Highly Commended 1 - Short Story Competition 2016
"East End Love on The Street"
by Tony Oswick
In times of peace, noblemen and men of manners turn their attention to matters of the heart, compelled to pursue love to its inescapable end. For the single woman there is no such distinction for, despite superficial protestations of unconcern, indifference or disinterest, it is her constant aim in life to attain a man's affection, even in the autumn of her days.
Thus, when Mr Dennis D'irty first set foot on the cobbled stones of The Street in the city of Weatherfield on the thirtieth day of April in the year which has just passed, the commotion and uprising was such as if a volcano had erupted. From behind the floral-patterned curtains of grubby sash windows, the tongues of the womenfolk of that Northern town wagged vigorously as their eyes gazed longingly at the stranger's striking good looks and dashing demeanour.
He was, indeed, the most handsome of men. Dark of countenance, broad of shoulder and immodest of gait, he advanced along The Street like the proudest of peacocks, exhibiting to all that here was a gentleman of wealth, stature and splendour. Taking full cognisance of his new surroundings, he espied the sign of the local hostelry and, needing to avail himself of refreshment after his long journey, pushed open the door of The Rover's Return.
It was nearing noon and the tavern was uncommonly empty, all but for a woman of some seventy years dressed in a heavy brown overcoat buttoned to the collar, even though Spring had long gone and Autumn had many weeks to arrive. Her face was creased by the ravages of age and experience, and her head enveloped by a hair-net of trawler-like proportion. In one hand she gripped a half-drunk glass of milk stout and, in the other, a large black handbag.
Mr D'irty's heart-beat began to race as it had not since he had said his farewells to Lady Angela in the most unpropitious circumstances in his previous occupation as landlord of The Queen Vic.
"Good morrow, madam," announced Mr D'irty, the words flowing from his lips with a quiver of unrestrained nervousness. "Pray, may I join you for I am need of an alcoholic beverage to quench my thirst."
The woman glanced upwards and scowled, feigning contempt as if to ward off the unwanted attention and yet, within her ample bosom, there stirred a yearning long-absent from her life.
"Sir, our country prides itself on its long-held sense of freedom and generosity, and I would deny you neither chair nor welcoming drink."
"I am most grateful, dear lady, for I have travelled many miles today. My name is Dennis D'irty, at your service. May I enquire to whom I have the pleasure of addressing for I swear I have not seen another of such rare beauty since I departed Walford."
The woman up-turned her nose in a haughty fashion.
"Sir, we have not been formally introduced and it is no business of yours who I am or what I do. I would commend to you my preference to drink alone but, lest it be said that the good folk of The Street are un-Christian and inhospitable people, my name is Elizabeth Sharples."
Now Mr D'irty, as well as being a man of fine looks, was also a man of considerable determination and much resolve. "It is my pleasure and great honour to make your acquaintance Mistress Sharples but you will understand I am a stranger in these parts. For divers hours I have journeyed from the suburb of Walford on the East side of our great Metropolis. It has been my intention to visit these parts for many years for I wish to seek fame and fortune on The Street as many of my fellow-thespians have done."
Elizabeth turned away from Mr D'irty but, even as she did, her eyes took note of his handsome features and a sensation within caused her body to shiver.
"I beg you, Mistress Sharples, please hear me. For twenty and one years I have been exclaiming 'cor blimey', 'stone the crows' and 'would you Adam 'n Eve it'. For my own part, such expressions have become wearisome in the extreme. I would assure you that I now wish to command the idioms of The North for which I have been practising long. I am now fluent in speech such as 'Ee chuck, that wor reet grand, whar's tha' ferret?' I implore you, Mistress Sharples, take me under your wing like one of Master Duckworth's pigeons and educate me in your Northern ways." As he said these words, Mr D'irty genuflected before the surprised woman, and kissed one of her gnarled and calloused hands.
For the first time in fifty years, Elizabeth's cheeks blushed and the creases on her much-lined faced squeezed together like the contours of a meteorologist's map. Her voluminous bosom heaved and her lips puckered for she indeed found herself fascinated by the charm of this handsome stranger.
So it was that, almost one hour later, Elizabeth and Mr D'irty were perambulating along the towpath of the canal, the afternoon sunshine glinting rainbows on the oily water.
"Mistress Sharples, I can no longer refrain from informing you that, since our first meeting just one hour past, I have become unusually attracted to you. Your reputation as a most formidable and beautiful woman has proved accurate and it is my fervent hope I might seek your companionship now and forever in the future."
Elizabeth ceased her perambulating. "What are these words coming from your lips, Mr D'irty? Such forwardness is unbecoming in these Northern parts. I confess I find your manners pleasing and your attention singularly flattering but it must be stated, lest you forget, that you are a gentleman of but forty years and I am a lady of three score years and ten, and this irrefutable disparity must surely be a bar to our union."
Mr D'irty looked Elizabeth directly in the eyes and took hold of her hands. "Please, I beg of you. Do not speak to me thus. Without you my life is worthless and I should be better dead."
Now although a woman of excoriating tongue, Mr D'irty's expression of devotion caused Elizabeth to open her mouth in disbelief and, for the first time in many years, words eluded her. In a state of shock and, it be admitted, some excitement, she dropped her handbag which immediately fell on to the towpath and, by some force of nature known only to the most eminent of scientists, plunged into the watery mass of the canal.
"Oh my beloved handbag," screamed Elizabeth. "My pension-book and bus-pass, gone to a watery grave."
Sensing the extreme discomfort which this caused Elizabeth, and feeling not a little that he was part-cause of an impending disaster, Mr D'irty - without a moment's hesitation or concern for his own safety - took a deep breath and dived into the depths of the canal where the handbag had fallen.
For a full minute he stayed there, his head disappeared, his hands splashing around in the murky water in an effort to find the lost handbag, during all of which time Elizabeth stood on the towpath crying, "Do not drown, Mr D'irty! Please do not drown!"
Then, of a sudden, she saw Mr D'irty's head rise out of the water, his black hair drenched and dripping. He held up his hand in triumph and waved. There, gripped tightly, was the handbag Elizabeth had inadvertently dropped.
"Sir, sir, you are my hero," cried Elizabeth. "Come quick, come quick before the cold of the water causes you to contract the fever."
She watched as Mr D'irty waded from the middle of the canal, through the slime, engine oil and empty lager cans, brushing aside an old bicycle frame and two discarded supermarket trolleys. His muscles rippled through his soaked shirt which exposed his naked torso beneath, and the ardour and desire which Elizabeth had thought extinct rose once more within her heaving bosom.
"I believe this is yours?" said Mr D'irty and, with water still pouring off his body, he handed Elizabeth the wet handbag, pension-book and bus-pass still intact. As she clutched the handbag, Mr D'irty bent down before her and implored, "My sweetest Elizabeth. Marry me."
"My dearest Mr D'irty, I will."
And, as the Weatherfield Town Hall clock chimed one, the lovers embraced on the canal towpath.
That night The Rover's Return was the location of much merriment and festivity to celebrate the new alliance forged between Weatherfield and Walford, and Elizabeth and Mr D'irty danced the dances that all lovers dance, the young man and his newly affianced elderly lover weaving trails of sawdust on the floor of The Snug.
And as they danced, the pigeons on the roof of The Rover's Return cooed songs of romance in the certain knowledge that love in soaps and serials always runs true.
To start with at least.
The End