Musings on The Matchstick Man

PICTURES THAT PAINT A THOUSAND WORDS, or so LS LOWRYI could look at the works of LS Lowry all day.

Except that part of the day given over to siesta, food, wine, work, reading. Well, OK, not all of the day, but you get my drift.

This view of the Queens Coronation was commissioned by HMG in 1953

http://www.gac.culture.gov.uk/search/Object.asp?object_key=19902

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In a productive career of over 60 years from 1905/6, 'The Boss' produced about 1000 paintings and 8000 drawings.

Although not all are in his distinctive 'matchstick' style but this form is for what he's is rightly famed.

BEACH SCENE 1947 FEVER VAN 1935

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His productions of the ‘matchstick man’ are so full of everyday life and activity

that I often return to his portraits to practice my peculiar hobby of scene interpretation.

I like to dwell on the internet accessible reproductions,

consider the scene,

ponder on the characters depicted,

weave fictional dramas around what is being portrayed.

Lowry's range is vast

and I have attempted to include a variety of his images

with my 'take' on what might have been going on.

I HOPE THAT YOU ENJOY THE FOLLOWING FIVE STORIES

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CHRIME LAKE

http://www.l-s-lowry.co.uk/lowry-crimelake.html

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Crime lake is such a busy image that I started listing it’s components before remembering to start at the beginning, with the title. Why Crime Lake?

A quick trawl of the internet is still a research luxury that I refuse to criticise. I have spent many hours wading through square miles of dusty pages in the poorly lit and cold basement of academic libraries. To be able to search far more widely, from the warmth and comfort of an executive office chair, with coffee or tea or beer, is total bliss, and never to be derided.

So, Chrime Lake was near Manchester, Lowry’s home ground, and created by accident when a lock cut and embankment collapsed. The artificial pond had become very popular as a day trip with boating, tea rooms and music. Apparently, the lagoon had appeared in an area known as Chrime.

What was Chrime?

Google kept asking me if I meant Chrome? No!

Was the modern version a corruption of Grime, as the surrounding landscape certainly was? Maybe. But, perhaps the search engine was correct? The water surface in Lowry’s painting certainly had a silver shine. Let's take the title as it reads, Chrime Lake.

So, folk were out and about in Sunday best garments, with rowing boats floating singles, couples and small Bible Classes. Not much wildlife was depicted, no doubt driven away by the noisy splashing, but the single dog looked tempted to test the water temperature.

Which led my eyes to the three gentlemen in the foreground. Were the outer two slapping the middle one on the back? Or asking him to come along with them and answer a few questions?

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A few moments cogitating and a possible link between all the elements portrayed came to my mind, based on the many hundred of individual cases of human experience witnessed over a quarter century career as a psychiatrist. Oliver, a renowned oddity of the locality, was always smartly dressed when out taking the air. His red necktie and stainless white collar contrasted with the grotty reality of their mucky house. Not that anybody could tell from the outside, his mother maintained a spotless and polished front step, that none of the neighbours had ever crossed. He was a lonely man, intelligent and desperate to become cultured and sociable. But, his body odour was so repulsive that even the leading library had banned him.

So, Oliver wandered about, trying to engage strangers in conversation.

Which was sometimes, quite often really, misunderstood by his victims. Thus, the stooped lady, approaching from the right with her equally tilted husband, had taken great exception to Oliver’s approach. She had assumed that Oliver was trying to proposition her, or maybe preparing to expose himself. Her scream had distracted husband from enjoying the view, and attracted the attention of the Park Keepers. The latter had set-off to search for the miscreant, alleged, but with whom they were well acquainted, before he pounced again.

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He, Oliver, was found more by aroma than sight, and they, the wardens, made sure that arms length was a close as they got. Would he go quietly with them whilst a constable was called? Oliver would cooperate with officials, he was too well mannered to behave otherwise. So, the police officer would tell him off, maybe even clip Oliver’s ear, but send him on his way, home. To the grim, dark, silent hovel that he had to call home.

Where the decomposing carcass of his father lay in the cellar, well deceased for some three years. Hidden because his mother was terrified of telling the truth. That she had battered the dirty old sod to death for trying to rape her, on a day outing to Chrime Lake.

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MAN ON THE WALL

http://preview.tinyurl.com/c73c7w for link

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“Inspector? This is PC 958 Evans. I’m ‘phoning from the call box on Canal Street. What?... yes I know I’m off

my beat, but Sarge told me to check on the body reported by old Mrs Skellern. Well, it’s like this, Sir. I don’t really

want to get too close, contaminate the evidence, you know, but, to me, well, the person looks dead!”

Harry Evans paused as the divisional control room fell silent at the duty inspector’s command.

“Yes, Inspector, I did say dead. Funny colour, lying motionless on the bridge parapet. Tidily dressed, I’ll say that.

Even got a carnation in his button hole...”

The old policeman listened again as the senior officer directed an incident response unit to the scene. Evans could

remember when this new boss had been the snotty nosed son of a neighbour on the Constabulary Housing Estate.

Now, a university degree followed by handfuls of short term duties in various sections, not including pounding the

streets, and the nipper has accelerated promotion.

“Sorry, inspector, I didn’t quite hear what you said? No, I haven’t let my mind wander off the task before me. No, I

can’t see any kids, nuns, vicars or old ladies likely to get a nasty shock by seeing the stiff. Yes, I will mount an

obvious presence until back-up arrives. Over and out!”

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Evans briskly returned to the remains, and stood on the opposite pavement to consider them again. Its presence had

been first reported to the police at 4.30 am, just forty minutes ago, when dawn illuminated the bleak street. The PC

had been on site for the last 12 minutes, and the corpse had not moved, he was sure of that. There were no obvious

signs of violence on the formal dress clothes, the attaché case and umbrella looked to have been neatly placed.

Who was, or who had been, this Mr LRL ? Why on earth, come to this dreary, dirty, industrial backwater in all one’s

finery? How come the unlit cigarette was staying upright?

PC 958 was well aware of his intellectual limitations, so decided to let the clever dicks in CID sort the answers. He

crossed to stand a few yards upwind of the deceased and looked down onto the canal that the bridge spanned.

Sprouting from the grey water were a couple of pram handles and what looked to be a bicycle. An early-morning dog

walker was throwing a stick along the tow path for a mangy Heinz 57 to chase after.

Looking up, the constable checked his fob-watch against the Town Hall clock. Nearly half past 5, just another hour

until he would be home, off night shift, temporarily cuddled up to his misses, before she went out to her day job.

Assuming that he was stood down on time?

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His reverie was broken by the squeal of two sets of vehicle brakes, as the ambulance and police vehicle arrived

simultaneously. Evans went to the rear of the latter, whilst the crew from the former went to examine the body and

pronounce life to be absent. Barely had he started to speak to his colleagues, when Evans heard loud, raucous, belly

laughter from the supposed incident scene.

He ran to its source, the ambulance men, who were pulling two pink, false feet from up the sleeves of the now

upright, immobile and glaringly obvious tailors window mannequin, still sporting a neat wedding suit!

PC 958 Evans was mortified at his mistake, and was dreading the dressing down he would receive at the station.

“Never mind,” called out one of the other coppers, “at least you’ve found the dummy nicked from Moss Bros Hire shop

last evening. Sarge will be so pleased with you, raising the dead and solving a crime in one shift!”

Written in memory of my father who was PC 958 in Thames Valley Police Force until the late 1970's

And who had a close encounter with a tailors shop dummy one night, not quite as depicted here.

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ANCOATS HOSPITAL OUTPATIENT'S HALL

http://preview.tinyurl.com/cs64pu for preview link to this picture

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You can see a typical collection of folk at a general hospital out-patient clinic, most look quite well, and nearly all are

staring at the artist. Why is that? No, not the apparent health of the punters, but their mass concentration in one

direction.

Was it supposed to portray one of the clinic staff shouting for her next victim? Or maybe the first to be called? The

wall clock shows 10 past 10, the room is fairly full and a doctor is arriving. I can remember the bad old days of the

NHS, and not so long ago for that matter, when all out-patient appointments were made for the same time, 9 am most

often. Entry into the waiting hall was prohibited until then, and the restriction was enforced in some institutions by a

Beadle, or similar worthy-body. Perhaps the man in a top hat by the bay window door?

Patients were seen in the order they arrived, except the doctors frequently didn’t turn up to start doing their stuff until

well after 10 am. Whatever else had been achieved, or lost, in the NHS, at least outpatient clinics now run a lot more

smoothly and promptly.

Are you struck by the pervading greyness of the people, their clothes and the walls? Perhaps the painting had been

done by Lowry, in the austere post-war years, before the given date of 1952. Possibly even before the NHS

commenced activity in 1948?

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Now, apart from one stretcher case, one man with a bandaged head and one lady in a wheel chair, the punters look

generally well. Before free-at-source health care was provided by the state, out-patient attendance, even at the

charity and teaching hospitals, cost money. Hard cash that most poorer families could not afford, unless they were

desperately ill and in real need.

Perhaps the portrait depicted a scene from early 1948, after the worst winter weather conditions in the United

Kingdom for many decades. Heavy snow, Arctic temperatures and howling winds had paralysed the country for

weeks. Bill, the tall man in the black demob style suit sitting front of picture, had sustained bad frostbite of his hands

whilst tending to the livestock on his hill farm. He was wearing ‘boxing glove’ bandages to protect the delicate skin as

it recovered. Joy, Bill’s sister, was sitting with her back to the artist, staring at a piece of paper, whilst Bertha, their

mother, sat between them, trying to read upside down from whatever Joy was holding.

Bill’s dressings had just been changed by the surgical dresser, the tall, thin, weedy looking, doctor like figure to Bill’s

left. He couldn’t be a proper doctor, as he was not displaying the universal medical adornment, a stethoscope. Many

such gifted technicians worked on into the NHS, having been trained and gained experience in such procedures

during the war years.

Bertha and Bill still lived on the farm, with Herbert, her husband, who had stayed behind to tend to the cows. And,

Herbert had no wish to meet up with Joy, who, in his opinion, had betrayed her inheritance by marrying a ‘soft

southern townie’.

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Herbert’s inaccurate but fixed views took no account of the fact that Mark, Joy’s husband of the last 2 years, had

been brought onto the farm, by him, as a prisoner-of-war-labourer. Mario, to use his proper given name, had been an

Italian soldier, captured in the Western Desert campaign of 1941 and transported to England. The military

intelligence officers had rapidly concluded that Mario was safe to parole, and help the war effort, as he had been a

cook before Mussolini conscripted him into uniform.

Initially, Mario and his three compatriots were guarded on the march from the local POW camp to and from the farm.

Then, as trust was built up, they came on their own each day, eventually building their own quarters in the barn loft.

As the months turned to years, all four of the prisoners became an integral part of the community. And a relationship

blossomed between Mario and Joy.

Although he was nearly 10 years her senior, with a very different life history, Mario was devoted to the attractive

young woman. He made no attempt on her virginity, to Joy’s occasional despair, until they were officially married.

Which was when all the trouble with Herbert began. He assumed that all his free labourers would return to Italy when

the hostilities ended, and indeed the other three did. If Mario wanted to become his son-in-law, then he would have to

remain on the farm and share the burden.

Except, that was not what the newly-weds dreamed of. Mark and Joy wanted to rent a house in the local town, where

he had already found a proper job in a bakery. Mark’s new employer was fascinated by the culinary creations he

could now offer. Joy was going to seek general domestic work, at least until their first bambino arrived.

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Herbert had the English male equivalent of a hissy fit, storming around, shouting the odds, banishing his daughter to

the wilderness, and generally being a reactionary old man.

Which had enraged Mark, and spurred him on to be the perfect pastry chef,

with a growing circle of customers, and a caring husband. Neither he or Joy

had been back to the farm in nearly 3 years. She would very occasionally

meet up with her mother, or Bill, on one of their expeditions to civilisation. But

Joy had to keep such events a secret from Mark, who would have given an

Italian version of 'great unhappiness' if he ever knew about them.

Which was the kernel of the problem facing Joy as, in the picture, she read the bill, given to Bill, for his medical

treatment. There was no way that her birth family could afford to settle the account, especially after such a bad

winter. Could she find a way of paying at least some of it, without Mark discovering?

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STREET SCENE

http://www.allposters.co.uk/-sp/Street-Scene-Posters_i384289_.htm

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Stan pulled his black scarf tighter around his coat collar, and winced as a sharp pain radiated beneath the plaster of Paris on his right forearm. He stepped out, and nearly walked straight into Maud from the knitting factory.

“Stan, lovely to see you! I 'eard about your accident, what, a month ago? How're doing now?”

“Hello, Maud! You'm looking grand! Me, I’m getting there, slowly.”

“What did 'appen then, you fell orf a gantry?”

“Aye, me and Bert were a fixing a broken girder. My ratchet slipped off a rusty nut, wrenched my wrist, swung me sideways and clean through the side barrier! That damn thing just snapped and didn’t break my fall, until I landed on a large splinter of it on the floor, which broke my ribs!”

“Ouch, that must have bloody 'urt!”

“Aye, it did! But the first aiders come quick and sorted things.”

“I ‘eard tell that Bert was killed outright like, when the cradle collapsed. Did you see it 'appen?”

“No, thank God. But I ‘eard his scream and the squishy thud when his head hit the steel crossbeam. It was ‘orrid! I still hear the noises in my dreams!”

“You'm poor bugger! Bert were a single lad, right?”

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“You wouldn’t 'ave thought so by the number of skirts who turned up for his funeral! They gave 'im a good send off from chapel, place was full, and a ''am supper afterwards. I was too upset to eat so I slipped 'ome after the funeral.”

“So, why you'm out in this rotten smog?”

“I’ve just dropped our youngest at the school across, then I’ve got an appointment with me doctor, check-up and decide if I’m well enough to attend the Coroners 'earing tomorrow.”

“I suppose you'm has to go, right?”

Stan hesitated, “Eventually...yes. But the union want's it over with sharpish like...”

“What 'arit got to do with them?”

“They’re gonna prosecute the bosses for shoddy safety care. Just need the coroner to agree that Bert’s death, was manslaughter and the case can go in.”

“Oh! So what you'm wanner do?”

“Well, providing the doc agrees, I’ll do't tomorrow. Then the union will send me to one of the recuperation places on the coast, for a change and fresh air. Might help perk me up a bit.”

“Your Doris, cans't her go with yer?”

“Nah, and she doesn’t want to. Get me out from under her feet, give her a rest from me being around 'ome all the time.”

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“My Ken says men make shocking invalids, drive the women daft with all their moaning!”

“Aye, Doris made me take the nipper, first time I’ve been out on me own, since, well, you know...”

“Blimey, what a day to pick! Must be nice to have a change of scenery though?”

“’Cept some things don’t change. I see old Mrs Snob-gob still has that skinny little dog scurryin’ around. Look like a rat on a pole!”

“Her 'ubby's a sergeant in my Ken’s company in Malaya, so I canner say much! Oy, don’t look, what about the darkie woman behind me? First in our street. She must be ruddy perishing in this cold, they's have lots of sunshine...”

“Maud, she comes from Tiger Bay in Cardiff! Not much warmer than ‘ere and she speaks English!”

“Oh, I was told she came from Jamaica, or somewhere like that...”

“Nope. Her 'ubby helped carry Bert’s coffin. They’re big down at chapel. Anyway, what’s on at the shop over?”

“Clearance sale of ladies clothes. I’ll be going to 'ave a look after I’ve been to the coach office. Book next summers trip to Blackpool early, get the best seats on the chara.”

“Well, it is nice to see you, Maud. Give my best to 'imself when you write. And to your mum. I 'aven’t seen ‘er since last years trip to Scarborough. That was windy that day! Blew 'er plastic Mac right out to sea! Good job it didn’t rain though! Bye”

“Love to Doris. Hope tomorrow goes as well as can be expected. Tar-ra”

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As Stan straightened his painful rib cage and set off on his half mile walk to the doctor’s clinic, he was thinking,

‘What a fancy tart she looks like! She’s playing away from home whilst Ken’s away. Blonde dyed hair and new handbag? Some chaps looking after her, in more ways than one. Oh dear me. But that’ll be a nice bit of gossip for the waiting room.'

As Maud paced away, she was thinking,

' e’s just swinging the lead, nothing wrong with ‘im. Just wants his payout so 'e can be one up on the rest of us. I reckons 'e jumped, not fell, like he says. Oh, right, there’s misses giraffe, avoid ‘er. Don’t want 'er to know that I’m just going to give ‘er hubby a good time at the Grand 'otel. Silly cow that she is, must be the lack of air to ‘er brain, all the way up there!”

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BARGES ON A CANAL

http://www.museum-reproductions.com/cgi-bin/modern.pl?fid=1020682064&cgifunction=form

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“Morning Stan. Brighter today?”

“ ‘ey-up Cyril, your early! Yep, weather’s better, should be able to move some of these flats today?”

“Aye. That’s why I come down now. Get the beasts out and ‘arnessed up, ready for the off, when the lock opens.”

“It’ll be ruddy parky up top, you’ll need them woolly ear warmers of yours.”

“Won’t be too bad, better than warming me piles in front of the stove!”

“Are they still playing up?”

“Too bloody right! They itch and scratch like buggery. Sitting on a cold bench will be a right treat!”

“Which of the lads will you use to walk the ‘orses head? There’s five of them waiting down there.”

“Umm. Who was first down?”

“Ernie, the tall, lanky gormless looking git!”

“ ‘Es all right is that boy. Works ‘ard, good with the ‘orse, and he can steer a string of flats almost as good as me!”

“Hurumph. As you say, mate. But ‘is breathe stinks! Must be all the eel pies ‘is mum makes?”

“ ‘Er does bake a mean one. Nah, it’s you Stan. You’m getting particular in your dotage.”

“Dotage! Sod off! You must be best part of five years older than me, cheeky bugger!”

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“Aye, and I can feel it in me bones today! ‘ave you seen that daft lot over on the tow-path, walking the kid and dog?”

“Not yet. Oh, I can see ‘em now. It’s young Fred and ‘is misses. What about them?”

“Stupid cow! Out in this cold and frost with ‘er skirt up to ‘er knees, and no bloody ‘at on!”

“She’s got a nice pair of pins, if you ask me, what wrong with showing ‘em?”

“ ‘cos, well, it ain’t right so early in the day, in this weather, and all.”

“Cyril Crump, I do believe you fancy ‘ere, you old goat?”

“I do not! It’s just not seemly. Why does Fred want flash ‘er around so?”

“He works nights at the mill, up Windmill Street. They bring the lad and dog down this way nearly every day, for a drop of fresh air, before Fred ‘as ‘is sleep.”

“Well, still don’t seem right to me.”

“You’ve only seen them today ‘cos you’re early. There ain’t no ‘arm in it.”

“Maybe. Takes me back to lots of our old times, though. The four of us, you, me, Fred’s father, gawd bless ‘is soul, and 'arry. Walking out with the lasses of an evening. None of ‘em looked that tarty though!”

“Ah, so that’s where your grumps are coming from, not had it for a while?”

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“No, I ruddy well ‘aven’t, what with the misses being on t'change, and all!”

“Cheer up Cyril. Fred and 'is family are the future, we're the past! It’s all down hill, for us, from ‘ere in. Come on, you need to get down to some work, takes your mind off this maudlin stuff.”

“Not so quick, Stan. Do you and Mavis, well, you know, what you said...”

“Not that it’s any of yours, but, yeah, we do, sometimes. Not as often as before, but, well, only last week...”

“Bollocks! I knew it. I’m too bloody old to enjoy myself.”

“Cyril, I’m off. It’s too chill to stand up ‘ere. Come round for a brew when you’re back. Bring the misses, Mavis likes to have a chat with ‘er.”

”Oh, right, tar very much. Decent of you, like.”

“Now, it’s six flats up, but only four back. Make sure the...”

“Lock-keeper makes the right entry in the ledger. I know, boss. Only been doing this for the last 20 years!”

“See yer tonight, OK?”

“Aye. And thanks for the chat, Stan. Tar-ra!”

Flats is one of the terms used by bargees to describe the un-powered vessels that were towed by other motorised barges, or towed by horses, as Cyril is off to do.

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MORE ON LOWRYIf I have amused you with these short stories I am delighted.

If I have prompted you to discover more about 'The Boss' then I am very delighted.

To start finding out more about his works and life then link to;

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L._S._Lowry

It could be said that any subject is best approached by starting at wikipaedia.

http://www.thelowry.com/

The Lowry centre in Salford has permanent displays and much on-line information and works to view.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnRX6_Txpaw&feature=relatedIs a charming sequence of Lowry pictures set to the pop-song 'Match dog men'

The credits for the pictures on page 2

http://www.beaverbrookartgallery.org/searchresults.asp beach scene 1947

http://www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/picture-of-month/showLarge.asp?venue=2&id=142 fever van 1935

All internet accessible pieces of artwork by LS Lowry are credited in this publication.The accompanying short stories are by Dave Hambidge and may be used by others with attribution of source each time.

Stories either new or previously published at http://ptp1000words.blogspot.com/ , please call by to see others.

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