For Hella
Here’s a question. How would you like it if somebody in your house – your Uncle Ernie, for instance – decided to turn it into a fish-canning factory? How would you like it if there were buckets of pilchards and tubs of mackerel everywhere you looked? What if a shoal of sardines was swimming in the bath? What if your Uncle Ernie kept on making more and more machines – machines for chopping the heads off, cutting the tails off, getting the guts out; machines for cleaning them and boiling them and squashing them into cans? Can you imagine the racket? Can you picture the mess? And just think about the stink!
What if your Uncle Ernie’s machines grew so big that they took over every room – your bedroom, for instance, so that you had to sleep in a cupboard? What if your Uncle Ernie said you couldn’t go to school any more but had to stay at home to help him can the fish? Sounds good? Ah, but what if instead of going to school you had to start work every morning at six o’clock on the dot? And you got no holidays? And you never saw your old pals? Would you like that? Would you heck! Well, neither did Stanley Potts.
Stanley Potts. Just an ordinary kid living an ordinary life in an ordinary house in an ordinary street, then bang! Life turned barmy. It happened overnight. One day, there they were – Stan, his Uncle Ernie and his Auntie Annie – living in a lovely little terraced house in Fish Quay Lane. Next day, wallop! Pilchards, mackerel, sardines and total barminess.
Now, Stan really did love his Uncle Ernie and his Auntie Annie. Ernie was Stan’s dad’s brother. They’d been wonderful to him, ever since Stan’s dad died in that awful accident and his mum died of a broken heart. They’d been like a brand-new mum and dad. But once the barminess started, it seemed it would never stop. And pretty soon it would all get far too much to bear.
It all started when Simpson’s Shipyard shut. Simpson’s had been on the river since the year dot. Blokes that lived by the river had been working at Simpson’s since the year dot. Stan’s dad had worked there until the accident. Uncle Ernie had worked there since he was a lad, just like his brother and their dad and their dad’s dad and their dad’s dad’s dad. Then – kapow! – it was all over. They made cheaper ships and better ships in Korea and Taiwan and China and Japan. So Simpson’s gates were slammed shut and the workers were given a few quid each and told to go away and the demolition gangs moved in. No more jobs for blokes like Uncle Ernie. But blokes like Uncle Ernie were proud and hard-working and they had families to care for.
Some found other jobs – in Perkins’ Plastic Packaging Factory, for instance, or answering telephones for the Common Benefit Insurance and Financial Society or filling shelves at Stuffco or showing folks round the Great Industrial Heritage Museum (special exhibits: Superb Ships Shaped at Simpson’s Shipyard Since the Year Dot). Some blokes just turned glum and shuffled round the streets all day or hung about on street corners or got ill and started to fade away. A few turned to the bottle, a few turned to crime and a couple ended up in the clink. But some, like Stan’s uncle, Mr Ernest Potts, had big, big plans.
A couple of months after they’d flung him out of Simpson’s, Ernie was standing with Stan and Annie on the riverbank. The cranes and the warehouses were being torn down. Fences and walls were getting smashed. There was wreckage all around. Wharves and jetties were being ripped apart. The air was filled with the noise of wrenching and ripping and banging and smashing. The earth trembled and juddered under their feet. The river was all wild waves and turbulence. The wind whipped in from the distant sea. Seagulls screeched like they’d never seen anything like it.
Ernie had been yelling and groaning and moaning for weeks. Now he sighed and grunted and cursed and spat.
“The world’s gone mad!” he yelled into the wind. “It’s gone absolutely bonkers!” He stamped his feet. He shook his fists at the sky. “But you’ll not beat me!” he yelled. “No, you’ll not get the better of Ernest Potts!”
And he looked beyond the old shipyard to where the river opened out to the shimmering silvery sea. There was a trawler coming in. It was red and beautiful and there was a flock of white seagulls all around it. It was lovely, shining in the sunlight and bouncing on the tide. It was a vision. It was like something arriving from a dream. It was a gift, a gorgeous promise. The trawler came to rest at the fish quay. A massive netful of beautiful silvery fish was unloaded. Ernie looked at the fish, and suddenly everything became plain to him.
“That’s the answer!” he cried.
“What’s the answer?” said Annie.
“What’s the question?” said Stan.
But too late. Ernie was off. He belted down to the quay and bought a couple of pounds of pilchards. He belted home and put the pilchards on to boil. He got his wheelbarrow and he belted back to Annie and Stan, who were still standing there on the riverbank. He put a few sheets of scrap metal onto the barrow.
Annie and Stan trotted at his side as he wobbled back home with them.
“What you doing, Ernie?” asked Annie.
“What you doing, Uncle Ernie?” asked Stan.
Ernie just winked at them. He dumped the metal in the garden. He opened his toolbox and took out his cutting gear and his welding gear and his pliers and his hammers, and he set to work cutting the sheets of metal and welding and hammering them into cylinders and curves.
“What you doing, Ernie?” asked Annie again.
“What you doing, Uncle Ernie?” asked Stan again.
Ernie pushed back his welding visor. He grinned. He winked. “Changing the world!” he said. He snapped the visor shut again.
Half an hour later, he’d made his first can. It was heavy and lumpy and rusty and misshapen but it was a can.
Half an hour after that, the boiled and pulpy pilchards were squashed into it and a lid was welded on it. Ernie scribbled the name onto the can with a felt tip:
He punched the air. He did a little dance. “It works!” he declared.
Annie and Stan inspected the can. They looked into Ernie’s goggly eyes. Ernie’s eyes goggled back at them.
“There’s a long way to go,” said Ernie, “but it absolutely positively definitely works.”
He cleared his throat. “The future of this family,” he announced, “will be in the fish-canning business!”
And that was the start of Ernie’s great venture: Potts’s Spectacular Sardines; Potts’s Magnificent Mackerel; and Potts’s Perfect Potted Pilchards.
Ernie welded and hammered and nailed and drilled and screwed. He lifted floors and knocked down walls. He built a network of pipes and tubes and sluices and drains. He connected wires and switches and fuse boards. His machines grew and grew and grew and grew until they were in every corridor and every room. Pipes and cables ran under every floor and through every wall. The house throbbed with the beat of engines, with the snip and snap of guillotines and knives, with the whiz and whirr of electric saws, with the gush of sluicing water, with the bubbling of great cauldrons. And with Ernie’s excited cries.
“Work faster! Work harder! Oh, my wonderful machines! Oh, how I love them! Fish fish fish FISH! Machine machine machine MACHINE!”
Every morning, trucks brought buckets of fish to the front door. Every evening, trucks picked up crates of tinned fish from the back. Business boomed. Money poured in. Ernie wasn’t a struggling ex-shipyard worker now. He was a businessman, an entrepreneur. His empire grew like it was a living thing.
Every night, Stan slept in his cupboard and Ernie and Annie slept under a huge gutting machine.
The next morning at six o’clock, the alarm clock would ring.
RING-A-DING-A-DING-A-DING-A-DING-A-DING!!!!
And straight away a hooter hooted:
NEE-NAW-NEE-NAW-NEE-NAW-NEE-NAW!!!!
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And straight away a record played:
WAKEY-WAKEY!!!! WAKEY-WAKEY!!!!
And straight away Ernie yelled:
“UP! COME ON, YOU LOT! UP! SIX O’CLOCK AND TIME TO START! GET TO WORK!”
When Annie groaned or Stan moaned, Ernie’s response would be the same:
“THIS IS FOR US! FOR THIS FAMILY! NOW COME ON! IT’S SIX O’CLOCK AND TIME TO START!”
But one morning, Annie said, “Hold on, Ernie.”
“What do you mean, ‘Hold on, Ernie’?”
“I mean slow down. Just for today.”
Ernie was already in action. He had his gutting gloves on. He held his snipping scissors and he jangled his keys, and fish swam and danced and slithered through his brain.
“Ernie!” yelled Annie. “Slow down just for today!”
“What’s so blooming special about today?”
“You don’t remember, do you?” said Annie.
“Remember what?”
She took an envelope from under her pillow and waved it at him. “Do you not remember? It’s Stan’s birthday.”
“Is it?” said Ernie. “Ah, aye! Of course it is. Today is Stan’s birthday.” He shrugged. “So what?”
“So let’s be nice to him. Let’s do birthday things.”
“Birthday things?” He frowned. “What d’you mean, birthday things?”
“I mean presents and parties and smiles and singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and … not bothering him with potty pilchards for one thing!”
“Potty pilchards? I’ll have you know that pilchards is our lifeblood, madam! I’ll have you know that—”
“And I’ll have you know that if you’re not nice to your nephew today, your wife will be on strike!”
Ernie flinched.
“Now hush,” said Annie. She got up and tiptoed to Stan’s cupboard. “Morning, son,” she whispered.
Stan grabbed his work clothes. “Sorry!” he said. “Am I late? Should I be up? Is it time to start?”
But Annie hugged him. “Happy birthday, Stan!” she said.
The lad was astonished. “What?” he said. “It’s my birthday?”
“Of course,” replied Annie. “Didn’t you know?”
Stan pondered. “I remember thinking it might be… But nobody said anything, so I thought I must be wrong. Or that you must have forgotten.”
“Ah, Stan,” said Annie. “Do you think we’d forget something like that? We remembered all along. Didn’t we, Ernie?”
Ernie coughed. He snipped the air with his scissors. “Course we did,” he said. He tried to grin through the cupboard doorway. “Happy birthday, lad! Happy happy happy birthday! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Go on. Give him the card, then.”
Annie gave Stan the envelope. Stan took out the card. There was a picture of a sailing ship on it, and a message inside.
Happy Birthday to our Stan. The best nephew in the whole wide world. Lots of love Uncle Ernie and Auntie Annie xxxxx
“Oh, thank you!” cried Stan. “Thank you. It’s the best card ever!”
“Right!” said Ernie. “That’s quite enough of that. There’s fish to be canned!” And he turned back to his buckets of fish and his magnificent machines.
“What a silly!” said Annie. “Why don’t we let him get on with his fish while we have a lovely breakfast?”
She opened a carrier bag and took out some cans of pop and some chocolate bars and a big bag of sweets. They giggled and tucked in. Every few minutes, Ernie yelled, “WHERE ARE YOU? YOU’RE LATE! STOP SLACKING! GET TO WORK!”
But Annie just said, “Take no notice,” and when they’d finished all the pop and all the chocolate and all the sweets, she said, “Now, Stan. You’re going to have a treat today. Just you wait there.”
Ernie was pressing buttons and flicking switches and pulling levers and twisting knobs. He jerked and swayed and danced and whirled. He chanted his fish chants and sang his fish songs at the top of his voice.
“Fish fish fish fish
FISH FISH FISH FISH!
Fish in buckets and fish in bins,
Chop off their heads and tails and fins!
Boil and sizzle with tomato sauce
And slap them in a tin, with a label, of course!
Fish fish fish fish
FISH FISH FISH FISH!
Potts’s Perfect Pilchards! Spectacular Sardines!
Magnificent Mackerel! Elegant Eels!
Haddock and herring and cod and squid!
Get them down your neck – best thing you ever did!
Fish fish fish fish
FISH FISH FISH FISH!
Fish in buckets and…”
Annie sighed. Whatever had happened to the nice easy-going feller she used to know? She tapped him on the shoulder. No response. She thumped him on the back. No response. She walloped him and yelled into his ear, “Ernie! ERNEST POTTS!”
He turned to her at last. “Aha! About time!” he said. “STAN! Where are you, lad?”
Annie reached down and switched off the nearest machine. Ernie gasped. What on earth was she doing? He reached down to switch it back on, when Annie said, “Never mind Stan. It’s his day off.”
“Day off? Says who?”
“Says me,” said Annie. “It’s a new rule. Look, I’ve written it down.” She handed him a slip of paper.
RULE 1. Family members get a day off on their birthday
Ernie read it and scratched his head.
“You had rules in the shipyard, didn’t you?” asked Annie.
“Yes,” said Ernie, “but—”
“No buts,” said Annie. “And he also gets a ten-pound bonus.” She handed him another slip of paper.
RULE 1a. Family members get a £10 bonus on their birthday
“But you’ve just made these rules up!” Ernie exclaimed.
Annie shrugged. “Course I have. Are you objecting?” She looked Ernie in the eye.
He looked Annie in the eye. “Yes!” he said.
She handed him another slip of paper.
RULE 1b. Don’t you dare object or I will go on strike!
“Well?” Annie said.
Ernie grunted. He reached into his pocket. He drew out a ten-pound note.
“Give it to Stan and tell him to have a good time,” ordered Annie. She raised a finger as if to say, Don’t you dare object! “Stan!” she called. “Come here, son. Uncle Ernie has something to tell you.”
Stan came out of the cupboard.
“You’ve got a day off,” said Annie. “Isn’t that right, love?”
“Aye!” grunted Ernie.
“And Ernie’s got something for you, haven’t you, Ernie?”
“Aye!” grunted Ernie again. He held out the ten-pound note. “Happy birthday, son,” he said. “Have a…” He scratched his head. What were the words he was supposed to say?
“A good time!” prompted Annie.
“That’s it,” said Ernie. “Have a good time, lad.”
“Where will I have a good time?” asked Stan.
Annie opened the front door. “Out there,” she said. “You’ve been cooped up too long in here. Have a good time out there in the world, son!”
Annie and Stan looked out through the streets, and they gasped in wonder and surprise. Because a fairground had come to town. There it was, slap bang in the place where Simpson’s Shipyard used to be. There was the Ferris wheel turning slowly in the sun. And the pointed top of a helter-skelter. The crackle of dodgems, the wail of music, the clatter of a roller coaster. There was the smell of engine oil and candyfloss and hot dogs.
“A fair!” they said together. “Wow!”
Stan gripped his ten pounds tight, and he kissed his aunt and grinned at his uncle and stepped out into his sunny day of freedom.
Annie grabbed a shopping bag. “Rule 1c,” she said as she walked out. “Aunts are allowed time off to buy birthday cakes!”
Ernie watched them go. “The world’s gone barmy,” he said to himself, then he slammed the door and got b
ack to work.
Down went Stan through the terraced streets, past the Shipwright’s Arms and the Salvation Army hostel and the Oxfam shop and the shuffling men. He ran across the waste ground to the fair. It was huge and noisy and bright, and the merry-go-rounds were turning, but it was still early, so hardly anybody was there. Just a handful of truants, a couple of women pushing ancient buggies, more glum-looking shuffling men, and the fairground folk themselves, with gold teeth and shocks of hair, silver studs glinting in their cheeks and bags of chinking coins around their waists. They leaned on their rides and their stalls, swigged mugs of tea and smoked strange-smelling cigarettes. They stared at Stan as he stepped shyly by. They muttered together in strange accents. They coughed and cursed and spat and roared with laughter.
Stan rode a merry-go-round all alone and he spun on the waltzer all alone. All alone he rose into the air on the Ferris wheel. He looked down on his world: the river, the terraced streets, the spaces where all the shipyards and the factories used to be. He saw his old school, St Mungo’s, and all the kids playing in the playground. He saw his own home in Fish Quay Lane. He saw the steam from his uncle’s machines seething through its roof. Round he went, up and down, round and round and up and down. He saw the distant city and the distant mountains. He saw the glittering lovely sea going on for ever, the deep blue lovely sky going on for ever. He remembered his lovely mum and dad, and high up there in the sky he shed a few quiet tears for them. He thought of his aunt and uncle and he gave thanks for them. He imagined the world beyond the sea and the universe beyond the sky, and his head reeled at the vastness of it all and the astonishingness of it all.
Down at earth again, he ate a slithery hot dog and sticky candyfloss. He licked his lips and his fingers and wandered past an ancient red and green Gypsy caravan. was painted above its little doorway. A white pony stood beside it, wearing a nosebag. A woman in a brightly patterned shawl came to the door. She beckoned Stan with her forefinger.
“I am the great-great-granddaughter of the true Gypsy Rose,” she told him. “Come inside and cross my palm with silver. I will fill your head with wonders and secrets in return.”