Child of the North. Piers Dudgeon

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      The podginess of her rosy cheeks gave her a cheery clownish appearance, emphasised by the vivid colour of her round eyes, which shone bright and brown, ‘like a good strong brew of tea’ Marcia had often observed. But the most surprising feature about her was the red broadbrimmed trilby, which had become her trademark. It had been white at one time. But after cadging it from the local muffin-man, in exchange for an old pair of pram wheels for his dilapidated wicker-trolley, Ada Humble had dipped it in a dye of her own making. The end result had not been the deep respectable plum colour she’d intended, but a screaming bright shade of tarty-red. It didn’t deter Ada from wearing it though. There wasn’t a living soul now who could ever remember Ada Humble without ‘that trilby’.

      ‘What happened to Ada was very sad,’ Jo tells me. ‘She had five sons. One of them wouldn’t go to school. She used to come and tell my mam, and my mam said, “Take him in. Put him through the door. Make sure he gets into the classroom.” Ada did this, but he would still run off and the truant officer kept coming round, and finally he said, “If the boy doesn’t go to school, you’ll have to go to Court.” Ada was taken to court. My mam went with her.’

      An uncomfortable silence settled over the court-room as the magistrate’s thin bony face twisted itself into an expression of painful thought. Then calling the same man to attention, he asked in a sharp voice, ‘May we ask the reason for the non-removal of Mrs Humble’s headpiece?’

       Marcia hadn’t thought of that! She’d been so used to seeing that bright red trilby atop Ada Humble’s head that it had become part of the little woman herself, yet by the tone of the magistrate’s voice, he was pompous enough to consider its presence as a deliberate mark of disrespect.

       ‘We would beg the court’s pardon,’ the young man returned, extending his apology to include a reminder of the recent death of Mr Humble, and of the accused’s condition of mourning. ‘It is meant in no way as an affront to the court or its proceedings.’ But the magistrate was obviously not placated. In fact, judging by the sour expression on his face, and the sharp way he turned to consult his colleagues, Marcia felt almost as though Ada’s red trilby had suddenly become the issue, and not Blackie’s truancy.

      ‘Poor thing, she was jailed, for six months!’ says Jo. ‘They decreed that Ada’s husband [Toby] couldn’t have been blamed because he had been at work, it wasn’t his fault – he had been innocent of this – it was the mother at home’s fault, so Ada was put in jail. When she came out she was broken! She had lost all her weight – she was like a stick! – she was white, she was haggard and she died soon after. It was terrible.

      ‘Now, when somebody died, all the people in the street had to go along and pay their respects, and the children too. I said, “No.” I didn’t want to go. And I kicked and screamed. But my mam dragged us along, and there was little Ada in her coffin without her hat, and she was completely bald. That was why she had always worn the trilby! None of us had known. My mother saw the hat on the chair and she picked it up and put it on Ada’s head. I’ll never forget that.’

       Now Marcia’s gaze travelled along the gleaming chrome trellis which proudly bore the weight of that tiny, polished wood coffin. Of a sudden she was staring at the inner silk which lay ruffled over the little figure in white billowing folds, and slowly she reached out to touch the podgy fingers, folded in perpetual prayer. In the silence of that room the choking sob which caught in Marcia’s throat seemed to startle even herself.

      Crossing the still hands, she marvelled at their cold parchment beauty, then withdrawing her touch, she focused on the large cross on the wall over the head of the coffin, as though drawing strength to look again on Ada Humble’s face. The arch of flickering light from the half-circle of tiny candles which cradled the head of the coffin drew her eyes down, and her stricken gaze alighted on the ever-familiar lines of the little woman’s face.

       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 – СКАЧАТЬ