Read Online Between Friends by Audrey Howard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Audrey Howard
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for an hour, then we’ll go to the bicycle shop. There’ll be music and dancing and games … oh please, please …’
They were all smiling, discord averted, as they crossed the junction of Ranelagh Place, picking their way through the crowds at Lime Street Railway Station. As they did so the customary sport which took place every year on this day had just begun. In imminent danger of being run down by the horse drawn trams which travelled the length of Lime Street in a placid amble to the Pier Head where the route terminated, hundreds of the city’s working class had gathered to watch the traditional sport which obliged young boys with their arms bound to catch a furious cock with either their legs, their feet or their mouths! The cocks darted about the area paced off, squawking with rage and terror. The boys fell and shouted in pain, the whole a meleé of bloodthirsty excitement and hysteria as bets were laid upon which scruffy urchin would catch the most birds or, as was more likely, would last the longer without a broken limb!
In another cruel arena, men, and a few women too, were attempting the dreadful, competitive pastime of eating as much scalding hot porridge, kept boiling in a cauldron on an open fire, as was possible without taking the skin from their lips or the roof of their mouths! It was excruciating work and those who took part were the poor who had not eaten that day!
The familiar adenoidal accent of Liverpool in which Ireland and Wales is mixed swirled about the great crowd as the spectators shouted on their favourite or poured scorn upon an opponent.
‘Gerrit in yer mouth, our Frankie, never mind bluddy feathers …’
‘Not like tha’, yer daft bugger! Kick it … kick it!’
‘Gerrup, yer daft sod! Yer’ll do nowt sittin’ on yer bum …’
‘Go on, Doll, gerrit down yer! It’s norras ’ot as yer old man on a …’
Shrieks of ribald laughter, grunts of pain, the high, wheeling cackle of the gulls which hung above the city and the river. Ships’ sirens, hooters, the crash of enormous hooves on cobblestones as the huge Clydesdales thundered by. Street musicians, fiddlers, a penny whistler, an organ grinder, a hurdy-gurdy man and all toting for farthings, aware as they did so there would be small pickings in this crowd unless they were fortunate enough to find a group of middle class young men out on a spree!
The three youngsters stopped to watch for, cruel though part of it was, the rich tapestry of northern humour and enjoyment, drew their excited curiosity. Meg did not like the cock-baiting nor the sight of the poor little boys with bloody knees and noses but the rollicking music of the organ grinder and the piercing sweetness with which the penny whistler played his tune made her want to stop and tap her feet and let the fresh spring breeze blow against her flushed face.
She turned to look for Tom. He had stopped to watch two men who danced a lively hornpipe to the tune of the penny whistle and his face was animated and his foot rapped out an enthusiastic accompaniment to the rhythm. He clapped his hands and those about him, especially the women, eyed him appreciatively and began to do the same. He was easy, natural, unrestrained and they responded to him with the gregariousness of those who have been friends for years.
A woman, old enough to be his granny nudged him, grinning gaptoothed and in a second he had her in his strong arms, jigging her round the centre of the growing crowd to the cordial delight of those about him.
‘Oh Lord, will you look at him now?’ Martin snorted impatiently, eager to be off to the bicycle shop and the masculine companionship and guidance of Mr Hale, resentful of anything which kept him from the evergrowing obsession which was the hub of his life. He never stopped talking about it to anyone who would listen, even Emm, as though the strict leash he had kept on his tongue for so long, now it was slipped, would not allow him to be still. Meg and
They were all smiling, discord averted, as they crossed the junction of Ranelagh Place, picking their way through the crowds at Lime Street Railway Station. As they did so the customary sport which took place every year on this day had just begun. In imminent danger of being run down by the horse drawn trams which travelled the length of Lime Street in a placid amble to the Pier Head where the route terminated, hundreds of the city’s working class had gathered to watch the traditional sport which obliged young boys with their arms bound to catch a furious cock with either their legs, their feet or their mouths! The cocks darted about the area paced off, squawking with rage and terror. The boys fell and shouted in pain, the whole a meleé of bloodthirsty excitement and hysteria as bets were laid upon which scruffy urchin would catch the most birds or, as was more likely, would last the longer without a broken limb!
In another cruel arena, men, and a few women too, were attempting the dreadful, competitive pastime of eating as much scalding hot porridge, kept boiling in a cauldron on an open fire, as was possible without taking the skin from their lips or the roof of their mouths! It was excruciating work and those who took part were the poor who had not eaten that day!
The familiar adenoidal accent of Liverpool in which Ireland and Wales is mixed swirled about the great crowd as the spectators shouted on their favourite or poured scorn upon an opponent.
‘Gerrit in yer mouth, our Frankie, never mind bluddy feathers …’
‘Not like tha’, yer daft bugger! Kick it … kick it!’
‘Gerrup, yer daft sod! Yer’ll do nowt sittin’ on yer bum …’
‘Go on, Doll, gerrit down yer! It’s norras ’ot as yer old man on a …’
Shrieks of ribald laughter, grunts of pain, the high, wheeling cackle of the gulls which hung above the city and the river. Ships’ sirens, hooters, the crash of enormous hooves on cobblestones as the huge Clydesdales thundered by. Street musicians, fiddlers, a penny whistler, an organ grinder, a hurdy-gurdy man and all toting for farthings, aware as they did so there would be small pickings in this crowd unless they were fortunate enough to find a group of middle class young men out on a spree!
The three youngsters stopped to watch for, cruel though part of it was, the rich tapestry of northern humour and enjoyment, drew their excited curiosity. Meg did not like the cock-baiting nor the sight of the poor little boys with bloody knees and noses but the rollicking music of the organ grinder and the piercing sweetness with which the penny whistler played his tune made her want to stop and tap her feet and let the fresh spring breeze blow against her flushed face.
She turned to look for Tom. He had stopped to watch two men who danced a lively hornpipe to the tune of the penny whistle and his face was animated and his foot rapped out an enthusiastic accompaniment to the rhythm. He clapped his hands and those about him, especially the women, eyed him appreciatively and began to do the same. He was easy, natural, unrestrained and they responded to him with the gregariousness of those who have been friends for years.
A woman, old enough to be his granny nudged him, grinning gaptoothed and in a second he had her in his strong arms, jigging her round the centre of the growing crowd to the cordial delight of those about him.
‘Oh Lord, will you look at him now?’ Martin snorted impatiently, eager to be off to the bicycle shop and the masculine companionship and guidance of Mr Hale, resentful of anything which kept him from the evergrowing obsession which was the hub of his life. He never stopped talking about it to anyone who would listen, even Emm, as though the strict leash he had kept on his tongue for so long, now it was slipped, would not allow him to be still. Meg and
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