Chapter 63: War Casualties

Michael asked his Mam, "What's a telegram? What's happened?"

His Uncle Tom had just visited. There had been a very serious conversation with Margaret. Michael could tell, from the expressions on their faces, that something very unusual had happened. Uncle Tom had made no fuss of him or of Gwyn when he arrived, unexpectedly, to see them.

Michael had not been able to hear much of the urgent whispers between his mother and her brother. Just the odd word like "telegram".

Uncle Tom didn't stay long. As he left, he said to his sister, "I've informed them at Morecambe. I'm going to see our Charlotte next, in Lodge Street. Then I'm catching the eight o'clock train to Barrow. I'll be in touch as soon as I know more."

Margaret gave Tom a long hug. "Don't forget the Martins' telephone number. They won't mind you ringing there."

A grim-faced Tom, pulled the collar of his heavy-duty AFS raincoat up round his neck and ran off in the rain, to the bus-stop, to catch a bus to Lancaster.

Margaret didn't answer Michael's question. "Don't bother me now, luvvie," she said. "I have something I need to do upstairs."

She went out of the room and up the stairs, leaving Michael to play Ludo with Gwyn. In her own bedroom, the tears which she had held back, because she did not want her children to see her crying, now flowed from her and soon she was sobbing uncontrollably.

Tom had had a telegram from Authority, in Barrow. James, Beatrice, Julia and Baby Tommy had all been killed during the bombing raid the night before!

While that was happening, Michael and Gwyn had been fast asleep.The distant but loud explosions from across Morecambe Bay had not aroused them. Margaret shook them awake and hustled them into their warm siren suits.

She had a makeshift bed ready for them in the pantry which was situated under the stairs. Mr Jackson, the Air Raid Patrol Warden, had advised her that was the best place to be, if bombs were dropped nearby.

It was not the first time that they had had air raid warnings at night. The children were quite used to transferring from their own beds and sleeping together downstairs with their mother in the cramped space, in the pantry.

When Liverpool had been bombed, the raids went on for a long time.

Margaret lay awake, listening to the thumps of explosions, from more than fifty miles away. But last night had been different. It was only about eleven miles from their house, across the Bay, to Barrow. They had not known it at the time but it was her parents' town that was being attacked. The enemy's prime targets were the submarines at Vickers shipyard.

The noises didn't sound as though they were eleven miles away. Margaret thought they were being dropped on Williamson's. The explosions caused the house to shake gently. Her heart had thumped loudly.

Margaret worried about her Barrow relatives' safety. At the height of the bombing, she began to be frantic for her own and the children's survival. Would it be their turn next? She hoped that all of the other ARP Wardens had been as efficient as Mr Jackson, in seeing that blackout regulations were being kept. They'd been warned often enough that chinks of light might be seen by enemy pilots and guide them to you.

She was not prepared for what Tom had told her. His news was shocking. It was unbelievable. Tom was lucky to be alive. If he had not been stationed in Lancaster, he too would have been a casualty.

When was it all going to end? Ever since they'd moved from Edward Street, after a few months of happiness, everything had started going wrong. Her mariage had been upset by Gordon's lies and straying and by her suspicions. Then the war came. Since Gordon had joined up, her life had been an unending struggle to keep house and home together. Recently, Gordon had been behaving in strange ways when he came on leave. Now, to cap all of that, and put it all into perspective, this terrible personal tragedy had occurred. Four awful deaths, all in one go, was an unbearable blow!

She had a glimpse into the void, a feeling that life was pointless, that there was no justice, no fairness. What had she ever done to hurt anyone? Why did these awful things keep on happening to her? She was overwhelmed by self-pity.

"Mam! Mam!" It was Gwyn calling her. "Mam, when are you coming down? We've finished playing. I want my cocoa."

She went downstairs, to the children. She did her best to straighten her face and hide the fact that she'd been crying. But Michael noticed. "What's wrong Mam? What's the matter?"

She had to tell them. They had to know. But how?

"What did Uncle Tom want, Mam? Why have you been crying?" Michael had been sleeping quite well for some time. But, after his mother told him about the deaths at Barrow, the Uglies returned. He had nightmares, every night, and Margaret found him sleep-walking on three occasions during the weeks before Gordon's next leave.

Gwyn started sucking her thumb.

Margaret thought perhaps she should have spoken far more openly to the children, about what had happened to her Barrow family. But she didn't. She could not find it in her to talk about her dead mother and father, her little sister Julia and her baby. She kept her grief to herself as much as possible and tried not to let it show. She should have shared it.

One day, Gwyn said, "I wonder what Tommy was like. I wanted to go and see him. I wish we had a baby like him Mam."

Margaret had to head upstairs quickly because she felt the tears welling up again. "Poor Julia," she thought. "It's a good job she made the most of her life when she did. She was quite right, living only for a good time until her marriage."

The Lancaster and Morecambe contingent went to Barrow for the funerals. Michael and Gwyn went too. All of the local cousins accompanied their parents. It was in terrible contrast with their last journey. Everyone had been happy then going to Julia's wedding. Now, the train was crowded with soldiers and other members of the Armed Forces. There was only standing room in the corridor until the train began to empty at the stations round the Bay.

Aunt Charlotte's oldest, Amelia, was thirteen now and she was put in charge of the children at Dalton Road, during the funeral. Only the adults went to the church and the cemetery. The children watched from the windows as the procession of hearses and hired cars moved away from the house. The first destination was the local church where the wedding had been.

"Poor James," whispered Margaret to her sisters sitting alongside her in the car, "this time he'll have to go into the church, whether he wants it or not."

Dick overheard and said some feeling, "Aye, you never can tell when you're going to need the church. People think it's there for just when it suits them!"

Earlier that day, Margaret had gone to Ryelands, at the end of morning school, to collect the children. The Headmistress was busy with an Inspector. She pointed to the children's classrooms and told Margaret she could go on her own for Michael and Gwyn.

Margaret collected Michael first. She whispered to his red-headed teacher, Miss Farrell, whom she'd only seen, at a distance, a couple of times before. She told her what it was all about.

"I thought Michael had been a bit subdued this week," said Beth. "I thought that he had a lot on his mind. He's a bright lad you know. He's a joy to teach. I'm so sorry to hear your bad news."

"Thank-you," replied Margaret, anxious to be off, to go for Gwyn. "He'll be back in school in the morning. But he's bound to be tired." Beth told her not worry. She would take special care of Michael until he got over the bad news.

Margaret and her children arrived at Castle Station before the other relatives. They went through the entrance across from the Station Hotel. The hotel was closed and being used by the Army.

They crossed the bridge to the main-line platform, where the train for Barrow would arrive. Michael was glad they were early because of his new hobby.

John Martin had told Michael all about collecting train numbers. Michael had his book with him and wrote the numbers down of the engines which he saw. Next to a side platform, up against the buffers, was the little tank engine, which pulled, or pushed, a few coaches to Morecambe's Euston Road railway station. It travelled there and back, all day long. It was hissing away to itself and puffing out an occasional cloud of steam, waiting for passengers.

Michael wrote its number down in his notebook.

Over the other side of the main lines, and beyond the main platform buildings, there was an electric train waiting to set off for Green Ayre. Michael was not interested in that. He only collected steam train names and numbers. He thought how lucky Rob was, because he lived near the main line which went over the railway bridge on Torrisholme Road. All Rob had to do was look out of his bedroom window and take their numbers, every few minutes, as the trains went past.

The relatives duly assembled. They were very subdued. The children were very quiet during the journey. When they arrived in Barrow, it was a scene of devastation which met their eyes. There were gasps of astonishment and dismay. Michael could hardly believe what he was viewing. As they left the station, they could see lots of buildings had been bombed and demolished or half-wrecked. There were Army lorries parked, here and there, amongst the ruins, with anti-aircraft guns mounted on the back. From others, long thick cables were attached to barrage balloons, high in the sky, floating there like inflated elephants.

The station itself had suffered from blast damage.

The thing that really upset Michael was that ‘Coppernob' had gone. The plinth was still there and parts of the iron framework of its case. All the glass had been smashed and his favourite railway engine had vanished. Michael assumed that it had been blown up and that he would never see it again. Its destruction was another ingredient in his nightmares which were now filled with terrible explosions and parts of bodies flying through the air.

For the rest of his boyhood and youth he often thought about the happy visits to Barrow before the war. His memory of gleaming ‘Coppernob' was a symbol of those happy and secure times, before the bad ones came. Then, many years later, when Michael was middle-aged, just a few months before Gordon died, he took his Dad to York for the day.

Michael's mother and his wife went to have a look round the Shambles and York Minster. Gordon and Michael were still interested in railway trains, so they went to visit the National Railway Museum. Michael could not believe his eyes! "Dad," he yelled, into his partially-deaf father's ear, look over there! It's ‘Coppernob'!"

And so it was! It had survived after all. The pair of them examined it closely. Yes the old warrior had been damaged and patched up. If you looked closely, you could see where bits of shrapnel had made holes in it. It looked as good as new, all polished, and occupying a proud place , in the area dedicated to the glories of the age of steam.

"Well I never!" said Gordon.

Michael grinned and said, "Well, I never too!"

After the funerals in Barrow, Margaret wrote to Gordon, who had been unable to have leave and be with her during her first weeks of grieving.

Dear Gordon,

I hope that you are well.

As you may imagine, all is pretty fraught here. The children are still very upset and I can't credit what has happened.

In my mind, they are all still alive and getting on with their lives. I suppose I think that because we've been living miles away and not seeing them very often.

On the day of the funeral, I picked the children up from school. I met Miss Farrell, Michael's teacher. She seems to be very pleasant. You'll be pleased to hear that she told me Michael is doing exceptionally well in her class.

Anyway, we just have to get on with our lives. I wish you were here to help me cope. The children do miss you a lot.

I'm still working for Joyce. It may be that she has found Mr Right at last. She's always going out with the same chap. He's in the R.A.F. He's very young and he talks with a posh accent but he seems to be very nice. I don't know how long he'll be stationed at Morecambe. Most of them are posted quite quickly from here.

I have not a lot of news but I expect you know how I'm feeling. When is this war going to end? What is happening to all of us?

At least, I'm lucky with my neighbours. They've been a great help.

Michael likes hearing from you. Gwyn is learning to read now. She would like a letter of her own, if you can spare the time.

Have you a date for your next leave yet?

From, Your wife,

Margaret

"Can't even spare me a kiss on paper," thought Gordon, when he read the letter. "What a bloody awful life it is!"

During his last leave, Margaret had gone all cold on him again. He'd given her no new reason to be like that. That's the sort she was. Her trouble was, she expected life to be perfect and when it wasn't she took it too hard.

When he thought about Julia and his baby, he felt like screaming. It was even worse for him when he wondered if the bombs he was helping to drop were finding the wrong targets and causing the same sort of carnage amongst German civilians. It all helped to lead to his near-breakdown during his second set of missions.

What a predicament to be in: knowing the war was a just war; not wanting to let the rest of his team down, the best lot of men he'd ever known; but not wanting to kill innocent people; trying not to go crazy!

Trying! Trying! Trying!

"You must always do your best in life," his dad had told him, during his last time at home during the First World War, before he went back to the tenches and was killed. "If you can't do any good for someone, just make sure you don't do them any harm!"

The older he became, the more complicated life seemed. Compared with where he was now, life in peacetime at home and at Williamson's had been dead easy. In those days, he thought he had some of the answers to life's problems. Now, he was not very hopeful of knowing which were the right questions!

Chapter 62: By-Election

There had been no General Election since 1935. There would not be another one until 1945. But there was a by-election in Lancaster in 1941.

This pleased Jack Matthews no end. It gave him the first chance in years to support a political cause, which if successful, might have a real effect on the changes he wanted brought about in the country, once the war was over. The Independent Labour Party candidate, Fenner Brockway, was far-sighted enough. to be looking ahead in his speeches. He consistently outlined the changes in society that should take place after the so-called ‘People's War' was won.

There was also a pleasant side-effect for Jack during the election campaign. He had never had many restrictions placed on his long-standing affair with his former colleague at Skerton, Beth Farrell. His wife, Sheila, never questioned any of his spare time comings and goings. Nevertheless, the weeks of political activity, helping Fenner Brockway, gave him almost unlimited opportunities to be with her when he was not at work.

He read with interest some of the ideas in Fenner's writings, absorbed them and regurgitated them, whenever and wherever he had a chance to catch a vote.

Fenner had been to prison during the First World War. He had been a pacifist. He had published first-hand accounts, by front-line survivors, of what the battles in France were really like. For that, he'd been put in gaol. Authority hated the truth being told.

The Spanish Civil War and the rise of Fascism had caused Fenner to change his mind and he'd abandoned his pacifism. He'd learned from personal experience to hate and mistrust Stalin but he felt Fascism was even worse.

"I was in all my nature opposed to war," he said. "I could never see myself killing anyone. But I could not contemplate a Nazi victory. The Spanish Civil War settled this dilemma for me. I could no longer justify pacifism when there was a Fascist threat," he declared.

All very serious stuff! But, the campaign in Lancaster had its farcical side.

Opposed to Fenner Brockway, there was a truly gallant soldier, one Fitzroy Maclean. He'd risen suddenly and, by his own account, unexpectedly, from the lower ranks and become he said, " a f****** officer."

Tired of inaction in England, and dreading being sent to a chair job in London, he decided to try and go into politics. He was selected as the Conservative candidate at Lancaster. There was a month to the poll.

He'd never been a political speaker. Fenner had all of those skills and to spare. Fenner described himself as being fully behind the war-effort and the country's commitment to smash the Fascist enemy. However, he made a distinction between that and the awful failure of the old gang, now led by Churchill.

He listed the failures at Guam, Wake, Hong Kong, Manila, the Dutch East Indies, Rangoon, Benghazi and finally, the total disaster at Singapore after Chruchill became Prime Minister.
He spoke out against their attempts to ban newspapers which criticised Churchill's inadequacies as a leader. He condemned the wide-spread censorship in all of the others.

These attacks by the Government on the press, Fenner maintained, were a diversion, to stop the public from concentrating on the Government's lacklustre performances. They were blaming the messengers for bad news, instead of themselves. That was Fenner's message. It was not welcomed in all quarters!

Everyone agreed that Fitzroy was a hopeless speaker but he was good at downing pints of beer, shaking hands and smiling sweetly at people, especially women. He had good looks, almost of film-star quality, like Ronald Colman's. His candidature was endorsed by all three of the major party leaders. His smart uniform helped convince the Lancaster voters that here was the true patriot. Most of them were not going to vote for Fenner, whose truthful speeches could be accused of sapping morale.

According to Fenner, it was another of Fitzroy's assets which won the election for him. He had beautiful legs! He had a good figure, a smart uniform and a short kilt. Fenner complained, that while he was making a fine speech, Maclean would turn up and distract the listeners by displaying himself, peacock-fashion, at meetings.

Result: Maclean, 15,783 and Brockway, 5,418

After the result was announced, Beth and Jack mounted their bicycles and rode to Halton. There, Jack stayed with her for an hour before going home. They had a pleasant time forgetting their disappointment at losing the election!

Ten years later, there was a very close election contest at Lancaster. Legs again played a part. The Labour candidate was the beautiful war heroine, Dodo Lees. In the 1930s, she had been a journalist in Germany. Even Adolf Hitler, whom she detested, had said that he admired her long legs and fine speech making. Unfortunately, despite her superiority in the battle of legs and in speech-making, she too lost the election to Maclean.

Both had shown valour during the war. She was the only British nurse in the Free French Forces and won two Croix de Guerre awards. He won acclaim for his activities in Yugoslavia and wrote an acclaimed book, Eastern Approaches, all about his adventures there.

Lancaster was instinctively Conservative for many decades.

At the end of his life, Gordon would smile ruefully and say, "I've never voted for a successful candidate in my life."

Despite their defeat in 1941, Jack enjoyed the campaign and remained convinced that after the war the old policies would be rejected. there would be a better deal for the ordinary man and woman. "Our time is fast approaching," he assured Beth.

Two years before the 1941 by-election, his affair with Beth had reached scandalous proportions. At the two Skerton schools, the staffs had been well aware of what was going on between them. Neither of them was worried about being seen together. If anything, Beth was less concerned than Jack.

"What I do in my spare time is my business!" she would say, if challenged about her behaviour.

When the pair of them were found in a compromising position, in a storeroom in the Girls' School, after school hours, they were reported by a cleaner to Authority. The cleaner was the wifw of one of the local Fascists. Her action was not inspired so much by her outraged morality as by political vindictiveness.

"At it they were," she told her husband, "just like a couple of dogs. One armed Commie shit! Brazen-faced bitch that woman of his!"

"Don't worry love," replied her husband, "we'll fix ‘em!"

Beth was not asked to resign from teaching, but a veiled threat ensured that she left Skerton. She applied for a new post, at Ryelands School. She was appointed there in September, 1939.

Beth and Leslie still lived together. Leslie knew Jack well and did not think he was a threat to her friendship with Beth. Sheila suspected Jack was up to no good but she was not bothered. Since his return from Spain, she was pleased when he was out of the house. It was not worth bothering about, if his affairs were to do with things other than politics. She was comfortable enough with the material things he provided. She enjoyed being a housewife with three nice children. If only he were more affable and kind to her she would have been quite satisfied with her life.

Only occasionally, his behaviour at home became intolerable to her. She would have a go at him.

"You're a funny sort of Socialist," she told him. "I thought you were supposed to care about people. Your trouble is, you only love what you read about in books. You treat us humans, the people you know and have to live with, badly. You're just plain cruel."After her outburst, she started to cry.

Jack said nothing in response. Tight-lipped, he went upstairs to his room.

When Sheila's friend, Margaret, told her about her modelling for Mr Martin, and about the success in a local exhibition, of the painting he'd done of her, she was not envious. She simply found it odd, how Margaret seemed to be changing.

Mrs Martin had told Margaret that she had several admirers, amongst those who had viewed the painting in which she figured. She was placed prominently in the middle of the composition. Her sad expression, her pale skin, her off-shoulder blouse made an impression on some of the susceptible males, amongst the art admirers of the area. Her features stimulated romantic longings in several. They wondered who she was.

She did not know who they were and did not want to know. She had declined an invitation to the opening of the exhibition and had not been to see the painting hung there. Going to an art gallery would have made her feel nervous. She was not used to going to places like that.However, she could not resist telling Sheila all the details which had been relayed to her by Mrs Martin.

Sheila could not help noticing the considerable improvement in her friend's appearance lately. First of all the new teeth. Then, after she'd taken the job in Joyce's pub, she'd started wearing a lot more make-up.

"Wearing your Sunday face every day!" she told Margaret.
"Have to keep up appearances when you're working in public!" responded Margaret.

Sheila didn't remind her that only a few months earlier, Margaret would have described any female wearing her skirts as short as she was now wearing hers as, "Common! Common as they come!"

Times were certainly changing. Sheila had no particular wish to change with them. But she wished that Jack would change back to how he used to be!

Chapter 61: Margaret's New Job

Margaret's other bit of good luck came from Joyce. Joyce had dumped her long-standing Yorkshire boy friend and sold her car. She referred to him disdainfully as "War profiteer!" She visited Margaret one evening. She came in an Royal Air Force car. It was driven by a young Airman.

"This is Nobby," she said, breezing in as usual. "He's in Motor Transport and he always has some petrol to spare when I need to go on a visit."

"That's right!" laughed Nobby, "I'm always ready to help Joyce! She deserves it."

Michael would not let Joyce hug and kiss him. He cringed away. "He's like that now," said Margaret. "He thinks he's too old for a bit of slop. He won't sit on my knee any more. Growing up too fast for his age!"

Joyce picked Gwyn up and swung her around. "How's my lovely then?" she asked.

"I'm fine Aunty Joyce. Michael's got a new bike. Uncle Tom's bought it for him. He's let me have his old one. Do you want to see it?"

"Not now, love," her mother told her. "Let Aunty Joyce catch her breath before you start moidering her. Come on you two, let me have your coats."

Joyce handed her fur coat to Margaret. Nobby gave her his greatcoat to hang up in the hall.

Michael liked it when Nobby shook hands with him. It was just like two men greeting each other. "Pleased to meet you, mate," Nobby said.

Joyce had a special reason for visiting Margaret. She was short-staffed in her pub. Her rooms were all full up with Airmen and the rooms had to be claeaned. Her manager had been called up. Many of the local girls had found war work which paid better than cleaning or bar-maiding. It was all right in the evenings when they could earn extra on top of their daytime jobs. It was cleaning the place, in the mornings and looking after the bar at lunchtimes that was Joyce's main problem.

It occured to her that her friend could do with some money. Since she'd had her teeth done, she would be quite an asset behind the bar. Her male customers liked to have an attractive woman to chat to especially the married ones who were a long way from home and their wives.

Joyce described the situation to Margaret and asked her, "How about it then? You'll soon get used to serving. I'll be there to see you right. You'll enjoy it. Believe me!"

"What about my children at lunchtime?"

"Let them stay for school meals. The schools have started doing meals for those kids who need them haven't they?

"Well I don't know! What do you think, Michael?"

The man of the house said it would suit him fine. It would save him the long walk home and back again to school. Rob Matthews and Paul Howson, his two best friends, were already staying at school for lunch. They'd have more time together to play if he stayed.

"Please, Mam." He pleaded. "We'd like to stay - wouldn't we, Gwyn."

Gwyn wasn't so sure, but she backed Michael up."Yes please, Mam!" she said.

It was settled, when Mrs Martin said that Doreen could also stay for school dinners. Margaret had been taking Doreen to and from school most days. The Martins had looked after her welfare. It was a little something she had been doing in return. Margaret hadn't wanted to let her down.

Margaret caught the nine o'clock L6 Ribble bus to Euston Road, Mondays to Fridays, and the three o'clock bus, back home.

All morning, she cleaned the rooms, washed bed linen, ironed, tidied the bars and polished glasses. It was the sort of work she'd always done at home and for one or two women who'd employed her on and off since Gordon went away. She was unsupervised and the there were no customers to watch what she was doing. She liked it like that. She hated anyone standing over her while she was working.

The pub opened every day at noon. She left her morning work and went behind the bar. That was different. She'd never worked for the general public before and felt very nervous during the first week.

Fortunately, lunchtimes were not all that busy, except on Morecambe's market days, twice a week. Usually, most of the billeted Airmen were doing their training all day and did not return until early evening. But, occasionally, they would be given the afternoon off. Most would come back to their billet just after noon. Margaret would have quite a crowd of drinkers to serve. But many of Joyce's old, regular customers were away in the Forces. It wasn't the holiday season when she first started her job. Few visitors from away came in at lunchtime. She was never rushed off her feet.

There were a few pre-war customers, some lads on leave, who came in. Thirsty men and women shoppers had a pint, or an occasional short, after they'd been on the market searching for bargains. As Joyce had decided that doing meals at lunchtimes had become too difficult, because of the shortage of food, many customers had one drink, then left, to find a meal in a cafe, if they were lucky. Everything was in short supply because of the war.

Joyce showed Margaret how to pull a pint properly, how the till worked and how to change a barrel in the cellar.

"We have to keep the beer in good condition or they'll stop coming in. Nothing loses a regular customer faster than badly kept beer. Mind you, I don't know why they bother drinking it anymore. This wartime beer's nearly as weak as water."

The only cigarettes on sale were the dreaded Miners and occasionally, Turf cigarettes. The chocolate and cigarette machines were defunct for the duration. Under the counte were Players, Senior Service and Churchman's, Woodbines and a few more of the popular brands. "I keep them for the Air Force lads in the evening," said Joyce. "If anybody asks, say you're sorry, we only have the ones on show."

Margaret didn't mind the household chores. She began to really enjoy bar work. Once she'd overcome her nervousness, she liked chatting to the men who came in, especially the elderly regulars, when she got to know them. She'd spent so much time without adult company, it was all a pleasant change.

After Margaret had been serving for a month behind the bar, Joyce began to leave her in charge, except on market days. If her Airmen were out for the day she'd say, "Lock up behind you when you go home and put the keys through the letter box. I'll let myself in with my other keys."

It was always someone with a car who picked Joyce up, around lunchtime. There would be a double Beep! Beep! on the vehicle's horn and Joyce would come helter-skelter down the stairs, rush through the front bar and be on her away.

"See you tomorrow! Got to dash now!"

"That's Joyce!" thought Margaret. "Always in a hurry! Always up to something or other!"

One day, Joyce said to Margaret, "I've a nice surprise for you. Your brother Tom will be here tomorrow. I've managed to find a bed for him. He'll be staying with me for a while."

The next morning, Margaret was polishing some of the chairs, when her youngest brother came down the stairs. "Hello love," he said to his sister.

"Why Tom, what are you doing here.?"

"I'm in the Auxiliary Fire Service in Lancaster. I've left Vickers. I'm waiting for my call-up papers. I'm going to join the Army. In the meantime, I'm looking for a bit of action. I'm doing my bit for the war effort."

"But what are you doing here, now?"

"Oh, I was on late-shift. I'm just out of bed. Joyce lets me make my own breakfast. Well, you haven't said you're pleased to see me yet."

"Oh, I am Tom. I'm thrilled to see you. Mum and Dad all right? And Julia?"

"Yes, they're all okay. Julia's called her little baby after me by the way. We're going to call him Tommy."

"And Sammy?"

"He manages leave every few weeks. He's stationed near Carlise. Not far from home. Our Mam's loving having the baby to look after. Given her a new lease of life. Dad's not too keen on it."

"No surprise there!" Margaret replied. "Would you like a drink? It's nearly opening time."

"Breakfast first! Then I'll come through and we can have a nice little chat."

Margaret carried on with her polishing. When she'd finished, she unlocked the front door and went behind the bar. While she was waiting for some custom, she pondered all of the changes that had taken place in less than two years. She wondered if she and Gordon would ever be together again. It seemed to her that, slowly but surely, she was managing all right without him. She felt confident that if anything serious happened to him, but she did not want it to, she'd be able to cope. Joyce had told her that if the worst ever came to the worst, she could always work for her on a full-time basis.

"You my dear," she said, " are an absolute natural as a barmaid. I've had nothing but good reports of you from the men. Three inches off the hem of your skirt and you'd be perfect!"

Margaret laughed. "Oh Joyce, you'll make me blush. You are a one!"

Chapter 60: Repair Job

Margaret's financial worries eased because she had two pieces of good fortune. Mr Martin next door, and her friend Joyce were the providers.

One evening, Margaret had excruciating toothache. She had neglected her teeth for years. They had become her worst feature and detracted from her good look, and Gordon complained periodically about the state of her mouth. All she ever said in response to his criticism, was, "Dentists cost money. Have you any to spare? If you have I'll go and see one."

Unable to stand the shooting pains, she had to have help.In desperation, she went next door. She asked Mrs Martin, "Do you think Mr Martin could help me?"

Mrs Martin replied, "Why don't you come through with me. We'll see what he says." She was invited to go from the kitchen into the lounge. It was the furthest she'd ever been in the house.

In the hall, framed portraits, in oils of the Martin family and people Margaret did not recognise were leaning against the wall. There were dozens of them stacked in some places two or three deep. Others were hung all the way up the stairs. There were a couple of gloomy, stormy seascapes. If it was he who'd painted all of them then Mr Martin was obviously a very prolific artist.

When she went into the sitting-room, there was a very strong smell of linseed oil and of turpentine. Mr Martin was wearing a smock and had a pipe stuck in his mouth. He stood, palette and brush in hand, at an easel painting the figure of a nude woman. He didn't have a model. He was copying from a coloured postcard. Margaret did not know the painting but he was trying to make a copy of Gabrielle, the Renoir housemaid who had often modelled for the famous French Impressionist.

Mr Martin was very concerned when she described her problem.

"I think that I can help," he said. I always keep some strong pain-killers in the house. Excuse me a moment!"

He went out of the room to fetch some tablets from the bathroom cabinet and gave her four of them."Take two now, one before you go to bed and one in the morning."

"They will help with the pain," he said after Margaret thanked him, "But they will not cure the problem. If you like, travel with me when I go to the surgery in the morning. I will see to it that my partner gives you immediate treatment.

"That tooth needs to come out!" he insisted. "Mrs Martin will see the children off to school for you." His manner was brusque, but Margaret was used to that. She knew that he only had her welfare at heart.

Mrs Martin nodded in agreement and the terrible pain Margaret was enduring made her acquiesce immediately. She would do anything to be rid of the agony. She'd find the money from somewhere for the treatment.

Mrs Martin showed her out. "Come, at eight in the morning. The children can have breakfast with mine. You'll have time to catch the half past eight bus with my husband."

Margaret went home and took the tablets. The pain eased and she had a good night's sleep, but it was bavpck when she woke up. She took the fourth, and last, tablet and, later in the morning, she was sitting in the dentist's chair.

Mr Martin's partner examined her mouth. "It definitely needs to come out," he said.

She agreed to have the aching tooth extracted there and then, after she had established with him that she could pay his bill later. He struggled with the broken tooth and finally managed to pull it out.

When her ordeal was over, and she'd recovered sufficiently from the dose of ‘laughing gas' he'd given her as an anaesthetic, he strongly advised her to have more treatment, right away.

He told her, "I'm afraid that the best solution for you, unless you want a lot more pain, is to have all of your teeth out. It's possible to have them all extracted, and false ones fitted, all in the same day. You've no need to go around toothless in public. I'll take one lot out and put another lot in!"

He made it sound simple but would it be painless? No chance! She said that she would let him know.

The Martins knew she was hard up. That evening, Mr Martin came to see her. She invited him in. "No more pain now, Mrs Watson?" he enquired.

"No, thank heavens! I didn't feel a thing when your colleague took the tooth out. He's a very good dentist."

"Yes, he is!" agreed Mr Martin. "I believe he gave you some good advice."

"Yes," replied Margaret cautiously, not saying whether she intended taking it or not.

"Listen Mrs Watson," Mr Martin continued. "I know it's your business, but perhaps I may be able to help you to make up your mind about following that advice.

What he said next took her completely by surprise.

" Mrs Watson I am a dental mechanic by trade. I make false teeth. But I am also an artist. I think that I am quite a good artist. Maybe you don't know much about art but some people share my own high opinion of my talent. In time, the world will make up its mind too. I already have a good reputation locally," he told her, somewhat pompously.

"What I need urgently is a new model," he continued. "You would make an excellent one for the subject of my next work. You would be just right. I like the quality of your skin. You have the kind of face that I am looking for. You would make an ideal young, mother figure for a painting which I am about to start. It will be my most ambitious venture yet. It will be an allegory, about war and suffering.

"If you agreed to sit for me, in my painting you would be an anguished mother, holding a child killed in an air-raid. If you agreed , I would provide your new teeth for free and my colleague would ask only a nominal fee for his work. Now come madam, what do you think?"

Surprized by his proposal, Margaret nearly laughed in his face. What a strange offer! And he really was a pompous so-and-so, she thiught.

But he looked so serious. He really meant it, she realized as Mr Martin awaited her decision.

As well as being pompous, he could be bossy, she discovered. When she hesitated, he said, "Oh come along Mrs Watson, your teeth are in a poor condition. Bad teeth mean poor health! You will feel so much better if you have the treatment we've recommended."

He didn't say she'd look better too, but she guessed he would not be interested in painting a Madonna with black teeth.

"All right then, I agree," she said.

"Good, I'll see my colleague in the morning and make an appointment for you."

After he'd gone, Margaret remembered how Mr Martin had told Gordon that he could be relied upon to look after his family if they were ever in need. What, Margaret wondered, would Gordon think when she told him that she was going to be Mr Martin's model? He might not be too pleased about that. But it wasn't as though she going to have to take her clothes off! Gordon would be delighted her having new teeth. Hadn't he been on at her, for years, to sort them out?

So it came to pass. She had the dental treatment and Mr Martin had his model.

Michael and Gwyn played with John and Doreen in the Martin's dining-room during the sittings. Mr Martin had always tried to compensate for John's physical weakness which prevented him from playing out much. He was forever buying him indoor games when they were available in the wartime shops. The latest craze was for board games with war themes. John's old favourites, Ludo and Snakes and Ladders, were being replaced by the likes of Dover Patrol and England Expects. Card games like Snap and Pontoon gave way to games based on Whist. Canasta was a new favourite

John soon learned how to play and memorised all of the rules. He was a bright lad and Michael was not slow to learn from him. Despite this, John won nearly every game. Maybe the fates evened things out a bit, by making him lucky at games of chance, or maybe he had a natural aptitude for them. It was good for Michael because he had to learn to be a good loser. John was quite ruthless. He gave no quarter but was scrupulously fair. Michael didn't mind losing, so long as he gave John a decent game. He was learning early the difference between losing and feeling defeated.

The two girls played under the table, pretending that it was their house. They had their dolls and lots of clothes to dress them in. They had pretend tea parties, pretended to be naughty children and babies and devised all sorts of make-believe situations with their various dolls.

Michael really enjoyed being in John's house. Mr and Mrs Martin let them make as much noise as they liked and as much mess as they wanted. Just before the BBC's nine o'clock news, Mrs Martin would come into the room and tell them that it was time to clear up. They knew, that so long as they kept their side of the bargain, which was not to fall out with each other, and not to leave the room untidy, they would always be welcome to play there.

When asked to pose, Margaret was a bit bashful at first. Prior to the first occasion, Mrs Martin gave her a tattered skirt and a torn blouse to wear. There was dried red paint on the skirt which looked like blood. "He said that you have to look like a war casualty," Mrs Martin said. They were in an upstairs bedroom where Margaret changed into the stipulated costume.

"Why are you dressed like that?" Michael asked when the women came back downstairs.

Gwyn said, "You do look a mess, our Mam."

The four children were left to their games. Mr Martin smeared some grey and some black make-up on her face. "It will wash off easily. It's only greasepaint," he reassured her. He'd borrowed one of Doreen's dolls. He asked Margaret, to pretend it was her own dead child and to try to put a distraught look on her face.

Margaret was not keen on the idea. She hated the thought of having a dead child. It gave her the shivers thinking about it. But a bargain was a bargain!

When she looked at herself in the mirror now, she could hardly believe what a difference the new teeth had made. She looked like a glamour girl. Joyce wasn't the only one who could still be attractive! She quite fancied herself! There'd been a lot of pain to endure but the dentist was right. It had been worth it. She wondered how Gordon would react to her transformation.

When she changed her hair-style, Michael approved.

"You look just like Aunty Julia," he said.

Mr Martin did not speak to her once he commenced painting. Mrs Martin sat in the same room, close to the fire and the wireless, silently knitting or darning. It was dark outside and the heavy curtains were closed. It was warm and cosy in the room.

Mrs Martin found classical music on the wireless. It sounded strange and boring to Margaret at first. After a few sittings, she found herself listening to it with enjoyment. She began to recognise the music of some of the famous composers like Chopin. It was the ‘Warsaw Concerto' she liked best of all. It was very popular because it was the theme music, in the film ‘Dangerous Moonlight'.

Sometimes, Mr Martin would say to his wife, "No my dear, that music's not tragic enough. Find another station! We need music to suit the mood of the painting." Obediently, Mrs Martin would twiddle the knob, until she heard sad music. It would make Margaret feel sad too and helped her have a suitable expression on her face, the one which Mr Martin was trying to capture.

"Marvellous eyes! Mrs Watson has marvellous eyes, hasn't she my dear?"

Margaret felt embarrassed.

Mrs Martin looked up and smiled agreement, "Yes dear, she has," and went on with her knitting.

The sittings always ended at five minutes to nine. The Martins never missed the news-at-nine. Most of the nation would be listening too. It was the BBC which gave the nearest approximation to the truth that the propagandists permitted. Every evening, the listening figures were always high.

Margaret and the children would go back home as the chimes of Big Ben sounded before the broadcast started. There was a cup of water for Michael and hot cocoa for Gwyn. Then it was wash, undress and, ‘Up the dancers!' their absent Dad's nightly order and into bed.

"Don't forget to wash all that muck off your face, Mam!" Michael called down to her.

"Dirt you mean! Muck's a common word! We don't use common words." she retorted.

Chapter 59: Gordon's War

A Short Stirling bomber.
Via Wikipedia

Gordon spent a few weeks at Blackpool. It what was called a cushy number. He was kitted out with new uniform. He was visited one weekend, by his family. It was an easy initiation into Royal Air Force life. He made friends with several of the lads in his billet.

Then he had six weeks at Padgate for intensive initial training. That came as a shock. Drill, bull-shitting, tight discipline, verbal abuse from moronic drill-corporals and sergeants, insults from Physical Training instructors were all part of an extremely exhausting, daily routine. However, at the end of it he was fighting fit!

Christmas leave was a very welcome, temporary, respite from the enemy. The enemy was not German, he thought – but the petty tyrants at Padgate who ruled his every waking moment!

During his brief days of freedom, he and Margaret were much more at ease with each other. She was full of moans about his forsaking them and leaving them to a hard life at home. Nevertheless, there was an improved atmosphere in the house. She had missed him although she would not admit. She'd hated it being alone in their double bed.

After Christmas, he volunteered for Air Crew. He was sent to Hornchurch for aptitude tests. He was assessed as being suitable material. He was posted to Bomber Command for training as an Air Gunner. He would not be commissioned. If he passed the gunner's course, he would have the rank of Flight-Sergeant.

The chief benefit of it would be a substantial increase in pay. He strove as hard as possible to qualify. He desperately needed the extra money to help support his family. When he achieved the result he wanted at the end of April, his worries for those back at home eased.

The progress of the war was changing. The Phoney War was about to come to an end. The fall of France, the British Army's defeat and partial evacuation from Dunkirk were only weeks away. Talk of Hitler invading Britain was everywhere.

The obstacle to that was the Battle of Britain, in the late summer and early autumn. It was a crucial battle for supremacy in the air and the Luftwaffe lost. The prospect of having to face an invasion receded. When Hitler invaded Russia and, later still, the U.S.A. joined the Allies' side, it would only be a matter of time before the war was won.

That was a long way off when Gordon began his training to be an Air-Gunner in February. There would be setbacks and interruptions. It would be October before he was qualified and promoted.During that time and afterwards, a part of him came to be satisfied in a way that it had never been in civvy street.

As a trades unionist, he had looked for and preached the message of Unity Is Strength. As a Socialist, he had despaired when he read about the schisms and splits amongst the class strugglers, against the forces of Capitalism. As a family man, he had grown apart from his wife because her refusal to forgive him his straying with Beth. He hated her uncompromising attitude to life. He'd become impatient with her determination to put all of her effort into material things. He'd felt a desire for freedom and escape from the prison of his marriage.

"No, I'm being unfair there," he thought. "my marriage was hardly a prison!" But it was not the marriage he'd hoped for. It wasn't only Margaret's fault. Perhaps she was under-sexed or maybe he was over-sexed and that was the trouble. It was just how they were. No one was to blame. When they were courting, it had seemed different. She couldn't get enough of him then. Why was it so different once she had a ring on her finger?

"That's life!" he mused, as he sat finishing a letter to her with, 'All my love, Gordon'.

What he came to know and enjoy in the R.A.F. was the genuine team spirit, the camaraderie, the loyalty, the determination to 'stick by your mates no matter what.' He felt this very strongly as a member of Air Crew. There was a kinship amongst the crews of Bomber Command. Gordon developed an almost desperate sense of belonging with the men who shared his plane with him. It was a perfect consummation of mind and spirit.

Many men he had trained with and others who had flown alongside his aircraft had been killed. He felt a deep brotherhood with the dead and an acceptance that in due time it would be his fate in some respects his right to join them. In the meantime, there was the endurance, the bravery, the comradeship of the crew he was with. It all gave him courage in the face of his own cowardice, his doubts and uncertainties.

He clung desperately to the ideals which had brought him to what would probably be his coffin in the sky. At last, the instinctively good team-man within him was satisfied.

He tried to analyse it. Why should it be so when the cause was making war, of trying to kill an enemy, of slaughtering other human beings? Why did the worst of times bring out the best in people? Why had it not happened when he'd been trying to improve working conditions, to secure a fairer deal for his workmates? Why had there been so much apathy then?

Why had he betrayed his wife whom he loved? He knew that it was absolutely inconceivable he would ever betray or deliberately let down the other members of the crew of the aeroplane they flew in. Why? What unconscious forces remained dormant waiting arousal and then drove people in all kinds of unexpected ways?

During 1940, Gordon's Squadron was at Upper Heyford. It moved on to Finningley, Leeming and, in October, to Oakington. During August, Gordon flew in a Short Stirling bomber. They went on leaflet-dropping missions. They dropped mines at sea. There was no great element of danger in those early flights.

Authority had it all worked out. Crews had to bond. Any man who was uncomfortable with the other members could ask to join another crew. It was essential that their bonding should be tight and flawless. Gordon and the other seven airmen allocated to the Sterling Short were all more than comfortable with each other.

Officers and N.C.O's were on Christian name terms when flying. There was saluting, but only when a higher-ranking officer was present on the ground. They drank in the same bar in pubs. In one establishment, the barmaid informed them that the lounge bar was for officers only. The three officers amongst the crew went into the public bar with the rest of them. They drank with them and lodged a formal complaint with the management of the pub about the discrimination policy.

They shared the same fatalistic humour. When a plane went missing, it was a case of their comrades having 'gone for a Burton'. Burton ales had an advertisement which showed two men up a ladder and in the second of two illustrations, one was still on the ladder, the other had disappeared, having 'gone for a Burton Ale.'

That was a good laugh, wasn't it? Well, sort of...When you'd had a few pints, yes. It helped to be nonchalant, to be jocular, on the surface, when planes failed to return from missions.

The Stirling was a lousy plane. Its wings were too short because the Air Ministry had said they didn't have hangars to accommodate wider-winged planes! It had a towering undercarriage to compensate for that deficiency. Fully loaded, they could not persuade it to climb higher than 13,000 feet, although it was supposed to go to 17,000 feet. Its top speed was only 270 m.p.h. Its guns were only 7.9mm; the enemy's were 20mm or 30mm cannon. They were often out-gunned but at least it manoeuvred quite well when they had to take evasive action.

They survived their first five missions jubilantly. It was during those that inexperienced crews' losses were at the highest. After that, they were sent on ever more dangerous raids over enemy territory.

Gordon passed hours of inactivity up in his gun turret, isolated from the rest of the crew. They communicated occasionally on their inter-com. He damn nearly froze to death in sub-zero temperatures. To pass the time, he invented new Gordon games.

He counted the rivets in a small area of the aircraft. He estimated, by multiplication, how many there were on the whole aircraft. He multiplied that figure again by how many aircraft there were in the Squadron, then by how many in the whole Air Force. There were a lot of rivets! If he was a P.O.W. and interrogated would the enemy be interested in that information?

Doubtful!

If one plane weighed 46,900lbs, what was the total weight of all of the Air Force aircraft?

If it was 59 hours and 46 minutes since his last leave, how long was it to his next one, allowing for six weeks between each leave?

If the survival rate, for Aircrew, was approximately one-third after 30 missions, when they would be entitled to six months off active duty, what were the odds against him surviving now that he had completed 25 missions?

He made separate estimates for categories he'd heard about. What were his chances, he asked himself continually during each mission? What are the new odds? They slowly and dangerously progressed from 1 towards the target of 30. He based his calculations on some statistics that a half-crazed Canadian Bomb-Aimer veteran offered him over a few beers one evening. He said, "Listen mate, for every 100 Air Crew, during their full 30 missions, 55 will be killed, 3 injured, 12 made prisoners of war, 2 shot down and saved and 27 will survive."

Gordon asked, "Why does that only made 99?"

The mad Canadian ignored this and said, " Sod it! Who cares? Another pint for you or would you like a brandy?"

The missing unit bothered Gordon. He should have insisted on an answer. He didn't like things that did not add up properly. He carried on trying to make his own barmy calculations accurate. He spent the cold, boring hours flying over land and sea doing pointless crazy sums. It helped to stop him from going completely bonkers.

The engine droned monotonously. He wished he was at home with Margaret, Michael and Gwyn. He missed the cats. The last time he'd been on leave, his garden looked neglected and full of weeds. He'd dug up the potatoes they'd been urged to grow. 'Digging For Victory' they called it. Soon, it would be back to being the wilderness it had been before they'd moved into Sefton Drive.

He thought about Joyce and wondered what she was getting up to. He thought about Beth. He tried not to think about Beth.

He thought about Lancaster. How by enlisting, by one simple act, he'd transformed his existence. Instead of going over Carlisle Bridge and along the banks of the Lune to work every day, here he was, high in the air over Germany, in a bloody aeroplane that was supposed to have a range of 2,000 miles. It didn't meet any other of its other supposed specifications. Why should it meet that one? If they managed to drop their bombs and return, would they have enough juice to make it to their own aerodrome? This was the first time they'd been asked to fly almost to the limit of the distance it had been built for.

During the few minutes of anxiety during take-off and landing, during intermittent combat, and when over their target, all other thoughts were forgotten. They were the times of adrenalin flowing and of intense concentration. Gordon's flying time was 99 per cent extreme tension and one per cent absolute hell! Weird that such elements were what combined to inspire the mens' togetherness!

It never occurred to him to ask to be taken off flying missions. This was permissible. Your application could be accepted. You were not shot for cowardice. Not wanting to fight anymore did not mean you would be executed by your own side as had been the case in the First World War. Those who applied were simply stripped of their rank, classified as L.M.F. (Lacking Moral Fibre), humiliated publicly and despatched to another station and given the most menial jobs available. Bog cleaning, licking the boots of R.A.F. Policemen, and painting coal white were some of their more unpleasant jobs.

Michael knew his Dad was a hero and boasted about it to the all of the other kids at school.

The N.A.A.F.I. on Gordon's R.A.F. Station sold postcards. On the front of the cards were photographs of Britain's fighting planes. Before his every mission, Gordon wrote a message to Michael on the back of one of these. The cards were collected for posting, just before he made his way out to the board the aeroplane.

Dear Michael,
Glad that you like these postcards. Keep them clean. Love for you and Gwyn.
    Daddy.
Xxx For Gwyn.

Dear Michael,
 This is a photo of our latest fighter that is helping to beat the Germans. Be a good boy for your Mam. Daddy sends his love for you and Gwyn.
         Daddy.
       Xxxxxxxxxx

Dear Michael,
 This is a grand action photo of Wellington Bombers. It shows our brave and daring pilots and aircrews.
Love for you and Gwyn,
Daddy.

Dear Michael,
 This plane and the Spitfire are mainly responsible for the large number of enemy planes that have been destroyed. I hope you like this coloured one. Don't forget to keep the cards clean.
Love for you and Gwyn.

Xxxxxx For Gwyn.

When Gordon had completed his full set of 30 missions, he came home on leave. One evening, he and Michael placed all of the cards in an album, the sort that didn't need paste, so the messages on the back were not harmed. "You're a good boy Michael," Dad said, "The cards are in perfect condition. Well done!"

The next morning, Gordon dug the garden and planted some potatoes. He set himself a target. "I'll dig ten rows an hour. That means I'll be ready for planting by eleven. I'll be finished by noon. Just in time for some grub!"

Margaret watched him working. "Gordon, why are you going at it like a maniac? Why don't you stop and have a cup of tea?"

He replied, without looking round from his digging, "Can't stop! No time! Must be done by noon!"

"Why Gordon? Why?"
"Because! Because!"

She went on with her work. She smiled to herself, "The same old Gordon. He'll never change!"

During his leaves, Gordon went to see Jack and Nan. He followed the same route. Nan lived further on than Jack so he usually went to jack's on the way back from his mother's.

Going there he set himself other, meaningless targets. Successive visits which he sometimes confused with unavoidable missions had to be completed in an ever-decreasing number of strides. At first, it took him 760 strides to go from home to Jack's, and 1010 strides to arrive at his mother's. He had to reduce these by at least ten strides every time that he walked to one or the other.

The strain was beginning to tell and people gave him curious looks when his strides lengthened. He was an object of real curiosity when started making his journeys not by walking but by leaping.

It was when he visited Jack that Jack made one of his impassioned, impromptu statements. His words rang in Gordon's ears and stayed in his mind. Jack had told Gordon that he was no better then the Fascists who had bombed the towns of Spain.

"You're just as bad as them," Jack said. " You're killing innocent civilians on your bombing-raids. It can't be justified." He described vividly, the effect of bomb blast which he had seen on women and children in Barcelona. Dwelling on this was nearly enough to tip Gordon over the edge. Margaret noticed a persistent twitching in Gordon's right cheek muscles and an involuntary, pronounced blinking of his eyes.

The four of them were returning home from Morecambe by bus. At their stop, on Scale Hall Lane, he stayed on the bus, after Margaret and the children had alighted. When he arrived home, ten minutes later, he wouldn't say why he'd not got off with them.

The next evening, they went by bus to see Margaret's brother Dick, at Morecambe. Margaret and the children alighted at the Odeon cinema but Gordon stayed on again. He went as far as Euston Road before leaving the bus. He arrived at Dick's five minutes after the others. The children were worried. Michael could not understand why his father was doing strange things. In bed, Margaret coaxed an answer out of him.

Gordon explained, "You know that four-figure number, the one that is stencilled on the body of the bus upstairs, just above the big front window?"

"No, I can't say I've noticed," Margaret said. "What about it?"
"What I have to do, is start dividing it by two, time-and-time again, until I reach four places of decimals. Then I have to check it, to make sure that I've got it right. You have to have it right when you're on a mission?"
"What mission?"
"Every mission! They all count don't they! You have to complete your mission properly. Otherwise, there will be consequences.You don't understand! You've never understood! Nobody understands! Why did you ask me?"

Margaret frowned and said to him,"You're being silly Gordon."

Gordon smiled and replied, "Don't be stupid woman! Can't you see, I'm going stark crazy!"

Gordon counted the windows on a double-decker bus before he boarded it. He went to the upper deck. Before he alighted, he felt compelled to estimate how many buses were used on the Lancaster to Morecambe and Lancaster to Heysham bus routes. He allowed fifteen minute to go to Morecambe and half an hour to go to Heysham? How many panes of glass would there be in all of those buses, not forgetting the reserve vehicles, in the garages at Skerton and behind Roseberry Avenue? Not forgetting the single-deckers that were sometimes used! Not forgetting the other routes to Preston, to Warton and the outlying districts around Lancaster!

He'd started his calculations one evening when he was going home on leave. It was raining so he decided to catch a bus at Lancaster Bus Station. By the time the bus reached his stop, his calculations were only half over. He stayed on the bus way past his stop. The bus-conductor came and demanded extra money. "Sorry mate but you've gome past your stop. That will cost you extra."

Gordon replied, "I'll pay you when I decide to get off."
"Oh aye," said the conductor, "and when will that be?"
"When I've finished my decimals."

He went all the way to Heysham. He still had not finished his sums. He sat on the bus doing his mental arithmetic.

"You'll have to get off mate," said the conductor. "This is the last bus. We're going back to the depot now." When they arrived there, he told his driver, "We had a real nutter on board that last run."

Gordon had to walk four miles back to Sefton Drive. He still was not sure that he'd got his sums right by the time that he reached home after midnight. "Where on earth have you been? I was expecting you hours ago," asked Margaret.

"Shush! Just a minute, I'm thinking about something," he said, still trying to sort it all out in his mind.

His odd behaviour was noticed by Authority. He covered up cleverly at the medical he had to have. The R.A.F. doctors agreed, with some misgivings, that he could complete the second set of missions with his comrades. He was terrified that he might go berserk, while in the air, and be a danger to the others.

There were near misses. They encountered all sorts of dangers. Flak damaged the aircraft. Bullets from enemy planes injured some and killed one. The rest of Gordon's crew and himself survived. Many aeroplanes and their men did not. He learned that his best friend from gunnery school had been posted as missing after his aeroplane failed to return from the fourteenth mission of the second set of twenty.

Gordon was Michael's hero. He boasted about his father's role in the war, exaggerated his flying exploits and invented others. No one could contradict him. His father wore his uniform when he was on leave. Michael's friends had seen the wings on it which denoted that he was a flier. A generation of boys dreamed of growing up and being in Air Crew. They looked at Gordon with a certain amount of awe. They also wondered why he walked in such a peculiar fashion. Maybe flying in aeroplanes had that effect on you when you were back on the ground. A bit like a sailor's rolling gait.

Margaret had a regular job now helping Joyce, Monday to Friday. She worked during the
day in her pub.

Gordon carried on with his games. "How many boots are needed to shoe a Squadron or a Group or an Air Force? How many acres of leather are needed for the repairing of the soles? How many cattle hides are needed for the leather? How many nails are needed for fastening the soles to the boots?"

He felt compelled to find the answer to these and many other questions which clogged his brain. He muttered his calculations out loud during his lonely flights. At the same time he was ever vigilant for the enemy. Most of the missions were during the night, high in the sky, over Europe. At least they had a decent 'plane to fly now. It was a Lancaster, named after his own home town.

There was only the transparent canopy of his turret between him and the stars on cloudless nights, the dreaded moonlit cloudless nights, when they were an easy target for their enemy.

He decided against trying to count the stars. Even he had to admit that that would be an impossible target...