Testing you out. 
This is just the very start of the "book" I have been writing for 3 years. I am trying to write Harry, my father's, early life in novel form; believe me the story was harrowing. So far I've got up to where dad was newly adopted, away from his brothers, at the age of 9. By the way, Lizzie's my grandmother.
You must feel free to say if it's rubbish. I live far enough away to be unable to kick you.
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There was a policeman at the kitchen door, talking to Mrs. Salt. Harry didn’t take much notice. His younger brother, Teddy, had wet his britches again and was crying and Mrs. Salt’s daughter, Nellie, was laughing at him and calling him a baby. Nellie didn’t much like having 5 boys to stay, taking up so much of her mother’s attention.
“You’ve got to be nice to them, Nellie”, her mother would say. “They’ve got no mam to look after them now and their dad’s in the infirmary, poor little things”. Being nice to them was one thing but having to give up her bedroom and sleep in her parents’ room was quite another. Nellie just wished they would all go away.
The policeman was speaking in a low voice and Mrs. Salt was holding her apron up to her face and looking shocked. Harry wondered if Mr. Salt had been put in prison. That would be exciting. He nudged Jimmy, the youngest, with his elbow and whispered to him.
“What if old Albert Salt’s in prison then? He’ll have to wear clothes with arrows all over them and a big chain on his leg with a ball on it.” Jimmy’s eyes widened before a grin spread over his face. “Yeah,” he said, not really understanding.
The door closed and Mrs. Salt turned round, twisting her apron in her hands, and looked at the children in the kitchen. Harry and Jimmy were seated at the scrubbed table with Nellie, Teddy was standing miserably beside a spreading yellow puddle, Jacky and Billy, the older boys, were kneeling on the peg rug sorting out their cigarette cards. She opened her mouth as if to speak then closed it again, searching for the right words. After a minute she took a breath and the words tumbled out.
“Your dad’s died, lads”.
Lizzie pressed her way through the market, using her large wicker basket to push people aside. There was a long queue at the butchers’ stall, throngs of mill workers, like herself, released from the week’s grind by the Saturday noon hooter and needing to buy food with the wages doled out by the foreman at the mill gate. She thrust the basket forward and stepped in front of the line of shoppers.
“Hey, you,” a large woman with a dirty shawl over her head accosted her loudly. “Get to t’back of t’queue. ‘Oo d’you think you are, shovin’ in, Lady Muck?” There was nodding and muttering from the rest of the line.
Lizzie composed her face into a sad, anxious look. “Oh, Mrs. Sharples,” she said. “I’ve got to get back as quick as I can. It’s me dad, he’s bad again. I can’t leave him too long. You don’t mind do you?”
“Aye well, all right this time,” the woman said. The tail end of the queue was still protesting, more loudly now, and she turned to them, hands on her hips and bare elbows akimbo. “She needs to get ‘ome,” she boomed. “Shut yer gob, Phyllis Howarth, I said it’s all right.”
With a grateful smile Lizzie turned her back on the disgruntled shoppers. The smile turned into a smirk as she thought of her father, Thomas Towers, sitting in the kitchen at home, clay pipe in his mouth, reading the Blackburn Times. Oh, he was bad all right, bad tempered and badly in need of a drink. The sooner she got home and gave him his tea, the sooner he’d be off to the pub and she could get ready for an evening stroll with her friend, Jane Clayton, up and down Blackburn Road, eyeing up the local fellows and showing off the new dress that Jane had helped her to make.
Tom Towers sat by the range in his wooden rocking chair and put down his newspaper. He glared at his daughter as she came into the kitchen through the door that led to the small back yard.
“About time”, he muttered. “What have you got for tea, then?” Lizzie put the basket down on the scrubbed table in the middle of the room.
“There’s a pound of tripe and some oat cakes”, she said. “And I’ve got half a shoulder of lamb for tomorrow. There’s enough meat on it to last till Wednesday at least”. Her father grunted.
“Get weaving then”, he said. “I’m clemmed”. He picked up the paper and continued to read.
Lizzie cut the grey-white slab of slippery tripe into two pieces, taking care that her father’s piece was somewhat bigger than her own, and slathered the slices with salt and pepper. She sprinkled malt vinegar over the top. The two plates were placed on the table with another plate containing 4 large, floppy Lancashire oat cakes. Next to this she placed a glass jar half full of blackberry jam and decanted a lump of Lancashire cheese on to a cracked saucer.
She took two large mugs from the shelf on the wall and ladled a spoonful of tealeaves into each one, took the perpetually steaming kettle from the hearth and poured water onto the leaves, stirring the concoction, vigorously, with a tin teaspoon. She added a drop of milk, from the jug that stood in a bucket of cold water by the door, to each mug.
“Come on, dad”, she said. “Look, there’s a bit of tasty Lancashire to go wi’ th’oat cakes. I could eat an ‘orse meself, I’m that hungry.”
Her father took his seat at the table and she sat down opposite him, handing him a battered knife and fork. For a few minutes there was silence, broken only by the sound of Tom’s masticating jaws as he chewed the soft tripe with his few remaining teeth. His mood softened as his belly filled.
“There’s a daft b*gger come to work at t’quarry”, he said.
“Oh aye?” said Lizzie.
“Aye, he’s a young chap, come out of th’army. He’s driving t’crane. Picked Billy Walsh up by his collar this morning wi’ th’hook. He’d have been for it if t’foreman had seen him”.
“Ooh, poor Billy,” said Lizzie. “Was he all right?”
“Well, he were when they got him down off t’wagon where t’other mon put him,” said her father. “I reckon t’new lad’ll not last long if he goes on like that.”
By 7 o’clock Lizzie and Jane were promenading, arm in arm, and chatting, animatedly. Tommy had departed for the Red Lion to spend his usual Saturday night playing dominoes in a corner of the saloon bar and drinking a few pints of Thwaites’ ale.
This is just the very start of the "book" I have been writing for 3 years. I am trying to write Harry, my father's, early life in novel form; believe me the story was harrowing. So far I've got up to where dad was newly adopted, away from his brothers, at the age of 9. By the way, Lizzie's my grandmother.
You must feel free to say if it's rubbish. I live far enough away to be unable to kick you.
------------------------------------------
There was a policeman at the kitchen door, talking to Mrs. Salt. Harry didn’t take much notice. His younger brother, Teddy, had wet his britches again and was crying and Mrs. Salt’s daughter, Nellie, was laughing at him and calling him a baby. Nellie didn’t much like having 5 boys to stay, taking up so much of her mother’s attention.
“You’ve got to be nice to them, Nellie”, her mother would say. “They’ve got no mam to look after them now and their dad’s in the infirmary, poor little things”. Being nice to them was one thing but having to give up her bedroom and sleep in her parents’ room was quite another. Nellie just wished they would all go away.
The policeman was speaking in a low voice and Mrs. Salt was holding her apron up to her face and looking shocked. Harry wondered if Mr. Salt had been put in prison. That would be exciting. He nudged Jimmy, the youngest, with his elbow and whispered to him.
“What if old Albert Salt’s in prison then? He’ll have to wear clothes with arrows all over them and a big chain on his leg with a ball on it.” Jimmy’s eyes widened before a grin spread over his face. “Yeah,” he said, not really understanding.
The door closed and Mrs. Salt turned round, twisting her apron in her hands, and looked at the children in the kitchen. Harry and Jimmy were seated at the scrubbed table with Nellie, Teddy was standing miserably beside a spreading yellow puddle, Jacky and Billy, the older boys, were kneeling on the peg rug sorting out their cigarette cards. She opened her mouth as if to speak then closed it again, searching for the right words. After a minute she took a breath and the words tumbled out.
“Your dad’s died, lads”.
-0-
Lizzie pressed her way through the market, using her large wicker basket to push people aside. There was a long queue at the butchers’ stall, throngs of mill workers, like herself, released from the week’s grind by the Saturday noon hooter and needing to buy food with the wages doled out by the foreman at the mill gate. She thrust the basket forward and stepped in front of the line of shoppers.
“Hey, you,” a large woman with a dirty shawl over her head accosted her loudly. “Get to t’back of t’queue. ‘Oo d’you think you are, shovin’ in, Lady Muck?” There was nodding and muttering from the rest of the line.
Lizzie composed her face into a sad, anxious look. “Oh, Mrs. Sharples,” she said. “I’ve got to get back as quick as I can. It’s me dad, he’s bad again. I can’t leave him too long. You don’t mind do you?”
“Aye well, all right this time,” the woman said. The tail end of the queue was still protesting, more loudly now, and she turned to them, hands on her hips and bare elbows akimbo. “She needs to get ‘ome,” she boomed. “Shut yer gob, Phyllis Howarth, I said it’s all right.”
With a grateful smile Lizzie turned her back on the disgruntled shoppers. The smile turned into a smirk as she thought of her father, Thomas Towers, sitting in the kitchen at home, clay pipe in his mouth, reading the Blackburn Times. Oh, he was bad all right, bad tempered and badly in need of a drink. The sooner she got home and gave him his tea, the sooner he’d be off to the pub and she could get ready for an evening stroll with her friend, Jane Clayton, up and down Blackburn Road, eyeing up the local fellows and showing off the new dress that Jane had helped her to make.
Tom Towers sat by the range in his wooden rocking chair and put down his newspaper. He glared at his daughter as she came into the kitchen through the door that led to the small back yard.
“About time”, he muttered. “What have you got for tea, then?” Lizzie put the basket down on the scrubbed table in the middle of the room.
“There’s a pound of tripe and some oat cakes”, she said. “And I’ve got half a shoulder of lamb for tomorrow. There’s enough meat on it to last till Wednesday at least”. Her father grunted.
“Get weaving then”, he said. “I’m clemmed”. He picked up the paper and continued to read.
Lizzie cut the grey-white slab of slippery tripe into two pieces, taking care that her father’s piece was somewhat bigger than her own, and slathered the slices with salt and pepper. She sprinkled malt vinegar over the top. The two plates were placed on the table with another plate containing 4 large, floppy Lancashire oat cakes. Next to this she placed a glass jar half full of blackberry jam and decanted a lump of Lancashire cheese on to a cracked saucer.
She took two large mugs from the shelf on the wall and ladled a spoonful of tealeaves into each one, took the perpetually steaming kettle from the hearth and poured water onto the leaves, stirring the concoction, vigorously, with a tin teaspoon. She added a drop of milk, from the jug that stood in a bucket of cold water by the door, to each mug.
“Come on, dad”, she said. “Look, there’s a bit of tasty Lancashire to go wi’ th’oat cakes. I could eat an ‘orse meself, I’m that hungry.”
Her father took his seat at the table and she sat down opposite him, handing him a battered knife and fork. For a few minutes there was silence, broken only by the sound of Tom’s masticating jaws as he chewed the soft tripe with his few remaining teeth. His mood softened as his belly filled.
“There’s a daft b*gger come to work at t’quarry”, he said.
“Oh aye?” said Lizzie.
“Aye, he’s a young chap, come out of th’army. He’s driving t’crane. Picked Billy Walsh up by his collar this morning wi’ th’hook. He’d have been for it if t’foreman had seen him”.
“Ooh, poor Billy,” said Lizzie. “Was he all right?”
“Well, he were when they got him down off t’wagon where t’other mon put him,” said her father. “I reckon t’new lad’ll not last long if he goes on like that.”
By 7 o’clock Lizzie and Jane were promenading, arm in arm, and chatting, animatedly. Tommy had departed for the Red Lion to spend his usual Saturday night playing dominoes in a corner of the saloon bar and drinking a few pints of Thwaites’ ale.
