Made in Myrtle Street (Prequel) Read Free Page B

she get a bit behind with the rent and be kicked out of the house? He would try to save something out of the one shilling that was paid directly to him so that he could sort things out when he got back and perhaps have a bit over for Christmas.
    Each sector of the crossroads was fringed with tubular iron railings, thoughtfully built so that the top rail was a convenient height for the elbows of the out-of-work Salford men from the houses behind that corner. Like four tribes they gazed out with taut-faced resignation at the passing traffic. The groups were dotted with the khaki of enlisting soldiers.
    Edward joined the cloth-capped men who stood around the Ship Hotel corner, their hands thrust deep into their pockets or cupped around sustaining cigarettes. They were mostly dockworkers who hadn’t been chosen that morning in the inequitable daily lottery of gang selection. Every day they rose early and crowded hopefully around the Dock gates, shoulders shrugged against the chill mists that rolled across the canal, and prayed that today they might be lucky. Each morning, the dowdy gang stood in stark contrast to the showy opulence of the Dock offices and hoped that, if fortune had smiled on them, they could go home that night with their heads held high.
    Now, the luckless rejects from that morning’s selection had made their way up to the corner at the crossroads and were aimlessly discussing the weekend’s sport, the runners in the dog racing and the injustices that burdened their lives. For the past two months, following the assassination on the 28 June of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the subsequent outbreak of the rapidly escalating war, the conversation had increasingly centred on the fighting in Europe and the employment opportunities that this might offer. Some of the men had strong opinions about the political wisdom of Britain entering the battle but most of the talk was tinged with a sense of excitement at the prospect of a change in their personal circumstances and fortunes.
    Muttered greetings were exchanged with Edward but the men respected the silence of his confused mood. To his left, Regent Road ran down into the bustling commercial centre of Manchester whilst to his right, the route ran past the huge, formidable Salford Workhouse and on through Eccles into Warrington. In front of him, Trafford Road was busy with the endless streams of carts ferrying products to and from the Docks; the horses leaving numerous, steaming markers to denote their passing. The rich warm vapour from the sweating horses hung like a thin cloud over the junction, contrasting sharply with the stale odours emanating from the open door of the Ship Hotel behind him. The cleaners had begun their daily struggle to free the pub of the evidence of the previous night’s indulgencies. Woodbine smoke hung in the still September air, dulled by the smell of the grain flour that had lingered for the last two days in the dockworkers’ jackets.
    A motorised cart tumbled the clouds of damp haze and left behind the pungent traces of burnt fuel as it passed through. Edward was fascinated to see that these trucks were becoming more commonplace. His Dad would never have believed that, in his son’s day, they would be seeing horseless carriages pushing the carters off the roads.
    He watched the groups of coolies from the ships on their way up to the shops and pubs. They walked in single file like a line of sombre, grey geese. Their eyes were lowered submissively and they crossed the road maintaining the same order and distance between them. It was a deliberately non-confrontational and non-intrusive style, he reflected, as though it was a part of their shipboard training.
    Edward stood with his arms resting on the rail, his hands clasped in front of him as if in supplication. His eyes were fixed on the church on the opposite corner where he had married his childhood sweetheart ten years before. He was not a regular churchgoer and Laura and the children now