By Aaron Gow
Location: Ainsworth Road, Radcliffe
Outside didn’t look as appealing as inside. The view through the net curtain of a grey, heavy sky and faded light said gloaming; the view from the mantelpiece from the 40 years of continuous service carriage clock said morning.
Carole shuffled in her slippers from the front room window and into the kitchen, switching on the light in the process. The power-saving bulb started up dimly, a shadow of its former self, then quickly improved its disposition until it provided enough light for Carole to be sure there were no slugs on the lino.
Slugs appeared occasionally if it had been raining in the night. Carole was unsure how they got into the house as she was very careful to close the kitchen window. For Carole, there was nothing more bothersome than scraping squashed slug from the sole of her slipper, especially before she’d even had a sip from the first brew of the day. Happily, there were none this morning.
After opening the wooden roll top bread basket, Carole took out the last third of yesterday’s small white tin loaf. She took it into the back yard to the bird table and slowly rubbed the bread in her fingers until it was crumbed on the table. Carole had a brief thought that she should’ve swept off the last few days worth of crumb that had congealed and stuck together in the rain. ‘Tomorrow,’ she thought.
After drinking the first brew of the day, an instant coffee, Carole washed, pulled on some clothes and pottered off to Samson’s bakers, two streets along.
As usual Linda had only just rolled up the shutters and propped open the front door with an old flat iron. A warm, gentle steam seeped out the top of the door and into the murky autumn morning. A slight heat haze could be seen just below the ‘S’ and ‘A’ of the shop frontage.
By Andrew Neary
Location: Tyldesley, Greater Manchester
We walk through dead leaves and ten
thousand year mud, the brass band’s
bass drum’s startling chest thud
past the closed shops
and the pubs where the smiling
landladies stood at the door as
the procession went by.
Past a cafe and the town hall
to the chapel at the top
with him from number thirty four
and mrs oo’sit from
the mucky-up shop
with mums and kids with their
Sunday best on, a ruddy
cheeked veteran with
a stiff-upper-lipped face on
where lies a tale from every line
and crease in his complexion
the sarge screams after national
anthem “DISMISSED!”
Today kissed the memory
of the fallen, on a cold day
in November we shivered
and got wet.
We walked back
to our homes
drank tea and said
lest we forget.
Andrew says: ‘I listen, read and occasionally write, influenced by Simon Armitage and Morrissey. My inspirations are from northern working class history, customs and culture.’
By Peter Hartey
Location: Piccadilly Gardens
on a wooden bench
facing the sun
a man
blind from birth
who can now see
and a man
who could see
but is now blind
sit side by side
and talk.
Peter Hartey co-founded and runs Poetica, a writing forum based in Central Library, Manchester.
By Susan Gee
Location: Berwick Avenue, Heaton Mersey
I have always been here. Like the cobbles around the church and the old river that kicks up a stink every summertime. I am part of this place, like a stone that the grass has grown over. This is Heaton Mersey. It is my place. I have always been here.
When I was six I lived on Berwick Avenue. I fed the horse in the field next to my house. He would come to me slowly, bending his head over the wooden fence, towering above me like a big white ghost. I would bring a fresh green apple every day. The horse would bend down and take the apple, with teeth like tombstones. For a moment we would lock eyes.
I could see the horse’s field from my bedroom window. His name was Polo. I’d imagine myself grabbing Polo’s mane and riding around the field. I wanted to fly through the air on his back, to be free.
Now the children are protected like delicate glass and the field is gone. In the place where the horses grazed there are a hundred houses standing erect like soldiers. Guarding their residents from the past, whilst underneath their patios horse prints are embedded in the soil. I do not know who sleeps in that bedroom now, someone else who has no horses to watch.
There are cars everywhere now. Not like when I was young. I would sit on the back of my mum’s black bicycle, wobbling over the bumps on our way to the shops. I’d push my hands through the stripy plastic strips that hung over the door of Duffy’s butchers shop. Mr Duffy the butcher would greet us with a plump smile. There would be a dog behind the wooden slats, salivating. I would watch as Mr Duffy took out his knife, his fat pink hands as red as the meat he was about to cut.
The shop has gone now. They have hair salons and betting shops instead, not even a post office. It is all gone. The orchards filled with pear trees. The Linx golf course where we went sledging before the bulldozers came and transformed it into the Linx housing estate.
By Natalie Basnett
Location: Philip’s Park, Clayton, Manchester
At first it was exciting, so much to look at, so much to talk about. It was on this daily walk that at seventeen and nineteen they had planned out their life together, wandering aimlessly through nooks and crannies, only their conversations leading the way.
But now they were accustomed to this walk, first among the grave stones and beneath the boughs of the bare willow tree and then over the bridge by the wood ear and on to the paths that were now covered with decomposing leaves.
He didn’t need to mention the slim trees that sprouted so close to one another they hugged, he looked in their direction and her eyes followed knowingly. She no longer stopped abruptly begging him to ‘wait, wait a moment and listen’ to the water carousing by, she merely slowed her pace and paused and his ears pricked up to hear what might once have been a body, disinterred from its grave, being swept downstream.
They shuddered now, recomposed and commenced their walk into Tulip Valley. From here they could see the great dome that rose and fell in the distance. They marvelled at it and wondered if it was warm and firm, like a great big belly. They each placed their hands across their own and breathed deeply.
She caught a glimpse of the magpies; she wished she carried his child. She had held her stomach longer than was usual, he was thinking it now too. He longed for his seed to grow in her. He shifted through her in the dark at night; it was comforting to know that they both wanted this.
Then each month the blood emptied from her. They knew the words by heart: it would happen, they would try again when it was over.
They walked at an easy pace on to the embankment by the trees. He observed a brown leaf that had curled in to a tight cocoon. It hung alone. He wanted to be inside it, encased in its soft papery skin. She saw him looking. ‘What is it?’ she asked, inviting him out of the silence with which it had momentarily provided. He gestured toward it and his sad brown eyes hung there for a moment longer. She peered at it and then gently took his hand, leading him away. They crossed over the green boggy land and left by the usual gate.
