(posted on behalf of Jackie Hutchinson)
Ethel Ludlow and Dorothy Craven, the only two sisters surviving children from the Bradshaw family, enjoy a close relationship, particularly since the elder sibling, Dorothy was widowed two years ago.
Their arms full of clothes from the washing line, the two women were so engaged in conversation, they hadn’t noticed Neville come sauntering along the flags stones of the street.
‘Ow do.’ Neville nodded to his sister-in-law as he stepped over the front doorstep after a hard day’s graft down the pit.
‘Put back boiler on, Ethel.’ Neville calls from the back kitchen to the two women who were still gossiping on the doorstep. ‘I could do wi’ a bath-I’m reight filthy.’
‘Ta ra, Dot, luv. I’ll see yer on Friday.’ Ethel closes the door before returning to the sitting room.
‘What’s happenin’ on Friday?’ Bands of coal dust was emphasized on his forearms where Neville’s shirtsleeves are rolled up to.
‘Er…me an’ Dot are goin’ t’ dancin’ hall down at t’ Palatine.’ His wife bends down to stoke the coal fire to heat the water. Flickering flames start to curl up the fire back.
Neville, his mouth dropping like an astonished fish, replies. ‘We can’t afford f’ yer to go gallivantin’ t’ dancin’ halls, when me job’s on line.’
Ethel got to her feet and wiping her grimy hands on her cotton apron. Looking directly at her husband, she spits, ‘ Yer’ve always got enough money for yer Woodbines, ‘aven’t yer? Be sharp an’ go an’ ‘ave yer bath.
Ethel’s cutting remark fell onto a fuming Neville as she scurried out to the backyard for the tin bath.
The early morning light struggles to filter through the yellowing nets forlornly draped at the sash window in the living room.
Ethel Ludlow was feeling as dismal as the damp, November weather, as she stands peering through the glass.
‘Lord, are we goin’ t’ be last ones thrown on scrap ‘eap.’
Amidst the sea of unsettling dust, muck and debris, lies row upon row of razed terrace back-to-back dwellings; families’ homes along with cherished memories were flattened to a disheartening pile of rubble.
A repressive blanket of gloom and despondency spread across the working class community of Black Edge; residents dispersed, longing to seek solace and warmth away from this alien area.
This bleak atmosphere permeated throughout the Ludlows’ abode.
Neville’s downcast eyes fell into his bowl of broth. ‘They’re layin’ fellas off down a’ pit. Lord knows ‘ow I’m goin’ get another job at my time o’ life.’
‘Oh, heck, Neville, what we goin’ do? The woman, her drawn face etched with worry, looks across the table to her husband opposite: ‘If they’re layin’ yer off over at Brewster’s then what’s left for us ‘round ‘ere?
The couple continues to muddle along under the black cloud of uncertainty regarding their home and livelihood. Living on a knife-edge of possible homelessness was driving the husband and wife to intolerable levels of anxiety.
Neville places his Jack bit and his billycan on the windowsill. Ice-cold water trickles out from the rusty tap in the Belfast sink. Neville rubs a bar of coal tar soap into his dirt-engrained hands. ‘Wheer yer been?’
Ethel hangs her bulky coat up on the hook by the side of the backdoor.
‘I know yer ‘avin’ a tough time o’ it at work, Neville, but don’t lay int’ me!’ Ethel ties her floral apron round her waist. ’A fella our Dot knows down at Whitters reckons they’re takinin’ on blokes to work on new-.‘
Neville throws his open palms up into the air impatiently. ‘What do I know ‘bout machinery!’
‘Look, Neville, we need some money comin’ or what we gonna feed our selves on?’ Her desperate blue eyes was searching her husband’s for answers. ‘I’m gonna go down to Council in mornin’ an’ get our name on housin’ list. There’s a notice in All Saints’ School askin’ for a cleaner.’
‘No wife’s o’ mine is goin’ out to work. I’m t’ wage earner in this house!’
‘Yer pride won’t put bread n’ butter on t’ table, will it! If yer get laid off, me bringin’ a wage ‘ome as a cleaner will be better than nothin.’
The simmering atmosphere between the bickering couple was almost as hot as the steam iron Ethel was using to press her husband’s shirts on the wooden ironing board.
Both of them slept on an uncomfortable bed of emotional fraught feelings. The air was thick with tension as each bade the other a silent goodbye the following morning. Neville made his way to work. Ethel, scanning the monochrome skies over the rooftops and chimneystacks of adjoining terraced rows, started on her daily chores.
Ethel was miles away on a solitary journey with only her thoughts for company. She was so engrossed in whitening her doorstep with donkey stone, the plump woman wasn’t aware of a figure approaching her house.
‘Mrs. Ludlow?’ A policeman stopped on the pavement.
‘Yeah?’ Ethel looks up from where she is kneeling.
‘Would you mind if we go inside.’ The portly built man removes his helmet.
On the flags outside Ethel’s neighbours, youngsters are playing with their spinning tops. She catches their curious gazes looking up at the visiting policeman.
‘Arthur, Winnie..go off wi’ yer. Yer’ve no business ‘ere.’
Ethel led the way into the darkly furnished sitting room. ‘What’s all this ‘bout?’ The confused housewife asks, as she turns down the sound on the wireless.
‘Do you have a relative by the name of…’Constable Atkins flips open his pocket notebook. ’Ah, yes…Mrs. Craven. Mrs. Dorothy Craven? I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s been a terrible accident down at Witters weaving mill.’
‘Why, what’s ‘appened? Our Dot?’ Ethel started sinking into a blank mist of bewilderment.
During the ensuing conversation between the two adults, it transpires that Ethel’s sister got caught in some machinery whilst she was retrieving some bobbins of cotton.
Ethel’s normally ruddy complexion drained to the pasty colour of the wallpaper in her hallway.
The Constable’s faltering voice in offering his sympathies fell on stony silence as Ethel slumped in a heap of melancholy apathy in her armchair.
He discreetly let himself out of the terrace house.
Time had been aimlessly drifting along. The dying afternoon light cast gloomy shadows from the outside street lamp, highlighting a film of dust on the dark wooden furniture in the cramped room.
Ethel remained curled up in her chair, when Neville breezed in through the front door. A sharp chill of winter air brings Ethel to her senses.
‘Eh…its freezin’ in ‘ere. Why ‘ave yer let fire go out?’ Neville trudges through into the sitting room from the hallway.
‘Our Dot ‘as been found dead at Witters.’ The cold temperature of the dismal room echoed the wretched expression on his wife’s tear stained face. Ethel was oblivious to the struggling plumes of smoke in the fire grate.
Reality had began to sink in. ’Lord, what am I goin’ do wi’ out our Dot.’ Her weather worn hands cupping her face.
‘I’m famished, Ethel. ‘Ave yer not started cookin’ me tea?’ Neville glances across to the cold stove in the adjoining back kitchen.
Ethel’s sad eyes fell on her worn and shaking hands. The sombre emptiness engulfed her. Her bottom lip trembled.
Neville’s impatient chatter drifted off in the background, leaving his wife in a sea of isolating silence. Over the following days, his heavy footsteps followed by slamming of doors emphasized her loneliness. Ethel’s emotional shutters came down as she fondly reminiscences about her cherished sister.
Ethel sat browsing through several black and white photographs of her family on the sideboard; a dog-eared print showing a laughing Dorothy, transported Ethel to their early courting days. A faint smile emerged on her drawn face.
The painful weeks developed into agonizing months. Heated conversations turned into fraught arguments between the couple creating vehement knocks of objection, from disturbed neighbours on the adjoining walls.
Life was never the same for the Ludlows; Ethel’s emotions floated along in a dismal cloud of depression; whilst a disgruntled Neville ambled off to work under the shadow of possible redundancy. Years of hard graft down at the pits are etched on his wrinkled face. His cold, steel grey eyes tell of great pain and worry.
‘Life’s not worth livin’ wi’out our Dot.’
‘I think yer should go t’ Doctor’s.’ Neville retrieves his pipe from the tiled fireplace.
‘What’s he goin’ to do? Pills aren’t goin’ bring ‘er back!
Neville throwing his arms up in frustration, replies. ‘Its not easy for me either, yer know. An’ besides, they’re not goin’ t’ keep yer cleanin’ job open f’ long.’
One Friday at the beginning of 1959, a woman’s body was found floating, facedown in the Top Lock, a lake surrounded by derelict and overgrown scrubland at the top of the Black Edge Estate.
Overcome with grief, Ethel Ludlow couldn’t cope with the intense pain of losing her sister; she longed to join her and be close to her again.
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