Angel Meadow by Audrey Howard

slowly as Nancy Brody walked towards him. He was quite amazed at the effect she had on him, not just at his natural male instincts to possess, to dominate her body with his, which he hoped to do soon, but by the strange, unfamiliar and tender feelings in him to protect her, feelings he had shown to no woman before. At the sight of her, tall, gracefully swaying, her head proudly tilted, he could feel himself fall into a state of what he could only describe as the “jitters”: a dryness of his mouth that made it hard to speak, a racing of his heart that amazed him, alarmed him and that he did his best not only to suppress but to hide from others, since it was not something of which he was proud. He had never been in thrall to a woman before. His prowess with the opposite sex was legend among his cronies and if it got about that his feelings for Nancy Brody were more than just a desire to lift her skirts his reputation would be in tatters.
    As he fell in beside her he winked suggestively at several of the lads and they grinned behind their hands, wondering how long it would be before Mick O’Rourke got Nancy Brody to lie down for him.
    “All right, my lasses?” he said to the Brody sisters, swaggering a little as they moved with the crowd of be-shawled, be-clogged women along Victoria Parade, moving past Chetham’s College towards Long Millgate, which, in turn, took them through the narrow alleyways and courts to Angel Meadow. Their way led past a hideous, unplanned sprawl of dilapidated cottages, broken pavements, rutted tracks and open drains but they were accustomed to such sights and such smells, sauntering along in the mild dusk as though they were walking a fragrant country lane.
    Mick kept up a monologue of lively chatter, his Irish need to hear the sound of his own voice, to see the interest and admiration in the eyes of the three pretty girls, to listen to their laughter, which he caused since his wit was deliberately wicked, very strong in him. He was a born story-teller, a clever mimic with a sharp eye for detail and a good memory. He was putting himself out to be entertaining and he was succeeding, particularly with the younger girls, though he sensed Nancy was not quite as impressed as he would have liked her to be. She was not like the other two. She had a more serious side to her which baffled and yet intrigued him and it would take more than a few jokes, a few laughs and the several small jobs he had done about their home in the last few weeks to win her over to . . . well, to his way of thinking! She needed softening up, something he achieved quite easily with most lasses but this one required a different approach. It was a challenge that he rose to eagerly. He loved a challenge. Anything won easily was not worth having, in his opinion, which was why he so quickly tired of the girls who fell like ripe plums into his greedy hands.
    “An’ what’re the three of yer up to this weekend, then?” he asked casually as they turned into Church Court. They were watched by the usual sprawling figures of men and women enjoying the fine spell of warm weather, including his own mam who pursed her lips and hitched up her sagging breasts with crossed arms, displeasure in every line of her at the sight of her son with Lady Muck. It was evident that Nancy Brody was not yet broken in then, her expression said.
    “Nothing much, Mick,” Nancy answered. “We usually go over to the market to do our shopping and I wanted to have a rummage on the second-hand clothes stall. Our Rosie grows out of her clothes so quickly.”
    For a moment Mick was diverted by the evidence of Rosie Brody’s “growing out” of her clothes, which displayed itself in the budding of what promised to be tits as splendid as Nancy’s, but Nancy was still speaking.
    “And I want some paint. Them window frames are a disgrace and I thought—”
    “I can do them for yer, acushla. Just say the word and . . .”
    “I can do them myself, thanks,