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  Bottle Alley

  Brenda M. Spalding

  Bottle Alley

  Brenda Spalding

  Published by Heritage Publishing.US, 2018.

  Copyright© 2018 Brenda M. Spalding

  ISBN-10: 1508834652

  ISBN-13: 978-1508834656

  This is a work of fiction

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher of her heirs.

  Published by

  Heritage Publishing.US

  www.heritagepublishingus.com

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  BOTTLE ALLEY

  First edition. February 7, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Brenda Spalding.

  ISBN: 978-1508834656

  Written by Brenda Spalding.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to | Margaret Dennison Laroche | May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

  Acknowledgements

  Forward

  Thanks go to the Wikipedia site on Nonantum, Massachusetts.

  Bottle Alley | Brenda M. Spalding

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO | Eighteen months before

  CHAPTER THREE | present day

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Green Lady Inn mysteries | Award-winning | Broken Branches | Brenda M. Spalding

  Whispers in Time

  Hidden Assets

  More books by this award-winning author

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  This book is dedicated to Margaret Laroche. My friend for over sixty years who sadly passed away. We were neighbors in "The Lake" and she was a great help to me as we tried to remember the names and places for this book.

  This book is dedicated to

  Margaret Dennison Laroche

  May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

  Acknowledgements

  I need to thank my editors, Nancy Buscher for her help in developing the characters in the story and Clarissa Thomasson for her careful proof editing.

  My father instilled in me a love of my Irish heritage and the history of our family. I will be forever thankful.

  Several more friends and relatives supplied me with information in the writing of this novel including the Newton fire department and the Newton police force. I learned so much about the ’Lake’ and its unique place in the history of the area.

  You are all appreciated.

  Forward

  Newton, Massachusetts, in 1938 was a mix of Irish who came fleeing the famine, French and Jews looking a safe harbor from war and persecution.

  The Italians came, mostly from the village of San Donato Val di Comino. They were all first and second-generation immigrants looking for a better way of life in America.

  The “Lake area” is in Nonantum, one of thirteen villages that make up the city of Newton. Researching my home area was a unique experience. I learned a lot about its historical beginnings and more about the people and places I knew as a child.

  The story I have told is fictional. The basis of the story is one theory about the “Lake Language” and how it became incorporated into the everyday usage by the locals in the area.

  Lake Talk is a cryptolect, spoken particularly among older Italian-American residents. The origins of Lake Talk are unclear. A 2001 article in the Boston Globe speculated that it is a blend of Italian and some World War II code, but others have seen similarities to Angloromani or Italian Romany slang.

  I have used stories my father told me about his growing up in the “Lake.” The old stories have been woven into the novel. The name “Bottle Alley” was the nickname for Adams Street.

  In my father’s time, children did gather coal from along the railway line. My House on Chandler St. was moved there when they built the rail line.

  In my research I did find a peat bog on Hawthorn Street, and I remember skating on Silver Lake as a

  child. I grew up in the house on Chandler Street and have used the house as the home of the Flannigan Family.

  Fried’s store was where we bought most of the clothes we needed until shopping malls arrived. Mazzola’s bakery had the best fresh bread; the smell of the bread baking filled the neighborhood.

  Going to the gypsy carnival at Our Lady’s with my father was a treat. He won a bank in the shape of Peter Rabbit, made of plaster, which I kept for many years. “Our Lady Help of Christians” was my school from kindergarten to graduation from high school.

  The hurricane is also true. It was called the “Long Island Express.” It devastated Long Island, New York, and seven hundred lives were lost. It traveled at sixty miles an hour and was preceded by a week of heavy rain, wind and flooding. It crossed Western Massachusetts on its way to upstate New York and Canada.

  I have created characters and families to bring the story of the “Lake” and its language to life. All names and characterizations are from my imagination and do not reflect on any real person alive or dead.

  The story is told from the perspective of my Irish Roots. I hope the contributors to the language will forgive me.

  Lake Talk

  One strong idea is that the language is a carryover from the traveling carnivals that roamed the country in the 1930’s and 40’s. The young locals worked the carnivals for extra money and used the strange language as a code of solidarity among them.

  The language is still in use today and is being passed down to the younger children.

  mush (pronounced to rhyme with push) ─ "guy" or "man" can be positive or negative depending on context

  wicked pissa, mush! ─"extremely awesome, man"

  chor'd ─ "stolen", possibly related to the Romany word choro ─"thief"

  chuccuo ─ (chu-co, also pronounced as "chew-ch") ─ "donkey", "horse's ass"

  cuyamoi ─ "shut up" or "go to hell"

  divia (div-ya) ─ "crazy", "jerk, screw-up, or harmless screwball," can be used as a noun or an adjective: "The mush is a real divya," or "This mush is divya"

  inga ─ "unattractive" or "bad-tempered person" or "junk" or "crap"

  jival ─ "girl," female version of mush

  mush has a cormunga in his cover ─ "guy is hiding a gun"

  over-chay or overchay (ova-chay) ─ "it's a lie" or "he's an actor." Directly translates as "overkill." Better defined as exaggeration or equivocation

  pukka to the mush ─ "tell the guy"

  quisterjival (quest-ah jival) ─ "pretty girl"

  quister (also pronounced as "quish-ta") ─ awesome, good, beautiful

  quister mush (quest-ah mush) ─"good, standup guy"

  geech ─ "go away"

  jawl ─ "steal" or "look at"

  dikkikidotti ─ "unreal or unbelievable"

  The mark of a true, old-school Lake resident is talent for the so-called Lake language ─ a collection of words and phrases believed to have roots in Romany, a language spoken by Gypsy immigrants from Europe, and brought back to the Lake early th
is century by local youths who worked for a time with traveling carnivals.

  The Romany words became mixed with Italian, English, and other street slang of the 1930s and ’40s to produce a lively mix that is one of the strongest links to the Lake’s proud and rough-and-tumble past.

  Thanks go to the Wikipedia site on Nonantum, Massachusetts.

  The Boston Globe article is: “They still speak the language of the Lake” Sept 13, 2009. The complete article is available on line.

  More can be found on www.thelakelingo.com

  Bottle Alley

  Brenda M. Spalding

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Hey, Mush!” Tony Pellegrino called to Michael standing on the other side of the street. Michael was a full head taller than Tony at just over six feet tall. His dark almost black hair made his light blue eyes stand out in his handsome face.

  Lifelong friends, they had known each another since kindergarten, and now both young men worked in the Aetna mill across the Charles River on Pleasant Street.

  Newton, Massachusetts, in 1938 was a melting pot of Irish, Italian, Jewish, and French immigrants. Each holds fast to his culture. A French bakery next to an Italian deli and flanked by a Jewish tailor shop is not unusual. It was a friendly town where kids play together sharing their languages as well as their sandwiches.

  Michael watched Tony dash across Watertown Street dodging cars and ignoring the honking and shouts of angry drivers. He shuffled the bag he was carrying to his other arm. Canned goods get heavy. “What, no work today? It’s only Friday,” Michael said.

  “Naw, I took the day off.” Tony pulled out a Lucky Strike and lite it, exhaling slowly so the smoke made almost perfect circles. He grinned and waited for a comment. Tony was Italian and had the swarthy good looks and dark eyes that drove the girls crazy. When Michael doesn’t respond, Tony continued, “I’m working at the carnival down at Our Lady’s. Ya’ comin’?”

  “Can’t, I’m working the night shift at the mill tonight. Probably because you took the day off,” Michael answered, giving him a friendly punch. “Ma doesn’t like us going to the carnivals anyways; says it’s just a way to part a fool from his money.”

  “But it’s at Our Lady’s. Surely, she can’t find fault with that? Come on. You deserve some fun.”

  “I can’t afford to pass up the work, Tony. Things are really tight at home.”

  “Then let’s stop in Murphy’s for a beer at least?”

  “Ma needs me.” Michael paused as if considering. “No.” After another pause, he grinned, “She’ll probably want me digging a new garden plot or cleaning out the chicken coop,” both young men snigger in agreement.

  Crushing his cigarette out on the pavement Tony said, “Ok, you be the momma’s boy, and I’ll see ya’ later. Oh, and tell Ellen I said hi, would ya’?”

  “If you’re so sweet on my sister, why don’t you do something about it?”

  “Come on, Ellen’s different, ya’ know. . . I don’t wanna say the wrong thing. Hey, maybe she’d come with ya’ tomorrow night?” Tony was charming. When he got nervous, he dropped his head, causing his dark hair to fall over his eyes. He quickly brushed it away. “Come on. Have some fun once in a while?” tony persisted.

  “I can’t. You know how Ma is.”

  Tony cocked an eyebrow and flashes his familiar cheeky grin.

  “Aw, I’ll try. . . Maybe I can think of a way, but don’t count on it.”

  Tony’s grin widened with mischief in mind.

  “And you, don’t go getting involved with any of those carnival girls, hear me?” Michael poked his friend; maybe a little harder than he intended. “They are bad news. I’m not kidding.”

  “Oh, geech, I can take care of myself. Don’t worry.”

  “Yeah? Somebody’d better.” Michael cautioned.

  They grew up together, best pals since kindergarten, and in high school even chased the same girls, but trouble always seemed to be around the corner waiting for Tony. His charm and dark Italian good looks are gifts, and he has learned to use them all to his advantage. His reputation with the girls was not a very good one.

  “See you and Ellen tomorrow night?” Tony persisted

  “I said I’ll try.” Michael answered getting annoyed.

  “Good enough.”

  Tony and Michael went their separate ways. At the corner, Michael paused before crossing Bridge Street. When he turnd, he saw Tony go into Murphy’s Tavern. He shook his head. “Use some sense, Buddy,” he said under his breath, “. . . and don’t stay in there all afternoon.”

  He shifted the weight of the grocery bag again and crossed the street. It’s half past twelve as a man staggered past him. The man caught himself and paused blinking in the sunlight.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Collins,” Michael said in passing. Stayed too long in Sullivan’s again, Michael thought to himself.

  “Oh, yeah. Nice day.” Collins straightened his jacket and tried to keep things in focus. “Uh, say ’ello to yur folks, Son.”

  “I’ll do that, Sir.”

  He reached the corner of Adams Street and shifted the weight of the bag again. ‘The Lake area’ of Newton is small, and most people know one another. St. Mary’s was the biggest football rival of Our Lady’s, but they were friendly rivals of course. Father Sheridan wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “Now, boys,” he’d say, “you can beat the stuffin’ out of them on Friday nights. But if I hear in confession you’ve hurt them any other time, your absolution will be tripled.” And everyone knew he meant it.

  “Yoo-hoo, Michael Flannigan!” called a female voice. He looked up to see Sally Watson coming toward him. He waited for her to catch up. “I thought that was you. I called before, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”

  “Sorry.”

  Standing on the sidewalk in front of Pasquale’s barbershop, Michael waited for her to catch up. Sally is a sweet girl, a few years younger than him. Not bad on the

  eyes either but a little flighty. He knew she’d a crush on him for a while now.

  “Are you going to the carnival at Our Lady’s?” Sally asked hopefully.

  “I don’t often see you without your friend Gladys,” Michael said changing the subject.

  “We’re not friends anymore. She’s gone high hat since she started going out with a Harvard boy. She’s turning into a right snob.”

  “I’m sorry. I know you were friends a long time.”

  “She’s a twit! Well, it was good running into you. I hope I’ll see you at the carnival.”

  “Maybe.” Michael said. He knew the girl likes him, but he has responsibilities at home.

  “I’d better run, or I’ll be late,” Sally said.

  Watching her dash off, Michael heard the red, white and blue barber pole spin around and around to a steady click, click, click before he moved on.

  Michael turned right, walking up Adams Street. As he walked, he heard tinny music coming from the open door to Sullivan’s Tavern. The owner, Eddie, was wiping down the bar.

  Looking up, he noticed Michael and called, “Top o’ the day to ya’, Michael.”

  “I heard the music.”

  “You like it? It’s new. It’s a Victrola. Ya wind it up, and it plays music. Pretty good, huh?”

  “It sure is, Mr. O’Dowd.”

  “Still got a few Irish Boxty, if you’re hungry.”

  “No thanks. Ma is expecting me home. Maybe another time.”

  “How is your ma?” Eddie asked as he takes several of the crusty potato pancakes from a plate and wraps them in a clean bar towel. He came around the bar and walked to the door. “No sense in wasting them. Take a few home to your Ma, Boy-o. They’re fierce good. The missus made them this morning.” He put them in the bag Michael is carrying.

  “Thank you, Mr. O’Dowd.”

  Sullivan’s was where many of the parishioners from Our Lady’s stop for a drink and fish and chips on Fridays. Saturday night is a great night to enjoy some of the locals playing Irish musi
c.

  To Michael it seemed like every other building was a tavern or a brewery on Adams Street.

  Small wonder the locals call this area “Bottle Alley,” Michael thinks about how life changed the day his da got hurt in the same mill he worked in now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Eighteen months before

  March 21, 1937 was a gray and chilly day as Donal Flannigan trudged toward Aetna Mill across the Charles River on Pleasant Street. The walk is familiar. It’s one he’s taken year after year. But today is different; he can feel it in his bones. He pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears to cut some of the wind. The din of machinery reaches him long before he gets to the gate. Inside the yard men cluster and quickly push through the large heavy doors that lead to the work area.

  “Colder’n a well-diggers arse out there, Dave,” he said to the shift supervisor as he clocked in and headed to the cloakroom. He removed his coat and hat and hung them on the bar of hooks attached to the wall. Below are cubbyholes, and he drops his lunch bag in one.

  “Donal!”

  He turns to see Joseph waving a newspaper. “Wat’cha got there?” he shouts over the racket.

  “There’s a horse-shoe tournament next week over in Waltham. Can you make it?”

  “I’ll let’ch know,” he called back. “If ya’ can’t do any better than last time, I should stay home!”

  Joseph made an obscene gesture, but he’s grinning. Several men nearby guffawed; waving at the them, he moved to his station.

  The mills provided jobs and helped support the growing communities that spread up and down the river. People swim and fish in the water that was gradually being polluted by the factories along its banks. Workers were glad to have the jobs. The Depression has gone on too long. Everyone knew men who have been out of work for years, and even some who gave up and retired from life. A working man knows the risks of working in the mills. People were sometimes maimed or even killed.