By Yvonne McCalla
Location: Henrietta Street, Old Trafford
randomly the metropolis blinks awake
slivers of night dreams on tongue tips
drawn into the muggy dawn of a new day
as light cumulates kettles gargle furious and fast
applauded by the random clatter of china
as residents of Old Trafford break their fast
here at 49…
humming under soft breath is a damask rose
Mrs Karim busily heating chapattis
smudged finger of flour dusting her nose
her boys searching now they’re fed
for lost homework, shoes, bags and clothes
while Mr Karim carefully wraps his head
starts a new job at the bus station today
anxious and excited by his good fortune
this could be the making of his family
Next door at 51…
… Miss Jones hollers up a wake-up call
to her teenagers who echo drowsy responses
sleepily reluctant to leave their beds at all
A busy working mother who didn’t plan
things to turn out this way determined to survive
in spite of renegade love that turned and ran
By Anne Hill Fernie
Location: Manchester Town Hall
[Malmy: of a loamy character, or soil formed from disintegration of chalky rock; Hatchman: a scullion caretaker]
Get near and listen up because I haven’t much time. I’ve been watching you for a while but hear me out and I think you’ll understand. I’m Fenton who used to be an architect at the Town Hall and I’m going to tell you about Hatchman the odd job man there all those years ago. Truth is nobody really knew what Hatchman was all about. He was a creature of that brick warren; its covert entrances, spiked gates, portals and hidden rooms behind the bookcases. A rare sighting, heralded by the slow drag of his feet, would excite comment.
‘I saw that Hatchman just now sloping off to his lair but I collared him to get me a brew. D’y think a tanner was over-egging it a bit?’
‘Nah, he’s an old soldier. Let him be…’
Not quite Town Hall mascot – more an elemental or a ‘familiar’ like those pier-end spiritualists used to talk about. Hatchman had a shonky leg – actually I think that’s how he ended up at the Town Hall, by being a batman to some Herbert in the War. ‘Services rendered’ and all that. Give the lad some tin and a token retainer now we’ve lamed and broken him.
You could tell he was a man who’d fought to keep his sanity. He’d just about managed it but there was something about the way he cleaved to the earth that made you think it was a desperate struggle for him not to cast adrift and float away, thoughts bobbing and whirling like thistledown, bouncing on the Albert Square cobbles, catching on the stone whiskers of Mr Bright or Mr Gladstone before floating free and away over Manchester forever. That’s why Hatchman’s slithering, shuffley feet never left the ground when he walked: he was afraid. When he reached the steps he’d hesitate and peer about as though gauging how long he would be suspended, one foot free of its anchor, then with a perceptible girding of his loins he’d be off, skittering from step to step like a spider.
By Tim Scott
Location: Manchester Airport
It didn’t even beep and they want to search me. This is how every holiday begins.
I’ve spent twenty minutes waiting. Every time the queue threatens to move I get poked in the back by a Japanese guy’s laptop. I’ve got a blocked nose and I put my books in the wrong case. On the flight, my ears are going to pop and I’ll have nothing to read. Now I’ve got to wait in line to be felt up, harassed.
I took my belt, my shoes off. I did everything right. I don’t look that foreign. I just forgot to shave and smile today.
I’m signalled to. With a flicker of this stranger’s fingers, it’s my turn. The guy searching me is orange. He’s a much odder colour than I am. I don’t know why no one suspects him of being a terrorist. Maybe they do.
He’s got a split spot between his eyebrows. And his moustache – it’s so sparse. It’s like it’s been drawn on him as graffiti. He’s drowned in bathroom cologne but somehow he looks sweaty and dirty too.
He’s still sort of hot. I’ve no idea why. I must be bored.
I lift up my arms. I show willing. I surrender, silently beg for mercy, and he rubs under my armpits. It’s like he’s pulling me in, about to say he needs me. His hands stroke my ribs. They head down, head home.
He bends to the floor with grace, his head now level with my crotch. He doesn’t want to look me in the eye; he has to look me in the balls. He pats around my ankles. I catch the edge of a smile.
He caresses the sides of my legs, from thigh back to ankle. Then he wraps his hands around the back of my legs, rubs up from the end of my calves to just below my buttocks. Then front, from thigh to ankle again, grazing my dick with his right hand en route.
He stands up and faces me, looking for signs of panic, bad intentions. He checks my chest, my back: each time stroking down the middle, then making and finishing an O with his hands, covering all territory.
He steps around me, asks me to spread my legs. ‘Just a bit for us.’ Through my jeans, he uses his fingertips to trace a line between my coccyx and my balls: perineum and worse. He sweeps across my buttocks with the back of his right hand and I start slightly. I giggle too.
With the back of his hand again, because otherwise it would be invasive, he checks my crotch, up, down, right, left. He pats me on the left shoulder – ‘All done’ – and I walk on tiptoes to collect my shoes, wallet, belt, bag and become respectable again.
Tim Scott is a young writer from Manchester. He has written a story collection called Sudden Scripture, set mainly in this city, and is now writing a novel about its suburbs.
By Richard Watkins
Location: St Peter’s Field (now Peter Street)
I can see the lads from Chadderton, their white and green hats standing out from the crowd.
‘Sithee Samuel,’ I say, ‘Can thee see t’ white and green flag? Our Frederick’ll be over there.’
Samuel tries, but cannot see, so I lift him onto my shoulders. He is a big lad, though not yet five, and proud to be here. Molly holds my arm; she looks bonny in her new yellow frock.
‘I’ve never seen so many folk.’
‘Aye, ‘tis summat t’ remember lad. They reckon sixty thousand, all told, an’ all come f’t stand for reform.’
‘Look, Pa.’ He points to a cart making its way, to cheers, through the crowd.
‘Which one’s Orator Hunt?’ I feel Molly standing on tiptoe to see as the cart reaches the hustings. The excited chatter of the crowd dies down, eager in anticipation.
‘Have at their flags!’
The cry comes from behind us. As I turn, a collective gasp issues in a wave coming back towards us; then screams fill the air.
Sabre blades glint in the sunshine, come slicing down and then return, crimson, into the air.
Molly screams.
Taking Sam down and into my arms, I pull Molly to me. The crowd moves backwards, pushing us along and then splitting apart as horses trample and swords slash.
And then they are upon us: drunken, cursing animals. Molly falls, pulling us down under the hooves. I cover them the best I can, but not before she takes a blow from the horse. Samuel is silent. Face white, his eyes screwed shut.
Dull pain bursts into my head. I see stars, and then blood flows into my face as I try to kneel. Vision dimming, I see the blade aloft ready to come down again.
I pray.
‘Enough!’ A shout from above. ‘Touch them again and I’ll strike you down, by God!’
The soldier looks down at us, face impassive, but eyes ablaze. As he comes between us and the Yeoman, I struggle to stand and pick Sam up. Molly, sobbing, pulls me away. Blood stains her pretty dress.
We flee.
Richard says: Married with four children (and dog), I have lived in various parts of Manchester for twenty years since coming down from the hills. I write in what little spare time I have.
By Lee Ashworth
Location: The Temple of Convenience, Great Bridgewater Street
The old ones are the best. Bands, tracks, friends and bars. It was starting to rain as we descended the steep steps to The Temple. Maybe we were looking for cover. Maybe we were enticed inside by the sound of Sweet Jane drifting up into the damp Manchester evening. The Velvets. Seemed so right. Underground in every sense of the word. Lou Reed was half way through his story as we swung in through the doors.
There wasn’t much room inside, but then again there never is. More than a couple of people and the place is pretty packed. It was filling up nicely, the atmosphere was building, groups of young men and women coalesced and discussed strategies for the night ahead. Shopping bags dropped to the floor, smiles grew wide and eyes began to sparkle in the stingy, subterranean light. I headed over to the bar to pay my respects and the other two grabbed some seats round a table at the end of a sofa.
They were locked in conversation when I returned with the beers. I leaned back against the upholstery and took a sip of Schneider Weisse. It was then I noticed him for the first time, sitting at the table on my right, scribbling in his notebook then lifting his head to scan the room before taking up his pen once more. I watched him for a few minutes before he moved to the small room. Or should I say the even smaller room?
As soon as he left our field of vision, Mark turned to me, breaking off mid-conversation to say: ‘Well, at least we’re still interesting to somebody.’
‘What?’
‘Your man there in the corner, who’s just popped out to the gents, he seems to be writing down everything he hears or sees…’
‘How do you know what he’s writing?’ I asked.
Duxbury chimed in: ‘It’s just that he keeps on looking over, pausing, then writing down notes…. God knows.’
‘You should ask him when he comes back,’ Mark said, smiling.
