A bit of my old town.Auntie Gladys was very broad. Scrawny as a skinned rake, but broad in the accent department. Pure Boltonese. Think Peter Kay, thinner and in a frock. (Had to introduce him at the Bolton Reebok Stadium a couple of years back. I gave him a kiss, and he said to the audience, Gerroff. Ive seen The Graduate. I was about to point out that the graduate graduated, but decided against it). Where was I? Ah yes, Mam and Auntie Gladys. Now, to imagine Auntie Gladys, think automatic machine gun in top gear firing words instead of bullets. And she had stamina. A chat on a street corner could last three hours, so Mam used to run if she spotted her looming over Marks and Sparks knickers or boiled ham with a halfpenny off. Once, in Woolworths, I noticed that Mam had disappeared, so I was lumbered. I dont know where she is, I replied to the inevitable question. So I had to listen to Uncle Jacks boils, Auntie Jessies separation from her husband and little Rosie Turners legs. She has to bathe them in her own wee, Auntie Gladys said. Better than someone elses, I supposed. Auntie Gladys clocked an older victim and buggered off. I found Mam crouching down behind press studs and hooks and eyes. Shed been fastening her shoelace for about fifteen minutes. Has she gone? Yes, I replied. We ran out like a pair of shoplifters. We ran till we got to Prestons of Boltons porch, where we looked at diamonds more valuable than our house. Mam was not a runner. She could shift in wet heat between spinning mules in the mill, but shed never have won a medal for a sprint. That womanll be the death of me yet, she said. When shed caught her breath, we walked down Bank Street to get the number 45 bus. That was one of Mams narrow escapes over with, but we hadnt even finished the blooming shopping. So Auntie Gladys was Public Enemy Number One. Mam wasnt a people person. She liked books, though. I suppose you can close a book and trap paper people among the pages, while real ones arent so easy when it comes to avoidance tactics. Mam and my Standard Four teacher are the reasons why I write. The teacher fired my imagination, while I copied Mam and chose paper people. (I like real animals, though, especially dogs and horses). Her hero was the King. Rather strange for a dedicated Republican, but she was a bit . . . unusual. Its not what he wanted. That poor lad needed the ordinary life, she would say. She blamed Edward VIII for everything from diphtheria to the Nazi Party, while Mrs Simpson was worse than Hitler in Mams opinion. Christmas. Three oclock. Any minute now, His Majesty would speak on the wireless, and Mam would sit with clenched fists willing him to get the words out. Come on, lad, she would hiss between tight lips. We all got indigestion, but never mind. And in walked Auntie Gladys with Uncle Jack and his boils. (We never locked doors back then, though Mam changed her habits after this Christmas). Mam unfolded herself and stood up. One word out of you, Gladys, and I swear to heaven Ill sew your gob shut. So Gladys, Jack and boils had to stand in good order until the Christmas message had been delivered. Auntie Gladys never said a word, and they left early. After a cup of tea and a bit of cake, they scarpered. That went quite well, was my mothers spoken verdict. He only paused twice. I think hes getting better. No mention was made of the intruders. And they never came again. Ruth May 2012
Posted on: Mon, 25 Nov 2013 23:00:39 +0000
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