ISSUE 3 - 1972

cover size 296 x 215 mm

CONTENTS

WHAT VOICES IS ALL ABOUT

This is the third 'Voices'. It continues to -be a vehicle for working class expression. We want more writers. We want more readers. We want criticism and appreciation of this publication.

Voices exists because its publishers, 'Manchester Unity of Arts Society' , recognises that there is a need for magazines in which the literary potential of working people can develop and flourish, unhindered by traditions unrelated to their way of life, or by literary fads and fashions or commercial considerations.

This is in line with the general aim of 'Unity of Arts', which is to encourage interest in art, in all its forms, by organising exhibitions of workers' art, putting on plays either written by or about- working class people, sponsoring musical concerts and whatever other artistic activities our members or affiliated organisations call for at any particular time.

Eventually 'Unity of Arts' hopes to build up, with the assistance of working class organisations and other organisations in (sympathy with our aims, a cultural centre with an 'Arts Workshop', and other facilities for concerted artistic activities (Drama, Poetry, Literature, Painting, Drawing, Sculpture, Music), which will be at the service of working class organisations and the working class generally.

To achieve these aims the Society needs to be broadly based, with a powerfully affiliated membership throughout the Labour Movement. It is the Society's hope therefore, that Trade Unions, particularly, will want- to become affiliated and help us; and in this they could not do better than take a number of copies of 'Voices' to give or to sell to their members. It will cost 28p a copy (20p plus postage)

All enquiries to the Secretary, Mr. E. Morrison, 110 Edge Lane, Stretford. (061.865.5862)

---

A HOUSE IN THE MORNING

The three little girls were playing outside the old house in their terraced street.

"Salt...mustard...vinegar...pepper..."

"Mind out of the way Julie!'" The little girl stopped turning her end of the rope, which hung in mid-swing, catching the skipper behind the ear, and she turned to see the old lady standing behind her.

"Sorry, Mrs. Milton..." as she moved aside to let the old lady pass; but Mrs. Milton made no reply. She walked slowly, with her head bent slightly forward, past the children and into the gate of the old house set amid brightly painted other houses. The dark stained brown door opened and swallowed the old lady up. The girls resumed their game. "Salt...mustard...vinegar...pepper"

"I am - going to - my Aunty - Joans - today - she has - got a -new - baby", Karen recited in slow, chanting, rhythm, as she skipped.

The postman edged by and grinned as he passed.

"Have you got anything for us? Number seven?"

Annie dropped her end of the rope and ran after him, leaving the rope to finish its swing in a whiplash which wound around Karen's ankles as she stopped skipping.

Annie collected her letters and ran on to her own house, while the other two picked up the rope and began skipping together. "Salt.. .mustard.. .vinegar.. .pepper,.. salt.. .mustard..."

"Here, you kids! Out of the way". The man stepped from his van, collected the carry-crate from the back, and pushed past the girls. "Why can't you play somewhere else?" he grumbled and entered the gate to the first house.

Annie came back, and, ignoring the milkman, they began again. "Salt...mustard...vinegar..."

"I don't know why they can't paint this 'ouse. Its a bloody disgrace. 'Orrible old brown; can't see why they can't do it a nice blue, or green, even that orange; or even that purple over there; even that's much better. Bloody disgrace!" The milkman climbed back in the float and jangled off, down the road.

"Julie!" A voice rose from three doors down and the little girl stopped skipping, and the rope fell against her ankles.

"Oh! I've got to go - me and me mum are going to town to get some shoes"; and with that she left, dragging the rope behind her.

"Hey Julie! Lend us the rope please " . She stopped for a second, and then threw it, calling "O.K. Let me have it back later". The rope fell behind Karen, who turned to pick it up and found herself staring at a well polished pair of shoes, above which towered a priest .

"Do be careful children. That kind of thing can cause accidents". He half-smiled and walked on, entering the gate of the brown painted house with the dark windows. He knocked, and after a while the door opened, and he was gone. "Salt.. .mustard... vinegar... pepper. ..salt...mustard.."

"Oh! I'm fed up with this" Annie grumbled. "Let's play hopscotch". Karen thought for a moment, and then dashed off saying "Alright - I'll get the chalk and a stone!" Annie picked up the other end of the rope and skipped alone.

"Salt...mustard...vinegar...pepper...salt...mustard..."

Shortly Karen returned and marked the lines on the pavement.

" 'ere! What you drawrin' in front of our 'ouse for?" Eric had just come back from the baths; his hair was damp and uncombed. The girls invited him to play for a while and he said O.,. As they began, a big black car with darkened windows drew up outside the brown painted house with the dark windows and the half closed curtains. Three men got out and one went to the door and knocked. The other two followed him as the door opened, and they all were gone.

Annie's mother appeared, as if from nowhere, and took her away, saying as he left, "You two had better go home too".

The door outside which they were playing opened and a voice ordered Eric inside. A moment later the door re-opened and a hand reached down to pick up the wet, rolled-up towel from the step, and the same voice announced, "You had better go home now Karen".

As she turned to go, the street seemed suddenly empty and quiet. There was only the car, no other people anywhere to be seen. Mystified, she began to walk towards her own home, past the brown painted house with the dark windows and the half drawn curtains; and as she did so the door opened and the three men were slowly spilled out, carrying between them the long box coffin with the shiny handles. The driver got out, opened the door at the back, and the long box was inserted.. The four men then climbed back into the car and drove slowly off into the just beginning light rain, as the door of the house opened again and the minister appeared. He pulled the door gently shut and left in the direction he had first come, his back catching the lightly driven rain.

Annie stood, watching the car drive slowly down the street, as the quiet sounds of the engine diminished and blended with the returning sounds of distant traffic and the sounds of people; and the world returned to the street where the little girl stood outside the brown painted house with the dark windows and the half closed curtains framing the new shed rain tears.

And the little girl began to skip, slowly away from the scene, into the sounds.

"Salt...mustard...vinegar...pepper..."

T.M. Cullen

A VISIT TO BELLE VUE

My childhood was spent in a large family during the pre-war depression.

I only remember one holiday at the seaside and outings of any kind were few and far between.

In those days the local Co-op used to offer cheap tickets to Belle Vue and I remember one of these festive occasions very well.

We all piled on to one of the rickety old trains whose route lay between Hyde and Manchester and which stopped directly outside Belle Vue. This ride was an adventure in itself because we kids would wait with bated breath to see if the trolley would come off the wires when it reached the sharp bend at Reddish Bridge. The conductor used to reach a long hooked pole out from underneath the tram and would spend some time manoeuvring about with it until the trolley was back in place.

Belle Vue was a very different place in those days than the present complex. There was more emphasis on animal houses than the open air enclosures of today.

The lion house was nearest to the entrance and I mainly remember the combined stench of animal urine and Lysol, so overpowering that one would stagger out at the other end literally gasping for breath. I don't know what the King of Beasts thought about his abode, but I remember that on one occasion he lifted up his hind leg and expressed his feelings all over a visitor's shirt front.

The monkey and elephant houses were also popular and pungent places and a very big elephant used to walk about in the grounds giving rides to children. The only place I didn't like was the reptile house because I once saw a snake having a dead rat for its dinner and the sight sickened me.

I seem to remember that there was much more entertainment included in the price of admission, with band concerts and open air dancing. on the wooden floor in front of the boating lake, and although the Bobs and Scenic Railway were running then there seemed to be fewer traps for unwary parents in the form of expensive sweetstuffs and amusements.

A free cup of tea and a bun were also included in the Co-op ticket for which we sat at long wooden tables on forms, and although the tea was served in very thick blue end white cups it tasted a lot better than the plastic cupped beverage of today

The highlight of the day was the evening firework display. As dusk gathered a huge crowd would gather in front of the boating pool and the sky would light up with multi-coloured flashes. On the stage behind the boating lake a glittering spectacle representing a Chinese carnival was presented. The climax was reached when a huge dragon wended its way across the stage. I was so enchanted with the scene that it did not occur to me that men were underneath the dragon to give it mobility. I probably thought that one large inmate of the reptile house had been impressed into service for the occasion.

I wonder if today's over-exploited children get as much real pleasure as I did out of a visit to Belle Vue. And I wonder if the shoppers in today's blue and white emporiums are as conscious as my parents were about the value of the Co-operative Movement to the working class. Somehow I think not. 

Ethel Hatton

BLACK MAN, WHITE GIRL

The big man was black. He had a broad nose and a full sensuous mouth. Deep purples and reds showed as the sun shone on the skin of his forehead and cheeks. Straight back and as heavy as Paul Robeson, he looked as strong as. Muhamid Ali and stood somewhere in between them in age at 55. He had drawn strength from both these men, from Du Bois and Baldwin, Marx and Maupassant, Shaw, Shakespeare, but he had always been quick to read of the people of his own race.

A small. white and pink girl in a bright yellow coat walked alongside with her hand inside his elbow. His spare hand covered it. Her black curly hair was covered by a tied head-scarf. She had a thin painted black line following. the edge of her small eyelids, but the rest of her face was untouched by false colour.

Gently, as they walked and talked his big hand would pat,. stroke, caress hers, They looked very happy. Many of t he shops they passed were shut, closed, for this was Alexandra Road, Moss Side. The year was 1973. Behind the blind and dirty empty shops and the few remaining still open, worked the demolition men. Tall iron arms swinging half ton metal balls in shaky, rotten houses. Purpose-lit fires licked and. ate all the timber that had not been taken away to be sold and teams of heavy tractors and J.C.Bs pushed, flattened, scattered and lifted the rubble on to tip wagons that raced off when the last shovelful had put the tip .on the little mountain.

The tall man with this small young woman on his arm stopped at the last chemist shop to remain open and looked in the window. She pointed, he smiled, and they both walked in. Two-minutes and twenty pence later, they came out. Holding a neat little parcel in her spare hand "Joe" she said, "let's do the streets like we used". Joe, named Joseph -by his Bible-bred and believing dad, nodded. "We shall if you want, baby, and there's not much left. A month ago I was- not too happy about going. Now I can't get out of the place too quick. All the fellas have gone, The place is sad baby, sad. We will start at No. 1 Portman Street, where you was born, right? Then we'll do the whole hog. Bishop, Hulton, Bland, Meadow, Stockton, Sowerby, right through to Platt." They stood together at the corner of Great Western and Alec. waiting for the lights to change.

The soldier ants stir,
The scouts sent out.
The thirst for blood is about.

Two white pimply youths with matted hair, pushed past with purpose and aimed a blow, knocking the parcel to the ground. A small smash glass sound. The pavement darkens with oozing, clear liquid. The air becomes thick, sweet. The girl, damn it, dear reader, I can keep the, secret no longer. the girl is Joe's daughter. Now because you have read thus far, I feel I owe you the truth. There must be a bond between us.. But only you and I know. The two boys didn't know.

Joe's daughter is called. Kathy and she looked down sad. Joe looked at Kath. Could not allow himself to look down at the spillage. Then he put himself between her and the wet, cupped her face in his white-faced palms and looked into her eyes. Both his thumbs wiped her eyes. His blood beat hard in his chest, his arms, through the heavy veins on the back of his hands. And through his hands to her, and from her, back to him. They stood there sharing a common fear, anger, hatred of the wanton, wilful destruction of a bottle of scent, a present, a gift.

Eventually Joe made to return to the shop, but was held by Kathy, more firmly this time and they crossed the road towards Portman Street. Soon they were smiling and talking of the gay days long ago when Joe, with his delivery bike, would pedal up and down the streets selling the "Daily Worker", Kath and her young brother securely tied in the basket with woollen scarves. Oh, the excitement, the laughter and all the stares. That made the people look. Joe enjoyed his laughter when he recounted - big black man on a bike, w ith two kids in a basket. One white little girl and one black little boy. One black little boy that died too soon one Sunday morning. Twelve, and sent for the papers across Princess Road. Joe had bitten his hand hard many times since. What happened, mad bastard driver, or not so careful lad? Too late, too bad, the agony of recall brought tears to Kath and Joe and they walked straight faced for the next few minutes.

The soldier ants scouts return
And report to Lustful Queen
There's fresh meat to burn.

"Oh yes" said the fat woman to her pimply sons "I'll soon stop the black bastard's capers. Young white girl eh?" and without taking off her dirty pinnie, she rushed out of the house and ran towards Portman Street. Now out in the fresh sunshine air she would have noticed that she had left the smell of the house behind, only she carried the smell with her person. It was not difficult to recognise at a distance the linking Kath and Joe. Panting and just out of earshot the fat woman shouted "Leave her alone you black bastard", but it was lost on the air. A ragged dog sniffed and lapped dirty water amongst the rubble. In spite of her slipping., sloppy slippers, she made up some distance and again she hurled her wordy missile. Man and daughter stopped and turned. More ill-chosen invective flowed from the fat woman. Life had hardened Joe. Most people who knew Joe loved him. A quiet man and kind, a good man, but not now. This kind of talk he had heard before, knew why it came and would not get used to it. "Piss off, you fat cow" he shouted, because the fat cow had stopped, many yards off when Joe had turned. He had a fierce face on. The clarity of the loud message struck home. Crushed her aggression.

"Piss off or I'll kick your big fat arse, you filthy cow!" he said and it looked like he meant to do it. The filthy cow did feel like pissing. Did not expect such a clear, precise and threatening reply. Swore, and to herself swore that she would yet have this big black bastard. On her way back she knocked on many doors. "Have you heard? Did you know? Guess what happened to me." Her story grew from door to door. By the time that she had reached her hovel it had grown into a direct and unprovoked physical attack on her person.

Fat with her rivals blood,
The vile Queen ant
Reeks with evil intent
Pushed and pushes unthinking minions
Rushes to food.

The fat lady felt much bolder now. She had surrounded herself with some eleven men, women and children and one half-man, pushed along in a cane chair with wheels. It was not the perambulation over cracked flags, but a natural, unnatural motion that made his head shake from side to side. His lips tightened and the lower, pressed hard, would slide upwards and touch his nose. His head would fall back to make many creases in his thin, flab neck. All the while his eyebrows would rise and fall, surprise and worry, surprise, worry. This, God's creature, would make many an atheist yet. "Can't you push Fred faster Alice?" panted the fat lady, pointing, shouting-and urging more speed.

More difficult to find now, Joe and Kath were standing till at the corner of Raby and Talbot; looking at the gaping mouth of Moss Side. The rotten stub's were being pulled out and smashed. The noise' and dust offended little. What wrenched was the disappearance of the brick clothing of part of their history. Sadness and sorrow filled the linked pair. With a deep breath and a big stretch of Joe's fertile imagination he could see the beauty that once was Moss Side. Near on a hundred years ago, he thought. New, clean tidy rows of beautiful houses. Each with its little garden in front; well - most. Alright, so some were bigger than others and had a big garden at the back instead of a small yard. And a room at the top, for a servant, but all had a cellar to store coal and keep food cool - Joe's historic eye focussed on the occupiers. These houses were for the managers. Those for the foremen, and these for the labourers. Broad shoulders, long strong arms, it was the big labourer that got the smallest house. Studying these houses had in the past been part of Joe's political education. The owner bosses used to live in the grand houses with a drive - in Whalley Range. Then they moved to Didsbury. Then they diffused to Bramhall and Mere, Hale Barns and Prestbury, and further afield to fresh and greener pastures, well away from the working mass; but in Moss Side still, the workers lived and in 1973 they move to Hulme. New Hulme, next door. "God damn Hulme" Joe said aloud. Kath looked up and smiled her own little smile. Only one side of her mouth would lift. Joe knew this would disappear in time, as her self-confidence grew. "Most of the time, she's away at College in Ripon. Get a good education she will, and she doesn't know wrong with Hulme". "I'll tell you love" Joe said, in answer to her smile. "For one thing, they didn't clear the sites of old Hulme properly, and the rats and mice got in the new concrete cavity walls and they are still there. Talk to the tenants. The council won't clear 'em, and they won't clear the streets and the rents are mad high, and they are going up and..." Kath pulled heavily on Joe's arm. When Joe was fluent and in full flow his voice would rise, and his hands would squeeze hard on anything in them. Now he realised he had been pressing Kath's ring-finger - "Sorry love".

"No, it's not that dad, its my knee". Joe looked down; a trickle of blood (was slowly moving down her leg. "Something hit me". Joe heard the din of the little raucous mob, Just a second before he got them in his eye. He saw the fat woman with her mouth wide open, in the middle. He heard everything and saw everything but his eyes kept looking on her face. The wheel chair, the pimply ones, the dog, the wet lower lip touching the nose, dirty pinny, eyebrows up -down, surprise, worry, wagging tail, shouts "Black bastard -black bastard - go home black bastard.."

"Where's Kathy?" - take her hand, she must be frightened. "Kath". Kath was bent low over her knew and he put his hand on her yellow coat back. "Take your-dirty black hand off our white girl" slurred the man in front. Broken braces and collarle-ss shirt, his beer-foul breath made Joe take a step back. Emboldened by what he took to be Joe's fear, he lurched another short step forward. Then Joe saw that the drunk had a bread knife at shoulder height. "Give me that knife, you pig' yelled Joe, and the drunk fell backwards. Heeled heavily. on fat woman's foot. She pushed hard with all her wild hurt strength. The drunk fell forward on to Joe with both his hands out. One had a knife in it.

Paradoxically, everything with Joe was how it should be, and not how it was. He could not feel the hardstone flag bed, nor Kathy's soft hand on his head. Was not aware of the mingling of tears and perspiration. Her first proper tears - his last long sweat. He had left school at barely fourteen. Never heard of relativity physics, but was now unconsciously shattering his basic concept of time and space. Yesterday, today and tomorrow, were neatly interwoven. He could see clearly (the day before he was born. His daddy sweating, begging the doctor to come. "Please, oh please sir, come and see my wife". "Have you any money?" "No? - well then, go away and don't bother me; come on Harry, it's your deal". Joe's mother did not feel the pain of lying on her hard board bed - pushed on a hand cart to the Royal Infirmary. But 'Joe, little wet smooth Joe inside water filled bag belly, felt the pain. '-'Turn Joe, avoid the pain". "Daddy, dad, help will be here soon" said Kathy, as her dad turned, but did not hear "Daddy"; could feel the pain of his mother's pregnancy. Joe could feel the ants crawling over his body. Their knife sharp cutting edges, tearing his meat. He could see them carrying away their little loads, held high.. "See these pieces of Joe, come on, hurry, get some more, more". The soldier ants are relentless, but Joe is strong - his powerful arms begin to flay, and with each mighty blow he crushes ten, a hundred, a thousand, and more and more.

With all his strength gone, he lies back in-the cool water to rest. To float and rest, happy that he has crushed every ant, all over the world.- Happy, happy, and the dream ends.

The little white girl in the red and yellow coat stands up.

Sol Garson

A FABLE

He was an old man and his dream was old, born when through the eyes of a young man the world shone with the promise of a wonderful future, an ideal future. Now he was no longer young and no shining future lay ahead of him, yet he could not relinquish his youth-born dream. He would speak with a fire that long ago should have left his heart of a better world, of the future that was the heritage of his people, the future that he and his generation had fought for with their minds, with their collective strength, with their blood.

For as long as he could remember he could remember he had lived with the vision, vividly recalled when he was alone in the quiet places, that he sought when the need to think weighed upon him, of that future time when every man and woman would be blessed with the dignity of freedom. Not just freedom from oppression, though that was part of the dream, but freedom from ignorance, from the chains that bind the unthinking, whether their ignorance is due to lack of opportunity to learn or some inadequacy in their intelligence. For those who had not had the opportunity to learn, to know the truths that come only to the thinking mind, he burned with sympathy and strove with all his skill as a teacher of men to make them see. To those who no teaching that he or his fellow teachers could devise could free from the appalling burden of ignorance, his pity ran deeper than tears; for tears help only the weeper. Nor was he ostentatiously kind, as some men are with the weak- minded, but he never failed to treat them as equals, bearing their foolish talk and their shallow behaviour with that stoic patience which is common to men who have glimpsed Truth but not the face of God in truth He could not believe in God. Indeed part of his dignity stemmed from his atheism. For if there is no God there is no One to Whom the blame can be attached for the existence of those who can never learn to see the Truth. Thus he was never given to bitterness.

Being without knowledge of God he could not properly be called a saint yet by sheer force of goodness and benignity, he had attracted a group of acolytes around him who shared his dream, quoted his speeches and drew from the well of his inspiration. Among these he had a favourite, although he would not have admitted oven to himself that this was so. Nevertheless, being a very human old man, he was touched by the devotion of one of his followers and took to referring to him as "my friend"

He knew also that this man above all who looked to him for guidance, had the greatest need of his sympathy and help. For this man, he knew had feelings as fierce as his own for his follow men. yet, because he carried the pain and suffering which was woven through his life, compressed tightly inside himself he could not express this feeling in a way that might help both himself and his fellows. Whenever he tried to speak about something which he felt deeply, his inner pain rose up and defeated his intention, so that his words seemed to deny themselves by the violence with which they were delivered. And so nobody believed that he was a man of compassion, though they pretended to be so to his face.

All this the old man knew, though he never communicated his knowledge to anyone. Often when they were gathered together in debate this deep-rooted pain would pour out a torrent of heated words, jeopardising not only his own argument, but, by its disturbing influence, the effect of the old man's teaching. .At such times, the teacher of men would wait until there came a pause in his friend's turbulent outpouring, then, quickly, often with sorrow in his voice, ask a question that seemed relevant to the speaker's argument. As soon as he received an answer the old man would put another question, then another, all seemingly relevant questions, yet each one taking the perturbed man further from the source of his agitation until he had recollected himself. After these outbursts he would lapse into brooding silence, as if reflecting on the conflict within himself. Sometimes he would catch the teacher's glance and embarrassment would pass fleetingly across his face, as if he believed that he had earned his master's displeasure. But the old man never by even a stern glance, confirmed that this was so.

The old man died. His dream of universal light lived on in the minds of his followers, but it was still only a dream. His friend sat by his master's deathbed and couldn't control his emotions; tears ran freely down his cheeks as he remembered how they had shared a noble dream. For two evening hours he sat and looked and remembered. Then the tears abated and he felt a calmness melt through his body, clearing his mind and lifting his sorrow. He thought he heard the old man's voice quietly repeating the words that he had spoken to his friend only a few days before his death: "Tears help only him that sheds them, yet it is sometimes right to shed them; we all need to rid ourselves of troublesome emotion in this way, sometimes. Likewise the pain of living should be shed - but not by tears". "In what way, then?" he had asked, "Can we rid ourselves of such pain?". After a long silence the old man spoke: "Never fight your grief; to do so will merely increase it. Think of it this way - the more pain and grief we experience, the more joy we are capable of experiencing. We must learn to look at both sides of our experience

The old man's advice had not made much sense to him. Now as he sat in the profound stillness of death, understanding touched the edges of his mind and he became aware of a new sense of peace growing within him, pressing out the pain of his past life. Vision arose in him too, and he glimpsed a world in which his master's dream was fulfilled, and he knew that at last compassion would live without conflict, within him.

Ted Morrison

ONOMATOPOEIA

A few days after the first big Manchester blitz found us settling down in this little 140 year old dilapidated hovel about 8 miles south of Manchester lacking gas and electricity, but luckily equipped with flush lavatory and mains water.

We felt safer and our baby could be put to bed at nights where-as previously most nights were spent in the air-raid shelter.

It did not take long before eager gossipy neighbours put me in the picture as to the "goings on" in the Dale.

Many of the men folk in the Dale were away in the services, but Mrs. A. had run away with Mr. B. and left her child with its putative father - but that's another story.

I was flanked by Mrs. Y. and Mrs. Z. Mrs. Z's mother-in- law soon let me know that her son had married beneath him only because "he had to". Personally I thought he had done better than he deserved, because young as she was, his wife managed very well on his very low earnings. At that point there were two children and shortly after he was called up to the Army.

Mrs. Y. had two children and her husband was already in the Army. Both women were determined to fill the role of both father and mother to their children, and these kids could do no wrong.

Whenever the kids had a row the mothers would join in, and at the end of every bout of abuse, Mrs. Y. would have the last word with "You bloody fornicating bugger - you're nowt else".

And so the war years passed, seeming to alternate between the fluctuating gains and losses on the military front, and the squabbles and makings-up on the domestic front.

Makings-up between the neighbours seemed to follow some little relaxation of tensions. The word would go around that the Co-op had had a delivery of biscuits or oranges or suet, and on one occasion the word came that white bristled scrubbing brushes were to be had. That was good news in those days, before washing machines were common place, and everything had to be scrubbed.

Shortly before the end of the war, an agitated Mrs. Y. came to speak to me. "Eh!" she said "Do you know what fornicating is"? "Yes, of course" I said. "Well" she said just found out what it means. You know when I call Mrs. Z. a bloody fornicating bugger - I didn't mean that at all". She hadn't wanted to give me the wrong impression. She hesitated a split second, then with a smile and a wink she said "but it sounds right".

F. Morgan

CUPID

"Leave me alone....I don't want to talk to you" said the blonde girl in the blue suit. She began walking away along the embankment.

The young man in the sports jacket followed her, uncertainly. "B-but Mabel...let me explain" he stammered.

She stopped, turned and gazed at him as if he was something that had just come out of a drainpipe. "Pah!' she said then. The young man chewed at his bottom lip.

"It wasn't what you think" he said tentatively. "Her shoe got stuck in a grating and..."

"I don't believe you".

"It's true and I..."

"And what's more were finished. Here..." She struggled savagely with something on her finger. Then she threw an engagement ring at his feet. "Take your ring". Her voice was strident, but throaty.

The young man's jaw went slack, his mouth dropped open. He bent down, picked up the ring. For a few moments he watched how the diamonds winked in the afternoon sunshine. Then he said abruptly

"Mabel, be reasonable."

She sniffed; turned her back on him. She stood there, arms folded, one foot tapping rhythmically on the footpath.

As the young man opened his mouth to protest he saw the cop standing on the other side of the road. He came slowly across. He eyed the girl before querying

"Is this man bothering you miss?"

The girl stopped tapping her foot; glanced sharply at the young man. In a voice like chipped ice she said

"Yes, he is" Then she stalked away and stood near the embankment wall.

"Now look here officer..." The young man's voice trembled.

"It's alright, we're engaged".

"Oh" The cop smiled mysteriously, then he winked. In a knowledgeable tone he said "I understand sir, just a lovers' tiff".

The girl wheeled round. Her eyes blazed with a green fire.

"It is not".

The young man took a pace towards her. He held the ring at arm's length.

"Oh, come on Mabel, take the ring back" he pleaded.

She twisted sideways as he tried to take her hand. The ring fell to the ground and bounced near the cop's feet. He picked it up and advanced on the girl.

"Come on miss, you can't throw a thing like this away" he said.

The girl pouted her bottom lip, looked at the man, flickering her eyes up and down. In a tight, petulant voice she said

"Give it to him then" The cop shrugged, turned to the young man.

"Perhaps you'd better take it then sir" he said hopefully

"No constable, it's not mine. It's hers".

The girl let go a quick exhalation of breath..

"It is not and I don't want it and I'm off" she panted. With that she tossed her head and began walking away along the path. The cop looked at the ring; frowned. In a small, uncertain voice, he said

"What about this sir?"

The young man shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know" he said perplexedly. Then he turned on his heel and hurried after the girl. He caught her up and took her arm. She tensed. Without stopping she said

"What now?"

The young man bit his lip, then he said coaxingly

"Look Mabel, let's go somewhere and talk".

"What about?" The girl paused and looked up at him. He grinned sheepishly; his fingers tightened on her arm.

"I don't know...about how much I love you, I suppose

"wha..at?" .

He saw the anger fading from her face. On a sudden impulse he slid an arm round her shoulders and pulled her towards him.

"Tom! Not here" she cried. A blush the size of a small forest fire burned in her cheeks.

He laughed..

"We'll take a taxi then". He turned, looked up the road and signalled. A taxi came purring up and rolled to a stop.

The girl said

"Where are you taking me?"

"Does it matter?" he threw an anxious glance at her.

"Not really,..as long as we're together".

The taxi driver rested one arm on the steering wheel, made a clucking sound and raised his eyes in a gesture.

"Where to sir?" he asked in dry tones. The young man ignored him. To the girl he said

"Then everything's alright Mabel?"

Her face became a little dreamy.

"Of course, darling" she began. Then she looked down at her left hand. In an awed whisper she said "Tom... the ring".

There was a strained silence between them. Then all at once they saw the cop coming along the pavement. When he drew level the young man said

"Constable, Mabel and I have got engaged".

The taxi driver leaned forward; laughed throatily. "Blimey" he said. The cop smiled indulgently. He dived a hand into his pocket; brought out the engagement ring.

"Allow me madam" he' said.

The taxi driver sat up straight. His mouth opened and stayed' open.

The girl held out her left hand. The cop slipped the ring on her finger. He saluted and sauntered off along the path.

Swallowing painfully, the taxi driver murmured: "Blimey, bloomin' Eros."

 

Frederick G Walker

---

 

 

HOLLOWAY PRISON

Four weeks! Ann couldn't grasp it.  Four weeks! How could her appeal have failed?

Bitterness and self pity mingled in her thoughts. In a nightmare she was propelled into the prison van. A month! And she had been certain of release. Her knees pressed hard against the cubicle wall. She felt entombed. The dim light from the small translucent pane only heightened her misery. To have to return!  She wanted to scream out to the scurrying figures in her path. What did they care for her world, as they bustled deafly like beetles with their eyes fixed on the scattered oblongs of the pavement. The van bumped to a stop. Holloway!

Robot-like, she followed the warder took the proffered cape and undressed in the cold brick cubicle. She bathed mechanically and put on the prison clothes.

"Doctor next" said a voice, and she followed it to the tiny sick room.

Her anguish was suddenly shattered. She reddened; perhaps she had not heard correctly.

"Have you got V.D.?" the doctor spoke irritably.

"Why, have you?" she retaliated coldly. The fury broke.

"Any more of that and you'll go straight to the punishment cells. Get on to the couch and let me see"

So the humiliation was to be carried on to the end. On reflection she felt that the doctor was being degraded, not herself; perhaps that accounted for the nasty temper.

The examination was followed by finger-printing. The form said "Take an imprint of the prisoner's right thumb before and after she has signed her name". The first right print was taken, Ann signed her name with her left hand and the warder mechanically took another print of her right thumb. Ann chuckled inwardly and felt a slight vindictive satisfaction. She felt less tense and began to look about. Everything seemed calculated to depress - whitewashed brick walls without the usual veneer of plaster; high-barred windows which seemed to diffuse everything with a grey light. Everywhere the jangle of keys proclaimed where she was, smirking rhythmically that the only way out was through time.

She followed the jangle at the warder's waist, past groups of women ferociously scrubbing as they came and relaxing as they went, or others arrogantly leaning on their hands and staring challengingly at the warder. Few looked at the prisoner with curiosity for it was a scene with which they were well acquainted. Only one, with more cynicism than compassion, shouted, "Cheer up, luv, it's not that bad".

The warder, wisely ignoring all round, marched stolidly on to the Governor's office. She tapped on the door and entered with Ann. The Governor, expecting her, looked up slowly.

"I'm sorry your appeal failed; I didn't think it could. However, I can't treat you any differently from the rest of the prisoners whilst you are here, but you will go into the block for first offenders and your work can be in the warders' hostel.

The block to which she was taken consisted on three sides of three tiers of doors bound in by landings. Access was gained by steel stairways, so that the whole differed very little from the mental picture Ann had gained from American films. Stretching from side to side, and halfway down the well that was formed in the middle, was a tough wire netting, which the prison authorities had thoughtfully provided to prevent would be suicides from escaping from their lawful punishment. The only thing missing was the bars with the tough, criminal characters chewing languorously and turning a sneering shoulder on the gaoler. Each cell was in fact, the very essence of compactness, being neatly enclosed, with only a tiny peep-hole in its heavy steel door by which Authority could ascertain that the prisoner was not embarrassing it by hanging herself or doing something equally drastic.

In the cell Ann looked about her and a blanket of claustrophobic panic swathed her lungs. Putting heel to toe she paced the room - thirteen by fourteen. The furnishings, though sparse, made it seem much smaller;- a bed, small scrubbed table and chair, and a corner fitting with basin on top and bucket underneath. A tiny barred window shone out near the ceiling, and Ann, moving the table underneath, climbed up to stare into the courtyard by which she had entered. The sight of space revived her mind a little, though this did not improve its state.

"What if there was a war? What if a bomb dropped? How would she get out?" She laughed at herself to regain her calm. "Being melodramatic again".

Her fight was interrupted by a key in the lock and as she jumped quickly from the light the parson entered. He smiled quietly and asked her to sit down.

"I'm afraid there's not much I can say. I really didn't think I'd see you again. However, if I can help you in any way, just ask to see me. Politically, I don't agree with you, but in the matter of Peace there is a lot we should all do'.

Ann was up long before the morning began. She stared at the walls and thought. If only she had been a moron, she could just sit and think of nothing. Prison was not equal in its punishment. A day in gaol could be just boring for one person, and purgatory -for another. Some people could accept philosophically or without any thought, but to her it was torture of the finest degree. She felt she must cease to think or succumb to madness.

The prison woke with the daylight. A jangling began in the corridor; doors slammed and voices began to mingle with the noise. Her door suddenly flung itself open and a peremptory voice told her to empty her slops and get water. Friendly prisoners told her the procedure, and she felt relief in the gregariousness. After tidying her cell she joined the file of women in the breakfast queue. She refused the slop of porridge, took the two slices of bread and pint of tea and returned to eat in solitude.

Work came as a relief. The warders' hostel was clean and light and the housework easy. The woman in charge, motherly and sympathetic, gave mild endless lectures on the folly of attending political meetings. Her sympathy didn't end there however. Mysterious, well-wrapped parcels of cakes and boiled eggs were placed regularly on top of the dustbins. She worried sincerely over her charges, and grim was the day when her concern caused her to hand in her resignation.

Dinner from day to day was unvaried, and eaten only as a starving man might eat a cat - telling himself it was chicken. Tea was the same as breakfast, minus the porridge. Ann wondered how the pregnant women survived on such a diet, For their only addition was a pint of milk. The babies, which they saw on their walk to the hostel, looked pale and sad. They too, suffered for their mothers' crimes. For them their cell was a cot from which Ann never saw them emerge, and their gaoler the oldest, most decrepit prisoner of all, an old granny who could scarcely wheeze, let alone attend to each tiny cry. The brightest child was blind: she spent the whole cry whooping up and down inside her bars, making a mockery of the macabre spectacle.

"You'll be able to go to the library" said her friend on Monday.

"That's good! How many books can you have?"

"Two a week"

"Only two, and locked in for twenty hours a day!" Ann was amazed.

"Yes, and you don't half get it if you're caught swapping with another prisoner!"

The library in the first offenders' block turned out to be a converted cell with two cupboards on the walls. The books were jumbled together, unclassified and uncared for. Ann picked up one and read the title - "The Murdered Blonde". She put it down and looked at another - "Confessions of a Bride".

"Come on there, you haven't got all day".

Ann sighed, ignored the speaker and turned over a few more spines. At last, in desperation, she picked up the two thickest, signed her name and returned to her bed. If I can't have quality I'll have to plump for quantity - it might make the time pass, anyway" she philosophised, gamely trying to sound convincing to herself.

Bathtime was the hangman of all modesty. True, each bath had its own cubicle, but the doors appeared to have been put up as the survival of an old custom, as each was only waist high and terminated at the ankles. The water was controlled from the corridor, so that it was either scalding hot or reminiscent of the Antartic. Fresh clothes were distributed by a fellow prisoner, who, being used to abuse and neither caring nor heeding, looked neither at size nor fit, so that one week one's dress would gaily wrap itself around the ankles and the next would terminate abruptly just below the thighs.

Ann was particularly interested in the other sufferers. She noticed that morale was high in spite of everything, and that a great effort was made to "keep up appearances". Make-up was a cherished possession, and could be bought once a week at the prison shop, although the sevenpence received in payment for work was hardly likely to buy very much. Ann felt most sorry for the women who smoked. They must have suffered agonies. Every morning, on the way to work, there was a mad scramble for discarded "dog ends". An inveterate smoker would trade anything for them, the barter usually being food. As soon as it became known that Ann was a non-smoker and also demanded no payment for the drug, an endless stream of tobacco beggars seemed to drift past her cell in the nightly recreation periods pleading their craving. Ann rationed them out painfully, then greeted each subsequent plea with a useless shrug - impotence meeting misery.

All was not gloom, however, and for one glorious evening she managed to get out for a lecture. A lecture never experienced in the outside world. Women - hungry for news of normality. Questions came thick and fast - "Describe the latest fashions" "What was the price of eggs?" - Ordinary everyday things that sickened the mind with their simplicity, and showed her how far removed from life was this citadel in the centre of the largest city in the world.

The women jokingly referred to Ann's sentence as "Bed and breakfast" and although questions were rarely asked they seemed to know the details of each case. All crimes, with one exception, were cheerfully tolerated. "The only difference between us and them outside is that we got caught" was the way one old lag aptly put it. The exception mystified Ann for to her it seemed the one excusable case, and the one that called for most pity. She felt deeply for the ostracised woman, who in sheer desperation had abandoned her children on a step. It mattered not to the stern prison code, that the poor woman was emaciated and ill with nerves, that she had been turned from her flat and that her one thought had been to have her children received into some comfortable home. It was obvious that she had had her share of civilisation and now prison was turning into anything but a haven. Her rightful place was obviously in some rest home, where she could be awakened to life and its responsibilities, but Civilisation had decided otherwise; the Law must be upheld; weakness must be crushed ruthlessly; the individual must fit into Society or suffer for her shortcomings.

"Only a week now" said Ann to her friend one day. "You'll be going before the Panel soon then".

"What's that?"

"Oh, they ask you if you need any clothes or money on your discharge, and find a job for you."

A few days later her friend's words materialised. Ann was led to a small room and found herself the focus of six or seven pairs of eyes. Feeling mildly embarrassed she sat down in the proffered chair. She had decided in the back of her mind that she deserved paying for her ordeal and that if money was forthcoming she would take everything she could get.

"We see here", said the chairman looking at his notes, "that you don't need any clothes, but how about your job?"

"The Union's dealing with that at the moment".

"Oh, well, we can't do much to help there, then. Now, how about money? Is your husband coming to meet you? We see you had nothing when you were admitted".

Ann could not bring herself to lie outright. "I don't really know".

"Well how much would you need to get home, if he doesn't come?" Again she lied -

"I don't know

"Well we'll see into that, and there'll be something for you on Thursday, so don't worry".

Thursday started long before dawn. The hours before the warder's keys seemed interminable, but at last their familiar jingle swung towards her door. Breathlessly she followed the few other dischargees towards the cubicles and received her bundle of clothes with emotion. Everything felt so soft and luxurious, and her shoes were gossamer - like after the prison brogues. Coming out of their privacy the women bubbled with talk and smiles. How different they all looked! Surely, this wasn't Mrs. Grey, and look at Pat over there!

Their guide led them on to a small office overlooking the gate.

"Can't let you out til eight, y'know. Oh, this envelope's for you but if your husband comes you must give it me back". Ann took it and tried to feel the coins inside.

"How much?" she thought.

"You'd better stand upon that chair near the window and see if he's waiting".

Ann got on to the chair and saw Jack at the gate. She jumped down quickly before he noticed her.

"No, he's not there" she said determinedly, her heart thumping.

"Well, you'd better stay up there til its time to go. There's another five minutes yet".

Obediently she remounted per perch and gazed down upon her husband. As if willed by her eyes he looked up, gave a start, and then waved vigorously. Ann jumped down again quickly without replying. She was determined not to weaken, and felt as if a battle of wits was going on between her and the Authorities. The clock suddenly struck her reprieve and the prisoners moved towards the door joking with the warder.

They stepped into the yard and waited whilst a small door was unlocked in the great gate. As they stepped one by one into the world, four men who had been brought from Brixton to repair a roof looked longingly at the freedom beyond. As Ann stepped out, two hands grasped hers. Jack looked pale. For a minute neither could speak as tears came to the surface.

"You did have me worried. What were you doing at that window?"

Ann laughed through the mist in her eyes. "Oh, I just thought I'd get something out of them. I can open the envelope now".

She slit the packet at the top and the coins tumbled out into her hand - two shillings!

Julia Murphy

LEGEND OF XANADU

When the Sphinx was a young girl, she was very popular with everyone, being gay and carefree and yet managing to remain unspoilt. But as she grew older, being Sphinx gradually became a full time job, and she found she had less and less time to spare for friends. Almost imperceptibly the prettiness of her face began to change into a cold contemptuous beauty. Old friends would be turned away by her stony gaze, and yet deep inside she longed to burst out from behind the facade. And so she found a compromise of sorts. Under cover of night she would take the young men of the village to her bed. She never slept with the same young man twice. Love was a luxury she could not afford, but orgasm offered her relief for weeks, sometimes months, at a time.

Then one day a stranger came, a young man from a foreign land. He looked rather fierce, and he took her by surprise with his gentleness. For the first time since the Sphinx's childhood, something troubled the waters of those deep brown eyes. A tear rolled down her bronzed cheek. He spoke to her softly, telling her of his travels through storms and blizzards, over mountains and sea. And they lay a while in silence until in the cold light of dawn, she remembered who she was.

She tried to command him not to come again, but his eyes just smiled. She started to plead, but she read something in his face that told her it was futile. He said simply "You know I'm not going to leave, don't you, love?" I want to free you from the name you are 'carrying". He' disappeared quickly lest the morning catch thenr together. And she knew there was no longer any room for compromise if she were to remain a Sphinx. And so s he made her decision.

The following night the stranger returned. Uncertainly, he knelt before her, scarcely blinking as he stared at (her, his face struck with disbelief that slowly gave way to sadness. All night long he knelt there, sunk deep within himself. There was already a trace of dawn in the eastern sky when he rose abruptly and, slinging his bag over his shoulder, walked away the way he had first come, leaving only his footprints in the sand. The Sphinx showed no trace of emotion, for she had already turned into stone.

Rick Gwilt

CELLULOID TEARS

I was standing in a movie queue with my girl friend. There were lots of other couples too; all hanging around in the cold waiting to see Diana Ross sing the blues.

Two small boys were enjoying themselves playing football around the crowd; weaving swiftly in and out of the people. It had been raining all that day so the ball was wet and dirty. We all stood like plaster statues, only our eyes moved, following the moving ball, ready to jump aside quickly to avoid being hit by it. We did not want our clean Saturday clothes messed up by a shitty ball.

No-one thought to tell the boys to go and play elsewhere. We just stood and watched them in a kind of silence, of each others discomfort.

The boys sensed our unease, this was their victory. They swelled in arrogant pride; call it bravado. They became more daring, they raced up and down the waiting people -faster and faster weaving faster and faster. Then something happened. One of the little boys tripped and fell headlong on the hard pavement.   I think that he broke one of his teeth, blood bubbled out of his mouth. He stood up quickly and ran away to hide his pain and humiliation. His friend, quiet, looked at us, then went after him.

The crowd stood in silence for a few moments then someone laughed. The laughter was infectious, others joined in. Soon the entire crowd was rocking with laughter. They obviously enjoyed the boy's accident. Someone said that it served the bastard right, he had no right to be playing football there.

The movie hall opened and we all filtered in to weep for Diana Ross. Celluloid tears.

Colin Frame

The above poem was written by me in the Mill after two young married women had been round the mill and the village getting signatures on a petition sheet calling upon the Government to bring back hanging.

Jim Garnett

(Translated from La Nouvelle Critique,,) (Anon:)

A Typical story

- THE GHERKIN -

A true Story by Dominique-Hughes

In a factory not far from Paris a trade unionist is having a petition signed to support the claims of the staff.

A personnel manager calls him "Have you got the permission of the manager?" The argument warms up. They refer to the manager. The personnel manager holds his hand in the direction of the telephone. The union delegate becomes impatient - "Pass me the gherkin" he says.

"The gherkin?"

"The gherkin!"

The personnel manager chokes himself on the telephone. "Sir, you have just been seriously insulted". The manager chokes himself in turn - "Three days suspension". The union delegate does not understand; to him gherkin is a popular word for telephone. This is what he explains to the personnel manager who demands that he stops making fun of him so openly. Neither he nor the manager nor anybody else knows this meaning of the word 'gherkin'

The delegate is sure of his facts but how to establish the truth? He enquires of the District Secretary of the C.G.T.. how to prove that he is right? A few minutes thinking, then an idea; I know a lecturer of Nanterre University, he should be able to find the reference of the word 'gherkin'. Little cucumber, clot, nothing to do with the telephone. But I will make enquiries.

Feverish enquiries and exchanges of phone calls between linguists of Nanterre; at last a lecturer rushes towards the library, flips through the reference books, finds the word and the equivalent "Telephone - Pop." Three hours later the Union delegate presents himself to the personnel manager with the photocopy. A gherkin is really a telephone. There has not been any insult.

If the story stopped here it would be a very nice one. But there is more to it. While the gherkins of Nanterre were ringing indefinitely, the workers of the factory, hearing of the delegate's suspension, had immediately threatened to go out on strike. The manager had given up, lifted the sanction and besides given satisfaction to the claims, without having consulted the dictionary.

This story is exemplary in more than one way and could introduce long developments on the following topics:

LINGUISTICS AND CLASS STRUGGLE. The Industrial relations being what they are, the word "gherkin" in the manager's head could only mean "Imbecile". See "The Exception and -the Rule" by Bertoldt Brecht.

ALLIANCE OF THE WORKING CLASS AND THE INTELLECTUALS, OR THE UNIVERSITY IN THE SERVICE OF THE WORKERS. Imagine the fever of the academics who are at last able to put directly their science (their knowledge) as they say) in the service of the workers. It is not everyday a true feast.

THE RULING ROLE OF THE WORKING CLASS. Imagine the disappointment of the academics when they hear that a little threat of strike is stronger than big dictionaries.

There remains the most important question and the thickest mystery of all. What meaning of the word 'gherkin' did the delegate have in mind when he said "Pass me the gherkin"?