Owder and Madder
4 min read

Owder and Madder

This is a transcript of an audio-recording made by my grandfather some time before I was born and uncovered by a cousin of mine 3 decades later in a loft.

Finding these recordings was the first time I heard his voice.

You can download ‘Owder and Madder’ as a short audio story for posterity. Pretty sure my Grandad would be buzzing if you did that.

“In the spring” so William Shakespear once said, “A young mans fancy lightly
turns to thoughts of love”. He must be joking, or else the men of his era were a
thin blooded lot! Why today they never think of owt else and not only younguns
but th’owdens too.. and if they don’t they’re as good as dead.

The girl by my side had everything, and by everything I mean the lot. We stood
together at the counter of a crowded store in manchester on a busy afternoon a
couple of weeks ago.. but we had no eyes for the bargain-hunting shoppers – so
absorbed were we in each other. I make full allowances for the widely
acknowledged fact that to any man of my generation any girl between the ages of
17 and 25 must be beautiful. If not, then she must have a face like a busted
clock! No, it wasn’t just her youth, she was positively radient, no kidding lads
no kidding, she were a smooker.

She was holding my hand, I repeat, she was holding my hand, and we were taking
alternate squeezes.

She was an experienced, accomplished palm-squeezer and fingernail plucker. The
gentle caress of my hair-covered hand was the braille of lovers, and she knew
all the words. She re-kindled the flames of passion to a fire which had gone out
a long long time ago. Never since the days I used to sit in seats K6 and 7 in
the nine-pennies at the Criterion had anyone held my hand, and even then I had
to wait until she had eaten a one-threp’ny box of Terrys spartan chocolates! It
gave my ego a much needed bolstering.

The squeezing continued, interspersed by murmurs of “darling” this and “darling”
that, oo I felt good! In the mirror behind the counter I looked at my face. With
my free hand I stroked my hair, adjusted my tie and smirked to myself “Fletcher
you old dog you! oo’d a thowt it!.. …and me at my time of life too! Still,
there’s plenty worse, not much mind thee but def’n’tely worse, old wotist for
example.. eighty if hes a day! Eighty! Bald as a billiard ball and he’s married
to a barmaid half his age!

But this young tender palm nestling in mine was no barmaid, nor was she
thirty-odd, nearer twenty. What about people as I knew? Business acquaintances
and lads int’ local and people I dont know, local housewives.. I’d better cancel
that talk wi’ women’s fella’ship… shop keepers and so on.

Thus ruminating on my good fortune I stopped wondering why this lovely young
creature had given me her heart and her hand – for who am I to argue with fate.
In the ecstasy of the moment I went back into time and took her with me, how
different yet how wonderful it would have been…. In the halcyon days of my youth
holding hands in public brought looks of reproof, your arms round her waist
brought sneers and cat-calls. A kiss? Ha! They brought out the specials!

Love however knows no bounds, and we managed quite well in love-nests of our own
making. Stand up the man, cross your heart and spit, who has never kissed a girl
in what we call the Marble Arch or over the rough field or in the avenues of
Walkden. Or if you like, has never hurried on a dark winters evening and taken
his girl down to the park to occupy a seat under the veranda on the tennis
courts before they were all taken. No? You didn’t?! You have never kissed a girl
on the back row of the Savoy? Or the Palace?! or the Empire!?! Not there
either?! Nor in one of the endless little corners of the backsteeets and the
alleys of the districts?! Nay! Nay I daren’t believe it! Pull t’other it’s bells
on!

But back to this luscious girl still caressing my hand. Oh that I had known her
a long time ago… For her, nothing but the best, nothing. For her the love so
late coming into my life, I would have layed my world at her feet. Not the
nine-pennies at the Criterion but the two-bobs at the Bolton Grand. No cold
back-street nor windy marble Arch! For her, a place reserved only for the chosen
few, a place guaranteed to give her a warmth she wouldn’t really need, but
still, warmth – The brick wall of a kiln in Anningbrook brick yard.

I was aroused from my nostalgic reverie by another squeeze from my ravishing
young partner. It was now my turn, and I must have entered into the mood of the
moment a little too enthusiastically, for I gripped rather than squeezed! It was
then that she turned slowly towards me.. the current of air from the overhead
fan gently yet tantalisingly wafted whisps of golden hair across her brow, and
as she swept them aside she stared at me with unbelieving eyes. Obviously
stunned by my good looks and finding my presence absolutely overwhelming. I
understood. I have had this effect on girls, always have.

Suddenly her jaw dropped. Her eyes were as wide as saucepans. Her hand flew to
her mouth to stifle a scream and she dashed off, to find the chap whose hand she
thought she’d been holding before he wandered off unnoticed. He was only a few
yards away in the gents underwear department, and clutching tightly to his arm
she disappeared down the escalator and out of my life forever. I looked in the
mirror once again shook my head sadly and muttered “Aye it’s just like me ol’
Dad once said. Owder and madder”.