'd have plenty to spare
just as long as you got there all on your own.
But at last, when you did, you stood there alone.
ADVERTISEMENTS (I)
Used to puzzle me why advertisers paid
lots of money to get into the News
Chronicle. No one believed them. To persuade
me would take more than feeble jokes like 'Did you
Maclean your teeth today?' Would anyone use
Lux because the maker had said their shampoo
Claudette Colbert used — they'd paid for her picture.
Women in underwear on the phone saying
'Celanese Locknit's gone to my heart!' never
would get a penny from wise folk. But paying
for the best of Meccano's new Dinky Toys,
you just had to obey their 'Come on, you boys!'
ADVERTISEMENTS (II)
On that record the 'Capitol' had become
part of the record. The locksmith called Keen
had put 'Keen' in the shape of a key. 'Yum-yum'
toffees were lips saying 'Yum-yum!' On Oxo
posters O's were wide open at the tureen,
X's were noses sincerely sniffing. Bisto
steam wrote 'Bisto' at random, while other smoke
scribbled out clearly 'I'm Craven A'. Guinness
always grinned with good cheer at the funny joke:
Goodness began with the same letter. Such bliss
lay in being the buyer, all would go well
just as long as you knew the right way to spell.
THE GUINNESS ADVERTISEMENTS
Saw the Guinness advertisements. There would be,
eyes open wide, a zookeeper, and his drink
had been pinched by a toucan or chimpanzee.
Always the words underneath were the same. They
were 'My goodness! My Guinness!' It made me think.
'Goodness' could mean two things: taking it one way
he was saying how bothered he was; but then,
'goodness' could really mean goodness, and that meant
that his Guinness was goodness for him. Again,
'one-into-two' turned up in the words — they went
'My — My', 'ger — ger', and 'ness — ness'. What is much worse —
that's the way they get money out of your purse.
MATCHING WORD TO THING
On the trams they had 'N' for 'Horwich'. I thought
'H' would be better, but no one seemed to mind.
We all ran for the 'N' just the same and caught
it. 'Mason Street' changed into 'Vale Avenue',
but, however hard you looked, you couldn't find
just where the join was, but all the postmen knew
where the letters went. Up on 'Two Lads', Walter,
Steve and I built two cairns, as tall as two chaps.
Were knocked down the next day, but it didn't alter
what had been printed on Ordnance Survey maps.
Though I hadn't talked, wouldn't do it again.
there was no doubt that someone needed the cane.
GETTING THE WORDS RIGHT
"Oh, but that's what you told me to do — put 'E-
I' when it's not pronounced 'EE' — Here in 'protein',
sir, it's 'EE'." "You said contours, sir, had to be
circles and join up, sir, to show a mountain,
but you never once said, I couldn't have seen
on my own, where there's a cliff that you draw in
little pictures of rocks — that's not what you said
measurement was, sir." "I couldn't know that it
was the active voice — I must have been misled —
how can a passive voice be the opposite
of itself? You can't call it an 'infraction'
when the Subject's not the do-er of the action!"
'MR. HAYDOCK'
Was the same spot as the other accident took
place, at the bottom of Church Street's hill (the road
tilts out, turning to level). The trauma shook
me twice (before or after the other time —
it is no matter) where the stone lorry's load
volleyed in tons at the crowd. Intentless rhyme
that wrote blood once again at the bend. A brand
there in the brain: one man, his skull, white-bandaged,
seeping red in criss-cross lines. Words like 'trepanned',
'suture' or 'cranium', they are all packaged
into his name, 'Mr. Haydock'. Cannot annul
this bond, written in blood, of 'Haydock' and 'skull'.
NAMES
When I looked at my name, I thought it was so
funny both names on their own belonged to
other people. With 'Edmond' and 'Wright' you know
who you are, but with 'Wright' or 'Edmond' alone
it could be all my Wright cousins, and I knew
I had been called 'after' my uncle Malone —
he'd been called after other Edmonds to one
who had been Dr. Johnson's friend. On the last
day when God called us up, if he said, "Well done,
Edmond!" or said, "Wright, depart! Thou art cast
into Hell!", would he know the real from the fake?
Would be terrible if he made a mistake.
'SPIRIT'
When they used the word 'spirit' — they did often —
I would see in my mind a faster water
lightly dashing down, like liquid oxygen,
bubbling, drenching with petrol scent the sinful
soul and cleansing it, making it holier
with a volatile coldness, a clinical
shock. Like surgical spirit it stung, was not
nice to taste, for external or eternal
use. Like wine it would burn your tongue, cold but hot,
could intoxicate toxically. Mortal
sins or venial vanished. I thought how fine
it would be if they could make it taste like wine.