Made in Myrtle Street (Prequel) (3 page)

Each sector of the crossroads was fringed with tubular iron railings, thoughtfully built so that the top rail was a convenient height for the elbows of the out-of-work Salford men from the houses behind that corner. Like four tribes they gazed out with taut-faced resignation at the passing traffic. The groups were dotted with the khaki of enlisting soldiers.

Edward joined the cloth-capped men who stood around the Ship Hotel corner, their hands thrust deep into their pockets or cupped around sustaining cigarettes. They were mostly dockworkers who hadn’t been chosen that morning in the inequitable daily lottery of gang selection. Every day they rose early and crowded hopefully around the Dock gates, shoulders shrugged against the chill mists that rolled across the canal, and prayed that today they might be lucky. Each morning, the dowdy gang stood in stark contrast to the showy opulence of the Dock offices and hoped that, if fortune had smiled on them, they could go home that night with their heads held high.

Now, the luckless rejects from that morning’s selection had made their way up to the corner at the crossroads and were aimlessly discussing the weekend’s sport, the runners in the dog racing and the injustices that burdened their lives. For the past two months, following the assassination on the 28 June of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the subsequent outbreak of the rapidly escalating war, the conversation had increasingly centred on the fighting in Europe and the employment opportunities that this might offer. Some of the men had strong opinions about the political wisdom of Britain entering the battle but most of the talk was tinged with a sense of excitement at the prospect of a change in their personal circumstances and fortunes.

Muttered greetings were exchanged with Edward but the men respected the silence of his confused mood. To his left, Regent Road ran down into the bustling commercial centre of Manchester whilst to his right, the route ran past the huge, formidable Salford Workhouse and on through Eccles into Warrington. In front of him, Trafford Road was busy with the endless streams of carts ferrying products to and from the Docks; the horses leaving numerous, steaming markers to denote their passing. The rich warm vapour from the sweating horses hung like a thin cloud over the junction, contrasting sharply with the stale odours emanating from the open door of the Ship Hotel behind him. The cleaners had begun their daily struggle to free the pub of the evidence of the previous night’s indulgencies. Woodbine smoke hung in the still September air, dulled by the smell of the grain flour that had lingered for the last two days in the dockworkers’ jackets.

A motorised cart tumbled the clouds of damp haze and left behind the pungent traces of burnt fuel as it passed through. Edward was fascinated to see that these trucks were becoming more commonplace. His Dad would never have believed that, in his son’s day, they would be seeing horseless carriages pushing the carters off the roads.

He watched the groups of coolies from the ships on their way up to the shops and pubs. They walked in single file like a line of sombre, grey geese. Their eyes were lowered submissively and they crossed the road maintaining the same order and distance between them. It was a deliberately non-confrontational and non-intrusive style, he reflected, as though it was a part of their shipboard training.

Edward stood with his arms resting on the rail, his hands clasped in front of him as if in supplication. His eyes were fixed on the church on the opposite corner where he had married his childhood sweetheart ten years before. He was not a regular churchgoer and Laura and the children now went to Salford Central Mission, the big new church that he could see just a bit further down Trafford Road. This imposing, three storey building with the domed roof above the central section, had been opened only six years before, yet already it was the hub of the community. Up to a thousand people attended the Sunday services and each day during the week there was a range of interesting activities for young and old alike. He had often joined the hundreds of men who enjoyed the thought provoking addresses given by the speakers at the secular Pleasant Sunday Afternoon Society meetings. The steaming jungles of South America, the exotic spices of India and the commercial brashness of New York had all been brought to their Salford doorstep.

When they were young lads, the racecourse had stood at the bottom of Broadway, the road that ran in front of the church. Since then, it had been relocated to Kersal and the land now housed the huge Number 9 Dock. The voracious growth was dizzying. His mother hated it and never came down further than the market.

The Mission did seem a friendlier place, and less formal in its purveying of the Christian message, but the statuesque, Victorian gothic pile of the building opposite elicited from Edward a special reverence.

This elegant edifice of Stowell’s Church was imbued with the spirit of a thousand happy unions that had been blessed within its walls. There were fragments of both his and Laura’s beings embedded in that majestic stone. He admired the skill of the masons that had gifted this building to the community as a repository for the golden threads of the mutual commitment that bound together their often drab lives. He wondered at the skills and learning of the artisans that had created this complete and unified whole out of the rough-hewn rocks that had been brought to them.

Occasionally, there would be a loud, metallic thudding as a monstrous steam traction engine rumbled by hauling a heavy trailer. They carried massive castings from Lancaster and Tonge’s in Pendleton destined for one of the new factories in the rapidly developing Trafford Park industrial estate.

Many of the men shouted a greeting to Edward and wished him good luck. Some said that they would see him over in France sometime soon. Edward smiled bleakly and waved back at the many familiar faces.

He watched the horse drawn carts coming up Trafford Road with the loads that they had collected from the Docks. A lot of them were carrying large bales of cotton or crates of fruit, whilst others were weighted down with strangely shaped blocks of rubber. Some were loaded with timber and Edward mused as to whether any of these were on the way down to the Regent Road sawmill where he had worked.

Streams of carts were going back down towards the Docks with loads for the waiting ships. They were carrying the fruits of Lancashire’s industries, the products of northern ingenuity, artistry and engineering skills. Edward was intrigued to see the number of gleaming gun carriages, the burnished steel coated with a thin, protective film of oil, being carted down to the Docks. They would be mated with the precision-milled barrels being brought in from the mighty engineering sheds of British Westinghouse in Trafford Park.

The carters sat hunched on the front of their vehicles, their elbows resting on knees covered by large leather aprons, reins resting loosely in their hands and the clogs on their feet hanging adjacent to their horses’ plodding flanks. The men’s faces almost invariably bore the baleful expressions of the disinterested, resigned to their tediously exploited existence.   The older horses maintained the same stoic pace throughout the day, heads bowed like bored old men, but the younger animals occasionally raised a small objection with a skittish shake of the head. Their exuberance was quickly curtailed by a sharp rap on the rump from the carter’s whip.

Along the side of the road there was a line of handcarts carrying the short distance loads. These were the entrepreneurs of the carting trade; men who had worked long hours and saved every penny to buy their own handcart and then grabbed every opportunity that was offered to move even the smallest load. They took unfettled forgings from the ironworks to the engineering shops where they picked up sacks of brass turnings that they then carted to the motor manufacturers. On the way back they collected window frames from the joinery company to take to the building site before returning again to the ironworks.

A sharp young voice penetrated his thoughts. ‘Eh up, Mr Craigie. Yer must ‘ave been up early to get that tidied up.’ He looked down at the thin, but imperturbably cheerful face of his daughter’s eight year old best friend. Her dad’s worn and threadbare cap was perched coquettishly on her fair curls and her grey blouse, with cuffs that hid her small hands, was spread out over an ankle length skirt. The toes of her black leather clogs protruded from beneath the double frill around the bottom of her skirt and she beamed up at him with a mischievous smile as she banged her clog irons on the paving stone, trying to create a spark.

It was impossible not to be drawn in by her impish smile. ‘Hello, Amy. Do I look smart enough then?’

‘Aye. Yer look a real toff. But yer’ll ‘ave to do summat about t’ socks. They’re full of wrinkles,’ she said, pointing at the puttees round his calves.

‘Well, I think that they’re supposed to be like that but I’ll ask the Major when I get to the barracks. Where are you off to then?’

‘I’m going to t’ shop for a loaf for me Mam. Me Dad ‘ad t’ rest of it for ‘is butties.’

‘Here you are then,’ Edward said, charmed by her irresistible good humour. He handed her a halfpenny piece. ‘Buy yourself a liquorice stick.’

‘Eh, ta Mr Craigie. I’ll save ‘alf of it for your Laura. Bye for now.’ She waved cheerily and skipped off up the road.

Edward watched as she dashed past two women, shawls pulled round their shoulders, carrying a heavy cotton bag between them. She narrowly avoided two men in suits and straw boaters before colliding with the portly greengrocer in his brown overall. He heard her shout ‘Oops, sorry Mr Artingstall’ before she disappeared into the crowds on Eccles New Road. Mr Artingstall smiled and shook his head indulgently before returning to his task of artistically arranging the shiny red apples on the trestle in front of his shop.

Crossing the road, Edward hesitated for a moment. He had forgotten which foot he had started into the road with. It was usually his left. He adjusted his step and finished comfortably on his right. At the gateway to Stowell’s Church he stood for a moment looking up at the commanding steeple and admiring its powerful, manmade presence. He was thrilled by the thought of the huge volume of free air that the masons had enclosed as they reached up to their God. Standing in the entrance he ran his hand over the joints of the heavily studded door and gazed at the precise carving of the lintel. His outstretched hand was resting palm downwards on the stone pillar at the side of the door when he heard Big Charlie.

‘Hey, Eddie. Are you alright? Are you walking up to the barracks, then?’ the big man boomed out. Big Charlie, like many men of his size, was formidable in appearance, clumsily rumbustious in approach, but gentle and caring in manner. He was going to war with enthusiastic gallantry because he had been told that it was the right thing to do and because he was convinced that it would all be over by Christmas.

Edward joined his pal and together they walked up Cross Lane towards the railway and the barracks of the Lancashire Fusiliers. ‘How was your Dot, then?’ he asked Big Charlie.

‘Well, she wasn’t right taken with my going. But she did do me a grand breakfast to see me on, like. And she’d got me a lovely bit of tongue for some butties for afterwards. Nice with some pickled onions. What about your Laura?’

‘She was a bit quiet. Worried about things. She made me a nice breakfast though.’

‘She’ll happen be a bit mithered about how she’ll manage if it goes on too long. You having the kids’ like.’

‘Aye. There’s that. But I think that she’s frightened that we might not come back at all.’

Big Charlie’s face was suddenly sombre. ‘We better had. Dot didn’t say owt about that but I know she’ll be scared. She gets frightened enough when I go to work and leave her in the house by herself.’

Passing Myrtle Street Edward saw his eldest son with some of his mates, kicking a ball against the coal yard doors at the bottom. His father-in-law, standing at the corner of the street, shouted across to him ‘Take care of yourself, son. We’ll see you soon.’

As they passed the Railway Hotel a soldier was being pushed gently through the door by the landlady. She put her arm around his neck and gave the younger man a quick kiss on his cheek. ‘Come on, Liam. You can’t accept a drink off all of them else they’ll be carrying you up to Salford Royal and not the barracks.’

‘Thanks, Edie. I’ll have the rest for Christmas. And don’t be changing your favours to anybody else while I’m away.’

‘Go on, you daft sod,’ she said giving him a quick cuff round the ear.

Liam shouted when he saw Edward and Big Charlie approaching. ‘Well, blow me. Fancy seeing you two here. The Germans will be quaking in their boots when they know we’re on the way.’

‘Well, we’ve got the start of a good rugby team,’ Edward admitted, ‘But I don’t think the Huns will be too worried about that.’

‘We’ll give ‘em a good battering at whatever they want,’ said the irrepressible Liam. ‘And the sooner it’s over and done with the sooner that I can collect some of those pints that I’ve just missed out on.’

Walking up Cross Lane towards the barracks and the area of all their childhood adventures, the three lifelong friends stopped on the railway bridge. The L&NWR Manchester to Liverpool rail link formed an important dividing line between the old and the new parts of this growing town. In the massive Salford goods yard near Manchester, the line met that of the L&NY which connected with Bolton and the north. Within the fork of the two lines stood huge, imposing edifices, symbols of northern industrial success and the economic might of Victorian England, including the Salford rolling mill and a large cotton mill. Through the throbbing heart of this rail hub was pumped the fruits of the formidable British Empire and the products of northern industry. It reached out around the country and, through the increasingly important Manchester Ship Canal, it stretched out into the world.

‘Have you thought,’ Edward reflected, ‘this might be the last time that we cross this bridge?’

‘What?’ Liam exclaimed, immobilised in the middle of the pavement by the thought. ‘That’s a right morbid idea. Where’ve you got that one from?’