By Kenn Taylor
Location: Oxford Road station
The cracklin’ speakers make it sound strangled, distant, but it’s still unmistakeably a recordin’ of a posh girl who pronounces everythin’ just so:
‘The next train to arrive at platform 2 is the 11:15 service to Liverpool Lime Street, calling at:
Deansgate
Trafford
Irlam
Birchwood
Padgate
Warrington Central
Hunts Cross
Liverpool South Parkway
Edge Hill
And Liverpool Lime Street’
Bet she’s a right filthy bitch that one.
I’m just glad it’s fucking coming though. Can feel the tiredness deep in me bones. Getting this job over and getting home is all I can think of. It’s been a right slog this one, and now this train.
After we did the switch, I legged it cross town to catch the ten o’clock from Piccadilly, only to watch it saunter away from the platform on me approach. Fuck. This meant another ride on the gauntlet: The Last Train From Manchester To Liverpool. Always from Oxford Road, always 11:15pm. It’s an experience whatever day of the week, but a Saturday night was going to be hellish.
I wandered back across the city as it began to really light up for the weekend. The grand ald cotton buildings of Mancland, now neoned-up pleasure palaces, much like the old dock warehouses back in the ‘pool. We’ve got more in common than we’d sometimes like te think, ye know.
Least Oxford Road had some decent pubs to kill the time in like. But it’s ard not to feel shifty carrying a large packet and drinking alone at this time a night. I ended up skulkin’ in the corner of The Salisbury with a Guinness, watchin’ the clock.
By R McCrum
Location: Albion Road, Old Trafford
We were better on our backs. Then no one could see that small, very small, and nearly, just very nearly, embarrassing difference in height between us. It was a matter of millimetres. I didn’t mind it. Though I still have the pumps with the paper thin soles that I bought to wear when we started. Such an unexpected start. So exciting. So happy.
I never told you exactly when I bought them. Careful to have some tact, tiptoe around it, as it were. The day I called in to see you in the record shop, and I was dressed for meetings. Skirt suit and those deceptively heeled knee high boots that really did have me touching six foot. You sloped out from behind the counter in your t-shirt and your sneakers, and you were not happy. Not happy at all. That was the first time I saw the narrowing of your eyes.
Those soles outlasted us.
But flat on our backs, toes touching, we did really well. Those first few weeks, playing in your bedroom on Albion St. Making weekend breakfasts to munch off our hangovers and then forget halfway through. The best were strong with smoked mackerel and rocket on toasted granary bread, messy with seeds. They struggled to make it to a hung up, come down mouth that was too busy laughing to concentrate on what it was supposed to be doing.
Perfidious old Albion St. It wasn’t there that it all went wrong. We were honest enough there. Your County Kerry burr.
When I stayed during the week, and had to leave early in the morning, you’d wheel your bike to the bus stop and see me on. Wave, throw your leg over, and hurtle off. Travelling in straight lines. A to B. No sightseeing, a purpose, even to any brief detours. To get there quicker. You knew what you were doing. You thought so, anyway.
The bus stank. Metros flung dirty round the floors, shrill faced adolescents clashing music out of phones or fumbling a cigarette out of the top deck windows. It was boring. I actually preferred to walk. Meander, potter.Waver. It took longer. I saw more. Well, that bit from the flat, past the tower blocks, over the egg slicer bridge, down Oxford Rd, through to town. Just over an hour, evenings, and mornings when I could. When you didn’t walk me to the bus stop. It would have been a little difficult to explain. You might have tried to come with me, still on that bloody bike, and it would be been awkward, you forced to stutter on your pedals, or circle back. No rhythm there. Or worse, you wouldn’t have wanted to come. And I’d have watched you ride off, and you would have known that you were leaving me behind. Going at a different pace. Seeing all the same things, a little ahead.
After it all ended, after the shock and the tears, and after that goddawful Easter Sunday, hunched on the front steps in the warmth of morning. Both of us still spangled from the previous night and trying to make the other understand. After the humiliation of you describing me, under duress and pleading, as ‘enthusiastic’ when what I had been aiming for, all that time, was ‘passionate’. To match that focus I saw and loved in you, of headlights, direct and burning. Rather than the wildly swinging, indiscriminate, happy illumination on whatever was in front of me at the time that was the only thing I could manage.
After you had swaggered your sweet way south.
I bought a bike. I quit that job. I found one that didn’t leave me spinning. That didn’t require me to spend the red eyed trip from Manchester to London in the dalek toilets of a Virgin train, applying and reapplying coats of concealer to a fading ankle tattoo. That let me see the steps I had to take a little more clearly. But I think now, that even if I had caught up with you at the time, it wouldn’t have mattered. The only time we really worked. Flat on our backs. Getting crumbs in awkward places.
R McCrum says: ‘I was in Manchester, now in Edinburgh. Stuff happened. And I loved it.’
By Sophie Le Bec
Location: Manchester Peace Garden, St Peter’s Square
In the peace garden
There is a canopy of trees
And chewing gum on the floor
And it is lovely there
Just for being what it is.
On the outside
It is a different story
And we are scared
Just for being what we are.
A woman walks through
Under the shade
In her tummy a tiny bean
Dances for the first time.
She smiles, remembering the darkness
Of firecracker nights
Resonating in her rib cage
Where now there is joy.
‘I wait for you; my soul waits’
The last man says
As he bursts into flames
And the city melts.
Sophie Le Bec is a scruffy emo poet from the suburbs
By Christian Stretton
Location: There used to be a second-hand record shop up the ramp off Deansgate. It’s not there anymore.
As the Voyager spacecraft made its way through the Earth’s upper atmosphere, Peter Cale began a similarly ambitious journey as he boarded the 192 bus, heading for central Manchester.
Peter had read in the newspaper that morning about the Golden Record that was placed aboard Voyager in the vain hope that the craft may be discovered by extraterrestrial life. The disc, Peter read, contained a welcome speech from Jimmy Carter, some noises from the natural world, and a collection of music.
It was the music that had piqued Peter’s imagination. Looking through the contents, it was evident that the compiler was trying to present the crowning achievements of man through the last three centuries. As you would expect, Bach and Beethoven were represented, along with Mozart and Stravinsky. Peter knew each of the pieces well, and approved of their inclusion. Alongside these there was a selection of world music from Mexico, Japan and Peru. Well that makes sense, thought Peter, the record should represent the whole world, and not just Europe. Peter smiled as he saw that Chuck Berry had been placed on there to liven things up.
The big surprise was a track called Dark Was The Night by Blind Willie Johnson. Peter had never heard of the artist, but found the name intriguing. He imagined that Blind Willie Johnson was some kind of rootsy bluesman from the Mississippi Delta: gnarled and hunched, a mouth rotten with stumps, bashing on an old wooden guitar on a porch in the shade. The romanticism of the image won out, hence Peter’s journey into town.
He jumped off the bus at Piccadilly and made his way across town to the specialist jazz vinyl shop. Lacking the patience to browse the shelves himself, he made his way to the assistant and asked where he might find some Blind Willie Johnson. The man behind the counter looked up, and reviewed his impression of the man in the blue anorak before him, affording him a little extra cool credit. He ducked behind a shelf, and returned holding a mint copy of Praise God I’m Satisfied.
On the return journey home, Peter took the record from the bag and examined the cover. Actually, it seemed from the painting on the front that Blind Willie Johnson was quite a young man, and smartly dressed too. He sits on a dining chair in a street, playing his guitar, as approving passers-by enjoy his busking. Peter slid the record back into his bag, excited about his purchase.
Once home, he carefully took the vinyl from its sleeve, and placed it onto his turntable. Checking the tracklist for Dark Was The Night, he found that it occupied track two on side one, so lifted the tone arm over the now rotating disc, and lowered his head to the side to gently drop the stylus into the sleek black void between tracks one and two. A pop and a crackle, and the song began.
How could Peter have known that what followed was three minutes and twenty seconds of abject howling from the very bottom of a man’s soul? A lyric-less, plaintive, tortured lament that carried with it three hundred years of suffering.
The voyager spacecraft, now free of the Earth’s atmosphere, glided silently into the vacuum of outer space.
Christian lives in Wigan by his own volition. He contributes book reviews and features to the literary website Readysteadybook.com. Many more of his short stories can be found on his blog http://andfigs.blogspot.com
By Mrs Chris Smith
Location: Woodley Shopping Precinct
The January air was cold and crisp, the sky a clear blue canvas and the slight warmth of the winter sun provided welcome relief from the chill wind. We had walked to our local shopping precinct, our New Year’s resolution being to support local businesses rather than add to supermarket profits.
The parade of shops forms three sides of a rectangle around a grassed area with paving, benches dotted at intervals and several trees. One is a lovely copper beech and most of the others are rowan trees, at this time of the year bursting with ripe, red berries.
A small crowd of people standing around the trees distracted us from the shops with their faded facades, flaking paint and warm interiors, the smell of fish and chips and the constant flow of individuals, hopeful of a big win, who were strolling between the newsagents and the betting shop.
Several cameras with massive lenses set up on tripods drew us towards the group. Everyone was looking up at the trees and a closer inspection revealed a flock of birds in one of the rowans.
‘Waxwings,’ stated a man with a huge lens pointing up towards the birds.
I wished we owned such a powerful camera because I would have loved to have taken a photograph of these striking birds, their outline sharp against the winter sky. Each bird sported a resplendent chestnut-coloured crest, which swept back from their forehead. All were engrossed with their berry bonanza.
As the number of spectators grew, some of the staff from the shops came out to investigate this sudden influx of visitors to the precinct.
‘They look as though they’re wearing something on their heads,’ one girl said.
‘Yes, they always wear bobble hats in winter to keep them warm,’ my husband said in an authoritative manner.
‘Really?’ the girl asked, surprised, before she spotted her colleagues giggling and realised his joke.
All afternoon the birds alternated between the precinct trees and the rowans on the other side of the busy road, flying as one back and forth. The next day it was the same and the day after that. Then they were gone and the precinct felt empty and ordinary once more. People still came for their bread, their fruit and vegetables, to post a letter or have their hair permed, but the magic had gone.
And when, the next year, council workmen started on precinct improvements and local residents were asked what trees they would like planted, we replied ‘rowans – for the waxwings’.
We didn’t get the rowans – or the waxwings, which had apparently decamped to Stockport Bus Station, according to those in the know. I’m sure they will be back though.Woodley is renowned for its winter waxwings.
Mrs Chris Smith is a librarian who dabbles in poetry and writing.
