Chapter 2: An Ordinary Town

The varieties of lechery, murder, violence, child abuse, thieving, racketeering, hypocrisy, double-dealing, deception, profiteering, low wages, long hours, sackings, cheatings, lying, one-upmanship, conniving, corruption and two-facedness which Michael Watson knew and heard about during his Lancaster childhood probably still thrive. The majority of local people still live their ordinary lives, with their usual loving kindness often taken for granted, their good deeds rarely publicised. It's not good news that sells newspapers!

After he'd moved away, in 1951, Michael used to go back home every few weeks. His journey would be by steam train. He’d catch the 6.30 p.m. from London Euston. There would be many Irish passengers, going on to Heysham, to make the overnight crossing to Ireland on the boat the Duke of Lancaster.

His parents would be at Lancaster Castle Station, waiting for his arrival. His father of medium height, a stocky figure, was still dark-haired, bright blue-eyed, peering through the steam from the engine, looking for "Our Michael".

Grabbing his suitcase, after a powerful handshake, it was, "Come on lad, hurry yourself up -- we might catch the last L6 bus!"

The briefest of pecks on his mother's cheek and they were off. Dad handed in their platform tickets and Michael had his return-ticket snipped by the ticket-collector.

Out of the Castle Station entrance, ignoring the taxis, "Too expensive for the likes of us!" he'd stride off up the incline, over the bridge, down the hill, along China Street, down another hill to the bus-station. Just in time to see the red Ribble bus disappearing down Cable Street, past the old baths towards Parliament Street.

"Never mind lad, it's not far to walk!"

Off again along St. George's Quay, up countless steps and over Carlisle Bridge, across Morecambe Road, up the hill, a short-cut past the prefabs and down the top of Sefton Drive, before turning right into their street, next to the Crows Wood.

Michael was just over six feet tall but he could not match his shorter father’s longer stride. His poor mother was soon quite out of breath.

"I don't know what all the hurry is, Gordon. I can’t keep up with you. I'm trying to have a word with our Michael."

Undeterred, Gordon marched ever onwards, still carrying Michael’s heavy case. All Gordon’s life he had had races to be won, self-imposed targets to be achieved. He never had much to show for all of his efforts, except some personal satisfaction. At the end of the day, perhaps that’s all that matters.

"15 minutes! We did it in 15 minutes!" he cried triumphantly, plonking the suitcase down and glancing at his watch, before taking out his front door key and letting them in.

He pushed Michael and his mother ahead up the hall, past the papier mache bowl on a stand, the one Michael had made at junior school.

"We are just as soon as the bus, seeing as how we'd have had to walk from Scale Hall Corner. We’ve lost no time. And we saved on the bus-fares!

"Now come on Margaret, make us a nice cup of tea. Michael will be tired after that long journey!" "Not to mention the long, knackering walk!" thought Michael. But he kept that to himself. It was only too easy for he and his Dad to start arguing about something or, more usually, about nothing!

Many years passed, and Michael prospered. In 1983, it was more than 20 years since he'd been on a train. He had his own car. He decided firmly to go to Lancaster alone. He'd leave the family at home. They lived out in the country but his wife had a vehicle too. She wouldn't be left in lonely isolation.

He needed some time on his own, time to go and find a part of himself all over again. Time to explore the foreign country of his past.

He drove to Lancaster in just over five hours, parked near the railway station and booked into the Castle Hotel, on China Street. It was great to be greeted by the old familiar local accents of the landlady and a chatty customer.

Michael lay awake most of the night, contemplating his first impressions and what they had told him. In some ways the place had been transformed. He recalled how it had been when he'd lived in Lancaster's, Edward Street, in the far away time before the Second World War...

• Information about the history of Lancaster Castle Station from the Lancaster Archaeological and Historical Society