A Whisper to the Living by Ruth Hamilton

precision that fell a long way short of the military. The idea was, as she put it, to ‘shift all th’ upstairs muck to downstairs an’ all t’ downstairs muck out ter t’ back o’ the ’ouse, then kick it about till it disappears’.
    We lined up on the stairs like a chain-gang, playing a game of pass the parcel with objects of varying size, shape and incredibility. We handled torn sheets, rag rugs, jerries without handles, half-sets of false teeth, corsets with the whalebone whipping free about our ears, toothless combs, bits of lino and oilcloth and several dozen back copies of the
Bolton Evening News
, some turning yellow with age.
    Once this lot was piled into the narrow hallway, there was scarcely room for Mrs Cullen to make her descent past all the children who had gathered on, around and under the mound of debris.
    ‘Now,’ she announced, her huge breasts heaving with exertion. ‘Tha mun get this lot out the back, then we mun mek a start on t’ front room. Allan, put them corsets down. No, yer can’t keep ’em. What the ’ell are you plannin’ on doin’ with ’em anyroad – makin’ a rabbit ’utch? No, Josie, you are not ’angin’ on to that jerry for growin’ daffs in, yer don’t know where it’s been. Or, more ter t’ point, yer do know where it’s been. An’ Martin – put them false teeth down – hey, not on yer Dad’s chair this time! Where’s our Josie gone wi’ that jerry? Annie – put that bloody kettle on, lass, I’m fair clemmed . . .’
    On this particular Thursday night, we had started on the front room, which was the worst room in the house, having been given over to the children as a place to play, leaving only the large kitchen as true living space for this huge family. The front room was so bad that even opening the door to get in required careful planning and Lizzie, being the smallest of those old enough to walk, was pushed through a tiny gap in order to remove the main obstacles from behind the door, thus enabling the rest of us to enter the room.
    Once inside, we met a total and glorious chaos. There were large matted tangles of wool and string, three-wheeled skates, wooden crates with pram wheels and lengths of rope attached and what seemed to be about a hundred cardboard boxes in various sizes and states of decay. Although nothing was intact, everybody had a good reason for wanting to keep some of it.
    Allan wanted the boxes as he was a compulsive collector and needed ‘things to keep things in’. He also had grandiose ideas for the crates on wheels and insisted that he could get the skates mended by an old farrier up Breightmet who had taken to skate-mending now that horses had become fewer and farther between.
    But Mrs Cullen was ruthless in her insistence. Everything must go into the back garden where it would join last year’s mouldering and rusting heaps of prams and broken furniture.
    We had just begun to transfer the last of the rubbish into the hallway, when a sharp rapping at the door made us pause, a sudden and miraculous silence falling over the whole ensemble as we pondered. Would it be rent, water or gas? Had they come to turn us off, turn us out or was it just the bum bailey? The latter would have come as no surprise and little threat, for few bills had been paid and there was nothing worth the bailiff’s trouble to carry away, the few sticks of furniture that had survived the seven children being too scarred and battered to be of any value whatsoever.
    Mrs Cullen paused, a finger to her pursed lips, then she whispered, ‘Tha’d best open t’ door, Annie. Say yer not family, at least that’s the truth. Tell ’em to come back tomorrer – wi’ a pick-axe an’ a police escort.’ Josie giggled and Mrs Cullen clipped her gently round the ear. ‘Shut up, our Josie. It might even be the flamin’ priest an’ I can do wi’out ’im ’Oly Maryin’ all over me back kitchen an’ me in t’ middle o’ me clearout.’
    I crept