Chapter 1
Chorlton Pensioners Club sits in an old Boy-Scouts shed opposite an aged bowling green clubhouse. Both buildings are of a pretty ancient vintage but fit nicely into a pretty ancient part of south Manchester. The heating rarely works and the same can be said for the electricity as well as the never-been-tuned upright piano that once-local-lad Liberace, who later moved to America, had his first lesson on a hundred years or so ago. According to local folklore that is, which is never wrong.
There is though a hint of the Liberace trademark candelabra on the piano top in the form of a burnt out mini-candle on a cracked saucer with half a dozen dimps stuck in corrugated frozen candle-wax. Wonky light-brown tombstones remembering once decent tunes. Maybe.
How one could play the piano and smoke at the same time though would be a bit of a mystery. Whoever had been last playing perhaps settled for the One Handed Waltz while fag-ashing away.
The shed is the welcoming location for many of the area’s pensioners three mornings a week. The local ladies and gents (not many men though, most can’t be bothered) get together while keeping their coats on to combat the cold. They sit around having a good old natter, a nice cup of tea and, if the ladies on ‘refreshment duty’ ladies didn’t forget, a slice of Swiss Roll.
Maggie Dewhurst had never lived in any other area of Manchester. Neither had she married - though she’d had a daughter at 18 (always a friendly girl was Maggie) and had taken over her
parents’ house after they were killed some years ago in an M62 Motorway crash between their Mini and a speeding lorry carrying 12 Portaloos to a function in Bolton.
Now just past seventy, Maggie stood outside the Club premises alongside her old school friend Mollie Walton. A dozen or so other ladies of similar vintage (no men, not today) waiting for their 9 o’clock coach to Blackpool to take them, and folk of a similar age from other South Manchester Pensioner Clubs, on a late summer day out to the seaside.
The weather was a bit nippy though it wasn’t raining, yet. The forecast said it would warm up later in time for a paddle in the Irish Sea. Another fantasy forecast from the BBC weather girl, Maggie reckoned when she heard it on the 8am News and had decided not to pack her water-wings. You can never trust the skies, or the BBC weather crowd, she always felt.
’The cows will all be standing up as we approach Blackpool,’ Mollie claimed. ’A sure sign of fine and sunny weather.’
‘Let’s hope. It is late September though so it might snow.’
Her companion hadn’t packed her thermals either, it seemed, as she pulled her fake rabbit fur coat tight. The whims of travel can be such a worry these days, which probably explained why many didn’t bother going anywhere. Nice cup o’ tea and Corrie on the telly, can’t be beaten, the stay-at home housewives all said.
‘Where’s our flipping coach?’ Dora Hargreaves wondered as Maggie thought back to the time such transport was called a ‘Chara’. Those were the days, with seats on the back row guaranteed to give
fly up-and-down thrills every time the charabanc drove over a bump, or down a deep pothole, and thermos flask contents went flying along with the screaming passengers.
All you got nowadays was a sighing front door and mock-leather (plastic) seats that were dead easy to slide off when the coach went round a bend. Those sitting on the left slid right and landed in the aisle and when the coach turned right half a mile later those who’d survived the first turn slid left and joined the others already in the aisle. No seat belts, course not. What do you think this is, British Airways?
Their transport appeared just before nine and they were off minutes later. There were toilet-cum-tea stops in Bolton and Preston then it was a straight road to Blackpool. On nearing the resort they did indeed pass many fields filled with cows, half standing, half sitting down. All of which translated as, ’Showers with sunny periods later, or the other way round. If you’re lucky, chuck.’
Arriving before noon the visitors wandered along the promenade, some hardy souls eating ice creams. Others, more daring, considering electric skateboard hire. Though where to plug the thing in and charge it was a bit of a worry. Pass.
Everyone off their coach seemed to end up in the same fish and chip shop just before one o’clock where the centuries-old cry, ‘Any bread luv?’ was appreciated by all. After which the sun was shining and Maggie and Mollie made their way to Central Pier sands where a sign advertising the ‘Ladies Donkey Derby - over 70s division : 2.30 pm ‘ beckoned.
‘I wouldn’t mind having a go at that.’ Maggie declared.
‘I thought you said you planned a marathon Bingo session.’ Mollie reminded her.
‘I did but now I quite fancy a nice gallop.’ Mags responded as she hitched up her dark blue trouser suit legs, paid her one pound entry fee and was introduced to her donkey, Daisy.
There weren’t many in her race, which was fine with Maggie, easier to see the racetrack. She passed Mollie her half-eaten strawberry-ripple wafer, telling her she’d finish it after the event, and climbed on board her docile Dobbin.
‘Line up behind the line in the sand please, riders,’ the 99 year old starter requested from his sinking-in-wet-sand wheel-chair and the entrants did as bid. Hopefully he’d start the race before he’d sunk deep into the quicksand and couldn’t fire the starting gun.
The fellow burst an I Luv Blackpool balloon (guns not allowed these days) and they were off. Well, a few of the donkeys were off while four of the riders fell off before their animals even moved. Maggie though was off and running, Well, Daisy was, if you could call it running.
A few minutes and 30 yards later, Maggie and her mount were happily trotting along the sand when they spotted a huge sandcastle in their way. ‘Who put that there?’ Mags asked her donkey, who remained silent. Busy concentrating on the course, of course.
However, though Daisy took off just before the drawbridge over the castle moat the donkey failed to clear the obstacle and Maggie was thrown off.
The Union Jack flag that had drooped daintily on the top turret of the sandcastle now stuck nicely out of Maggie’s left ear, still flapping. The drawbridge had caught her right foot and anchored it deep into the moat as the incoming tide rushed in.
Maggie’s neck snapped on landing and the inrushing water made sure her injuries were too much to survive. The doctor who examined the body added, ‘P.S. Also Drowned’ to the initial Cause of Death entry of ‘Broken Neck.’
Racing was cancelled for the day and the other lady jockeys were each given a nice mug of tea and a stick of Blackpool rock to calm them down. Many stuck the rock in their tea to make it softer to eat as it saved them taking their teeth out and having to suck the rock for hours before they could have a good go at it. The tea did the work in ten minutes. Good thinking, ladies.
‘Takes years of practice…’ Mary Higgins said to her friend Gwen Withers.
‘Oh, I know. I know.’ Her fellow non-running jockey agreed, as both ladies gave a gummy grin to each other after the tea had run out and they’d carried on sucking. Each quietly hoping they’d remember where they’d put their teeth before the coach departed.
Mollie travelled back home to Manchester sitting on her own. Not even her own piece of Blackpool rock could lift her droopy mood as she watched the rain-drops chasing each other down the window just next to her. Good job she’d brought her foldaway brolly she told herself.
Freda Walton came round the coach with a baggy hat, having arranged a whip-round for the driver. Mollie put her fifty pence in the hat and Freda moved along the aisle happily chatting away while seeking more donations, as they do. Life goes on. Always does.
Mind you, the thought of some pie and chips from her local chippie for supper once they got back cheered Mollie up, not forgetting some of their lovely gravy. Let’s hope they haven’t run out by the time she got there, she quietly said to herself.
That would really put the mockers on what had turned out to be a rather disappointing day, all things considered.
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