One evening, just before Christmas, Nan had an unexpected visitor. She was indoors all on her own. It was Friday, and Frank was out enjoying himself with his younger friends from work.
Frank never missed Friday night in Morecambe pubs or dance halls. There was a women's only department at Williamson's and he used it as a source for finding new girl friends. He worked in the department next door.
It was said that any man walking through that women's room was asking for trouble. He took his life in his hands and would be lucky if he came out the other side with his trousers on. It didn't worry Frank. The females knew him well as a friendly bloke and he knew how to cope with their snide remarks. He knew how to charm the oldies as well as the youngsters, the not so good looking as well as the pretty ones. Undaunted, Frank often wandered in there, when his supervisor was out of the way, and cast his eyes over the females.
"Look out girls! Here comes Donkey Dick Watson!" one of the older women shouted.
The others responded with shouts and derisive laughter. Frank waved to his watching audience and made his way to one of the girls who was sorting expensive inlaid lino into a pattern. The jeers increased when he placed his hands lightly on her waist as she bent over her bench. She tried to ignore him. She carried on selecting bits of lino and placed them in the right place on the wide bench in front of her. He whispered something to her and she nodded her head.
The others' catcalls increased in volume but one very loud-mouthed female shouted above their row. "Another one to the slaughter!"
"You're only jealous!" Frank called back at her.
Grinning, he left their room and went back to his own work and the chorus of insults directed at him died away. The women carried on with some of their usual serious gossip and character assassinations of absent friends and acquaintances. Well, It helped to pass the time on during their long hours of labour.
Frank had already dated successfully and had his way with several of them from that department. His latest selection was a seventeen year old brunette. He'd taken her to the Floral Hall to teach her some of the new fad dances.
He intended catching the last electric train back to Green Ayre from the Promenade Station. He'd walk her home. He hoped the girl would ask him into her house for a while. He did not expect to be back home at his mother's before midnight.
The same evening, back in Marton Street, around eight o'clock, there came a knock on Nan's door. She moved away from the fire reluctantly. It was a cold evening and although she always kept a good fire the room was draughty and cool away from the flames.
She opened the door and saw a man in his mid-forties standing there. He was quite smartly dressed, in a black overcoat, and he had a trilby hat on his head. "I'm sorry to disturb you Missus. But I've come on behalf of the lads from work. We wanted to have the chance to pay our respects properly. Your husband Henry was one of us at work."
Nan had weighed him up and could see that he was a decent sort. "You'd better come in! It's freezing out here on the doorstep."
The man removed his hat and stepped inside. She closed the door behind him and went back to near the fire. She stood there waiting for him to say what he had to say. He put his hat on the embroidered cloth which covered her living-room table. He reached for something from an inside pocket and handed her an envelope.
"I hope you're not offended Missus. The lads at work have been collecting for old Henry. It isn't much. We thought it might come in handy for you, what with Christmas coming and all that."
Nan opened the envelope. There were five one pound notes, the equivalent of two weeks wages. It was a very generous offering. There were not that many employed in Henry's old department. They must have given money which they could ill afford.
The firm had given her nothing. She was not disappointed by that, because she had not been expecting anything. You didn't miss what you weren't expecting. She would manage somehow. She always had. She had a meagre war widow's pension. And her son Frank helped her out.
She certainly was not offended by the gift. Nan had known hard times. She had learned long ago that pride doesn't put food on a table or pay the rent.
"It's very kind of you. Will you stay for a cup of tea?"
"Well, yes. Thank you Missus."
"Take your coat off then. Put it over the back of that chair. You'll feel the benefit when you go out into the cold."
He spoke very quietly. He had a shy manner.
"Right then. Thank you. I'm Mr. Mort, Johnny Mort."
"Sit yourself down Mr. Mort. I'll put the kettle on."
While she busied herself making the tea Mr. Mort talked.
"I'm sorry I wasn't at the funeral. They wouldn't give us time off," he told Nan. "Like, all of us were fond of old Henry. He was a good lad. We all respected him. We wanted you to know how we thought about him. I'm the one who's come to see you, seeing as how I'm on my own like. The other lads are all at home with their families."
Nan said again, "It's very kind of you."
She kept her eyes down and her head averted. She was quite moved by the gift and by the stranger's words. She wasn't one for showing her emotions. She did not want her visitor to see her tears.
She made the tea and he stayed a long time. She found out that he came from a village near Preston. He went home on Saturday afternoons until Sunday teatime. The rest of the time he was at work
There was no employment around where he lived. Luckily, a friend had helped him. He'd kept in touch with an old mate from the wartime Army. He wrote to him and told him about about a vacancy where he worked. He applied and was given a job He'd managed to be taken on at Stanfast. It was a hard, dirty and smelly job but better than nothing.
For a while, he had been able to stay with his friend. But now he was worried. His mate's wife was expecting another baby. They needed his room. He'd have to find another place to stay during the week when he was at Lancaster.
"You don't happen to know of anybody do you?" he asked, as he sipped the last few drops of his tea.
Nan thought hard and had an idea. "I can't say now, but if you like to call again on Monday night, I might be able to help you." What she had in mind was her son Gordon's spare space in his new house. They only used their big sitting-room on Sundays. They lit a fire in there once a week to keep the room aired.
Hadn't Gordon told her that they were still trying to furnish that room properly? Hadn't she seen in Procter-and-Birkbeck's auction rooms a nice put-u-up? If they could acquire that cheaply, Mr. Mort could sleep on it and be their lodger.
It would be ideal. He'd have his own room for sleeping and eating. Most of the time, they wouldn't know he was there. Gordon had told her that her daughter-in-law was always saying she was bored. A bit of extra work would be good for her. They'd hardly be inconvenienced: he'd be away at the weekends and the money would come in very handy. She knew that they were still hard up. The mortgage on that fine new house of theirs was a blooming sight more than their old rent in Edward Street! It was a drain on their resources.
When Gordon called to see her the next afternoon, she put her idea to him. He looked a bit doubtful, but he said he'd see what Margaret thought about it.
Nan warned him, "You'll have to tell me what you decide tomorrow. I told the man that I'd let him know one way or the other when he calls on Monday."
"All right, mother," responded Gordon, "I was going to bring the children to see you anyway. I'll be here about eleven o'clock."
Margaret thought that it was an excellent idea and Mr. Mort was delighted with the offer. He went to see the Watsons on the Tuesday evening. An agreement was reached.
On the Thursday, Nan, armed with the five pounds which Mr. Mort had given her made a successful bid of one pound for the put-u-up and paid half-a-crown, to have it delivered to Sefton Drive.
Mr Mort moved in with the Watsons the first week of January. It was 1939 and more and more ominous signs indicated that war was not far away. However, for the time being, everything seemed to be going well for the family. The Watsons were prospering. After two weeks of money from Mr. Mort, Margaret felt well off. She was able to repay Nan the money for the purchase of the put-u-up.
The second week of January the new neighbours moved in next door. They quickly became good friends. And it was to stay that way for many years, through good times and bad.
Their surname was Martin. Hugh and Margo were about ten years older than Gordon and Margaret. The funny thing was, they never referred to them by their Christian names. Perhaps it was because they were from a class whose standing was slightly higher than the Watsons. They definitely voted Conservative because they put a leaflet in their window when there was a local election.
Gordon was eager to do the same for Labour but only succeeded after an argument with Margaret. "They'll think we're being awkward," she said. "They'll think we're only doing it because they've put one up for the Tories."
Their son John was three years older than Michael. Their daughter Doreen was two years older than Gwyn. John, like Gwyn, had been a delicate infant and he was never really well.
The Saturday that they moved in was a cold winter's day and their electricity supply had not been turned on. Margaret looked after their children for them. They played with Michael and Gwyn. She plied their parents with cups of tea and with soup at lunchtime. The Martins' electricity was turned on at the mains by teatime. The children went back to their new home. Michael and Gwyn expressed their delight with their new friends.
It meant that they would have someone to play with, whenever they felt like it. They still saw the Matthews each weekend despite the fencing round the school field. Locked gates had been erected. There was no neutral ground, no half-way house where they could meet easily. In any case, it was dark by the time the boys arrived home from school. Although it was a walk of nearly a mile to go and see Sheila was much nearer than before their move. Margaret found the time to go there some Wednesday afternoons. Because of having another baby, Sheila's need for company and baby-minding was greater than Margaret's.
For his part, Michael felt his life was coming better all the time. He still had to cope with the bullies at school but an ally had appeared and eased that. An older boy, Mark Gallant, a giant of a lad, had started at St. Mary's after Christmas. He lived at the top end of the Ryelands Estate.
On his first day at his new school, Mark was walking behind Michael and his tormentors. It was the beginning of the Spring term. He saw four boys grab Michael as soon as they crossed the road by the bridge. He watched them frog march their prisoner to the rough ground that led to their homes. He caught up with the gang. Their leader had twisted one of Michael's arms up behind his back and was pulling on it.
"Ow! You're hurting me," Michael squealed.
"Who's a mummy's boy?" snarled one of the lads.
"Leave him alone!" commanded Mark, pushing one of the group aside. They all moved away from the weeping Michael. They looked at Mark sullenly.
One of them said, "He's a softy. He deserves it."
"And you deserve this," retorted Mark. He gave the speaker a push which sent him sprawling to the ground.
"Now, who's next?"
None of the group said anything.
"What's he done to you?"
"Nothing," said one of the boys.
"Well, leave him alone then. Do you hear me?"
The boys muttered amongst themselves.
"If you don't, I'll get you. Do you understand?"
" I'll put my big brother on you," protested one of the boys.
" Oh yeah!" Mark snapped back. He smacked the kid across the face.
"Now you've got a reason! Tell your big brother I gave you one across your kisser. Tell him I'm ready to meet him any time he likes."
"And you," he said, pointing at Michael, "On your way! Right?"
"Yes," said Michael, wiping his eyes with his hanky. He made off towards home. As he went, he heard Mark saying, "Now listen to me, you lot!"
Michael didn't hear what Mark said to them. But they never troubled him again, apart from pulling faces and making fists from a distance in the school yard at playtime.
One evening, after the children had gone to bed, Margaret noticed the light on in a bedroom next door. It was a comfort to have good neighbours.
She heard Mr. Mort going upstairs, quietly, to the bathroom, running the taps and coming back down again, quietly, to his room.
She turned to Gordon and said, "Aren't we lucky? We've the house we've always wanted. Gwyn's not been ill, so far, this winter. Michael seems a lot happier at school. The children have nice friends to play with. Mr Mort's a good lodger and pays in advance. It's too good to be true. We've everything we ever wanted."
"Yes love," Gordon agreed. "We are very lucky."
But he still felt something of a void inside himself and longed for Beth to be in his life. He had many blessings, he thought, but he guessed it was too much to expect to have everything he desired. It was too much to hope for, to have her too. He found himself thinking about her too much of his time, especially when he was bending over his roller at work. Then reality would intervene.
"I'm just one big stupid twit!"
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