Wigan Album

“’Arold, am avin an our int cheer wit papper an mi feet ont fender. Wheer tha gooin?”
“Just int yard, Mam.”
“Well shut middle dorr afoor tha oppens back, an fetch taypot when thas done.”


He’ll not be long, the lad. Not in this weather. There’s still snow about from last week. Mind, it’s nowhere as bad as it was last year. It lasted for weeks last year. Christmas last? That was a tough winter. I lost a few old friends in that. It seems like only yesterday that I was sat here in this chair and fradging with Annie; and her with her knitting. Oh Annie. You’ve gone short of food for my Joe and our Harold and I’ve gone without for your Arthur. They’ll never know about it now. Annie? She was always knitting; knitting and laughing. She’d always have something on the go and then her Arthur said that she’d finished a cardigan off on that last afternoon and wouldn’t start anything else. He said that he couldn’t understand it because she would, always, always, start something new before she had finished off what she was doing, unless there was no more wool. Well, we all knew that. That way, when it was too dark to see for sewing up, she’d always have work on her needles. That afternoon, she’d sewed up and finished and left her needles stuck in a ball of brown wool on the sideboard. Poor Annie. She never picked them up again. We all said at her funeral that she must’ve known. Poor old bugger, I do miss her. Arthur’s not doing too well without her either. Ten months. I bet it feels longer for him than it does for me. Ten months? Ten minutes! I wonder? Must’ve known? I wonder what that feels like; that knowing… This won’t do. I’m getting morbid.

“Arold. Wheer are tha wi that taypot!”

Where are we now? January. 1952. I wonder what it will bring; this fresh, new year? Rationing news, it says in here. That’ll be something to look forward to. I don’t doubt there’ll be a few more aches and pains not on ration. I don’t doubt that for a minute. I’ll be able to help myself to armfuls of them! They’ll be rationing bread next! I am tired tonight, and this fire’s blazing. I’m tired of rationing too. It’s not that we don’t manage. I know we can manage: and, I know there’s some wi’ brass who can manage very nicely, thank you! Well, we can always find a rabbit when we need it. Rabbit’s no good for a pitman though. It’s too thin and pink. Rabbit won’t stick to a pitman’s ribs. We’ll manage like we always have. At least we’ll have enough coal, which is a deal more than some. But, I am weary of it.

The King’s badly with his chest. No news there either then. He must have spent some time down the pit and we don’t know about it. I’ll bet that’s what’s caused it. I shall not find anything new in this paper. There is no more new.

“Arold!”

He’s a good lad, my lad. It’ll be his stomach playing up again, no doubt; that, or he’s looking at stars. It’s a clear night tonight. He’ll be having a Woodbine with the stars. Mind, there’s good reasons for his stomach being badly. He’s taken a lot, he has. I thought that he’d be safe down the pit; safe from the bombs and bullets. They weren’t safe in Durham last year. Eighty odd of them went in that explosion. There’s nowhere safe for ‘em.

My Joe was safe in the pit in 1914. At least, he got through and in one piece. And, there was me with two kids trailing around my skirts, a baby in my arms and not a scrap to give ‘em. Three kids in wartime. Our Hannah was six and Harold was five when it started, and our little Nellie was still practically hanging off my hip when it ended. I don’t know how we managed. I’ve a job to remember it all, now. We were safe though. We were lucky. I reckon Hannah and Nellie to be happy enough. They’re married and settled after all. It’s my lad as I fret for. On his own, he is.

I’d better read the horoscope before he comes back in. He’ll go mad if he catches me. ‘Rubbish!’ He’ll say. ‘It’s all made up.’ ‘Billy’s Weekly Liar.’ Well, I don’t doubt he’s right. He spends enough time studying them stars so he should know. I don’t believe it myself, though a lot do. Annie did too, bless her, but it didn’t help her much. It didn’t predict that day when the pup’s tail wagged between the bars and caught fire and she had to chase it all round the house batting at it with a newspaper and making sure it didn’t spread to the curtains. She wasn’t especially keen on that dog anyway. Oh, we laughed. What a tale she told us! I can see her now puffing and panting with the tears rolling down her cheeks. Ee, I’m parched thinking about it. Harold’s not half taking his time. I don’t think I could raise myself out of this chair if my feet were afire.


“Ar….” “Oh, mebbe tha best left. Mebbe thas new ear thowts o thi own.”


’36 he married. It sounds an age ago now. Aye that’s it. It was. 1936. He was so happy. They were so happy together. They had such softness between them. Is there no justice? One baby born at the beginning of the war and that was hard enough, it took a big toll out of her, and then, then the second one at the end of the war except she didn’t make it: a baby born and a Mother dead. ‘My world’s collapsed’ is all he’s ever said. And, a cruel one it was. Our Hannah’s been good, mind. Harold couldn’t have managed it on his own, even if the accident with his arm had never happened. I don’t know how he has carried on; and now he’s seeing after me too. Well, I do know. I know that I do know. One day at a time. Like we all do. It’s as it is. At least he’s alive. This won’t do one little bit though, this. I shall be turning into a miserable old woman if I’m not careful. It’s tea that I need.

“Arold!”
“Am here, Mam.”
“So tha are. Wheers taypot?”
“Cowd. Am doin fresh.”
“Mek it strung – wi ave plenty celebratint do toneet.”

It’s always the same at this time of the year: I know that, only too well. These dark nights and dark days drag on, and there’s nothing to do but to stare at these flames and think on a few thoughts. I shan’t touch these thoughts again until next year, once I’ve done with them; or once they’ve done with me, perhaps.

I’d better get this horoscope read, sharpish. Where are we? ‘…the King will die very soon; a new Queen crowned…’ Well, there’s not much clairvoyance there, is there. What do you make of that Annie, I wonder. Wherever you are, you might know these things better than the living. It seems the King’s headed your way. You might meet him. Remember to drop a curtsey if you do. They could write that every week and stand a chance. I wonder have they told the King? Perhaps they are keeping it a secret and just telling it to me. Ha. What rubbish! Harold’s right about it.

I wonder what’s keeping Joe? He’s usually back home after his pint by this time. Mind, if he comes back he’ll likely take charge of this paper. I don’t begrudge him his pint. I don’t begrudge him his fishing either, for that matter. I have done though. In the past. I have done. Both things. I have given him hell. I have to own to it. I’ll begrudge him the paper if he turns up starved and backing himself into this fender, though. He’s an old man now, it seems. He’s had it hard down the pit like the rest, but these last couple of years I’ve seen him stall a bit now and again. It’s catching him up now. There’s a price for all things, and, even if you borrow against it, there comes a time to pay up. Is it Joe’s turn to pay, I wonder?

What’s keeping Joe? Never mind that! What’s keeping Harold? How strong is he making this tea? Talk about standing a spoon up in it! He’ll have sneaked back into the backyard again, no doubt. He thinks I’m daft. I may be daft, but I’m not that daft yet! Besides, we can’t waste a fresh pot as well as half a stewed one.


“Arold, get thisen gooin wi that tay!”


Where was I? Oh, here we are. ‘…your husband,..’ Oh good. Joe’s getting a mention. I hope he’s coming into money. ‘…will not see the year out…’ Well! It is all cheerful stuff this, I don’t doubt. I know I’m thinking of him as an old man but I didn’t have him boxed up and buried so soon. I was hoping the daft old bugger would be keeping me company for a bit longer than that. And, there’s not a mention of him coming into money; dead or alive. What good’s that? Annie’s going to be busy knitting up there this year. Joe’s clothes are practically threadbare and the King won’t be taking his cardies with him. They’ll both need kitting out. Annie will be up to the job though. They’ll be like Gatling guns will them needles. Annie get your guns! She would have liked that. I can hear her laughing.

I’m frightened of reading any more. What will it say about me? I might not make it to the end of this cup of tea with the way things are going. Ha! Thinking about it, I might not make it the beginning of this cup of tea the way Harold is shaping up.

“Arold! Am spittin feathers.”

I thought that I heard the stir of a spoon five minutes ago. It could just be wishful thinking; my hearing is not what it was. It’s no good. I shall have to read the rest of this horoscope. I might be coming into money after all. It can’t be all bad. ‘…it’s not all bad, Lizzie…’ Well then, I am coming into money, and about time too. ‘…you’ve another eight years before the end…’

Oh well, perhaps not. I definitely can’t read anymore now. Mind, eight years? It’s a long time that. I’ll be seventy six by then; come the end. A lot can happen in eight years. There may be more grandchildren and great grandchildren. That would be something nice. I don’t know what I’ll do for another eight years though. I am practically useless now. There’s only a few of my bits and pieces still working as it is. It’s a lot of sitting in this fireplace that is; without Annie, and whoever else I’ll lose. It’s more for my lad to do as well. He’s alright but he’s not a grand talker. This could be grim this could; eight years sitting in a fireplace.

“Arold, lad. Wheer art?.”

He’ll not hear me if he’s got his thinking cap on, anyway. That may be deliberate as well. I’m sure that he pulls it down over his ears. I hope he’s got something on in that backyard and he isn’t stood there in his shirtsleeves because his donkey is there hanging on the back of the door. Well, he’ll feel it when he comes back in. It’s his own doing.

Perhaps I shall go and get that tea done myself. If not, it’ll never come. It is funny what goes through a chap’s mind; fishing with my Joe; the stars and the moon, my lad’s watching. It’s all staring and thinking and no talking. Oh no! Perish the thought. There’s no talking. The moon always looks the same to me when I’ve looked at it. What’s he see in it? I’m aching a bit now; it’s deep in my bones tonight.

I’ll finish this horoscope off first. These reading glasses have had their day as well. I shall be needing some a bit stronger before long. I’ll finish it off. It’s perhaps as well, now that I have come this far, but I don’t expect that it will cheer me up to any degree. Then, I’ll rouse myself, and then get that tea brewed. Perhaps, I shall pour one out for Annie; for old times’ sake.

‘…it will be grim at the end. You will lose more and more of your bodily functions. You will lose your awareness. There is no justice, Liz. None.”


“Tay’s ere, Mam. It’s red ot too.”
“Aye, an it best ad be, Arold, it best ad.”
“What’s int papper?”
“Usual rubbish, lad; usual rubbish. Never nowt new.”
“Well, summat’s tickled thi. Tha’s a smile like a Cheshire cat across thi chops.”
“Just Annie. I was thinking on Annie and that little dog.”
“When its tail geet aleet?”
“Aye.”


“Arold?”
“What, Mam?”
“Oh, nowt. Nowt.”


“Arold?”
“What, Mam?”
“Come on, will celebrate wi tay.”
“What we celebratin? Tay’s too ot yet.”
“Well blow on it. Am coming into money!”
“Agin? Monny a time thas bin comin into money i thar oroscope.”
“Aye. Nearly evry wik. An it’s nor appened yet. Burrit might.”
“Aye. An I’m sick o winnin Littlewoods. I don’t know what do wi aw these postal orders.”
“Well, tha must be flush. There’s a two bob stuck I thi turn up on thi pants. I con see it frum here.”
“Av looked igh and low for that two bob!”
“I wondert why tha spent Satday morn undert sideboord.”


“Arold?”
“What, Mam?”
“Yer cawnt know con yer?”
“What? What’s gooint appen to yer? Nowt o soort! Yer cawnt know. Fur a kick off, yerd not ged outa bed if yer did.”
“Now. Tha reet. I know. It’s aw rubbish. I know it. You cawnt change nowt nayther.”
“Nay. What’s duns dun. What’s to come’ll come. It’s as sure as eggs is eggs.”


“Arold?”
“What, Mam?”
“A bit o money’d come in andy, appen. It’s soon Easter. Thill be wantin new shoon for Walkin Day.”
“Wi con manage weel enuff. Av reckoned for it.”
“I like seeint girls paradin past int sunshine.”
“Aye. Me an all. Av camera aw ready. Thill look grand. Am reet lookin forard to it missen.”


“Arold?”
“What, Mam?”
“Dust think tha con know, just afoor? Just afoor theend? Just a bit afoor thi time?”
“Nay, well…Mebbe. Thi say…ee I dunt know. I cawnt see it though, missen. Mebbe. Mebbe Mam.”
“Mebbe if it wus a corporation bus us flattens thi, thad know it.”
“Ha. Ha. Aye! Thad know thad awreet.”


“Arold?”
“What, Mam?”
“There’s no bluddy sugar i this tay, Arold…”