Welcome to Northern Wordsmiths

On a street in the City of Liverpool, in the days of my childhood, every house has a wash house. Brick-built, they stand proud in back yards. Containing a Belfast sink, a cast iron mangle, a galvanised steel Poss-tub and a wooden Poss-stick (some called them Dolly-tubs and Dolly-sticks), they’re put to use every Monday. Washing Day. As far as I know, everyone does their washing on a Monday. Maybe even the whole land. 

I mean, Monday’s Washing Day – everywhere. Isn’t it?

These are the days before washing machines and launderettes are even heard of, never mind washers and driers that prevail indoors in everybody’s kitchen area.

These are the days when it’s unlikely that a kitchen sports even a fridge. And a freezer? Never. A larder – maybe -for cans, bottles and packets – and a metal or wooden bread bin.

These are the days, when women marry, they wear a wedding ring on their finger – and it’s expected they take on the role of housewife. Chief cooks and bottle-washers. The title of “homemaker” makes them sound swish. Heavens forbid! Wives and mothers going out to work? Have a career of their own? Not bloomin’ likely!

First thing on a Monday morning, washing lines are sponged down to rid them of soot, dust and seagull droppings. Then the Poss-tub is set into action. Hot water poured in – and Daz or Omo added from a box of loose washing powder. Up and down the back yards, women with Poss-sticks poke and prod sheets, pillowcases, shirts, pinnies and underwear. Now it’s time to get going. Get the muscles flexed. Get the mangles rolling. Hang the washing on the line.  Leave it to blow in the wind. Though not before a welcome cup of tea on the front doorsteps. Work-weary women with rock-hard biceps take a well-earned breather – like sweating wrestlers between rounds. Chatting with relish. Gossiping with gusto. Sniggering with laughter. Giggling like schoolgirls. Wiping perspiring brows. Massaging wash-day red hands.

Once us kids are in from school, it’s time to get the wooden clothes horse into action. In the living room. Around a blazing coal fire. Three splintered-wood sections, tied together with bits of ragged string. Bedding and clothing to hang on the three-tiered slats. Cold, damp, frost-stiffened washing. Sofa pushed back so the washing can dry. No room around the roaring fire for us mere mortals. No chance to warm our hands. No time to de-ice our feet. No time to worry about the Bogie Man.

From ever I can remember, bad behaviour from kids is reported to the Bogie Man, Good behaviour is rewarded by God. And as far as mums and dads are concerned, there’s nothing in between. So, it’s up to us kids to be good, do our chores – and hope that God knows.

The thing is, I reckon I know who God is. He might be the Bogie Man too. It stands to reason.

I don’t tell anyone – not anyone – that I’m sure it’s our Pop Man. I’m convinced. I’ve read the signs. And I know if I’m good on Mondays and Tuesdays, He’ll never know if I’m bad from Wednesday to Sunday. Far as I’m concerned, that’s a fact. It’s my secret.

***

On Mondays, chilled and chilblained, we’re rushing to the kitchen once the washing is sorted to everyone’s satisfaction. A ham shank (or sometimes a scrag-end of lamb) boils in the pan on a hot gas hob. We kids warm up and get cosy, hanging around the stove, helping soak the “steepy-peas” (those dried peas you steep overnight to de-wrinkle them). Peeling carrots. Slicing potatoes. Adding a pinch of salt and pepper. Get it all ready for next day’s pan of scouse or pea and ham soup. After all … Tuesday’s soup day!

I used to hear my mam – and sometimes the neighbours -threaten us with the Bogie Man. Or tell us God loves a trier. Not these days though – not me, anyhow. Because I know. I’ve worked it out. Once I’m done and dusted in the kitchen, it’s time to turn the sheets and the clothes on the clothes horse.

‘You’re such a good help these days, our kid,’ says mam and Auntie Annie from next door.

I smile. They don’t know that I know.

***

Tuesday comes round and I’m good as gold all day. Even give a hand with the ironing and laying the table with bowls and soup spoons! 

As soon as we sit down to eat – and mam’s ladling the stew – 

there’s that knock on the door.

Rat-a-tat-tat!

Mam says the words that had made me realise who exactly the Pop Man really is:

‘Good God. Here he is again. Right when we’re getting our teas.’

GOOD GOD – that’s how I knew.

Then Mam says (and this is how I knew he might be the Bogie Man too):

‘BLOODY HELL’ – (See what I mean. Hell, Devil, Bogie Man.)

I run to the front door, open it and say, ‘Hello, Pop Man’. I sometimes wonder whether I should let him know what I know. But I don’t. I’ve heard about “The Wrath of God”. Don’t want to put myself in danger. I mean, he doesn’t even look like the God pictures I’ve seen. Long, flowing hair. Long, white beard. 

The God, “Pop Man”, wears a donkey jacket and a cloth cap. No beard or long white hair. He’s got a “short back and sides” and smiles rather a lot. Especially when I tell him I’ve been good.

Mam comes to the door with her purse in her hand. She’s wielding a five-pound note, saying,

‘6 bottles this week, lad. Sorry, but I’ve got no change this week. It’s a fiver.’

‘I can’t change that, Missus. God Almighty in Heaven Above. Pay me double next week.’

‘Oh, God, are you sure?’ says Mam.

See? She called him God to his face. I knew I was right all along.