Worn until almost threadbare, these clothes had come into the possession of their final vendors: the rag-and-bone women who wandered on foot from farm to farm, street to street, their carts pulled by asses or wild dogs as they transported their wares to vast barns piled high with mountains of discarded clothing. Once gathered, all that remained was to display these treasures in the public squares. Nothing came for free, but there was always room to barter – clothing could be traded for an old plate or cheap glassware. This Saturday morning, hordes of families had ventured out into the cold of Liverpool’s central square in search of scarves or woolly jumpers, for the fresh chill of winter had put them in new need of raiment. Keeping warm was an expensive business, and nobody would turn their nose up at a garment priced ten times below what you’d pay in a shop. Old perambulators had been repurposed as display trolleys; the mobile boutiques of their day. The Scousers did not come to browse idly, but to hunt for a bargain. Sometimes they’d get snippy if a mother was dilly-dallying trying a jumper on her son. “Hurry up now!” they’d chirp. There was no time to wait around; you had to move fast if you wanted to find a diamond in all this rough. When it came time to pay, the mothers extracted a few coins from their pockets. This was their budget for the season; eight pounds sterling, no more and no less, and for that they would hope to find exactly all they needed. Many came away happy, but many more did not.
“Fine loafers, barely worn!” cried a seller. “Only three previous owners; I can let you walk away in them for the ridiculous price of five pounds! Fine loafers, barely worn! Five pounds!”
“Tablecloths at knockdown prices!” called another of the rag-and-bone women. “Twelve white tablecloths, just like Her Majesty’s linens! Come have a feel, see for yourself!” she went on, unfolding one of them.
“These are too small for me,” sighed a customer who had tried on the shoes.
“One day there’ll be a pair just right for you!” the seller reassured him.
“These tablecloths are just lovely! Did you say they’re the same shade of white as the Royal Family’s? I’ll take three, thank you my love,” said a lady.
“I’ll give you six for the price of five! How about that, my love?”
“Now there’s a bargain!” beamed the lady.
Among the rag-and-bone carts gathered here in the Liverpool square, a familiar figure could be seen: poor Mary, mother of eight young boys who were on the streets from morning to night. She was a good customer, for her boys were always coming home half-naked after exploring some wasteland, or getting into fights or other misadventures. Paul, Joe, John, Kevin, Brian, Calvin, George and Charles were a pack of rascals, giving their poor mother Mary nothing but grief and toil. Of course, she knew how to darn socks, to knit and re-knit to save wool, and to patch up elbows and knee holes, but that was not enough. Her boys could care for nothing, pulling each other by the sleeve, jumping into ditches, and tearing buttons from their shirts just by pulling them over their heads. Mary was at her wit’s end, spending nearly all her money on clothes and the rest on soup and porridge. She hadn’t even a penny to buy herself a new shawl, and she’d been wearing the same one for fifteen years now, probably clinging on by a single thread beneath her chin. Fifteen years since her husband ran off. Fourteen years since the last one was born, and that last one was Charles, the biggest troublemaker and biggest pain in the neck of them all. The little fair-haired cherub looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but he was a terror underneath those rosy cheeks. “Poor Mary,” they muttered, letting her pass to the front.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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