upon waking, the taste it leaves under the tongue. I am the crust of sleep in the eyes, the grit on the sheet. I am the yawning drag of Monday morning. You can keep the day with all its labour, misery and grime. I am King of the Night. I am Gnome.
I won’t be here forever. I have plans. Away from cramped windows, tiny doors, squeezed staircases; away from brick and cloud and rain-puddled gutters. I will go west. Not Liverpool, not Ireland – America. There’s a dream of a place: men in broad-brimmed hats and fancy moustaches so long they can wrap them around their thumbs; cornfields that stretch forever with not a fence to bar the way; cattle herds that take a day to rumble by. That’s where I’ll go. See if I don’t. It’s a greater journey than I can make in one night. But a man must have dreams.
All in good time. Tonight, Shudehill Market will suffice. It’s a fine place for a Saturday night’s entertainment, or any night for that matter. The crowd is as thick as mustard. I spot Russians, Latvians, Italians, Syrians, Egyptians: men with faces dark as a japanned brougham. Their tongue-twister salutations call out to me like the very sirens and I am tugged into their wake.
I stroll through the jumble of stalls. The air is busy with Manchester aromas, surpassing all the perfumes of Arabia: treacle tarts rub up to meat puddings; tureens of pea soup steam alongside pyramids of oranges so vivid they sting your eyes; buns and barms are hawked cheap by the stale sackful. Butchers bawl their bargains. Despite the reek of meat left standing all day like a tart with no takers, there’s still a pack of ravenous crones haggling over tongue and cow-heel, tripe and heart.
A pie stall tantalises. I’m hungry enough to eat a horse, which is as well for I bet my berries that’s what’s in them. I slap down tuppence and savour my supper under the stars, or the closest Manchester gets to them. I wolf it so fast a scrap of crust catches and I cough. My feet hiccup, the cobbles fly up to meet me and I sprawl, nose-down in muck and grease and God knows what else.
A hand grabs the back of my jacket and hauls me upright. I wrap my hands around my head in case he’s of a mind to clout me, but this stranger has come to my rescue.
‘Careful, lad,’ he roars. ‘You nearly bought it there.’
He jerks his head at the wagon thundering past. It shows no sign of having slowed by so much as an inch to avoid crushing me into cag-mag.
‘Thank you,’ I say, spraying pastry.
My saviour laughs. ‘Next time, save me a bit of pie.’
I lick my fingers. What a fine night this is turning out to be. The older lads and lasses pay me no mind, too busy with their rough flirtations. One girl pauses before the chap of her choice, plucks the flower from his buttonhole and bites off half the petals before crushing it back into its tiny hole. His chin hangs in a gawp as she struts away, earrings swaying, swinging her umbrella like a sword. Another pert miss, hat loaded with more fruit than a costermonger’s barrow, swipes the tea mug from her beau and takes a good long draught before returning it, a crescent of scarlet greasing the rim.
I stick out my chest in the hope of gathering similar attentions. I might, you know. One day. For now, I loiter at the tea-stand, entertained by the music of coarse songs and coarser jokes. I chuckle at the half I understand, laugh louder at the half I do not. Not that it’s only tea in those cups. Tea and a bit will get a fellow a splash from a mysterious jug kept beneath the counter and it certainly isn’t water. I slap down a sixpence, wink knowingly.
‘Hop it, short-arse,’ growls my host. ‘It’s not for little boys.’
‘Get knotted,’ I retort. ‘I’m fifteen!’
‘My arse. When you’re tall enough to see over the counter, then I’ll serve you.’
I’ve a few inches to go. In this world you need to choose your battles, so I screw up the sodden bit of newspaper that held my pie and bounce it off the head of the nearest urchin. He spins about with a glare fit to take the head off a glass of porter, takes one look at the size of me and changes his mind. He rubs his noggin, contenting himself with a scowl. Not that I intend him any harm: it is exuberance, not meanness of the heart.
I’m still ravenous. Coins clink a reminder: Don’t let us go to waste! I splash out on an ounce of cinder toffee. The taste spirits me away to a place of fireworks, a sweet yet bitter recollection and one I do not wish to have in my head. I spit out the muck and the memory with it, shove the remainder into the hands of the little lad. He unwraps the bag, stares at it in disbelief.
‘Take it,’ I grunt. ‘No catch.’
He eyes me like I’m a god come down to earth with a fistful of miracles. In search of fresh diversion I walk on, my adoring acolyte dogging my shadow. Beggars clot shop doorways, hands outstretched, eyes as empty as winter windows. Women gaudy with rouge gear up for a night of horizontal wrestling. Carts are lined up beneath their lanterns, the drovers supping quarts of four-ale. Halfway along the wall, a puppet booth has been set up, ringed by a brood of grubby nose-pickers. Punch is battering Judy against a painted backdrop of pots and pans.
That’s the way to do it, quacks Punch.
I elbow my pipsqueak friend and point at Punch’s beaky nose. ‘See that hooter?’ I say. ‘It’s where he stores his sausages.’
I wait for him to laugh. His mouth hangs open, catching moths, still unable to believe that I gave him an ounce of toffee free, gratis and for nothing. My talents are sorely wasted on some fellows. The play proceeds with the usual thrashing and squawking of blue murder. Judy sprawls on the counter, staring at me with wooden eyes as Punch belabours her.
Take that you shitty-arsed cow! he screeches, employing words not in the regular repertoire. Here’s another, shit-faced old bag.
My little pal tugs my sleeve. His lower lip is trembling. I take a moment to survey the sea of small children. Every last one of them is quivering on the verge of tears. I can’t spot a single mother. They’ve all deserted their babes to go in search of a bottle of stout. It seems I have been left in charge of this ragged army. What a fine general I shall be. I rub my hands, take a deep breath and echo the puppeteer.
‘Shitty-arsed cow!’ I yell.
No one threatens to wash out my mouth with soap. The carters chuckle at my impertinence. I nudge my companion encouragingly. He combs grubby fingers through his hair so that it stands up in an exclamation mark, eyes wide with the realisation that no one’s about to thump better manners into him either.
‘Shitty-arsed cow,’ he whispers all in a rush, in case time runs out on insolence and he is called to account.
The little ’uns screw their heads around from the marionettes and gawk at us.
‘Go on,’ I say, thumbing my lapels. ‘You can shout as loud as you like.’
One girl shakes her head. She fusses with the hem of her pinafore, revealing stockings going weak at the knees. We don’t need her. The rest take my lead, in cautious disbelief at first, then louder, till the whole cats’ chorus are yowling: Shitty-arsed cow, shitty-arsed cow. I am their bandleader, stamping out the rhythm of the words as we parade in a circle. Some bang invisible drums, some clash cymbals, some thrust trombones out and in and out again, all to the tune of shitty-arsed cow, shitty-arsed cow. I am so swept up in the cavalcade that my devotee has to tug my sleeve three times before I take notice.
‘Look,’ he says, pointing.
‘What? Don’t stop now. We are having such larks.’ I holler shitty-arsed cow for good measure.
‘No, look,’ he repeats.
The puppets have been joined by their master, a scrawny man with a nose the shape and size of a King Edward’s, face curdled with bile. He rams Judy face down on to the shelf at the front of the booth and thrashes her with such force that plaster brains tumble like rice.
‘Turd! Turd!’ he shrieks, spittle flying from drawn-back lips.
‘Turd,’ I snicker. ‘He