Stories by Margery Kenyon
The Pawnbrokers
Pawnbroker's Sign
Picture courtesy of Phil Rowbotham
I used to hate getting up earlier then usual on Monday mornings. Before
I left for school I would have to take my father’s timesheet into his
place of work, which was called Davis Bros.
My father worked there as an asphalter foreman, it was important that
the timesheet arrived on time, so that the men who worked under him
received their wages on time. On the way to Davis Bros there was a
company called Dunlop's, a rubber works. The smell of rubber hung heavy
in the air. The smell used to make me feel nauseous. I worried about
arriving to school on time, so I would run, which would make me
breathless.
I grew up in a area of Manchester called Chorlton-on-Medlock. My
favourite street around this area was Brunswick Street; the people who
lived there were warm and friendly. I remember that there was many
different shops, and they seemed magical to a little girl growing up. I
used to run errands for different neighbours, this would enable me to
window shop.
There was one particular shop that I would love to stand and gaze at
through the large window. This was called Mark Coynes. They sold an
array of items from clothing to jewellery, all would be beautifully
displayed to catch the eye as people walked past the shop. As I stood
and gazed into the window I would pick out certain items that would be
the ideal gifts; for my mother the ring that would look perfect on her
small finger; the cocktail watch for my sister. When I look back now I
reminisce about the street the shop stood on. It was a small street but
you could buy almost anything. Alongside Coyne's there was an
ironmonger's, toyshop, butcher's, herbalist's to name but a few of so
many.
At the back of Mark Coyne's shop there was a small room which was used
as a pawnshop, only about six people could fit into the room at any one
time. There was a counter that had a flap at one end. The floor was
wooden and well worn. There were shelves that ran the length of the wall
at the back of the counter, and upon them were brown paper parcels of
different sizes, and tied perfectly with string.
Charlie and Arthur were the names of the two gentlemen who were in
charge. The Pawnshop was well used by the neighbourhood. I remember well
how my mother, on Mondays, would go into our spare room. In that room
stood a large wardrobe in which would hang a suit of my father's. He
only wore it on special occasions. For my mother, unbeknown to my father
the suit’s special occasion became Mondays.
The suit was cut from the finest cloth, and the label inside the jacket
said Saville Row, where the suit was made. My mother was often short of
money in the week so Mondays became a ritual for the pawnshop, she would
go into the spare room, open the wardrobe door and carefully take the
suit from its hanging place on the rail. It would be folded carefully
into a neat bungle for its weekly outing.
As my mother handed over the suit to either Charlie or Arthur she would
give a little cough and say that it was the Saville Row suit. If I was
with my mother this made me smile. Backwards and forwards that suit went
without the knowledge of my father, as the Saville Row would be picked
up from the pawnshop on Fridays and back on its rail in the wardrobe to
wait its next special occasion the following Monday. If only that suit
could talk what a tale it would have to tell.
By Margery Kenyon