Chapter 43: St. Mary's

Michael went to the little church school of St. Mary's for four terms. It was hardly light when he left home on winter mornings and almost dark when he returned. He had to come home for lunch. There were no school meals and no supervision for children during lunchtime.
Margaret, meanwhile, had no-one to look after Gwyn. It was too far for her to walk into town and she was too heavy for Margaret to carry all the way. She had to go in the pram, despite being a bit big for that now.

Margaret dragged the heavy contraption over the rough unmade roads and accompanied Michael down Scale Hall Lane and Morecambe Road. By Carlisle Bridge, she would see him across the road and watched him disappear up the slope to the footbridge that ran alongside the railway. She'd wait until he reappeared on the quayside in front of the school — he'd wave from across the river and go in. At lunchtime and after school, she met him on the opposite side of the road. It was a mile each way, and it took her two hours each day.

Gwyn was very ill again. She couldn't be taken in the pram or left in the house on her own. Margaret had no one to look after her, so Michael had to go to school unaccompanied. There was a short-cut over fields coming out close to the bridge. He went that way on his own because there was no pram to be considered.

The short-cut halved the distance but without his mother being with him it doubled his terrors. When she took him as far as the bridge he had only its crossing to worry about. When he was on his own there was a gang of lads who gave him a bad time. His nights were filled with ever-more troublesome dreams and he dreaded going to school.

"I've a stomach ache Mam," he would whine. "I don't want anything to eat. I think I'd better go back to bed."

She fell for it a couple of times before he was rumbled.

"All right -- you go to bed. I'll send for the doctor."
"I don't think it's that bad. It feels a bit better.."
"Put your coat on then! You don't want to be late for school."
"Must I, Mam?"
"Yes, you must. Give me a kiss and off you go! I've got to go upstairs and see to Gwyn."
Margaret put a brave face on it but she was worried sick all day, fearful of him having to cross the main road without her supervision.

She'd written a note to the teacher. The reply told her not to worry. Miss Clemence would ask an older child to look after him.

His tormentors were usually late arrivals at school so it wasn't too bad on the way there. He was usually at least five minutes ahead of them. It was after school when they bullied him.

60 years later, Michael would hear about racists' criminal activities at the top end of Ryelands Estate. A shop-keeper named Mal Hussain was the owner of the old Ryelands Co-operative Stores. He suffered all kinds of verbal and physical abuse at their hands. The inability of the police to deal with the situation created a national scandal.

The adult Michael wondered if those louts were the descendants of the bullies who'd made his life a misery in 1938 and 1939. He'd learned that some people love to have a victim and any excuse will do. Anyone who stands out is asking for trouble from their kind.

Michael's crime was not the different colour of his skin. It was the swift progress he was making at reading, writing and doing sums with Miss Clemence. She was always praising him, so he had a new nick-name -- 'Teacher's Pet'.

On his way home they started on him. A girl in the top year saw Michael across the road. Then she left him and went along a footpath called the Khyber Pass by the side of the railway, her quickest route home. Michael was on his own and at the boys' mercy.

There were six of them. They'd surround him as he tramped over the rough grass. He'd walk with some of them prancing in front of him. Another might jab him in the back. Once he was tripped up. One day his school cap was snatched and trampled on. There were constant jeers and hoots of derision directed at him.

"Teacher's Pet!"
"Wet the bed!"
"Cissy!"

Before they reached the top of Sefton Road, they wheeled off to the right and headed for the top of Austwick Road, hooting after him.

He never said anything to his mother. "I know what she's like," he thought. "She'll only make things worse. She'll tell the teacher. What can she do? They'll still get me when she's not there."

If only he'd been as brave and strong as one of King Arthur's knights! He'd have shown them a thing or two. But no, his story had no happy ending. He endured frequent assaults and kept it all to himself. One day they rubbed mud on his face. Sometimes his clothing would be dirtied.

"What have you been up to now, our Michael?" she would shout. "Playing rough games again I suppose!
"Money doesn't grow on trees you know! I'll have to have a word with your Dad. You'll have to stop playing those games. Do you hear?"
"Yes, Mam."
"Look at these trousers! How on earth did you manage to get dirt all over them?"
"I slipped Mam."
"Huh!"

The worst thing wasn't the bullies. Crossing Carlisle footbridge was worse than anything the lads said or did to him. It terrified him.

After he'd crossed the main road, he walked up a steep slope and then climbed over twenty wooden steps and went onto the footbridge. The way was narrow and stretched ahead of him, with room for people two-abreast. Eight foot high fencing was on either side, shielding him from the river below and from the main London to Glasgow railway line on his right.
In places the planks did not fit tightly and near the middle of the bridge there was a gap six inches long and one inch wide. He could see the river swirling a long way below him through it. At low tide, the river was narrow with mud and stones on either side. If he fell down there he would break his legs. If the bridge collapsed when the tide was in and there was lots of fresh water coming down the valley he would surely drown. He'd be swept away by the rushing river, all the way out into Morecambe Bay. He'd be lost for ever. No one would ever see him again!

It was a long way down to that water. Vertigo assailed him, combined with the fear of Davey Jones Locker. The memory of what Granddad Henry had told him about falling into the deep water of the Lancaster Canal returned to him every time he crossed the bridge. Who knew what monsters awaited him down below, ready to drag him down?

"I'll be drowned, just like poor Celia Wilkinson!" he thought.

In his imagination, the possibility of the planks separating, especially the two which were a bit wobbly, became a probability. Whenever a train passed over the bridge he felt trapped. He might hear the distant puffing of a steam-engine. He might hear the shriek of an approaching train's whistle. He might hear the clanking of a signal, on the gantry, near Castle Station and know that an express train was due.

Often there wasn't time to race to the far end and run down the steps. He did not know which was worse: the slow progress of a long goods train or the swift passing of a main-line express. All trains made the bridge shake and the proximity of the train and its noise was awesome. The worst shaking and vibration was the rattling metal shield between him and the engine. It made the noise ten times worse. He was distraught when the engine screamed a warning of its approach. It felt as though the scream was inside his head.

He fled from the noise which signalled an approaching train. He hoped that he would be scampering down the steep steps at the end before it arrived. He would delay going up the steps if he heard a distant train approaching. But he was often caught out by the swift and silent approach of an express. A noisy gusty wind might disguise the sound of any train coming down the line.

If he was trapped, he would stand frozen to the spot. He would tremble with fear, waiting for the long seconds of the powerful machine's crossing to end. It was a calamity if the shaking of the bridge subsided only to start again because a second train surged onto the bridge from the opposite direction. Still trapped, he would have to endure the ordeal all over again. It was well nigh unbearable for him when two trains passed on the bridge.

One morning, the tide rose and overflowed onto the quay. It crossed the road and licked up against the school door. All of the children had to stay in school instead of going home for lunch. There was no way to let the parents know, so Michael did not arrive home at his usual time.

A petrified Margaret wrapped sickly Gwyn up in a blanket and hurried all the way over the fields, the main road and the bridge. She waded through the water and went into the school by the back entrance. She did not know how she had managed to carry Gwyn safely all that way.

A surge of relief! Michael was there with the other children, who were all excited about the flood. They of course thought it was all a great adventure!

Margaret left Gwyn with Miss Clemence and went home to fetch food. She wasn't the only one. Other mothers did the same, much to Michael's relief. He wasn't the only 'Mummy's Boy' that day.

While Margaret was gone, Miss Clemence sat Gwyn on her big chair near the fire and some of the girls were allowed to play with her and make a fuss of the child. Gwyn responded and made them laugh.

When Margaret returned with sandwiches for Michael she thanked Miss Clemence and wrapped Gwyn in the blanket again. Gwyn waved goodbye to the children and told Miss Clemence, "I like school. Can I come again tomorrow?"

By the time Margaret left, the tide was going down and the excitement in the class subsided.
"Quiet everybody! Time for reading. Take out your books." Michael was pleased. It was his favourite lesson. He was already on The Second Beacon Reader.

An illustration from The Second Beacon Reader

Miss Clemence had new ideas. She was just out of Training College. She was properly qualified. In the mornings the children -- aged five to nearly eight -- worked hard. In the afternoons she devised ways for them to learn through play. She encouraged them to socialise and be nice to each other. The boys who bullied Michael were as nice as pie in class of course -- they smiled and said, "Yes Miss Clemence" and "No Miss Clemence" and "Sorry Miss Clemence," if they spilled some paint on the floor.

But the lads' attitude to Michael did not change when they got him on his own. They reminded Michael of the wolves in stories he'd read. Smiling, smirking wolves!

"What big teeth you've got!"
"All the better to eat you with! Grrrr! Get him! Teacher's Pet! Cissy! Wet your pants! Scale Haller! Shitty face!"

"Six lousy wolves!" he thought.
"Don't use that word. It's vulgar!" he imagined his mother remonstrating.

He'd wake up in the middle of the night screaming for help. Dad would be there. Dad still trying to save him from The Uglies.

But he knew it was no use. They would always be there. Out there, waiting for him. All of his life, appearing unexpectedly. Phantoms faking reality. Reality in the guise of ghosts. Old ones. New ones. Future ones.

The site of St. Marys School today, seen from the north side of the River Lune.

Chapter 42: Settling In

Hot water on tap in bathroom and kitchen! How Gordon enjoyed shaving without having to boil a kettle.

Margaret's washing-day was transformed. No more endless carting of heavy kettles to and from an open fire! No more heavy carryings to empty dirty water outside! Instead, there was a length of hosepipe from hot water tap to tub; then easy bailing out afterwards, from tub to nearby sink. Smalls were washed in the sink. A modern, easily turned mangle was attached to the tub. An airing cupboard with a hot tank! Drudgery transformed to manageable work!

Friday night was still bath night for the kids. No tin bath in front of the fire now! No boiling of lots of kettles before there was enough for them to bath in! Gone the old chore of emptying the water outside afterwards!

Michael preferred the deep end in the bath. Gwyn sat in the shallow end. Gordon and Margaret both attended the weekly ritual. Gordon rubbed Michael's back clean and Margaret did Gwyn's. It was fun! They were allowed to splash each other. Margaret spread extra towels on the floor to soak up any water which went over the side. Michael made a fuss when his hair was soaped and rinsed. He always moaned, "The soap's in my eyes. They're stinging."

Sometimes it was true. It never seemed to happen to Gwyn.

They were allowed to play in the bath after they had been washed. Gordon and Margaret would go downstairs and leave them to it. "Don't be too rough with Gwyn!" Gordon told Michael. The water play would cause them to yell and shriek with delight.

When the water was cooling, Michael would shout down, "Mam, we're getting cold!"

Gordon would come back to the bathroom. He'd lift Gwyn out carefully and carry her downstairs, wrapped in a soft bath towel. He'd plonk her down in front of the blazing fire. Margaret would dry her, powder her with talc and put on her night-clothes. Gwyn wore a liberty-bodice most of the year, to help protect her weak chest.

Michael would shout again, "The water's freezing! Come and get me!"

Gordon would return and lift him out of the bath and hand him a towel. Michael would wrap it round himself and Gordon would carry him quickly to the rug in front of the fire and dry him.

"Don't rub so hard. You're hurting me!"
"Rubbish! Don't be a softy!"
"I'm not!"

They had a cup of hot milk with sugar in it - "Drink it all up! Milk's good for you!" - Then they went off to bed. Michael had a big bedroom with an electric fire and an electric light. On bath night they put the fire on so that he didn't catch cold after his bath. Dad still read him a story and the bedroom light was left on until he went to sleep.

Gwyn had her own room, too. It wasn't so big as Michael's. It had a large side window. This overlooked the wood and the field. When summer came, she was nearly level with the birds. She watched them flitting in and out of the branches of the nearby trees. Crows lived high-up, higher than her bedroom window. She woke up to the crows cawing and other birds singing.

She liked to stand by her window during the day and see what they were doing. It was different but just as interesting as watching the workers going past the house in Edward Street. When she thought that she remembered kindly Celia Wilkinson going to her job in the mill.

One day she saw one of her cats snatch a bird in the grass. It started playing with it and teasing it. She thought it was a game. When the cat went away, the bird stayed still and did not fly. She could see blood on the grass. Gwyn rushed downstairs.

"Mam! Mam! Look what Jesse's done! I hate him!"

Margaret came and comforted her. It was no good telling the child, "Jesse can't help it. It's all part of a cat's nature." Gwyn would not be consoled and would not have Jesse in bed with her that night. There were no trees or grass in Edward Street. There had not been any birds for the cats to kill. It was another lesson: nature could be cruel.

Margaret told Gordon about it. He was philosophical. "It's no good love, we can't protect them from life. Such things are all part of growing-up."

Margaret's heart ached. She wanted her world to be perfect. She wanted perfect children. She wanted them to have happy lives, free from any troubles or pain. She knew it was unrealistic, but that's what she wanted.

They had their own garden at the front and at the back of the house, so Gordon was busy gardening at weekends. When the lighter evenings came, he passed many hours trying to subdue the wilderness out. Meticulous as ever he made a plan of what it would look like when he'd finished.

There would be two lawns. There would be an asphalt drive from one wide gate and an asphalt path from the other gate. They would lead down the sides of the house and meet by the back door. A concrete path would divide the back lawn. A wooden shed would reside in a far corner. There would be a rockery in the other corner. He would mix concrete and make a curved path leading to it. He would order the sand and cement and let the children help him.

Close to the house he would surround two small areas of soil with crazy paving and these would be Gwyn's and Michael's very own gardens. There they would plant seeds in late springtime and water them daily. They would be astounded when seedlings appeared and grew into beautiful snapdragons, pansies and summer chrysanthemums. He would plant shrubs and climbing roses up against one fence of the back garden and perennials in a border up against the other. The front garden would have borders for annuals all the way round its perimeter.

Gordon was planning his own Paradise. Within eighteen months he had created it. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place. The sun shone down on 'Cartref', Welsh for 'Homestead' and on Gordon and his family. It seemed that God was in his heaven and all was right with their little world.

Margaret still had her tins for the allocation of various expenditures. She no longer had to fight against damp and decay.

The semi-detached houses near them on Sefton Drive were almost finished and a nice couple with two young children were soon to move into the nearest one.

Shopping was difficult, though. The road was not made-up and it was hard work walking to the nearest shops at Scale Hall Corner or Oxcliffe Corner, and it was nearly impossible trying to wheel the pram. It was a bit too far for Gwyn to walk so Margaret had to carry her part of the way. The burden of child and heavy bags of shopping made her arms ache. Consequently, she tried to do most of her shopping on Saturday afternoons when Gordon was home. He didn't mind. He liked playing with the children. If the weather was good they all worked and cavorted outside in the garden, in the wood or on the field.

They did not see Granddad Henry very often but Nan caught a bus and visited every Thursday afternoon. At least her visits were predictable and Margaret could ward off criticism, by dusting more assiduously. She ensured everything was tidy before Old Eagle Eye's tour of inspection.

"I don't know why you let these cats in the house," she'd sniff. "There's plenty of room for them outside. Smelly things!"

Gwyn would carry her tortoise-shell moggy over to Nan and plonk her on her lap.

"Stroke Katie, Nan! She'll purr for you."

Margaret thought, "Go on Katie, dig in your claws. Give her a scratch!"

Michael loved his new home but hated his new school. He was confronted by new horrors and was terrified on his journey there and back. However, every cloud has a silver lining. There was one person who enabled him to find life tolerable at St. Mary's, who became the new love in his life. Joan had been supplanted by a beautiful blonde. She was young Miss Clemence, his teacher.

Chapter 41: The Cats

After the men and the removal van had gone the family had a cold snack, their first meal at Sefton Drive. They knew it would take days to sort everything out but they were happy. The modern kitchen was ready for use. There was a gas stove for boiling water and an oven for cooking. The electricity was switched on at the mains. Electric lights in all of the rooms! The upstairs bathroom had a toilet, a hand-basin and a bath. Michael was strong enough to press the handle down and could flush the toilet. Margaret made the beds. Gordon lit a fire. No cellar! An outside coal house was already filled with the coal.

Michael and Gwyn enjoyed running up and down the stairs which went up from the hall. It made a good echoing noise when they stamped their feet on the bare wood. They explored the garden. Some of the grass was taller than Gwyn.

When they returned indoors Margaret and Gordon were arguing about the cats. "What are we going to do with them? If we let them go outside too soon, they might run away."

Gordon was adamant, "They'll have to take their chance. Put some food out with them. They'll not stray. They know where they're well off. They didn't get lost when they first came to Edward Street did they? They're not stupid."

The animals were put outside the back door. They were shown their saucers of milk and scraps of meat. Mr Burt the butcher had saved a quantity for them. Margaret had brought a full bag with her.

As Gordon had forecast, all of the cats survived. None went missing.

Jesse was still allowed to sleep with Gwyn. The others came and went as they pleased during the day and spent their evenings with the family, in front of the fire. It was domestic bliss for all.

They had the females spayed. "If we don't have them fixed, we'll be overrun with kittens before we know where we are," said Gordon. The cats soon recovered and were none the worse for their operations.

In June, one cat -- Felix -- disappeared. They thought that he was lost forever. Gwyn was upset and cried, but the other cats definitely weren't worried: at the beginning of November, on a cold evening, he reappeared.

Humans and cats were all warming themselves by the fire when they heard a loud miaowing from the outside windowsill. Michael drew back the curtain and there was Felix. He was rubbing himself up against the window and demanding entry.

Michael opened the window and the cat jumped in to a chorus of greetings. He went round and round the humans from one lap to another, purring away. It was as though he'd never been absent. Gwyn was overjoyed.

It was a pattern repeated every year for four years but then, on the fifth autumn, during the war, he didn't come back, disappearing forever. Gordon tried to console Gwyn. He was on leave from the Air Force and made up some stories called The Adventures of Felix, making out that Felix was still alive. "He's having all sorts of adventures out in the big wide world," he told Gwyn. "He's a bit like me being away in the Air Force."

"But you come on leave to see us Dad. Felix never comes."
"That's because he's needed where he is. He can't be spared. He's vital to the country's war effort."

Michael quite enjoyed hearing Dad tell Gwyn all that. He still liked stories. But he knew this one wasn't true. Now that he was older he'd learned some of the differences between fact and fiction. He maintained that the very best of his stories had a peculiar truth of their own. It was the sort that spoke to the heart rather than the brain.

He was sure that Felix was dead. That was a shame, because he'd had the softest fur of all the cats and he'd liked to be the one on Michael's lap.

But Michael also knew for certain that the cat would live on in their memories forever. He asked Gordon, "Dad, is it true that if you remember something that's dead then it isn't really dead at all?"

"Sort of," replied Gordon. Thinking about his dead father, he went on, "In any case, you must remember it's very important not to forget people and animals you've known and loved. Loving them keeps them alive inside of you."

Michael had a vision of the dead cat scratching him, miraculously alive inside his stomach!

"You ruin that cat," Margaret used to say to Gwyn, when she caught her giving Jesse the cream off the milk. Michael was annoyed. It was the cream which he liked on his porridge.

"It's a wonder he doesn't scratch you," she scolded when she caught Gwyn trying to put Jesse in her toy pram.

"He's my baby!" retorted Gwyn.

There was a low boundary fence all the way round their garden. It was easy for the children to climb over it and go exploring in the woods. One or more of the cats would go with them. The children picked wild flowers. Gordon pointed out toadstools to them and warned, "Never touch those. They're poisonous. And keep away from the nettles! Or you'll be stung!"

What was to be the new school's playing field still resembled a meadow. All of that first summer, it was filled with wild flowers. Butterflies flitted about. Bees and other insects buzzed and droned through the air or alighted on the flowers of their choice.

Life for the cats and life for the humans was idyllic. All the children lacked were other kids to play with. The expected new neighbours had been delayed. Michael and Gwyn did not have any new friends until after Christmas.

However, Rob, Rosa and the new baby, Lily, moved to the bottom end of Ryelands in August, on Torrisholme Road near the railway bridge. Their new dwelling was only a short distance away across the school field. Another hundred yards and you were nearly there.

Chapter 40: Goodbye, Edward Street

Sheila's baby was born a week early, a fortnight after Jack's return. The Watsons had moved to Scale Hall in early April and Sheila had felt very isolated until Jack's home-coming. It had not been much fun carrying his child. He was out of touch abroad. Her only real friend was now living more than two miles away and it needed two bus rides to go and see her until she decided to pay for a taxi.

It was a very exciting time for the Watsons, though. With the money Celia had left them, they had a choice of any house which took their fancy and visited a number of new Lancaster estates. They would be able to move as soon as they made up their minds.

Most of the houses they viewed were semi-detached with all modern conveniences. All had front and back gardens. Suburbia beckoned and beguiled Margaret. Life would be more pleasant, easier and healthier, she believed. She could hardly wait to make the move.

Margaret set her mind on a recently completed detached house off Sefton Drive, bordering the Crows Wood. It was near the new school, which was being built on the far side of an extensive playing-field. They would have an uninterrupted view overlooking the woods and field. It would be lovely being close to nature and away from the cramped urban surroundings.

Gordon would still have a long walk to work. The nearest bus-stop was about a quarter a mile away and shops even further. Margaret would have no friends or relatives close by. But there would be no immediate, possibly troublesome, neighbours to worry about. She was convinced that she would be happier in suburban semi-isolation than she was in central Lancaster. The new school, when it opened, would be easily accessible for her children.

She didn't mention the big advantage for her of being miles away from Nan to Gordon. She thought, "If Gordon wants to see his mother regularly, he'll have to make the effort and go and visit her." It made her happy to think, "She won't be popping in to see us just when she feels like it. Those days will be at an end!"

Gordon expressed doubts about moving all the way to the Scale Hall estate, but Margaret dug her heels in. "Celia left me the money didn't she! There'll be plenty of room and the open field for the cats and nobody to moan about them. At least nobody near enough to worry us!"

"You're right," agreed Gordon reluctantly. Edward Street neighbours had been displeased by the unexpected increase in the feline population at the Watsons. Mild-mannered Gordon didn't want old problems following him to a new place. Trouble was the last thing he wanted.

He'd nearly brought a heap upon himself by one stupid, mistake, his night with Joyce, but that was history now. Thankfully Margaret had suspected nothing. He had his union book safely. He'd saved nearly enough to pay Joyce what he owed her. Recently she'd contacted him at work. One of the girls who used to work with her was now at Williamson's and she'd sent a letter by hand, telling him she didn't need repaying. Gordon replied expressing his determination to let her have every penny. There was no way that he wanted to be in Joyce's debt.

He gave up his occasional pint and stopped betting on the horses. They had plenty of money for a mortgage. He told Margaret that he was starting to smoke again. But he didn't. The extra money in his pocket went towards the five pounds he owed and soon the target would be reached.

They moved house on a Saturday. One of Fowlers Removals new motorised furniture vans appeared at eight in the morning. Two men started transferring everything from the house into the van.

Michael was not feeling happy. He knew he was going to miss his friend Joan. "I bet I'll never see her again!" he moaned. "And what about Nan, when am I going to see her? And it means a new school! Two different ones!"

It was true. He'd be going to a school on St George's Quay until the new Ryelands School opened.

He sulked. He hated change. He'd just become used to St. Anne's and now they were moving him. He used his favourite saying again and again, "It's not fair!"

His last day at St.Anne's, he'd felt miserable. During afternoon playtime, Miss Perfect asked him to stay behind when the others went outside.

"So you are leaving us today Michael Watson?"
"Yes Miss Perfect."
"Scale Hall is where you are going isn't it?"
"Yes Miss Perfect."
"Too good for Edward Street are we now?"
"Yes Miss Perfect."

She smiled, realising he'd not noticed her sarcasm. She handed him a note.

"This is for your new head teacher. Put it inside your desk now. Take it with you at hometime. Make sure you give it to your mother."

"Yes, Miss Perfect. Thank you, Miss Perfect."

At the end of school after her story they said their prayer. Then Miss Perfect said, "Good afternoon, children."

Everyone chanted, "Good afternoon, Miss Perfect" Then she ordered the children to say goodbye to him.

"Goodbye, Michael Watson." They all responded.
"Say 'Goodbye, children', Michael Watson."
"Goodbye, children Michael Watson," said Michael.

They all laughed at him -- even dour Miss Perfect.

When Michael complained about having to change schools twice in a short space of time Margaret knew he had a point. Michael had been making good progress at St. Anne's and she hoped moving would not put him back. Two school changes might affect him adversely. The new Ryelands School was not due to open until the summer of 1939. In the meantime, she'd managed to have him accepted after Easter at St. Mary's It was another small church school. It nestled close to one of the arches of Carlisle Bridge, just a road's width away from the river. Its location would present problems for Michael.

"But you'll have Rob not far away soon," she consoled him. "They're moving to Ryelands in July, so you'll be able to play together again. You'll be seeing him regularly. Next year you'll both be at the same school. With luck you'll be in the same class!"

Michael had to agree: that was something to look forward to. But July seemed a long time away and next year was an eternity.

On the day of their move Michael was up early helping to catch the cats. Each one was secured in its own cardboard box, collected over the weeks from Riley's shop. The house filled with their protests and wailing. Little Gwyn was worried by their distress. The cats were everything to her. She was even allowed to have Jesse on her bed every night.

After Michael had helped to sort the cats he was in the way rather than any help so his mother persuaded him to go to the playground for a while.

Joan had come to witness their preparations for departure. She offered to take Michael across the road.

"Right! Come on Joan! I want to show you what I can do!"

Joan accompanied him willingly. She'd always enjoyed visiting Aunt Margaret and Uncle Gordon and playing with the two children, especially Michael. With a heavy heart, she realised she was probably going out to play with Michael for the last time. It saddened her as she watched a now confident Michael show what he could do on the slide.

Somebody had greased it with candle wax to make it more slippery. Michael went up the ladder and came down fast. He was sitting down and shot off the end and landed on his feet.

"Brilliant!" Joan shouted.

Next time he turned round on the platform on the top. He came down on his stomach, feet first. He ran back to the steps and climbed them again. He was eager to show his last trick

Joan clapped her hands with glee and in anticipation!

He came down on his stomach, head first, arms stretched out in front of him. He slid down at a terrific speed and went straight off the end, crunching to earth and grazing the palms of both hands.

Joan gasped, expecting an outpouring of tears. The landing had hurt him. The hand that was still healing from the burning with the hot poker had bits of dirt embedded in it. It was very painful. But to her surprise, he made nothing of it. He brushed himself down and kept on going without a pause. He showed her how high he dare go on the big kids' swing. Then he showed off how easily he could run and jump on the swiftly turning roundabout.

"Well done Michael," she enthused. "You have come on a lot!"

He felt really proud of himself. Lots of kids had become bored with the playground, after only a few days. He'd carried on going there. He didn't need his mother and Gwyn with him. He could hardly remember his former fears of only weeks previously. He loved practising and developing the skills which he had just demonstrated. Sometimes he played on the yard all on his own at pretend games. He liked being a speedy car, an aeroplane or war hero. There was plenty of room to throw his bomb as high in the air as he wanted and for it to land wherever it liked.

Gordon had been delighted to see the change in Michael. As usual, he had a saying to suit the circumstances. "It's like President Roosevelt said, 'Nothing to fear but fear itself'! Well done Michael!"

The van was loaded by eleven o'clock. Michael went with his Dad to say goodbye to the relatives in Lodge Street then farewell to the three aunts and cousins in Edward Street. Next, Margaret took Gwyn to do the same. Nan and Henry came to see them off. Joan stayed with Michael right to the end.

Michael had a big adventure out of it. The removal men said he could ride with them. He could sit squashed between the door of the van and the tall, thin removal man sharing the passenger seat.

"It's very good of you," said Margaret. "Say thank-you to the nice man," she urged him.

"Thank-you!" said Michael. It was really high-up, next to the driver of the van, but not as high as a double-decker bus, nor the slide. He didn't feel a bit dizzy.

Gordon and Margaret took Gwyn to catch a bus to their new home. Nan and Henry walked with them to Dalton Square.

"I hope you'll be suited now you've got what you wanted," Nan remarked to Margaret. "I'll be over when I can, to see the kiddies."

Michael waved to Joan. The van went down the road past her house. She ran alongside the vehicle. She kept on waving until it disappeared out of sight down Lodge Street. Lace curtains in the road subsided into their normal positions.

Michael just knew he'd never see Joan again. And he'd really loved her! "It's not fair," he muttered under his breath.

"What did you say?" asked the man who wasn't driving
"Nothing," said Michael quietly, choking back a tear.
"Here son," said the thin man, holding out a bag of toffees, "Have a suck on one of these!"

Michael took one and said, "Thank-you!"

The van accelerated along Morecambe Road, went under Carlisle Bridge, turned-up Scale Hall Lane then bumped along Borwick Drive. Sefton Drive was next. They turned right at the T-junction and Michael could see his new house behind the tall trees of the Crows Wood. The trees hadn't any new leaves yet and the remains of last year's nests could be seen clearly silhouetted against the sky.

"Nice spot!" said the driver.
"Lovely house!" said his mate.
"Lucky lad, aren't you?"

Michael wasn't sure. But it was certainly one really big adventure.

Chapter 39: Jack's War

Aerial bombing of Barcelona in 1938 by the Italian air-force
Image in the Public Domain

It was early January, 1938. Jack left Sheila and his kids to go to Spain.

It was a difficult parting. Sheila simply could not understand what was driving him to go on such a dangerous mission.

"When I left Stuart for you, you said that we'd always be together," she told him. "Nothing could ever separate us."
"We won't be apart," Jack argued. "Not really! It's not as though I'm leaving you permanently. I'm not deserting you."
"Well, what are you doing then?"
"I'm going to do a job that someone has to do. The government won't do it, so it's up to volunteers."
"Why you? You're a family man with responsibilities."
"I've told you, you won't go short of anything. Every month there'll be twenty pounds in the bank for you. I've arranged for the rent on this place to be paid as well."
"I suppose the money's coming from the same source as for your precious charities. We're to be your new charity, are we?"
"You're not being fair. I'm trying to do my best for you and for what I believe in. They need men. Commitment's what's wanted. Try and understand! It's to do with justice. After all I've said at school, at meetings, to my friends, I have to do it. It won't lessen my commitment to you. I don't expect to be away for ever."

She had never been able to understand why he had been wasting all that money by giving it to The Cause. It seemed incredible to her what he was doing. Going and risking his life for strangers! She knew he was idealistic and impulsive but it was too ridiculous for words. He was always going on about keeping rules. His main rule should be to look after her and the children.

"You've changed your beliefs before now," she said, starting to cry, "when you gave up the church and took me on. What's so special about these Republicans?"

She knew she was wasting her time. His mind was made up. She'd have to make the best of things. At least the money he was allowing her would be sufficient. It was twice what a lot received to keep bigger families than hers.

Like Gordon, she questioned him about his very recent plans to move house and workplace. "How about the new job at Skerton School? What about the Corporation House on Ryelands?

"That's all taken care of. Until I get back!"
"If you get back!"
"Everybody seems to think I'm going to be killed. I'll be back! And starting at Skerton after the summer holidays. They're keeping a house for us as well."
"With a little help from your political friends I suppose! There's a lot of people wanting those houses. You and your rules! You make them to please yourself! You twist and turn like a snake."

She went off to bed, leaving him to write more letters. His correspondents had suggested he make his way to the south of France and cross into Spain from there.

Sheila did not go to the station with him to see him catch his train to London. She did not leave the dining-room when he departed. He gave the children hugs and told them to behave themselves. He picked up his packed suitcases from the hall and called back, "I'm off then. I'll write to you." She did not reply. He slammed the front door behind him and went to the waiting taxi.

When he arrived in Perpignan, he travelled on to Cerbere. A little train took him through a mountain tunnel to Port Bou in Spain. He was interrogated by Communist officials there, but despite not being a card-carrying member of their Party, he talked them into letting him proceed to Barcelona.

A month earlier, there had been terrible battles for Teruel. The Republicans had taken Franco's forces by surprise and won a famous battle. Over Christmas they were playing their guitars and dancing in the streets during what was to be their brief occupation of the place.

On the eighth of January, Franco launched a fearful counter-attack. It was one of the worst winters in Spanish memory. Soldiers in the field were frost-bitten and many arms and legs had to be amputated. Atrocities, committed by both sides, were absolutely barbaric. By the twenty-second of February, Franco had won. The Republicans had ten thousand dead and nearly fifteen thousand captured.

During the months when the Communists took sole charge, and before the final onslaught by Franco and his Fascists on Barcelona, Jack craftily persuaded the suspicious temporary rulers of the City to accept him as one of them. He'd discovered that it was true, the Communists were in sole charge. The old idealism and the hope for Socialist reforms were on the back-burner. All Stalin wanted was a victory against Fascism and a feather in his cap. He cared nothing for the Spanish peasants and their hopes for land reform. His vision was narrow, laser-like, always fired by self-interest.

Jack became a cook for a group of twenty wary Communists. He'd hardly boiled an egg in his life before. He wasn't given a rifle -- only dedicated members of the Party were given those.

He did have the advantage of being able to speak quite good Spanish and the Party made occasional use of his ability to translate for them so he soon gained some friends amongst the loyal Spaniards. He survived along with a few trusted English friends, right under the eyes of the suspicious Comrades.

These friends were members of the British Independent Labour Party who had been refused repatriation at the time of the Communist take-over. They had lived with the knowledge of the execution and imprisonment of some of their former friends. As with Jack, it was a case of making an accommodation with a lesser evil against a greater one. But they all had increasing doubts and were beginning to waver in their allegiance with the Communists.

Amongst most on the side of the Republicans in Barcelona morale was still high. There was a confidence that the struggle would eventually go their way. Jack worked in a large requisitioned house near the centre of the city. The troops had the best of what was available but some of the civilians were already suffering hardships and going hungry.

At the beginning of April, there was very bad news. People began to doubt if the war was winnable. Franco had captured Levida and reached the coast at Vinaroz. His triumphant soldiers plunged into the sea and swam rejoicing and exulting in their triumph. The Republic had been cut in two. The previous year the Basques had been subdued, their dreams of their own homeland gone!

Things were going from bad to worse. Many despaired.

Bombing raids by German planes intensified. Along with many others Jack often sought shelter on a platform of the Underground railway. Numerous buildings were shattered by bombs. The number of casualties mounted. He cursed the British Government for not having intervened. Its attitude was encouraging Hitler's hope that Britain would never try to prevent anything he did.

In May, France relented for a short while and opened her border. Arms flooded in to help the Republican cause. Three hundred Russian aeroplanes were transported into Spain to support the Republic. La Pasionara of the inspiring 'They shall not pass!' slogan denounced an effort to negotiate a peace with Franco. Still no help from Britain!

One afternoon, Jack was slow seeking shelter. A bomb exploded near him and he was left unconscious for many hours under rubble. When found he was taken to a hospital where his mangled right arm had to be amputated.

When he had recovered sufficiently, his friends were able to arrange for him to go back the way he'd come, through the mountains and back into France.

Jack's war was over. In July, he was at home with his family, in Lancaster. In three weeks time, he would be a father again.

At least he knew where he stood now politically. He detested the Communists. He'd seen at first hand their cruelties inflicted on many who should have been their natural allies. What a cock-up! What a mockery of unity being strength!

After much discussion, Jack and Gordon both joined their friends in the ILP. The decision of Fenner Brockway to renounce his pacifism that had led to his imprisonment during the First World War was instrumental in their decision. The two friends agreed that it was best to work for peace but there was such a thing as a just war. During a just war you had to fight for the good cause. They both felt that pacifism was not the answer if Hitler was ever to be thwarted. Jack became politically active in Lancaster again. He resumed his domination of many a meeting of those on the left and frequently made impassioned statements denouncing the Communists.

Nationally, the main problem remained unsolved. What was to be done about Hitler? Many, like the Prime Minister, thought that there were limits to his ambition. Only a few, like Churchill, strongly advocated more and more rearming. The trouble was Churchill had such a poor track record of failure and of being wrong on so many other issues. He stayed in a minority and his warnings went unheeded.

The Spanish Civil War had not been a minor affair, which its neglect by historians might suggest. One account states that there were well over half a million casualties.

•  Fenner Brockway was born in Calcutta in 1888. In his remarkable long life (he died just 6 months before his 100th birthday) he experienced some of the most significant, and horrific, events in 20th century history: two world wars, the Cold War, the development of nuclear weapons. For over 80 years he worked in every way he could to promote peace. There's more information about him here on the Peace Pledge Union web site

Chapter 38: End of An Affair

The wind was very strong coming up-river from the Irish Sea. Sleet was mingling with the driving rain. Joyce and Gordon could only just make out the road as they clung together, heading for the distant pub.

It hadn't seemed that far in the car but it was well over a mile to the Golden Ball and it took them half an hour, thankfully with the wind at their backs, before they saw the building they were seeking. Its bar and lounge lights flickered through what was becoming a swirling sleet and snowstorm, but the pub was still some distance away.

It was another 15 minutes before they reached their sanctuary. On the opposite and town-side of the river, unseen in the dark, was Gordon's workplace. Lancaster was just up river from there. The Lune would have to be crossed. Home was a long way away from this side of the water.

At last, they reached the slope from road to pub and staggered up it through the front entrance. Last orders had just been called. Only two farm-workers and two fishermen were left in the pub.

"My god!" exclaimed the landlord when the two sorry figures appeared in the doorway, "Where the hell have you two come from? Been for a swim?"

They stood inside the entrance, covered in snow and dripping water to the floor. Warmth from the open fires was so welcome! They were perished with cold.

The fisherman who was seated with his face to the door remarked to his friends, "Look what the tide's brought in!"

The others turned as one. Gordon and Joyce were nearly exhausted. They were blue with cold and absolutely wet through. Poor Joyce, wished that she hadn't left her knickers at home. She was freezing everywhere.

The landlord did his best for them. He put some more logs on one of the fires. He hung their coats up to dry and they stood in front of the flames shivering. Their limbs tingled and were painful as the circulation returned to them. He boiled some water and they had rum and sugar in it. Steam rose in clouds from them.

The customers didn't quiz them. The landlord did that.

They told him about the car that they'd abandoned.

"Can we hire one from somebody?"
"None of these lot have motors. Nobody round here owns a car love!"

The pub was on an embankment, parallel with the river, and protected by stone-facing when the water rose. High tides left it isolated from the rest of the world for up to four hours at a time.

Joyce entreated, "Well my friend just has to be back in Lancaster quickly. Somehow I have to go back to Morecambe. Can I ring for help?"

It was no use. Nobody round there had a phone.

The customers' heads were close together. They kept their voices down but Gordon heard two comments,

"Nice bit of fluff!" and
"Having a bit of nooky, I guess!"

There was a lot of laughter from them.

Gordon could not, definitely could not, see anything funny in the situation.

The landlord was a jovial man. He was tolerant and sympathetic. He was astute. He was resourceful. He pondered the problem for a while then whispered to Gordon, "I might be able to find you some help."

"How? Anything will do! So long as I get home soon!"

The landlord scratched the side of his nose then asked, "Have you got much brass with you?"
"Usual story!" Gordon thought. "Everything comes down to money!"
"No," he replied, "hardly any."
" I've plenty," Joyce intervened quickly. "What have you in mind?"

The landlord nodded in the direction of his customers, "Well, Harry over there has a bit of a boat and he might take your friend as far as St. George's Quay. And Sid has a pony and cart and he might give you a lift to Morecambe or to a bus-stop on Morecambe Road."

Joyce hesitated.

"You can't stay here love. Golden rule of the Golden Ball. As soon as that tide starts coming over the road, it's everybody out and off home. They'll tell you. Same for everybody."

Joyce made up her mind.

"How much?"

An old smugglers' haunt, the landlord's predecessors had a long history of making a few bob on the side. The present occupant knew what was what when it came to evaluating a situation.

"It won't be cheap. What with the time of the night and the weather! And it's a fair distance!"

He gave the matter some thought, stroked his chin, furrowed his brow and came up with a figure which made Gordon gasp.

"I think they might do it for five quid. Each!"

Gordon couldn't believe it. To him that was two weeks wages. Each!

Joyce thought to herself, "This man is a better hustler than I am!"

She wondered if she should try for a lower price. The landlord smiled benignly at her.

"Shall I go and ask them?"

She was still shivering, still cold, still wet through. She had to go home. She wanted to be warm again, more than anything she'd ever needed in her whole life.

"All right then! Yes, please."

A deal was struck. Harry and Sid drank up. Gordon was invited to go as soon as Harry had put his oilskins on. His boat was moored just outside. They could go straight away.

Sid had to go for his pony and hitch it up to his cart.

"I'll find a few sacks to put on the cart," he said. "I use it for carrying fish normally and that should keep most of the smell away from you."

Joyce shuddered. She contemplated her forthcoming humiliation. She could either catch a late-night bus dishevelled, wet through and stinking of fish or be taken all the way home and risk people she knew seeing her as she was carted through the streets of late-night Morecambe! Some choice! She decided to opt for the second undesirable option. Hopefully, there would be nobody about to see her on a night like this.

"I'll bring a couple of extra sacks and a horse blanket for you. You can wrap yourself in the blanket and put the sacks over your head and shoulders. They'll help keep the weather out"

Joyce shuddered again!

The landlord indicated that payment would be needed before the lads made a move. She paid with some of her white five pound notes. It was the first time that Gordon had even seen a five pound note.

The landlord winked at his mates. "I'll settle up with you tomorrow, Sid. All right! You don't want to get the money wet do you?"

" Right, Georgie, that will be fine. You ready then, my friend?"asked the boatman.

Gordon was ready. He and Joyce held hands momentarily.

" See you soon!" she said, trying desperately to give him the famous Joyce eye. The effect was spoiled by her smudged mascara.

"Not if I see you coming first!" thought Gordon, as he left for the ordeal of his river trip with Harry.

It wasn't as bad as he'd dreaded. The tide was with them and Harry knew his way easily enough in the dark.

"Know the way like the back of my hand!" he shouted to Gordon who was sitting huddled and freezing-cold opposite him. After half an hour of Harry's steady rowing, they were parallel with the quayside where Gordon walked twice daily to-and-from work. They went between the stone piers supporting Carlisle Bridge. Not much further up river Gordon alighted onto some steps near the old Custom House.

"Good luck!" called the boatman from the river.

Gordon knew he was going to need all the good luck going in order to survive the next half an hour. He hurried across town to Stonewell, Moor Lane and home. It was well after midnight. The house was in complete darkness. Margaret was in bed. That was usual when he had an evening union meeting. She'd expected him to go for a pint with Brian so she hadn't waited up for him.

He turned the knob of the front door and went in quietly. He hadn't needed a key because they never bothered locking up. He took his wet coat off and hung it on a hook in the passage.

He felt his way in the dark into the living-room. It was still warm in there but the fire was out. He stripped off. Usually, he slept in his shirt and long underpants but he removed those because they were soaked. He placed his boots on the still hot hearth. He hoped they might dry out a bit by the morning. The rest of his clothes he deposited on the stone kitchen floor. He felt for the towel which hung there and rubbed himself vigorously with it, trying to make his blood circulate again.

He dare not light the gas-light. He was frightened one of the family would see it and come down to investigate. He'd chopped wood earlier but he couldn't see to lay the fire for the morning. He left it. He decided to creep up to bed.

There was a flickering light at the top of the stairs, coming from the night-light in Michael's bedroom. He went into his own room across from there. Margaret was fast asleep. He managed to slide into bed without waking her.

He lay there cold and shivering for a while but slowly warmed up.

"By some miracle I've got away with it," he thought. He wondered where he was going to find five pounds to repay Joyce.

"Never again!" he vowed to himself. "It's time I grew up."

He was just dropping off to sleep when another thought came into his head which kept him awake for another hour. He remembered that he'd left his union book on the shelf at the back of the seats in Joyce's car.

Usually, after a meeting he left his minutes book on the little table in the parlour. Margaret was bound to miss it when she dusted. How on earth was he going to retrieve it from Joyce?

Joyce was lucky on her way home that night. She was huddled on the cart and just about hidden beneath the horse blanket and sacks which Sid had provided. They progressed quite quickly to Morecambe Road, White Lund and Lancaster Road. They turned right for the market. By the roadside between the rows of empty, snow-covered stalls she asked to be set down. Sid complied and off he went. The clip-clopping of the pony's hooves was soon drowned by the howling wind.

Because of the lateness of the hour and the appalling weather there was no-one about. She did not meet a soul as she went across Queen Square and up the road to home. She let herself in. All was quiet. She went into the living-room which was situated behind the bar. There was still a glowing fire in the grate.

"Good old dad," she thought, "he's made the fire up for me before he went to bed."

She took all her smelly clothes off and carried them through to the scullery. There was a hot water tap in the kitchen and she washed herself carefully all over trying to be rid of her fishy smell.

She went back to the living-room and put some bits of coal on the fire. Soon there was a blaze. She lay down in front of the fire and roasted first one side of her freezing body then the other.

They say the only real happiness in life comes from being free from recent hardship. Lying there warm again, dry again, she felt a real content. The joy of basic home comforts!

Her normal optimism began to resurface. She liked excitement and the evening had been a bit of a laugh really. No doubt she and Gordon would see the funny side of it the next time they met.

She went to bed. Dad had put a hot-water bottle in for her. She sank down into the warmth and comfort of her soft mattress. She had a heap of blankets and an eiderdown on top of her. She put the hot-water bottle between her legs which was a great comfort.

She smiled to herself as she thought about the different expressions on Gordon's face during their adventure, which had varied from worry, through consternation to almost blind panic. Then she went to sleep until nine o'clock in the morning.

That afternoon, she caught a taxi to Pyes Garage, who transported her to the marooned car. They soon sorted the problem and started the engine. She drove the car and they escorted it as far as Morecambe Road.

When she noticed Gordon's book on the shelf, she was delighted. "I'll meet him out of work with it tomorrow," she thought. It gave her the excuse to see him again. She thought she'd have a chance to arrange another date with him.

She was wrong. It was a bad decision. Gordon had quite enjoyed his mates watching him being whisked away by Joyce after the union meeting. He knew they would be envious of him and he would walk tall in their eyes. He was confident that not one of them would let Margaret know what he'd done. Joyce meeting him coming out of work was something entirely different. It was the last thing he wanted. There were far too many inquisitive eyes around. She pipped her horn and attracted his attention -- along with that of about two hundred others unused to seeing Glamour in a nifty sports car outside the works.

A highly embarrassed Gordon went over and asked, "What the hell are you doing here?"

She was disgruntled by the look of fury on his face when he approached her. She held up the book. "This is yours! I thought you might be wanting it."

He should have been grateful. All he could think of was that he and she were a centre of attraction. Dozens of pairs of eyes were on them, watching their every move. He almost snatched the book from her with a brusque, "Thank-you!"

He was about to stride off, but uttered a few more words before he did so, "I'll give you the money I owe you as soon as I can."

Then he went away from her. She sat inert in the car for a few moments. She was left staring after him. The crowd of workers pouring out of the factory, now in their thousands, filled the road as well as the pavement. The car was trapped for a few minutes by their tide. When their numbers diminished and she could see ahead, Gordon had disappeared. He was with the leaders, way up the quay near Carlisle Bridge.

"Ah well," she thought, "you can't win them all. At least I've got some of my own back on Margaret after all these years. Sucks to you, Little Goody Two Shoes!"

Chapter 37: An Affair

Gordon was always meticulously turned out. It wasn't vanity that made him spend so much time over his appearance. It was the result of his father's influence. Eli had been an Army sergeant. He demanded smartness. He cast a keen eye over both of his young sons after they'd washed, combed their hair and brushed their boots, and he always gave them a thorough inspection before they left the house.

"First impressions are lasting impressions," he'd say. "Come here our Gordon. Give me your comb! Stand still! You haven't got your parting straight. Your hair'll be falling into your eyes."

Or, "Those boots need a bit more spit and polish. You can't go out like that!"
" What would people say?" Nan added, always backing her husband.

Gordon's smart appearance, his healthy body odour, his large hands and his unusual eyes had a strong attraction for Joyce ever since she'd known him. She'd liked and fancied Gordon. It vexed her, but she couldn't help herself. She hated being vulnerable like that. His apparent inaccessibility was also annoying, and the fact that he had preferred her friend Margaret. These were the main factors which had spurred Joyce on to go looking for Gordon outside his meeting in the Trades Hall.

The result of his taking her bait was her triumph. She only wished Margaret had been there to see what happened! She felt a surge of mixed, pleasurable emotions as Gordon made his decision, accepted her invitation and opened the passenger door of her car.

Initially elated after he decided to go with her, Gordon soon began to have doubts. She drove him down town, over Skerton Bridge and headed for Morecambe. Halfway down Morecambe Road, she turned left down Ovangle Road and took the road past the Golden Ball pub. This road was often under water when the tide came up the River Lune. She drove on towards Sunderland Point, slowing to cross a cattle grid, turned sharp left and stopped the car on a secluded grassy slope.

"Where are you taking me?" he'd demanded when they left Lancaster.

"Not far! Don't worry, you'll be back home before the pubs shut."

He began to feel awkward. He had no idea what to say to her. Reality was not quite as easy to handle as fantasy. He was long out of practice with small talk, although she had plenty to say and he half-listened, wondering what he was doing in the car. He was having second thoughts, but it was too late for those, so he let himself be carried along by her.

"I bet you've never been here before, have you?" she prattled. "It's called Snatchems. We've crossed the marshes you can see from your works. It's really lonely and spooky this side of the river. Not that we can see anything in the dark!"

Her headlights picked out a narrow winding road. There were pools of water shining here and there. Muddy banks with tufts of marshy grass were glimpsed . There were no other vehicles around. But the lights were on in the Golden Ball pub as they drove past. Inside were some local farm-workers and fishermen, people who lived isolated lives and they were out for pub company. Their homes were not far away on land that was just above sea-level. When river and sea conspired with gales some of their land was flooded. The men and women were a hardy and resolute bunch.

"I've been here once or twice with friends," Joyce went on. "It's the first time I've driven myself though. I hope I remember the way back. Are you warm enough?"

There was no heater in the car and it was a cold night. The temperature was plunging and Gordon was a bit shivery.

He was surprised that they had parked miles from anywhere. He had thought that she was just taking him for a ride in the car. Something more serious now seemed a probability, and events were moving too fast for his liking. He began to realise what she really had in mind and he couldn't help thinking that home was a long way away.

A wind was rising and rain started to beat down on the roof of the car. He felt uncomfortable. He wasn't used to this sort of thing. He wished he was back in Lancaster, having a pint with the lads.

She leaned towards him after she'd switched off the engine. She snuggled up against him and said, "It's been a long time."

"Yes," he agreed.
"Are you glad you've come?"
"Yes," he lied.

There wasn't much room in the car. The steering wheel, the hand-brake and gear-stick were taking up most of the spare space. Then he plucked up courage. "What the hell!" he thought, "In for a penny, in for a pound!" Awkwardly, he managed to put his arm round her and kiss her on her neck. The scent of the old familiar perfume reminded him of how it used to be; there was even a slight taste of it on his tongue. He was up for it. She was more than eager.

What with that steering wheel and their two winter coats and the rain and gale outside and the temperature inside dropping by the minute, he had no idea how he was going to proceed successfully. It was definitely too cold to strip off. His sense of humour nearly got the better of him. He saw the farcical side of the situation he was in.

"Pity she's bought a sports car," he thought. "If it was an ordinary car we could go onto the back seat."

He opened the top button of her coat and felt for a breast. She had a hand up under his overcoat. He began thinking about Margaret. What would she think if she could see him now? He didn't want to think about Margaret but she kept on coming into his mind. He wished he was back home with her.

"What the hell am I doing here?" he lamented to himself. "We're not going to get anywhere anyway. Not in this tight situation! Not in this bloody car!"

Joyce had other ideas.

After a bit more foreplay she said, "I'll come and sit on your lap." Thank God it was dark. She could not see he was embarrassed.

"Talk about sardines!" thought Gordon as she somehow managed to put her legs over his, prise herself from under the steering wheel and sit on him with her head pressed tight up against the windscreen.

"Pull my things up!" she urged.

That wasn't easy, but she stuck her backside up against his chin and he just managed to pull her coat and dress up above her legs. But now they were over his face and he felt that he was suffocating.

There was still the problem of his clothing. He should have opened his coat and unbuttoned his flies before she moved.

"It's no good," he told her. His voice muffled from under her clothes, a bit like Michael's when he went into his bedroom on Sunday. Michael would go under the bedclothes and pretend that he was a submarine. Gordon felt that he was out of his depth. Thinking about Michael dampened his enthusiasm even more.

"It's no good. "he gasped, "I can't get at myelf."
"Where there's a will there's a way," she giggled.

So they tried again. She levered herself back to the driver's seat. He took his overcoat off and pushed it onto the narrow shelf behind him. Then she came back onto his lap.

At last they managed it. She'd come prepared with a Durex, slipping it over him, and manoeuvred like a contortionist, leaning down between her own legs.

Gordon hated Durex. His friend Brian said, "It's like washing your feet with your socks on."

Thinking of Brian, he recalled his friend's reproachful look as he'd climbed into the car alongside Joyce. He began to feel really guilty and cold. All he could think of were his family and friends. It was as though they were watching his every move.

Her having no knickers on helped. And she was certainly warm up there. Instinctively he rose to the occasion, his misgivings forgotten, while Joyce made the best of their difficulties. Despite all of his doubts, urgency intensified and all came to a speedy conclusion.

For Gordon it had been more like a duty than a compulsion. There would have been a lack of gallantry in not doing what she expected. Now it was over all he wanted was home. It definitely had not been worth it and he wished he'd never come with her in the car. He gave her a perfunctory peck on her lips.

As for Joyce, part of her was satisfied. She'd proved that Gordon was still attracted to her. But their togetherness had not lasted long enough as far as she was concerned. "Well," she thought, "it's a start. There will be plenty of other occasions. Now I have the car we'll be able to do this when we like."

Gordon went through minimum motions of expressing some affection for her but his one thought was about how late it was and how quickly they could be back in Lancaster. "We'd best be going," he said. "It's very late!"

Joyce struggled back to her own seat. She tidied up. She removed the Durex, wound down a window and threw it and its contents out onto the wet grass. The wind blew in on them.

"I think it's turning to snow!" Gordon said.
"What a worrier you are!" laughed a quite jubilant Joyce. She gave him another quick kiss and said, "That was nice wasn't it? We'll have to do it again soon."

Gordon didn't say anything.
She laughed again.

"I forget. You're not used to this sort of thing. Don't sulk! You mustn't be late, must you? We'll have you home in no time at all. We can't have Margaret worrying where you are can we?"

Gordon kept quiet. He wondered how Joyce could have done what she had done with her best friend's husband. He wouldn't, he couldn't, have done it with Jack's or Brian's wife! But what about himself? What about Margaret and him?

She smiled at him. "So it's 'Home James and don't spare the horses!'" She turned the key in the ignition.

Nothing!

She tried again.

Nothing!

"It won't go!"
"I can see that!"
"Hell!"
"Yeh!"
"There's a starting handle in the boot."
"What does that do?"
"T hey told me at the garage that you put it in a little hole at the front of the car and then turn it. It should start the engine."

Should!

It didn't!

Gordon was soaked to the skin by the time he'd climbed out of the car, unlocked and opened the boot and found what he assumed was the starting handle. He poked and probed with it and eventually located the place to push it in. It was a hard job turning it. He tried about twenty times and nothing happened. The next attempt caused a back-fire and the handle jerked in his hand and nearly broke his thumb. He'd already strained his back and now he had an excruciatingly painful thumb.

He opened the car door and told her, "It's no good. Nothing's happening. It won't start. We'll have to walk." There was no point him going and sitting in the car again. He was already wet through. Joyce put her scarf over her head then joined him, outside in the gale and rain. She slammed the door and Gordon asked her, "You said you'd been here before so which way's the quickest?"

Of course she didn't know. They'd crossed one or two narrow roads on their way to where they were but she had no idea where they led. They were in big trouble They were out in atrocious weather and with the possibility of being caught by an incoming tide.

There were a couple of lights further down the river, near the sea, on Sunderland Point. But that meant going even further away from home, with no guarantee of any help if they went there.

There was only one thing for it. They'd have to follow the road that they had come on and hope that someone would help them from the Golden Ball.

Dumb with shame and self-pity, numb with cold, worried sick, he set out with her in the darkness, leaving the car abandoned on the slope.

Chapter 36: An Ill Wind...

Now that Margaret's people had moved to Barrow-in-Furness, the Watsons stayed at home on Sundays. The exception was if the weather was very warm and sunny. Some summer Sundays were spent on the beach, at Morecambe or Heysham.

Margaret missed seeing her parents and hoped that she and Gordon would save enough to go and see them in August.

Henry or Gordon and sometimes both would take Michael and Gwyn out for an hour before dinnertime. "Out from under my feet while I prepare the meal!" Margaret said.

On their return, before he took his coat off, Michael went on his weekly errand to the little shop. It was just two houses down the street past Aunt Elsie's. His mother gave him an empty bottle of Tizer and tuppence-halfpenny, to go and buy a new big bottle. The Tizer cost threepence-halfpenny but there was a penny back on the bottle.

One Sunday, she gave him a shilling. "As well as the Tizer, ask Mrs. Hawes to let you have a tin of black shoe polish. Your Dad's run out of it and he needs to clean his boots for the morning."

Michael walked down to the shop. Joan was playing a skipping-game outside her house."Hello Michael," she said.

"Hello, Joan. I didn't know your mam let you play out on a Sunday."
"Well, she doesn't often. But she said I could today so long as I stay on my own and play near the house."

Michael went on to the shop. It should have been closed. Only newspapers were sold legally on Sundays, but the owner, Mrs. Hawes, risked it. You never saw any policemen down Edward Street and nobody thought about reporting her.

It was only a tiny shop. She sold stuff from what had been her front parlour. There was a counter with weighing scales on it and the door at the back of the shop led straight into her living room. She did her housework but kept one ear cocked for the bell ringing when someone opened the shop door. A few shelves held an assortment of tins and packets and balls of wool and reels of cotton. She kept crates of pop on the floor.

Mrs Hawes sold anything which she thought would sell. She avoided produce and any item which might rot or deteriorate quickly, because her place was no exception to all the other houses in the street. There were signs of damp everywhere. She could never guarantee a quick sale of anything, but sealed packs or strips of Aspirins and bottles of cough mixture sold steadily.

The shop doorbell rang as Michael opened it. Mrs Hawes came out of her living-room and lifted a section of the counter. She went behind it, greeted Michael and asked for his order.

"A bottle of Tizer and a tin of black boot polish please!"
"Cherry Blossom?" Michael knew his Dad used that make so he said, "Yes, please!" and handed over the empty Tizer bottle and received his goods and change.

Going back up the street, disaster struck! He was proud of going this errand and he always carried the full bottle carefully. He never ran. But today, he stumbled over an uneven flagstone. He was passing Next-door's empty house when it happened. He dropped everything he was carrying. The tin of polish rolled off the pavement into the gutter. His change went everywhere. The bottle fell to the pavement and smashed to smithereens. The Tizer was spilt and stained the pavement reddish-pink. He burst into tears.

He went into the house bawling, quite inconsolable. His pride was injured after his fall! Margaret went outside to sweep up all the glass fragments. Gordon went to the shop for a fresh bottle of pop. Gwyn cried in sympathy with Michael during the confusion. Margaret forgot the oven. The dinner burned.

Dad was all right about it, though. "Well our Michael, at least I can clean my boots now!" He'd found the tin and picked up all the change.

Much worse was to come the next weekend.

Michael had grown in confidence. He went across to the slide and swings on his own, soon after he arrived home from school. It still got dark early but sometimes he stayed there as long as an hour. He was friendly with some of the kids in his class and they came and played with him there.

Then one afternoon after school a stranger, a lad about twelve or thirteen, appeared on the playground. He was quite well-dressed and he had a pleasant smile as he approached Michael and his group. They were playing with marbles near the roundabout.

He was carrying a long poker. It was the sort that Michael's Dad used for poking their fire. He held it out towards the younger lads.

"Anybody want to learn a magic trick?"

The youngsters looked interested so he continued, "Somebody hang onto the other end of this and I'll show you." He was still smiling his disarming smile.

Gullible Michael grasped the end of the poker and felt a searing pain. There was a smell of his own flesh burning. The young lout had heated the poker in the fire at his home. It was nearly red hot. He'd come there with the sole intention of hurting someone. Michael screamed in agony and fled back home. The obnoxious youngster ran off down the street shouting, "The trick is, 'Never trust a stranger'!"

By the time Margaret examined Michael's hand blisters were already appearing on the palm. The stranger had disappeared down Lodge Street. She spread butter very gently on the burns and wrapped the hand in a clean bandage. Michael cried for a long time. It really hurt. He wasn't kidding. There was no play-acting.

Gordon arrived home for his meal half-an-hour later. Margaret demanded he go straight to Lancaster Police Station and report what had happened. PC Bracewell was on duty. He was sympathetic. He wrote notes down in the incidents' book. He said he could not promise anything, but he'd look into it.

"I'll have someone visit the Boys' National School down St. Leonardgate and see if we can find the culprit. He might be a pupil there."

They never found the strange boy. After that, Margaret wouldn't let Michael go to the playground on his own. She took Gwyn there and kept an eye on Michael at the same time.
"I'm here to be with Gwyn, not you. Nobody's going to call you 'Mummy's Boy' if I'm not with you." Michael agreed because he enjoyed being with his new school friends. Every day Margaret won some time from doing her chores. Before they went she made most of the preparations for the evening meal. The man of the house in from a hard day's work expected his meal to be ready on time! It was their only hot meal of the day and they all sat down together for it.

"Speak when you're spoken to!" was the rule.
"Your eyes are bigger than your stomach," was the comment, if Michael's plate was not cleared of all the food which he'd requested.

Any unasked for comment about adult conversation was dismissed with, "Little pigs have big ears! Children should speak when they're spoken to!"

Gordon seemed to have an apt saying for every possible occasion. The best thing to do was to shut up and eat up!

It was a Monday evening not long after the hot poker incident. Gordon came home from work bursting with news. He took Margaret into the kitchen. The children did not hear what he had to relate.

"Have you heard about Celia Wilkinson?" he whispered.

"No,"said Margaret. All she knew was that Celia had not stopped to have a word that day. The last time she had seen her had been before the weekend on Friday. She'd was her usual talkative, friendly self.

Margaret asked, knowing from Gordon's faccial expression that it was something serious, "What's happened?"

"She's dead!"
"No! I don't believe it!"

"It's true enough. Talking about nothing else at work. And look!" Gordon had bought a Lancashire Evening Post on his way home. It was on the front page, 'Mysterious Deaths of Lancaster Man and Woman'.

Margaret read on, 'Walking her dog, early yesterday morning, along the Canal Banks at Lancaster, June Gable saw two bodies floating under Penny Street Bridge. Miss Gable went to Lancaster Police Station and reported what she had seen. The bodies were retrieved from the water and are understood to be those of Celia Wilkinson and Keith Townsend both of Lancaster. Both persons were employed at Moor Lane Mill. There is to be a post mortem.'

There had to be an inquest. The deaths caused quite a stir. Not on the scale of the Ruxton murders but everyone locally wondered what had happened. At the inquest, it was ascertained that both had died by drowning. Fatty Townsend had a big bruise on the back of his head. It could have been sustained when he fell in the water and hit his head on the stone-banking under the bridge.

Miss Wilkinson's coat pockets had been filled with heavy stones and this seemed to point in a certain direction.

The inquest produced an open verdict, but there were many opinions about what had happened. The women at the mill were sure that Celia had killed Fatty and then drowned herself.

Not long afterwards, Margaret Watson had a visit from Cornhill's clerk. Could she go and see Mr. Cornhill the solicitor?

She left Gwyn with Elsie and went immediately. Mr. Cornhill showed her into his office. His manner was professional but very pleasant and polite. Margaret had no idea what it was all about.

Very worried, she asked, "Is it serious? Am I in trouble? Is it my husband's politics?" Gordon had been to Manchester recently for a demonstration against Mosley's Blackshirts and there had been a riot and arrests. Gordon had sworn to her that he'd kept well away from the centre of the trouble.

The old man quickly reassured her. "Nothing like that at all Mrs. Watson. It's something to your advantage."

Celia Wilkinson had left her two hundred pounds!

The only condition was that Margaret must take care of Celia's four cats which she had deposited with a local vet the day before she died.

Two hundred pounds and four cats! What a curious and entirely unexpected legacy!