Manchester Pride
1929
The residents of Dove Street knew that
summer must be coming because it was already seven o'clock and the lamplighter
had not yet appeared. They looked forward to his coming: watched for the
long pole with its blue light at the end to come dancing past their
windows. When the gas lamps were lit, lads would shin up the lamp-post,
open the glass and light their cigarettes, more often than not scraped together
from the dimps they'd picked up in the gutters. The women, wrapped in
their woollen shawls, would normally linger on their doorsteps only a little
while longer, enjoying the glow of the dusk and the rare blink of a star
glimpsed through the thick grey smoke that blanketed the city, billowing
like dragon's breath from the hundreds of mill chimneys.
If they were lucky the barrel organ man would come along and
they'd find a penny or two between them so they could hitch up their skirts and
kick up their legs, making their clogs spark on the cobbles. He might play
them 'Irish Eyes Are Smiling' or a piece from an Italian
opera. There was nothing the people of Ancoats like better than a song and
a dance. Then each mother would call in her own children from whatever
street game they were playing and send them up the 'dancers' to bed, welcoming
the opportunity to put their own feet up and perhaps enjoy a glass of stout if
they'd the money to pay for it.
But tonight was different. Tonight the door of number
twenty-three, like all the others in the street, was shut fast. It had
been slammed so firmly closed that the piece of board, still bearing the words
'Ceylon tea', had come loose from the hole it was meant to be blocking and swung
freely on one nail.
Inside the house a young woman with hair as dark as a raven's
wing, but with a hint of fire in its depths and a fine Irish temper to match,
railed at the injustice of life.
'I'll have you know my house is clean. Don't I scrub it
with me own hands from top to bottom every week? Ach, and I'll not hear
anyone say otherwise!'
Polly Pride, green-grey eyes glowing with passion, spoke as if
she challenged the older woman, sitting opposite to dare disagree - which of
course, being her mother-in-law and set in her own opinions and prejudices, she
usually did. But then Florence Pride, as she was often heard to say
herself, was not afraid of speaking her mind.
'Nay, don't tek on so. Yon council can't pick and
choose which house they gas and which they don't. D'you expect them to
come knocking on t'door saying, "Good morning, Mrs Pride, have you any bugs
in yer 'ouse that we should shift?'
She put back her huge head and laughed at her own wit,
screwing up her small eyes and cackling with joyous mirth. Being a large
woman, heavily built rather than fat, with arms on her that some might think
could challenge Randy Billy in his next wrestling contest, she was generally
known as Big Flo. She could have made three of her skinny daughter-in-law
who was such a whirlwind of energy that no flesh would stay on her for more than
five minutes, even on the days she ate well, which admittedly were few.
Big Flo watched with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity as
Polly went about her work in the small kitchen, movements brisk as she brewed
tea from the big black kettle puffing out steam where it sat, like a welcome
friend, on the hob. She looked like a child who had outgrown her
strength. Short dark hair cut into a sensible bob; dark eyes like bruises
against the pale skin of her elfin face. It was a wonder she'd managed to
produce two healthy children when to look at her it seemed a breath of wind from
the Pennines would blow her clean away. What Matthew had ever seen in her,
Flo couldn't rightly say. He should've married a good strong Methodist
lass, like she'd told him to.
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