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| Summer
Blooms painting
by Mario
Ottonello. Reproduced with permission courtesy of Studio Arts, Lancaster |
She liked going without the children because Michael held her up, always pestering her and trying to have his own way. It wasn't easy pushing the pram along the crowded pavements, with him moidering her as well. Michael could be quite aggressive and
self-assertive. His emotions would soon surface and he shared his mother's determination to have her own way. Public confrontations were embarrassing and threats to deal with him for his bad behaviour, when they arrived back home, were not always effective.
Road trafic was increasing, year on year, all over Lancaster. North Road, New Street and New Road had all been made one-way streets in early efforts alleviate developing problems with vehicles. It was a busy town, people coming from the countryside to do their shopping swelling the numbers of local customers. Buses up Cheapside, along Market Street, King Street, Common Garden Street and Brock Street were a nuisance. There were awkward junctions and lots of vans, lorries, horses and carts. Cars had to be looked out for - and dodged - when you tried to cross the road. Horses and carts were slowly disappearing. The trams from Scotforth to Stonewell, whch had served Lancaster since 1905 had stopped running in 1930, also victims of the rise of the motor competing for room.
It was quite a business getting the children ready. Michael still wore a harness, for her to hold, to prevent him straying off the pavement, and Gwyn had to be made comfortable in the pram.
They were always telling Michael, "You're a big boy now. Big boys don't ride in prams."
Routine shopping bored him and sometimes he would hop about impatiently, tugging Margaret's coat and urging her to hurry up, when she was being served. It was different if they spent most of the time in the shops he wanted to visit! Returning from the town, he would try to persuade Margaret to let him ride on the pram, his legs swinging over the end, down between the handles. That was really hard-going for her. Luckily Church Street, was mainly down-hill on the way home.
Michael never stopped bothering her. Anything to gain her attention. He was three-and-a-half now and she wished he'd let up on her a bit more. She wished that Rob could come and play with him every day. It was the only time when Michael gave her peace.
As they left the house it was, "Mam! Mam!"
"Yes Michael?"
"How do you know Mrs. Smith has crows feet?"
"Don't be silly Michael!"
"I'm not. I heard Aunt Eva telling Aunt Betty."
"They didn't mean what you think."
"What did they mean Mam?"
"For heaven's sake Michael! Be quiet! We've got to cross Stonewell."
"Why's it called Stonewell, Mam?"
"Because it is!"
That was the trouble with grown-ups, Michael thought. They never told you what you wanted to know. If only they'd explain things better! His Grandad Henry, who'd married Nan, Granddad Eli's widow, wasn't bad. He'd usually tell you what you wanted to hear but even he had his limitations.
Michael was now absolutely terrified of "Davy Jones's Locker", which his Grandad assured him he would end up in, if he went too near the edge of the canal bank. His Grandad often took him for walks alongside Lancaster Canal. He liked going, but it was frightening under the dark bridges, because the water looked ominously very deep there.
He imagined Davy Jones waving up at him from the inscrutable depths below the surface. Grandad wouldn't reassure him, just left it to his imagination to run riot.
Margaret and the children crossed Stonewell, she keeping a wary eye out for traffic where four minor roads met the main one going through Lancaster. Having done that, Michael was immediately confronted with a place of mystery.
One Sunday morning his Dad had taken him past the long, wooden hut at the bottom of the hill next to Stonewell. From inside, there were the sounds of people singing and a brass band playing.
"What's that noise, Dad?"
"That's Sally's Army. That's where they meet. And that," said his Dad, pointing to the tatty-looking cinema next door, "that's the Bug Hut. Come on, we're late!"
Before Michael could ask more, his Dad pulled on his arm and they hurried up the hill, passing all of the other little shops and pubs which decorated the street with their wares, their signs and their local names.
Mam's first stop was Cavendish's, to pay her weekly 'on the never never'. It was part of the repayment for the new three-piece suite in the living-room. Her arrangement with the shop was not one to be divulged to Nan or other relatives. Hire-purchase was not respectable! Almost as bad as going to the pawnshop!
Mam left the pram outside and tied Michael's harness to a pram handle. Don't move!" she warned. "I won't be long."
"Where are you going Mam?"
"To pay 'The Never-Never Man'."
It sounded like somebody out of one of his nursery rhymes. "Who's 'The Never-Never Man', Mam?"
"Never you mind! Stay there and behave yourself!"
She disappeared into the shop to make her payment. When she came out, they carried on up the hill, crossed busy Cheapside and went up Church Street. It being Wednesday, one side of the street was filled with carts and stalls. There were loads of people buying fresh fruit and vegetables. Margaret bought herself a bunch of flowers. She liked a bit of colour in the house. Carnations were her favourite, same as the ones she'd had in her wedding bouquet.
They turned left at the next corner and Michael said, "Can we look in The Rocking Horse Shop?"
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| The Rocking Horse Shop on New Street, now Trojans Restaurant |
High above the toy-shop, on the opposite side of the road, there was a full-sized rocking-horse, fastened to the wall, a sign which attracted any child who went down New Street.
"All right," Margaret replied, "But we're only looking today. No more big toys 'til Christmas!"
After that, they crossed the road again to go to the new Children's Library. They went there once a fortnight.
Margaret lifted Gwyn, who had just woken up, and carried her into the building. Michael went ahead to the section of picture books. He soon found one he wanted. It was Myths and Legends of the World. On the front and back were brightly-coloured pictures of knights rescuing beautiful maidens.
He handed it to his mother to give to the lady.
"It's a bit old for him," said the fat lady, with spectacles, who stamped your books for you.
"It must have got mixed up with the picture books. Shall I help you find something else?"
She flicked the pages open for them to see and showed that there were no more pictures inside. Michael was adamant. That was the one he wanted.
"Dad will read the stories to me," he said. He told the lady, "My Dad's a good reader."
When Margaret was settling the baby back in the pram, Michael asked her, "What's a myth, Mam?"
"It's a sort of story which may have been true once upon a time."
"Aren't all stories true Mam?"
"Don't be silly! You know they're not!"
"No, I don't!"
He knew all of the marvellous stories he'd been told, all the nursery rhymes which he'd learned off by heart, to be true. They seemed true enough to him. He liked them because they never changed. If his Dad altered one of his favourites slightly during a repeat hearing, he would protest, "No Dad, it doesn't go like that. Tell it true!"
Margaret was ready to push the pram through the indoor market, where she would buy some meat, but Michael had another question for her, "What's the world like Mam?"
She sighed and tried to answer, "It's like a big ball. Huge! With all different people in it?"
"What people?"
"All sorts! Brown, black, yellow and white people like us."
"Why are we white Mam?"
"Because we're lucky and we're British. That's why we have to look after all the other people who aren't British. We have to help them so they can be like us."
"Why aren't they like us?"
"Because they're not!"
"Why do we want to change them?"
"Because we know what's good for them!"
"I'm a good helper Mam, aren't I?"
"Yes love. Come on, you can help me push the pram."
They went into Market Street, past the old Town Hall, crossed the road and had a look round the market. Margaret was looking for a cheap remnant of cloth, to make herself a new dress. She didn't find anything.
Michael was fidgetty again, so they went to one of the butchers who had their shops situated there. The butchers took up most of one side of the market. She was one of Burt's regulars and they exchanged friendly greetings.
Michael looked at the blood-stained sawdust on the floor and Mr. Burt's blood-stained hands. He looked at the animal carcasses hanging there and they reminded him of what he'd overheard about Doctor Ruxton and how he had 'butchered' his victims.
As they left The Market he asked, "Does Mr. Burt kill people too?"
"Of course not Michael! Will you stop being silly!"
"I'm not! Dad told me once that Doctor Ruxton wouldn't hurt a flea and look what he did."
His eyes then alighted on Atkinson's toy shop window on the corner of Market Square. Margaret agreed he could look but she wasn't buying anything expensive. He could have something out of Woolworths, for sixpence, but that was all.
Inside Woolworths, with the baby lifted from the pram again, she bought him what he wanted. It was a bomb and some explosive caps to go with it.
Caps were on strips of paper, divided up into little circles which you could tear off. Each cap was impregnated with gun-powder. You could put them inside toy guns, or bombs, and when impacted they would explode with a cracking noise, produce smoke and a smell of cordite. Caps fascinated Michael.
"We haven't bought any foreign muck have we Mam?"
Michael's Dad had given Margaret definite instructions about which fancy goods she should purchase.
"Look underneath!" he urged her. "There's usually a label. 'British Made' or 'Empire Made' is what you want! No 'Foreign Made' muck or 'Made in Japan' shoddy stuff. And definitely nothing with 'Made in Germany' on it, even if it is a bargain!"
By the time they arrived home, Gwyn was asleep in the pram. Margaret opened the front door and bade Michael to be quiet. She eased the pram over the front doorstep and left it in the passage. She and Michael tip-toed into the living-room. She took the poker and poked the fire then put the kettle on to boil, for a nice cup of tea.
"I think there's a drop of Tizer left. You can have that."
Michael loved Tizer. They sat together at the table which was covered with washable Williamson's oil-cloth. He liked it when there was just himself and his Mam.
"Mam," he asked, "what's Grandma's school like?"
"You mean 'grammar' not 'grandma'. You'll have to ask your cousin Geoff, that's where he goes."
She ruffled his dark curly hair and said, "You are a one. You wear me out. You and your questions!"
"Mam?"
"Yes Michael, what now?"
"Mam, can I go and try my bomb out in the backyard?"
Margaret was about to prepare the baby's bottle. Gwyn would be awake soon.
"I suppose so. But keep away from Next-door's side of the yard."
"Right Mam, I will. I promise."
Michael went out through the back door and into the yard, which was paved with flagstones. He placed three caps, side by side between heavy metal sections of the bomb. He just as carefully let the two bits close, firmly but gently, together.
He pretended to be an aeroplane. He stretched out his arms and flew around the yard.
"Mmmmmmmmm!" he droned, pretending to be an aeroplane engine. Just outside his own house's back door the pilot dropped the bomb.
Plop! No explosion!
He picked the missile up and the aeroplane took off again.
"Mmmmmmmmmm!"
This time he threw the bomb up into the air. It landed just outside the outside lav.
Plop! No explosion!
He picked it up again.
"Mmmmmmmm!" he went yet again. This time he threw the missile high up into the air with all of his strength. It came to ground.
Bang! it went! Right on Next-door's doorstep.
She must have been watching him. Out she came, at full throttle. The enemy plane came straight for him and smacked him one right across the cockpit. He was shot down immediately and was lying on the ground screaming, "Mam! Mam!"
By the time that Margaret had put the baby down and rushed to his assistance, the enemy had returned to base. The rescue party retrieved the pilot, heard his story and decided to wait for reinforcements.
After she'd comforted him and he'd calmed down a bit, Michael said to his mother, "She's a real bugger isn't she?"
As soon as Gordon arrived home, Margaret told him what had happened. She showed him the red mark on Michael's cheek where he'd been smacked. Then she told him about Michael swearing. Fortunately, during the commotion that was to follow, his swearing offence was forgotten.
"As soon as I'm in!" said Gordon, "Trouble! I don't really need this. I've had a hard day. Jepson's been on my back all day. Couldn't you have sorted it?"
"No I couldn't. This one is down to you."
"Who's Jepson, Dad?" asked Micheal, wondering who'd been playing piggy-back with his Dad all day.
"Shut up, you!" hissed Gordon.
He went out the back. For once, he was in a temper and ready to have a real go at Next-door. Being difficult was one thing but hitting Michael was different.
As soon as she answered his knock, he bundled her inside. He didn't want any of the nosey neighbours to hear him sounding off. They went straight into her living-room. But, before he could say anything, he was so astonished by what he saw, and what he smelled, that he forgot why he was there.
Most of the floor space was piled high with rubbish. There were stacks of newspapers. Heaps of old, tattered materials and clothing! Broken pieces of wood in one corner, and small branches and twigs off trees, all cluttered in another, almost up to the ceiling! Empty tins and packets were scattered everywhere. Loaves of stale, mildewed bread, in number several dozen, lined one wall. It was a stinking dump.
The curtains were closed, though it was still daylight. The mantelpiece was set out as a sort of altar. Two candles were lit there in tall holders. Hung on the wall was an enlarged photo, in a big, black frame. Surrounding that was a wreath, just like the one the King laid at the Cenotaph every Remembrance Sunday.
All this and more he took in at a glance. But it was the lumps of shit everywhere, where you could see the bare floorboards, that nauseated him, that assailed his senses. He was badly affected and had an almost uncontrollable urge to add to the mess by vomiting on it.
He turned towards her in disbelief. Her haggard face and mad eyes stared back at him. She held one arm protectively over her head.
She started crying and sobbing, then whimpered, "Don't hit me our dad. Don't hit me! I won't do it again. I'm sorry dad. Don't let him hit me! Please mam stop him!"
Then she let out an almighty shriek, rushed out of the room and Gordon heard her scuttling up the stairs.
Swearing was forbidden in the Watsons' abode. "Bloody hell!" said Gordon, still standing in the entrance to the room. "Bloody, bloody hell!"
He went out, leaving the door ajar. Shocked to the core, he went back into his own house, carefully examining the soles of his shoes before he did so, in case they had excrement on them.
"You weren't long!" said Margaret. "What did she have to say?"
"Never mind, I'll tell you when I get back. Keep the doors closed while I'm gone."
"Where are you going? she asked.
"To the Police Station!"
"What for?"
"I won't be long."
They never saw Next-door again and nobody ever moved in to her house, after she was taken away. The fumigators came and other men cleared up the mess. All the furniture and her other belongs were removed. The house stayed empty. Nobody rented it after that. No old friend, no relative visited the place.
They heard later that the poor old soul had had a dreadful life. She'd been ill-treated as child, suffering terrible cruelty, at the hands of her father. Married at seventeen, she'd lost her elderly husband in a mill accident forty years ago and her son was killed, in Flander's mud, in 1917.
Every time Gordon saw the empty house, with its curtainless windows, he felt guilty. He just knew that they'd got it wrong. They should have done something, anything, to help their neighbour. She should not have been left to sink into such squalor!
The house looked derelict and spooky. There was no-one to worry about out in the yard anymore. At least Margaret didn't have to worry about being moaned at every time she went out the back.
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| Lancaster's Junior Library today. Photo © Bill Jervis |
• Summer
Blooms painting
by Mario
Ottonello. Reproduced with permission courtesy
of Studio
Arts, Lancaster
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