Bone Street/Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
CONDEMNED TO LIVE
GRANNY HINCHCLIFFE and Ezra, along with their daughter Marthalice, now played an important part in the life of Jack and his father, and at night after the little shop bell had ceased to tinkle, Bradley would frequently visit them for a smoke and a chat, before retiring to bed for the night. Jack also went, but while he loved the old lady, his favourite place was the home of Marthalice.
Boylike, at first he had been almost afraid of the family of girls, the eldest of which was not yet sixteen. Baby Polly was his special favourite, always smiling, and never so happy as when sat on Jack’s knee, never weary of listening to the fairy stories Jack weaved for her special consumption.
This admission into their family circle meant a great deal to Jack, the teasing of the elder girls, the avowed love of wee Polly, the steady click, click of Marthalice’s knitting needles, for, standing or sitting, she was for ever working.
Jack’s shyness soon wore off, and quickly he formed the habit of dropping in, more than occasionally.
“Jack, tum in here, tell me a story,” little Polly would lisp, climbing on to his knee.
“Has ta washed up,” Marthalice would demand, “and sided t’table, and got coal and chips up for morning?”
Having satisfied her on these points, he was allowed to join the family circle, so the fairy tale over, the mother busy knitting, or mending, they would play snakes and ladders, draughts, dominoes, and all the fireside games so loved by young people.
“Kiss me good night, Jack. Mother says it’s bedtime for bairns,” Polly would say, and in a short time the party would break up, for Marthalice was keen on retiring early, and ten o’clock would find both the Hinchcliffe family and Jack and Bradley in bed.
It must not be imagined, however, that Jack was different from other boys. He liked his play, and had all the desires for boy chums, but poor Jack had been starved for home life, hence the evenings at Marthalice’s were red-letter ones.
He had great times with his boy chums; true, they were limited in a choice of playgrounds, but youth is nothing if not adaptable: they had many games, but their favourite game was “Piggy.” A piece of wood, about four inches long, and pointed at both ends, was laid in a chalked circle in the road; one end was struck sharply with a stick, and while in the air was struck again. Usually about eighteen inches of old broomhandle served for the stick, and “Piggy” would go hurtling through the air. The boy who could send it farthest winning, the distance being measured by jumps.
The best place for this game was a piece of spare ground or a field, but as such places were rare in the neighbourhood of Bone Street, the game was played in the street. Occasionally the “Piggy” went through a window, and off they would scuttle, through the tunnels, over the middens, and into the next street, and back again. One would walk down the street, hands in pockets, whistling fit to burst. He was the advance guard, and if the coast was clear, and the muttering housewife retired to view the shattered window from the inside, the others would gradually find their way back, but no more “Piggy” for that night, or many other nights, leastways not in that street.
By eight or thereabouts, a general stir would be made for home, but there were always exceptions, who had to be dragged in.
A door would open and a shrill voice cry, “Richard,” and again, only louder, “Rich—ard.” If no notice was taken of the call, the next cry was, “By gum, lad, if tha doesn’t come, I’ll hide thi. Come on now, I can see thi in that passage.” She couldn’t really, but he thought she could, so reluctantly they departed for home.
Next morning, if they were on the morning turn at the mill, the difficulty was getting them up from bed. “Bless mi soul, I’ve nivver seen such a lad. Come on, it’s half-past five.”
“Umph! all right, I’m coming.”
“Well, come on then,” but finally they had to get up.
And so life passed on. Each Sunday right up to October they spent the full day in the country. The moors, with their vast stretch of space, was their favourite haunt. For miles they tramped the heather, seldom keeping to the paths, with always a book for a companion, safely tucked under Jack’s arm. The companionship of these two was a joy to both.
Autumn leaves falling made a carpet for their feet; they watched them turn yellow, then brown, and felt a deep, unspoken regret that the autumn was passing. Almost before they realised it winter was upon them, early snow and plenty of it, snow which meant more fuel would be required for the fire. And a hard winter it was for Bone Street. Many times they were sharing their last crust of bread, and frequently Jack had to ask Granny Hinchcliffe for a loaf and margarine on “tick,” till Friday night.
Many times and oft Bradley congratulated himself for changing on to the day turn, for if times were difficult for these two, the night workers were much harder hit, poor souls, they only procured work that could not be turned off by the day turn.
Crowds of men could be seen at every mill gate, waiting patiently at five o’clock for the day turn loosing; they would come clattering along in their iron-shod clogs. There is a brief slackening of the engine, and out comes the foreman, a big burly fellow, wearing the usual chequered smock. He knows the waiting men are on tenterhooks, and after scanning them sardonically for a few moments, says, “There’s nobbut three and four running to-night,” meaning room three and four, this out of a total of fourteen rooms, so the men lucky enough to be employed in these rooms, walk in, and the unlucky ones trail away despondently. Some to fireless and cheerless homes, others perhaps have a wife and children working, they are the fortunate ones.
Yes, unemployment, the premier recruiting sergeant for old England, had a busy time during that winter, starving young men into the army. Hunger drove them to enlist in hundreds, they served their time, and then came back, older and wiser men, to pick up their lives where they left off.
Marthalice suffered, too, but in a lesser degree, for such a thrifty housewife had an old stocking in t’way of the Co-op. Every farthing she could spend was spent at the “Stores.” The dividend was left there for a rainy day, and although the woolcombing was slack all the winter she managed to keep going.
“Nay, Bradley,” she would say, “t’lad and thee mustn’t go without, while I’ve owt.”