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!