Read Online The Blackpool Highflyer by Andrew Martin - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrew Martin
Tags: Mystery
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kerb. The driver standing in his moving pulpit - for that's how it always looked to me - had been burned by the sun.
'Worsted’ she said.
'Worsted?'
'Worsted, yes.'
'Well... it's a sort of cloth.'
'Cloth made of what?'
'Wool.'
We were dodging through the traffic now. Happening to glance backwards I noticed that all the little high back windows of the Palace were open on account of the heat - a sight I had never seen before.
'What sort of wool?' the wife was saying.
'Well, you know ... sheep's wool.'
'Long staple’ said the wife. And she looked away, and then she laughed. 'Eh, you daft 'aporth,' she said. She was practising her Yorkshire. 'You wear it every day but don't know what it is,' she said, straightening her white bonnet with her thin, brown hands.
'You could have said something quite clever there you know,' I said.
'I believe I did,' she said, smiling at me. The hat was righted now.
'You could have said you'd worsted me over worsted -' I said.
'You're loony,' said the wife.
'- if you really had done of course.'
We were now outside the Hemingway's Music Shop in Commercial Street. It was the wife's favourite shop, along with the Maypole Dairy at Northgate, where they had very artistic cheeses, kept cool by fans, like the drinkers in the Imperial Saloon. The Maypole could draw quite a crowd in the evening, although whether it was the cheeses or the fans that did it, I never knew. At Hemingway's, the wife always liked to look at the Hemingway's Special Piano they had in the window that was £14. She wanted to have only the best items in our home, and the Special Piano was on the list and some money towards it was in the tea caddy. Meanwhile we had no items, or very few. Whenever we struck this subject of furnishings I always pictured the shop in Northgate that had the sign in the window saying: 'homes complete from £10 to £100'. It was the ten pound part that interested me, but the wife would have none of it. 'I will not equip the house from a cheap john,' she would always say.
'The marvellous thing’ she said, still looking in the window, 'is that it looks just like any other piano.'
'That's one of the things that worries me,' I said.
'But for fourteen pounds’ she said.
'That's nigh on three months' wages,' I said. 'There'll soon be two of us earning’ the wife reminded me, 'and now that the room's let...'
'But what about the extras . . . tuning it, and the two of us learning to play the piano.'
The Top Note Dining Room was two doors up from Hemingway's Music Shop, which might have explained the name. Nothing else did. The tables went the whole width of a wide room, and the people eating at them looked like workers in a mill. But they would give you ice in a glass of lemonade without waiting to be asked. The wife and I took our places. We both had steak and fried onions with chipped potatoes. It was the first good meal I'd had since the smash, which had put me off food in lots of ways.
'You see it's not that I don't like Cape gooseberries,' I said, 'I just don't want to eat them for tea.'
'Well,' she said, 'it's just that I've had so many interruptions.'
'I would be willing to make my tea for myself,' I said, 'I would . . . almost.'
'Oh, we can't have you living on Bloody Good Husband Street’ said the wife, 'you the dolly mop!' Then: 'Would you like to see the mill where I'm to go on?'
It was one of those lonely ones up on Beacon Hill. The trams couldn't get up there, so we took one as far as the Joint, sitting on the top for a bit of a blow. The sky was a greenish pink with the sunlight leaving it only slowly, and the smoke still coming out from the mills, snaking into the sky, adding to the heat and weirdness of all as they made their slow S's. The smell in the air was twice burnt.
We passed Thomas Cook's excursion office in Horton Street. It was still open for business. The people of Halifax could not do without their outings. I couldn't imagine for a minute how they'd
'Worsted’ she said.
'Worsted?'
'Worsted, yes.'
'Well... it's a sort of cloth.'
'Cloth made of what?'
'Wool.'
We were dodging through the traffic now. Happening to glance backwards I noticed that all the little high back windows of the Palace were open on account of the heat - a sight I had never seen before.
'What sort of wool?' the wife was saying.
'Well, you know ... sheep's wool.'
'Long staple’ said the wife. And she looked away, and then she laughed. 'Eh, you daft 'aporth,' she said. She was practising her Yorkshire. 'You wear it every day but don't know what it is,' she said, straightening her white bonnet with her thin, brown hands.
'You could have said something quite clever there you know,' I said.
'I believe I did,' she said, smiling at me. The hat was righted now.
'You could have said you'd worsted me over worsted -' I said.
'You're loony,' said the wife.
'- if you really had done of course.'
We were now outside the Hemingway's Music Shop in Commercial Street. It was the wife's favourite shop, along with the Maypole Dairy at Northgate, where they had very artistic cheeses, kept cool by fans, like the drinkers in the Imperial Saloon. The Maypole could draw quite a crowd in the evening, although whether it was the cheeses or the fans that did it, I never knew. At Hemingway's, the wife always liked to look at the Hemingway's Special Piano they had in the window that was £14. She wanted to have only the best items in our home, and the Special Piano was on the list and some money towards it was in the tea caddy. Meanwhile we had no items, or very few. Whenever we struck this subject of furnishings I always pictured the shop in Northgate that had the sign in the window saying: 'homes complete from £10 to £100'. It was the ten pound part that interested me, but the wife would have none of it. 'I will not equip the house from a cheap john,' she would always say.
'The marvellous thing’ she said, still looking in the window, 'is that it looks just like any other piano.'
'That's one of the things that worries me,' I said.
'But for fourteen pounds’ she said.
'That's nigh on three months' wages,' I said. 'There'll soon be two of us earning’ the wife reminded me, 'and now that the room's let...'
'But what about the extras . . . tuning it, and the two of us learning to play the piano.'
The Top Note Dining Room was two doors up from Hemingway's Music Shop, which might have explained the name. Nothing else did. The tables went the whole width of a wide room, and the people eating at them looked like workers in a mill. But they would give you ice in a glass of lemonade without waiting to be asked. The wife and I took our places. We both had steak and fried onions with chipped potatoes. It was the first good meal I'd had since the smash, which had put me off food in lots of ways.
'You see it's not that I don't like Cape gooseberries,' I said, 'I just don't want to eat them for tea.'
'Well,' she said, 'it's just that I've had so many interruptions.'
'I would be willing to make my tea for myself,' I said, 'I would . . . almost.'
'Oh, we can't have you living on Bloody Good Husband Street’ said the wife, 'you the dolly mop!' Then: 'Would you like to see the mill where I'm to go on?'
It was one of those lonely ones up on Beacon Hill. The trams couldn't get up there, so we took one as far as the Joint, sitting on the top for a bit of a blow. The sky was a greenish pink with the sunlight leaving it only slowly, and the smoke still coming out from the mills, snaking into the sky, adding to the heat and weirdness of all as they made their slow S's. The smell in the air was twice burnt.
We passed Thomas Cook's excursion office in Horton Street. It was still open for business. The people of Halifax could not do without their outings. I couldn't imagine for a minute how they'd
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