Free Angel Meadow by Audrey Howard

doorsteps and against the damp and crumbling walls of Church Court and indeed all the alleys and streets that cobwebbed Angel Meadow, were as well dressed as they were sure the “quality” in Higher Broughton and beyond were. But Nancy knew better. She had studied the newspapers and periodicals displayed in the reading-room at the library that had advertisements for the latest fashions in ladies’ clothing, and she was aware that she and her sisters were, in comparison to the very quality she so admired, meanly, drably dressed. They looked what they were: working girls. Worse: slum girls who worked in a cotton mill, but she intended to remedy that which meant every bloody farthing the Brody girls earned was spoken for and certainly not to be chucked away on the likes of roundabouts and sideshows and hurdy-gurdies.
    Her sisters watched her avidly, their eyes bright with longing and she felt herself weaken. They were so much better off than their neighbours. In fact they were rich in comparison but, as Mick said, there was not much fun in their lives. They ate well but there was little laughter in their diet. They knew so much more than their neighbours but they were ignorant of games. They were warm and secure, thanks to her thrifty direction and their own hard work, but they got little pleasure, enjoyment, simple childish amusement out of the hard life they led. Still, it could not be helped. She must stick to her plan and so must they if the Brody girls were to amount to anything.
    She was beginning to shake her head. Mary looked as though she were about to cry and Rosie’s bottom lip stuck out mutinously. They had been elated earlier in the day at the thought of walking, with the rest of the sightseers, over to St Ann’s Square to watch the procession set out from there to Collegiate Church. A day off in the sunshine. A chance to cast off their mill-girl image and wear the plain but decent dresses they and their Nancy had contrived for them, to tie on their bright ribbons – for only Nancy had a bonnet – and go and enjoy the day with the rest of Manchester; but now, with a few silky words, Mick O’Rourke had spoiled it for them by presenting them with something better that they could not have.
    “It’s free ter get in,” he offered casually. His eyes twinkled impishly, innocently, giving the impression that he was a hell of a decent fellow who wanted nothing more than to offer them an enjoyable outing.
    “Oh, Nancy, please, can us go? It’ll cost nowt.” Rose reverted to the speech of her early childhood in her breathless excitement and for a moment Nancy felt a spurt of irritation. She tried so hard to make her sister speak grammatically in readiness for their future and now here was this cheeky Irish Paddy undoing all her work, turning their heads and leading them to God knows what with his blandishments – and she knew what that word meant an’ all, for she’d looked it up in the dictionary at the library!
    “Please, Nancy, we promise not ter ask fer owt. Just let’s go an’ see th’ animals. I’ve never clapped eyes on an elephant, not in’t flesh, nor a giraffe, nor a tiger nor a—”
    “Yes, yes, I ’eard yer, our Mary.” Nancy also lost her grip on the English language in her confusion and, leaning indolently with one shoulder against the cottage wall end, his hands in his pockets, his eyes dancing with mischief, Mick O’Rourke watched the first crack appear in Nancy Brody’s solid façade of the respectability she craved. The first small deviation from the fierce ambition that burned in her, the flames consuming her since the night she had realised that her mam would never return. That whatever was to happen in the lives of the Brody girls was to be achieved only by her efforts.
    “I’ll treat yer to a ride on summat, acushla,” Mick said lazily. “Ter be sure ’tis a sorry day when Mick O’Rourke can’t put ’is ’and in ’is pocket ter treat a pretty lass like yerselves.