The bright red trilby – which Ada’s insensitive “fficials’ had taken from her – Marcia had gently placed over the wispy stumps of hair and ragged bald patches which Ada Humble had managed to hide from the curious world for so long. It made a stark contrast against the soft silky whiteness of the pillow. As Marcia dwelt soulfully on the dear face, a sick fury tugged at her senses. Half seeing through the misty veil, she leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on the alabaster forehead. ‘I know you’d not want yon town hall folk to tek your Toby – your “soldier”,’ she whispered, ‘so you tek him, Ada lass, for he belongs to nobody else.’ She removed the frame from around Toby’s picture, then slid the rolled up picture gently underneath the long shroud and out of sight. Somehow, the act gave her a feeling of pleasure.
The inhabitants of working-class Blackburn were as varied and interesting as the higgledy-piggledy pattern of chimneys that formed its skyline, like old Martha Heigh, another eccentric of the street:
She could be seen now, standing on her doorstep, stretching her neck so as not to miss anything. Martha Heigh never bothered to wash…or so it was told. Anyone, it was rumoured, with even half a nose could not bear to stand within range of the very nasty aroma which constantly surrounded old Martha.
She’d lived on her own in the last house along the row these thirty-odd years, since the death of her poor old father. Nobody knew her real age although folks reckoned it to be grander than eighty. She rarely ventured from the safety of her home, and the only person she had ever allowed inside it was Marcia who, to the horror of her neighbours, often fetched groceries for the old woman.
Martha was as short and round as a little Toby jug, and the full-length skirts she wore did nothing to enhance her appearance. More often than not, the skirt was employed as a convenient dish rag. She’d wipe her hands on it, blow her snuffy brown nostrils on it…she was using it now to shine up her precious tiny silver spectacles, which were then promptly placed on her nose with delicate precision as she peered to focus.
Her hair stood out in a petrified state of attention, and the nervous nodding habit she’d cultivated accelerated with excitement at the appearance of the new neighbours. The wide appreciative grin as she suddenly saw Marcia displayed the blackened rows of teeth, the naturalness of which she was duly proud. Marcia smiled back, waving her hand in acknowledgement.
Then there were the street traders – the peddler, the tinker with pots and pans, the scissors grinder and the barrel-organ grinder:
A little wizened man had placed his barrel organ in a shrewd position, so that anyone emerging from Ainsworth Street had no choice but to pass him before reaching the centre of activity.
‘Good evening one an’ all!’ His voice was an odd grating squeak which seemed to suit his tiny size and general set-up. Fascinated at both his goblin-like appearance and the whole unusual ensemble before them, the little party ground to a halt.
‘Mam! just look at that!’ Polly’s voice was tremulous with the eager excitement of a child. ‘That’s a monkey!’ The incredulity in Polly’s voice caused them to stare all the harder.
‘That’s right, lass. You’re looking at the gamest little monkey in Lancashire!’ The wizened man stepped forward with the monkey squatting skilfully on the bony protrusion of his shoulder and the light from a corner street-lamp illuminated the weird pair. Marcia couldn’t help but notice the striking resemblance between the monkey and its shrunken owner. They were both of the same scrawny appearance, and even the cheeky red cap perched jauntily on the monkey’s head was identical to the one worn by the man. ‘I’m tellin’ you,’ he continued to squawk, ‘there’s no monkey in the whole of Lancashire – perhaps the whole world – as can do tricks like my Jasper ‘ere!’ He swung the monkey by the length of its confining lead to land with a soft thud on Polly’s shoulder. His quick jerky movements startled her into springing forward, whereupon the monkey flew into the air, emitting a series of jabbering squawks and chatters, before landing squarely on the side of the barrel organ.
Pre-eminent amongst the street traders was, of course, the rag-and-bone merchant. Take This Woman, set in Blackburn in 1947, presents us with Laura Blake, who makes a canny living out of ‘tatting’, as it is known. She collected from a lumbering wooden cart, manoeuvring it by settling herself between its long curved shafts, and taking a firm grip with each hand. She’d collect from the smart area of town, along the Preston New Road, and then wend her way back towards Remmie Thorpe’s rag-and-bone shop, where she might exchange some of what she had collected for a few shillings. But Laura found a better welcome in her own part of town, as this extract shows:
The women, all turbaned, laughing or talking, and nearly all pregnant, were busy white-stoning the steps, washing the windows, or watching young ‘uns, who spent their days sitting on the kerbs with sugar butties; sailing matchstick boats down the gutters; and dropping loose stones into the stinking drains.
‘Hey up!’ Smiling Tilly Shiner was the first to spot Laura and her cumbersome cart. ‘It’s young Laura!’
‘Tongue ‘anging out for a brew, I expect.’ The broad-faced Belle Strong waved a fat dimpled arm towards Laura. ‘Get your arse into my kitchen, young ‘un!’ she shouted coarsely, her numerous chins waggling and bright round eyes laughing. ‘Leave yon cart agin the kerb. They’ll ‘ave it filled in no time, lass!’
And what does Tilly intend to give her? A pair of brown, iron-clad clogs. In Her Father’s Sins, Jo recalls the occasion when, as a youngster, she took her dad’s boots out to another rag-and-bone lady. Maisie Thorogood was as much part of the street scene ‘as the gas-lamps and the shiny worn cobblestones. In real life she was really quite bad, which was why I called her Thorogood in the book.’ In the continuation of Queenie’s story, Let Loose the Tigers, Maisie and her daughter, Sheila, are charged with keeping an immoral house in Lytham St Annes, and Sheila is sent to prison for five years. In real life, Maisie’s great weakness concerned the Yanks. The American GIs came to the town in 1944. They arrived to prepare for the invasion of Europe and were accommodated in the then disused Brookhouse Mill. ‘Maisie liked them a lot,’ Jo’s mother had informed her, ‘and when the Yanks left, she was left behind with twins, called Raymond and Sheila in the book. I grew up with them.
‘Maisie had connections with everything. She was amazing. She was wonderful! She was like fairyland! She had this cart that she had painted, and she attached balloons to it. You thought the whole thing was going to take off! You couldn’t miss her. Big peroxide-blonde hair. A voice like a sergeant major. Great sense of humour. She’d have everyone in stitches. The men used to tease her and torment her and she’d give ‘em as good as she got, swore like a trooper!’
Clutching George Kenney’s old boots, Queenie hopped and skipped the few flagstones which separated her from the rag-a-bone wagon. Its presence within the excited screeching throng of children was pinpointed by the numerous clusters of waving balloons. Every colour of the rain-bow they were, dancing and jiggling towards the sky in erratic fits and starts, as the ticklish breeze played and teased the restraining strings.
There were sausage-shaped ones, round ones, egg-shaped and twisty ones; all wriggling and singing as they rubbed together gleefully. Queenie had often imagined Maisie Thorogood sitting in her parlour blowing up the balloons. The magnitude of such an operation had prompted her on more than one occasion to ask Maisie where she kept all that wind, and if it took her all week to get the balloons ready. Maisie would roll about and scream with laughter. ‘Bless your ‘eart, Queenie darlin’,’ she’d shout, ‘didn’t