Sunlight
The thing about Nun Square was that it never got any sunlight. The tiny, crowded houses and pungent corner shops opened onto perpetual shadow all year round. Even in the height of the brief Manchester summer, the great bulk of the railway viaduct ensured that Nun Square never dried out.
Mary Ellen needed a fresh frock. At the great age of twelve, she was going to forge her way in the world. But to talk to any of the gaffers she would need to be clean and neat. She had one of Sara’s cast-offs, but it needed washing, drying, pressing and mending. Three days work. A day to wash, a day to dry, and a day to press and mend. On the fourth day, Mary Ellen would walk with head held high into her own new future.
Any twelve-year-old girl of Mary Ellen’s acquaintance could do laundry. Mary Ellen had already hauled the tin tub into the back yard and had added some buckets of cold water from the scullery tap. Then she put the blackened kettle and a large pan of water onto the hob. Then she went into the yard to loop the washing line across - and realised that there was no sunlight.
Her heart sank. She would never be ready in time. She would be forever not good enough. The gaffers would snigger at her unkempt appearance and tatty hand-me-downs. Her mam would be ashamed of her. Nobody would take her on. Her twelve-year-old world was closing down before she’d even had a chance. Tears welled up in her eyes.
As she dragged her sleeve across her damp face, a sharp ‘clink’ from the back alleyway drew her attention. Clink, rolling glass, and the clatter of next door’s back gate. Nun Square was still in shadow, but a gleam of sunlight flashed across Mary Ellen’s mind.
Quietly easing her own back-yard gate open, she saw the fat brown bottle with the label ‘Magee’s Ales’, which had rolled to rest in the gutter. Everyone knew Mrs Next-Door liked the drink. Mrs Next-Door knew they knew, but the with the deception of a committed drinker, she reasoned nobody would know if she salted away some of her empties here and there, rather than returning them for a few farthings to Grimshaw’s corner shop. Mary Ellen couldn’t believe her luck! She pounced on the discarded beer bottle and ran down the alley.
There’s your farthing, pet. What’s that? You’d like a farthing-worth piece of Sunlight Soap instead? Well of course you can, chuck. I’ll cut it for you.
Mary Ellen needed a fresh frock. At the great age of twelve, she was going to forge her way in the world. But to talk to any of the gaffers she would need to be clean and neat. She had one of Sara’s cast-offs, but it needed washing, drying, pressing and mending. Three days work. A day to wash, a day to dry, and a day to press and mend. On the fourth day, Mary Ellen would walk with head held high into her own new future.
Any twelve-year-old girl of Mary Ellen’s acquaintance could do laundry. Mary Ellen had already hauled the tin tub into the back yard and had added some buckets of cold water from the scullery tap. Then she put the blackened kettle and a large pan of water onto the hob. Then she went into the yard to loop the washing line across - and realised that there was no sunlight.
Her heart sank. She would never be ready in time. She would be forever not good enough. The gaffers would snigger at her unkempt appearance and tatty hand-me-downs. Her mam would be ashamed of her. Nobody would take her on. Her twelve-year-old world was closing down before she’d even had a chance. Tears welled up in her eyes.
As she dragged her sleeve across her damp face, a sharp ‘clink’ from the back alleyway drew her attention. Clink, rolling glass, and the clatter of next door’s back gate. Nun Square was still in shadow, but a gleam of sunlight flashed across Mary Ellen’s mind.
Quietly easing her own back-yard gate open, she saw the fat brown bottle with the label ‘Magee’s Ales’, which had rolled to rest in the gutter. Everyone knew Mrs Next-Door liked the drink. Mrs Next-Door knew they knew, but the with the deception of a committed drinker, she reasoned nobody would know if she salted away some of her empties here and there, rather than returning them for a few farthings to Grimshaw’s corner shop. Mary Ellen couldn’t believe her luck! She pounced on the discarded beer bottle and ran down the alley.
There’s your farthing, pet. What’s that? You’d like a farthing-worth piece of Sunlight Soap instead? Well of course you can, chuck. I’ll cut it for you.