Chapter 72: Scholarship Boy

Michael was all mixed up. His teachers, his mother, father and grandma all praised his progress at school. His friends' parents, including Jack Matthews, gave him every encouragement to do well. He enjoyed working hard at his lessons. But Wilf's, Rob's and Paul's opinions mattered too. They were scathing about his reading habits, his bookishness, his being top of the class. He hated the label 'Teacher's Pet'. It wasn't his fault if he got all of his sums right, wrote interesting stories and was good at doing intelligence tests.

It didn't put him off trying to do his best at school. He tried hard to please his Dad. He tried even harder to shine at things other than school work. He wanted to be acceptable in the eyes of his friends. Their praise, not easily given, was highly valued. It came from them only occasionally. "You may be a swot but you're one of the gang all right, I have to admit that," said Paul.

"I'm glad you're good at something worthwhile, for a change," said Rob, after they had a race to the end of the road and back and Michael came first.

"Don't keep getting at him, he may be brainy but he's still a mate," said Wilf to Rob. Rob was in one of his sneering moods and had been taking it out on Michael.

The candidates, who were striving to win scholarships to the Lancaster Royal Grammar School, sat the exams at Dallas Road School, one Saturday morning. Rob and Paul were being give a chance but were not expected to pass. Paul felt ill and had a bad stomachache.

Miss Carter met them outside the school building and wished them luck. Teachers from other local schools were also there with their pupils. All of the boys and girls carried a ruler, two pencils and a rubber. There was a hushed silence in the room as the papers were given out face downwards. Stomachs turned over.

One boy ran out to be sick in the playground. Many of them looked white about the gills. The stern-looking schoolmaster sat behind a high desk, at the front. He read out, loudly, the printed instructions, telling how they should proceed with the exam papers.

Then he said , "Turn over your papers and begin!"

Once he started working, the butterflies in his stomach stopped fluttering and Michael concentrated on the task in hand.

Rob was one of the first to finish and sat there with a frown on his face. Michael completed the test just before the teacher said, "Stop writing now! Put down your pencils!" Paul was only half way through the sums, when he had to stop working.

After a playtime, they tried to complete an intelligence test.

The following Saturday they returned, for the writing of a composition.
Then they forgot all about the Scholarship, until the results came through the post. That was weeks later.

"Where's he going to go, if he doesn't pass?" Sheila asked Jack. "I don't think he should go to Skerton with you. The way you two are with each other these days, I think it would be bad for him."

"He can go to the Boys' National up Leonardgate," Jack responded indifferently.
"That's a rough school. I don't want him to go there."
"He's rough enough himself. He'll survive. It's a good idea. He'll find out how the other half live."

"But I don't want him to," protested Sheila. "I want him to go to the Grammar School with Michael. You can afford to pay for him."

"You've never liked him, have you?" Sheila sounded bitter and told Jack he was always being hard on Rob. "Because he's not yours!"

"Oh shut up, woman! Stop being ridiculous!" With that, he put his warm clothing on and said he'd be off.

"Fire-watching again?" Sheila asked sarcastically." You'll be out every night, if it goes on like this."

Once a week, Jack shared fire-watching duties, with two others. They slept on makeshift beds and did duties in turns: two hours on and four off. They had been trained how to use stirrup pumps and buckets of sand, to douse incendiary bombs.

The other nights when he was out, he cycled to Halton and slept with Beth. Leslie had gone away. She was in the ATS Jack and Beth had the house all to themselves. Jack was enjoying his war. He was managing to have the best of two worlds: Sheila's and Beth's.

Brian Howson wasn't bothered which school Paul went to. "He'll find his own level. He'll be all right!" His wife and Margaret disagreed about it being a bad thing their two boys going to be parted. Easy-going May Howson was quite upse at the prospect. "I think it's a shame. Their dads went to the same school together and I know the boys would like to do the same. I think that they should do away with these stupid scholarships."

Margaret didn't agree. She was smugly complacent about the matter andwhere the boys would go in September. So long as her Michael went to the Grammar School, she would be happy. If she thought about the system at all, it seemed to her it was only fair that the brightest should be given the chance to better themselves.

The weeks passed quickly by. Rob's gang now had girl members. Girls had become acceptable to the Top Juniors. There was no denying some of them were the equal of the boys at many things as well as school work.

Phylis Comber could kick a ball, climb trees and run as fast as any of the boys. She was the best swimmer of the lot of them. And she let you mess about with her a bit! Not too much mind you! Her mother had warned her about boys! You could look but mustn't touch!

In the holidays, a mixed group of boys and girls roller-skated all the way to Sambo's grave, at Sunderland Point. It was the last resting place of a young slave. He'd died in 1736, allegedly of a broken heart, after he thought that his kind master had deserted him. It was an unlikely story but the kids believed it. Paul's dad knew all of the local legends. It was his telling of the Sambo tale that inspired the group to go and find the grave.

Sambo had lived and died during the years of Sunderland's prosperity. The good times had been based on trade, including slaving, with the West Indies, trade only bettered by London, Bristol and Liverpool.

Curiously, Robert Lawson and other rich Lancaster Quakers, were prominent amongst the slavers. These men of God spent hours in their Meeting House, waiting for the spirit to move them, to good deeds. It must have been a bad spirit which moved them. They went out and indulged in evil trafficking in human souls.

The grave was difficult to find. You had to go from the old quayside up a long, narrow lane until you reached the deserted sea shore. It's a lonely place. It's on the very tip of a finger of land, pointing out to sea.

The pathway there was rough going: they had to take their skates off. Alongside the path, were nettles. Pretty blue harebells shone brightly amongst the rough grass. They climbed a fence. There was a wooden sign pointing to the grave. It was set back and on a sort of small grassy plateau. There was a brass plaque on the grave. The kids knelt around there. Michael read some of the verse engraved on it.

“Full sixty years the angry winter's wave
Has thundering dash'd this bleak and barren shore,
Since Sambo's head laid in this lonely grave
Lies still and ne'er will hear their turmoil more.”

By the time they arrived back on the quay, the tide was coming in. They really did have to get their skates on, in order to beat the rising waters. The first ripples of water were over the road, outside the Golden Ball, as they roller-skated past.

They were carefree eleven-year-olds and it was exciting having such a race against a natural hazard. In fact, it was highly dangerous. Over the years, several children had been drowned on Snatchems. On this occasion they all arrived home safely.

None of them told about their narrow escape!

The first time Michael tried to kiss one of the girls from his class was by an old stone horse trough, situated just inside the school-field gate, off Sefton Drive. Authority had deemed the gate could be left open during the dry months of the year. Its main purpose was to give access for the occasional lorry and for the school's groundsmen and their equipment. They had a brick shed just inside the entrance The children who lived nearby used the entrance to make a short cut to school. It was only half the distance walking diagonally over the field, compared with going round the estate.

It happened on his way home. They were both dawdling, behind the others. Michael showed blonde, freckle-faced Julie, his favourite glass marble. While she bent forward, and was admiring the lovely colours trapped in the glass, he tried to kiss her on the cheek.

"Get off!" she said, wiping her cheek. She ran off home, leaving an abashed Michael standing there. Several of the boys had girl-friends. Michael had hoped that Julie would be his. Obviously, he was not to her taste!

Anna Leper was a kind girl. She sat in the desk just behind Michael. She had long brown hair, tied back with bits of ribbon either side of her face. When Michael was unable to spell a word during a spelling test, she leaned forward and whispered the answer in Michael's ear.

When Miss Carter decided to conduct a survey of her pupils' home life, her questions included, "Who listens to the wireless? Who has a wireless at home?"

The Watsons had one but it had not been working for three years. It probably needed a new valve which they could not afford. Margaret was not all that bothered about it and Gordon was away most of the time. It still rested on its shelf, and Margaret dusted it every week but it was useless.

A forest of hands went up but Michael's and Anna's stayed down. Michael knew that Anna's parents were quite well-off and that they would certainly have a wireless in their house. She was just being kind, not wanting Michael to be the only one who had not put up his hand.

"She wants to go with you. She wants to be your girl friend. She's got sparrow legs!" Rob sneered.
"No, she doesn't," Michael protested.

He liked Anna but he didn't want her as his girl-friend. The irrationality of one-sided, or mutual attraction, the pain imparted by indifference!

One day, a terrible thing happened to Paul Howson. It was indirectly Margaret's fault, or so Paul said. Margaret had managed to purchase some bright, navy-blue, corduroy material from the market.

"Off coupons!" the seller told her, conspiratorily. That decided it. Margaret bought enough to make two lumber-jackets and two pairs of short trousers, an outfit each for Michael and Paul. She was busy for nights on end at her sewing machine. May was delighted with the outfit for Paul

Michael could not believe his bad luck. "I'm not wearing those,” he said. Dark coloured clothing was what boys wore! Not bright blue! Never in a month of Sundays! She could not, surely would not, make him! He'd never live it down if he went to school clothed like that. He shuddered to think what Rob would say.

"You ungrateful little so-and-so!" his mother fumed. "After all the work I've put in. That's good material that is. Keep you warm all winter!"

She had a struggle but, in the end, she won. He went off to school dreading his reception there. "Paul will be dressed the same!" were her parting words.
His fears were ill-founded. Nobody remarked on his appearance. Paul didn't look discomfited. Rob didn't say anything.

Margaret had made a quite a good job with her sewing but the fly buttons on Paul's trousers were too far apart. When Barbara Robinson dropped her rubber and went looking for it under the desks, she popped back into her seat and stuck her hand up.

"Yes Barbara?" asked their teacher.
"Please Miss, Paul Howson has his willie out."
Gasps and giggles went round the class.

Poor Paul was as surprised as the rest when she said this. He looked down, saw she was right and hastily adjusted his dress.

Miss Carter's reaction was brilliant. She blushed, shushed the class and hesitated for a moment. There was a poignant silence, an air of expectancy. The teacher pronounced, "Barbara Robinson, don't be stupid! Put your hand down and go on with your work."

Disappointed, the little trouble-maker frowned, stuck her tongue out at Paul but did as she'd been ordered.

It took months for poor Paul to live it down. He was teased mercilessly at playtimes. The whole school knew about it. Barbara Robinson was pleased!

In June, there was D-day; the Allies had invaded France. Soon, Paris would be liberated. Michael was down at Morecambe when he heard, at his Aunty Belle's.

One of the men billeted on her came into the house shouting, "It's happened! We've landed in Normandy."

All of the grown-ups cheered and one shouted, "Maybe we won't get killed after all!"

One Sunday, there was a National Day of Prayer. The churches were packed. Michael and the rest of the choir's singing was drowned by the fervour of the congregation.

"Onward Christian Soldiers"

"O God, Our Help In Ages Past"

In Germany, they were also praying for victory. Same God, different language!
At the Matthews' house, they were forever arguing about the rights and wrongs of the Black Market. Sheila had managed to buy some extra sugar, at a price.

"Take it back! Ask for your money back!" Jack demanded.
"I can't do that. Everybody has a little extra from somewhere," Sheila argued.
"We don't!" insisted the man of principle.
"Why not?"
"Because we want to win the war!"

For the life of her, Sheila could not see how the war would be lost because they had sugar in their tea, for a change.

The Scholarship results were pretty much as expected.

When Paul's mother saw Margaret she said, "Not one of those who passed said they were sorry to the ones who failed! It was the least they could have done!"
She really meant that she resented the fact that Michael had shown no consideration for his friends, Paul and Rob. At playtime, that day he had run joyfully all over the field with the boys and girls who had passed, doing forward-rolls and whooping with delight.

Margaret didn't care. What she'd wanted ever since Michael had been born was for him to get on in life. The gates of opportunity were now flung wide! One of her major ambitions had been achieved. Who knew what he might go on to do? The laser beam of mother-love was focused on her lovable prodigy. "Oh Michael you are a clever boy!" She said , hugging him to her, when she first heard the good news.

"Clever Dick!" smirked Rob. "You'll have to go to that stupid school on Saturday mornings. Hope you enjoy it!"

"I'll get longer holidays than you. Six weeks in the summer and you'll only have four!" Michael retaliated.

"Not what my dad says!" Rob responded. "There's a new law coming in soon and we'll all be the same! Sucks to you!"

Michael didn't want that to be true but he guessed that it probably was. After all, Rob's dad was a teacher and he would know about things like that.

So, Authority had decided that the three close friends would be parted. Things would never be quite the same between them. Going to different schools did make a difference. Rob, the optimist, thought that he had obtained the best deal.

Paul wasn't all that bothered where he went. Michael was apprehensive, mainly because of some of the things John Martin had warned him about, nasties waiting for him at his new school, in September.

At the end of August, Paul went to Skerton Council School. It was 'a dump for cissies!' according to Rob. Rob went to The Boys' National School, " 'The Nashy' for real lads!" chortled Rob. Michael went to the Lancaster Royal Grammar School, "a dump for snooty swots," jeered Rob.

'Take off your cap!
Hide your tie!
Sneers and taunts,
Spit in your eye.

Grammar School snob!
Grammar School snob!
You're just a Grammar,
Grammar School snob!

School on Saturday,
Think that's posh?
Rather play out ,
Wouldn't you Tosh?

(Chorus)

Think you're clever,
Think you're bright,
They don't play soccer;
Want a fight,
Kid?

(Chorus)'
Lancaster Royal Grammar School was a particularly intimidating and frightening institution for an eleven-year-old boy to be thrust into after the calm, friendly and progressive Ryelands Council School.

On the first morning, all of the new boys were ushered into the assemby hall, where 700 boys and their teachers sang hymns, recited prayers, listened to a prefect reading a passage from the Bible and heard the headteacher's notices and other pronouncements.

The headmaster looked like an oversized gnome and wore fancy dress. Michael had never seen anything quite like the black be-gowned and mortar-boarded grotesque, he of the large head, swarthy complexion and long hairs protruding from both ears. In his autobiography, he describes himself as having been nicknamed affectionately 'Tim' but all of Michael's contemporaries knew him as 'Joss'.

After the other boys had left the hall, 'Joss'explained the school's rules and the institution's aims to the new boys. It took a long time. Michael was impressed sufficiently, by the outlining of these detailed regulations, to wish that he'd failed the scholarship. It was the start of a seven years long attempt to wean him from his working-class culture into a middle-class one.

From the very first day, Michael realised that he had been punished, rather than rewarded, for all of his hard work. The buildings on one side of the road were awful, so old, dark, cold and forbidding. They lacked any decent furniture, adequate lighting or modern teaching apparatus or aids. One could easily imagine oneself to be back in the darkest of ages for education.

New School, on the opposite side of the road and built in the twenties was better, with individual desks for pupils It was well-lit and had a decent art room, science laboratory and an assembly hall. Unfortunately, the space in the corridors was narrowed considerably, by high glass cases, which contained hundreds of examples of wildlife from all over the world - an environmentalist's nightmare and a taxidermist's dream.

The heating in the classrooms was woefully inadequate - hot pipes at shin-level, all the way round each room. The unwary would touch these and burn himself; those more than four feet away from them received no noticeable benefit. Feet were always freezing cold in winter.

It was even worse within two ramshackle huts. These were in a cramped position, near the only tiny, inadequate playground. You tried, with difficulty, to concentrate on your work in these dingy shacks, the only heating coming from an octopus stove, which emitted choking fumes. Despite the cold, the teacher sometimes opened the windows, to prevent them all from suffocating. The teacher stood and lectured with his bum close to the stove. He was the only one warm during lessons in there.

Before the beginning of lessons, after a bell had rung, the corridors were patrolled by live wild animals called prefects. Any boy pushing, shoving or talking in the lines, outside any classroom, would be pounced upon by these beasts, his name taken and he would be required to appear at a prefect's court.

The head, R.R.Timberlake, regarded himself as being liberal-minded because the number of strokes inflicted by the monsters on their prey had been restricted by him to a maximum of six!

Offences, like slackness at school work, being cheeky to teachers, or wilful disobedience of any one of a number of school rules would be judged by the headmaster. Sentence would be carried out by one 'Sudge', the nickname for the Physical Training master. He was a man with peculiarly sadistic habits. His enjoyment and twisted intensity of facial expression when wielding the cane was legendary.

Michael was in the top stream of first year boys, having passed fifth in the area exam, high enough to have won some money towards buying his books; help with purchasing his school uniform from the Co-op. This achievement relieved some of the financial pressure on his mother.

They were due to have PT, on the third day and had been warned to behave perfectly or 'Sudge' would do horrible things to them.

John Martin was now in his third year at the school. Before Michael started there, he'd warned him what to look out for. "I hope you know how to tie your tie. That's one of the first things 'Sudge' looks for when you're dressing, at the end of his first lesson. If he sees you can't, you'll be one of his victims for evermore. He'll pinch your bum, when you bend over putting your shorts on. He'll belt you with his stick at every opportunity and tell you to hurry up. In the gym, he'll put you up on the wallbars in the crucifixion position and hit your shins while you are hanging there. If you straddle the buck, or chicken-out of going over the horse in the gym, he'll thwack you until you succeed. If you can't swim, he'll throw you in the deep end of the swimming pool and leave you for a few seconds before he'll let you grab hold of a long pole, the one he uses to open the top windows with. He's weird. They say he went mad during the First World War, when he was a sergeant in the trenches."

The evening before the first PT lesson, Michael and his mother spent ages, giving him practice in tying his new blue-and- black striped tie properly.

Luckily, he did not stand out from his classmates. Nobody did; but 'Sudge' lied and said he'd heard somebody talking in the queue when he came down from the staffroom, to let them into the boarded-over swimming pool, where they changed.

He told them all to pull down their shorts and bend over. Standing there, with his stick in his hand , surveying the bare bottoms of the kids, he made a short speech.

"One of you was talking. One of you is guilty. One of you has got everybody else into trouble. I don't want him to confess. I don't want anyone to tell on him. That would be bad for team spirit. I believe in team spirit. One day, when you are helping to win the war, if it lasts long enough, you will thank me. I'm going to make you into a good team. Good teams win games. And wars!"

With that, he went into action: every boy received a hard thwack as he went along the line.

Now, stand! Pull your shorts up! Start running!"

For ten minutes, the boys ran round in a circle over the boards. Needless to say, nobody dropped out or complained of having a stitch!

It was an offence not to wear the school cap to-and-from school. Michael risked not wearing it when he was on the estate. He didn't want the ridicule of his old mates poured upon him if he met any of them.

It wasn't for that, or anything that he did wrong intentionally, that Michael fell foul of one of the bullying prefects. It was something that he and two other boys did on the number-four Corporation bus that took them as far as St Peter's Cathedral, half way up the hill to school. It was a rainy morning, in October, and all of the windows in the bus were steamed up.The bus left Damside Street, went up Cheapside, Market Street and along King Street. The boys were drawing pictures on the bus windows with their fingers. Michael also pressed his nose hard against the pane of glass and pulled a face, knowing that anyone outside would see his face grotesquely distorted by his action. He didn't put his tongue out or anything rude like that.

Later that morning, he was going from his first lesson to the next. He had to change buildings. He crossed East Road and when he reached the other side, one of the prefects: a tall, thin youth of eighteen, the one with the reputation of caning you for practically nothing grabbed him by the neck.

"I've been looking for you!" he snarled.
"Who me? What have I done?" Michael hadn't a clue what he had done wrong but it must be something.
"Thought you'd get away with it didn't you? Prefects Court this playtime!"
"Yes Wilson!"

What could it possibly be?

At playtime, he opened the door of the assembly hall and walked down the side aisle. The Prefects' Room was at the far end, to the left of the stage, where 'Joss' presided and pontificated every morning during assembly.

There were already two boys ahead of him in the queue and one inside the room being judged. It didn't take long for the Court to reach a verdict, punish and eject those three offenders from the Prefects Room. Michael heard shouts of pain from the miscreants. It was soon his turn to be called in.

"Name?"
"Watson."
"Confess!
"I don't know what I've done."
"What's he done?"

It was the Head Boy who asked. He was presiding, with an assumed world weary expression on his face. He was the judge. Other figures of Authority sat around the room, talking to each other, showing no interest in what was going on.
Michael was frightened and angry at the same time. He was sure that he had not done anything. It wasn't fair!

"Anybody know what offence this object has committed?" asked the The Judge.
Wilson spoke up, "He was pulling faces at me, when he was on the bus coming to school this morning. The bus passed me in King Street. It was definitely him."

"Well?" The Judge asked Michael.
"The windows were all steamed up. I couldn't see out. I wasn't pulling a face at you Wilson. I couldn't even see you."
"Well?" the head boy asked Wilson.
"Oh, he seems to be telling the truth. Let him go!"

Michael could not believe his good luck. Justice had been done. He left the room, feeling like the famous escapologist, Houdini. It must have been his innocent face and his frightened manner that had saved him. He couldn't help seeing the tearful faces of the three lads who had been in there before him and who had all received three of the best for trivial misdemeanours.

"Cunts!" one of them had said, as he passed Michael. "They're all a lot of cunts!"

'Joss' took Michael for divinity. He oozed Authority and everyone in the big establishment seemed to think he was the fount of all wisdom. He was just the person to ask about something that had been troubling him, or so Michael thought.

"Any questions?" asked 'Joss' at the end of one of his lessons. Michael's question had nothing to do with what Joss had been teaching, but he thought it was very important, so he asked it.

"Yes Watson?"
Michael stood up.
"Please sir, where does the sky end?"

Michael looked at 'Joss'. 'Joss' looked at Michael. There was a long pause.
Michael waited for revelation. At last, 'Joss' responded with, "Sit down boy! And don't ask foolish questions!"

So much for the fount of all wisdom!

Gwyn was sublimely happy at school. It was her year in Beth Farrell's class. "She's the best teacher in the whole wide world," she enthused to Michael.

"Yes, she was all right to me," agreed Michael, fed-up, because there was no one at his school about whom he could be enthusiastic. Even Harold Douthwaite, whom everyone regarded as a local hero, was a disappointment to Michael. His Dad had told him how Lancaster lad, 'Dally' had beaten the old boy system, gone to Cambridge and got a degree; how he'd played amateur soccer for England and had a game of cricket for Lancashire.

All Michael knew was that he was a boring teacher. Like most of the others, all he did was read out a chapter from a textbook during class, tell you to learn the appropriate words for homework and then test you on its contents the next lesson. He had a short stick on his desk which he brandished at them during their first geography lesson.

"This is my tickler," he said. "Don't make me use it!" His bright eyes sparkled when he said it, but he oozed Authority. Nobody ever provoked him into using his tickler. He was quite a good sort but he never really let his guard down to have a laugh with the class. It was hard to believe that the local hero had not enough courage to risk losing control of a bunch of eleven year old boys! Perhaps he simply lacked a sense of humour.

He was supposed to take them for games but it hardly ever happened. Perhaps being a natural games player himself made him impatient of the lesser gifted. The school's playing fields were quite inadequate for such a large number of pupils. There were not nearly enough pitches or spaces for all. Priority was given to a minority, the boarders, during their after-school activities. There was nearly always a snag when it came to Michael's form's games lessons. The fields were either too wet, or frozen. It rained or they had to go for a practice cross-country run. The winter of 1944-45 was severe.

'Dally' Douthwaite's solution, his substitute for teaching how to play rugger, was to sit at his desk and dictate the rule book to them. Michael had never seen a game of rugger and had never played it. He didn't even know what the ball looked like. He found the notes which 'Dally' dictated quite incomprehensible, with references to mysterious 'scrums', 'hookers', 'dropped-goals', 'tries' etc. The list of unrecognisable terms was endless. 'Dally' might have been a local hero and a popular man but he was so boring!

Of course, Rob made out that his school was marvellous and that he was enjoying every minute of it. Michael did not believe him but he did not tell him so.
Paul said he quite liked Skerton. That was typical of him. He never told you much about what was really going on. He never got stirred up. Michael said to him, "If your house fell down round you in the middle of the night you'd sleep through it."
Paul smiled and said, "Probably! Like my dad always says, "What's the use of worrying, if you can't do anything about it?""

"The trouble with you is," Rob said, "if your dad told you to put your hand in the fire, you'd do it."
"Paul grinned and said, "Probably!" again. Michael thought, "He's not that daft, he's got a good sense of humour. He's taking a rise out of Rob and he doesn't even realise it!"
"If I told you to jump off the end of the Central Pier would you do that?" asked Rob.
"Probably!" said Paul.
"Oh shut up!" Rob snarled.

Michael was doing all right at school in most subjects. He hated Latin, French, algebra, geometry, and P.T. He enjoyed English, arithmetic, general science, running, history and divinity.

He was hopeless at woodwork and terrified of the art master. All he ordered them to do was draw freehand circles and squares. His favourite trick was to come up behind you and press a signet ring into the back of your neck.

"Rub it out!" he'd snarl. "Try again! You little Philistine!"

Michael's report at Christmas said that his work was generally satisfactory but that he should try harder. About five-hundred of the seven hundred reports sent home at the end of term said pretty much the same. They contained non-committal, well-tried comments which might have the effect of putting parental pressure onto the pupils without upsetting them too much!

Chapter 71: Like The Back Of His Hand

They'd had no lodgers for a couple of months, during early 1944. Margaret was managing for money quite well because she was being paid for cleaning at two more houses both within easy walking distance of home. When a second wave of evacuees arrived, this time from London, to escape the attacks by the V1 and V2 rockets, nicknamed "doodlebugs", she felt obliged to take one of the children because she had spare space.

"I haven't much spare time though," she told Sheila.
"You're a glutton for punishment," her friend told her.

His name was Wilf Cringle. Everybody agreed that he was a grand lad. He became one of the family in no time at all.

He was a street-wise, Walworth boy. He was in his last year at school, nearly fourteen years old. He was confident, brash, quick-witted and intelligent. He was popular with boys and girls, especially with girls. He had lots of girl friends.

He was the ideal big-brother as far as Michael was concerned, the one he'd always wanted. He showed Michael how to do all sorts of tricks on his bicycle, how to climb trees and swing over railings. He let Michael tag onto a gang which he led.

At first, Rob was not included and sneered at Michael, for doing everything Wilf told him.

"You're even starting to talk like him. You'll end up a Cockney, if you're not careful! Just because he's older than us, you think he knows everything don't you?"

"No," said Michael defensively. Rob felt that his influence with his group was being undermined.

Margaret trusted Wilf implicitly. He was the apple of her eye. He was polite, considerate and helpful in the house. He was always cheerful and would ask if there was anything he could do for her. He didn't wait to be asked, he offered to go on errands to the shops, locally, or in Lancaster.

He played with Gwyn and she adored him. That made Michael feel jealous. He couldn't make up his mind, whether he was jealous of Wilf with Gwyn or Gwyn with Wilf.

"Can you untie this knot for me Wilf?"
"Give them here then!" Wilf sorted the knots in her skipping ropes for her.
"Will you have a game of Snap with me Wilf?"
"Yes Gwyn. You have most of the cards to start with." He let her win sometimes without her realising it."

He even played hop-scotch with her. Michael had never done that because Rob said it was a girl's game. Wilf was confident, already, about his masculinity.

Wilf was the great deceiver. A real con man, he made Michael seem like an amateur! Margaret thought that he was a good influence, a role-model for Michael. Providing he was going with Wilf, Michael was allowed outside to play a lot more often.

Margaret had it wrong! Wilf took Michael further away from home than the field nearby. Out of sight from Authority, the local kids mingled with the Londoners and often misbehaved badly. A favourite meeting-place was the Padfields.

"Can I come with you Wilf?" Michael would ask. The answer was usually a quick, "Yes!", unless Wilf was meeting a girl.

The Padfields was an area of rough grass, common land, much of it on a slope. On one side, it was bordered by a fence and the main London to Glasgow railway line was on the other side. Barley Cop Lane was on another, as were some of Thompson's fields, with Powder House Lane beyond. Watery Lane and Whernside Road were on the other sides.

On the top of the fields, there was a wide, murky duck pond, with an overhanging tree. Near the back gardens of Whernside Road were some old sheds where a surly-looking, unshaven, burly small-holder lurked. His nickname was 'Tosser'.

Everybody kept well away from him. His bad-temper was legendary. It was rumoured that he had some sovereignty over the Padfields and would wield a big stick at anyone who ventured near his tumbledown kingdom.

A favourite destination for local kids was the Padfields' Shell Hole. Rumour had it it that when White Lund exploded, in 1917, a huge shell had landed near the top of the Padfields and made the huge crater, which had never been filled in. In the winter, after snow, hordes of kids would head for it. They would drag their sledges, most of them home-made, after them and join the queue, further up the slope. Mr Howson had made the boys a couple of wooden sleds. They had smooth, metal runners.

The idea was to push your sledge ahead of you, fling yourself onto it, head towards the hole, accelerate down into it, come up the other side and provided you had enough momentum, you would then take-off, sail through the air, land, and go at speed, all the way down the hill to the bottom field.

Thompson's farm gate was left open. The best sledgers aimed for that and went a long way through the gap and into the meadow. Only 'softies' and cowards put a back foot down to slow their sledge before taking off through the air. If you did, watchers like Rob, would shout, "Cowardly! Cowardly custard!" at you, and keep on calling you that for the rest of the day. The choice was to risk either insults or injury.

It was Wilf's idea about how to make good use of the Shell Hole, when there was no snow. "We'll need your bike," he told Michael.

Michael fetched his bike from the garden shed and wheeled it alongside Wilf. He and Wilf strode out to the Padfields. They sat on the grass, waiting for the others to come. Wilf lit a Woodbine.

"Want a puff?" he asked Michael.

Michael tried it and hated it. The smoke got in his eyes, up his nose and choked his throat. He could not stop coughing. Wilf laughed. "It only needs practice," he said. "Have another go!"

Michael declined. When Rob arrived, he accepted the cigarette when it was offered and had several more afterwards without any problems. Playing the big man, he then said, loftily, to Wilf, "Not bad! I prefer Senior Service."

Wilf laughed again and said, "You're a right one aren't you?"

It was after that, that he let Rob go around with his gang.

Presently, there were a dozen of the London lads, and three local girls, congregated near the Shell Hole. Between them, they had half a dozen bikes. Wilf explained what it was all about.

"What we're going to do is start up by the railway fence. We pedal down to here." He indicated the lip of the crater. "Then you take your feet off the pedals. You don't touch them again. You go down the hole, come up the other side, fly through the air, land and go off down the field. No touching of pedals! The one who goes the furthest gets the money. Right, a shilling each please!"

To show them how it was done, Wilf went first. He used Michael's bike, without asking him.

After he'd sailed through the air, he made a perfect landing.

"Douglas Bader!" he shouted. His legs were well clear of the pedals. "Look! No legs!"

He free-wheeled down the hill and nearly reached Thompson's gate before he had to dismount or over-balance.

He was the pathfinder and nobody did as well as he did.

Michael and Rob hadn't had a go. Rob hadn't brought his bike. "Here," ordered Wilf, pushing the bike back to Michael, "you have a go, Mike!"

Michael didn't want to, but before he lost face, by refusing, Rob said, "I will. Let me!" He came fast towards the hole, pedalling as hard as he could and went down into the crater. Right at the bottom, he skidded sideways and fell off. He'd hurt himself. One of his knees and his nose was bleeding.

"Flip me!" said Wilf, who'd scrambled down the hole to Rob. "Are you all right mate?"

Rob recovered quickly. He had not shed any tears. Wilf picked up Michael's bicycle. It was smashed up. He couldn't wheel it home because the handle-bars were all twisted and the back wheel was badly buckled. Three spokes were broken. It had been his treasured possession, something that had cost more than his Mam and Dad could afford. How could it have happened? It was terrible from every point of view.

"What am I going to tell me Mam?" moaned Michael as they walked back home. Wilf had to balance the bike on its front wheel to make it go.

"We'll tell her, you swerved to miss a cat, fell off and a car went over it," said Wilf. "Leave it to me! You'll see. She'll believe me."

She did. Her only worry was for Michael. "Are you sure you're not hurt anywhere? You've been lucky. You might have been run over. It's a good job Wilf was with you and got you and the bike home safely."

Wilf smiled one of his winning smiles at Michael's Mam. "That's all right Mrs Watson. I like looking after him," he said, winking slyly at Michael.

Michael felt worse for the lies. He knew that he had lost something of value, let his mother and father down and deceived them into believing he was innocent. It wasn't fair. For a change, he knew that the injustice was not against him but something he had doled out to someone else. He should have taken care of something which had cost dear in the providing for him.

Before his arrival in Lancaster, back in London, Wilf had been a junior member of a street gang, based around the Elephant and Castle. Their rivals in the neighbourhood had been a Kenington mob. Some members of both gangs had been evacuated to Lancaster. There'd been trouble at Skerton School, which they all attended. One morning, Jack Matthews had sorted them all out on the playground, after fighting broke out. "Don't you know there's a war on without you lot trying to start another?"

The two leaders, of whom Wilf was one, had secretly arranged to meet that evening to settle matters. Both sides had gathered reinforcements from amongst the locals. Michael was one such. There could easily have been serious consequences to what occurred. Before they set out, Wilf came into Michael's bedroom. He showed him a knife.

"It's a good, sharp chive," he said. "Swapped it for some fags at school today. Just in time for tonight. Hurry up! Put your old shoes on. The grass will be wet and muddy. We're going to have a gang fight!"
"What?"
"You heard! Hurry up!"
"What shall I tell Mam?"
"Leave that to me. We're going to play football. Right?"
"Right!"

They picked up stones, as they went to what was going to be a battlefield, and filled their pockets with them. There were loads on Watery Lane because surface was hard-core. On the way, several other lads joined them. The feeling of excitement grew as the small group joined a crowd, near the duck pond, well away from any houses. Wilf's gang had a high ground advantage over the other lot who had met there. They'd arrived via Hareruns and Barley Cop Lane.

They faced each other, about thirty yards apart. There was much shouting and cat-calling. Individuals were identified and made the targets for specific insults, a few quite witty, others crude and most obscene.

Stones were thrown by opponents from each group. Most fell short or hit no-one. One young local boy received a quarter of a brick on the top of his head. He departed the battlefield, a friend's arm around his shoulders and headed for home, bawling his head off.

Wilf was recognised and singled out for some nasty remarks. He responded with a challenge to Alfie Gass, the leader of the other side. Both lads emerged from amongst their respective band of followers and met in no man's land, They had knives in their hands and began to circle each other menacingly.

Encouraged by the two mobs, they plucked up courage to try harder to cut and slash their opponent. Eventually, Wilf succeeded. Alfie's face was bleeding and a button came off his shirt. It could have been worse! It was a bit like a traditional duel of the past; once blood had been spilled the contest was over.

Nobody had really expected it to get as serious as it did. The sight of Alfie's blood did not stir the boys to a frenzy. Instead, it had a calming effect. Alfie staggered back to his supporters and Wilf wiped his blade on the grass and then raised his arms to the sky in triumph. There was a cheer from his side and some back-slapping of Wilf when he rejoined the others.

Basically that was the ending of the Great Padfields Battle. The boys slowly dispersed into the dusk. The event seemed to have settled the ill-feeling. But Michael always worried when he made his way to his Nan's on Sundays with his sister. What if the boys who had been on the other side that night recognised him as he went through the Hareruns estate? He was sure that he would be set upon and beaten up. Thankfully, it never happened but the possibility preyed on his mind for ages.

His damaged bicycle was also very much on his mind until good luck came his way. Brian Howson was good with his hands. He felt sorry for Michael and offered to repair the cycle that had been damaged in the Shell Hole. Michael was round at their house and Paul had asked him to go for a bike ride. Brian heard Michael's story about nearly being run over and said, "Don't worry! Fetch it here tomorrow after school. I'll fix it for you over the weekend."

He was glad to be of assistance to his old friend's lad. He did a good job on it and Michael thanked him profusely. Wilf was pleased too because he had missed using the cycle as much as Michael. "Tell you what," he said to Michael, "you go on your roller-skates, I'll use your bike and we'll round-up some of the lads. I've heard about something interesting that's going on tonight." Michael was not best pleased to be relinquishing his precious bicycle so soon. He no longer felt that Wilf had a safe pair of hands. But the older boy still had total sway over him and he agreed to his request without any argument.

Some on bikes and others on roller-skates crossed the estate and came out on Morecambe Road. They went as far as Ovangle Road, turned left, and joined lots of other kids who were leaning over the railway bridge there.

"What's happening?" Michael asked.
"Come and have a look!" said Wilf.

There was a train coming. You could hear it in the distance. Michael leaned over the parapet. Down below, there was a boy near the railway line doing something.
"What's happening?" Michael asked.
"He's putting a penny on the rail," Wilf replied.

The train came and went, leaving smoke-and-steam wafting up-and-over the bridge. It made Michael cough.

The boy came up from the railway cutting, climbed over the fence and showed his squashed penny to the admiring crowd.

"That's nothing!" said Alfie Gass. "Anybody can do that! Watch this!" He vaulted over the fence and went down to the railway. He stood between the lines. He put his arms up above his head, and called, "I am the champion. Just call me the Lone Ranger lads!"

He danced and pranced down there. Michael wondered what he was going to do. Presently, there was the sound of a train coming from the opposite direction.

Alfie lay down flat, exactly midway between the two rails. They all looked down at him. It was a stupid and dangerous thing to do. He laughed back but kept his head down.

"He's bloody daft! You wouldn't get me doing that!" exclaimed Wilf, watching his rival, with sheer disbelief.

Alfie did not move and the train came nearer. It wasn't going all that fast because it was a goods train pulling a lot of wagons. Alfie disappeared from sight. The engine went over him, then the tender. Wagon after wagon came from under the bridge and rumbled over him. Finally, the guard's van passed.

Alfie was safe! He stood up smiling, untouched. They all cheered. Then someone shouted, "Scarper! There's a copper coming."

"Quick! Let's go!"

Wilf mounted the bike and Michael skated after him. They speeded towards Snatchems. They did not look back, to where Alfie had been caught and was being questioned by the local bobby. "I wasn't doing nuffink. Honest! I was trying to get my ball back!"

The policeman belted him one round the earhole and told him to behave himself in future. "If you don't, I'll hear about it and I'll be after you my lad. You won't get off lightly next time. Bloody Londoners. You're nothing but trouble!"

Wilf and Michael were following a road which went through the swampy area of Snatchems. On their left, was the river with Williamson's factory and tall chimneys belching smoke into the atmosphere. The boys stopped because there was a road forking sharply backwards to the left. There was was no signpost because it had been taken down, like all of the others in the country, so that spies or invaders wouldn't know where they were.

"Barmy idea!" Gordon had said.

"That's where my Dad works," Michael told Wilf, pointing across the river. "He'll be going back there after the war. My Uncle Frank works there as well." He paused before offering an opinion. " I think we should go left here. It should take us back to where we want to be."

Wilf ignored this. He was gazing across the Corporation Dump, to a building that looked like an aeroplane hangar. It stood out clearly because it was painted crimson. "What's over there?"

Michael followed Wilf's gaze and replied, "Paul's dad says it's a dummy aerodrome. It's a decoy for enemy planes to drop their bombs on."

"I thought that this was a safe area."
"It's only a rumour. Nobody really knows what goes on there. Somebody else said there's secret work going on and soldiers with rifles guarding it. But that's only a rumour as well."
"Do you think we could find something good amongst all that rubbish?" Wilf suggested, they go and look amongst the mountains of ashes and waste materials.


Michael didn't fancy it. It was very smelly. Mam always warned him, "Keep away from germs!" In his imagination, he thought of germs as small Germans.He said, "I think we ought to go back home. If that road doesn't lead us there, we're going to be late."

Wilf acquiesced. The road was twisty, but after they'd been under a railway bridge, they came out at Scale Hall Corner. Michael had often wondered where that road led to when he'd seen its entrance from the bus. Now, he knew. He was getting to know everywhere around the district like the back of his hand.

Sometimes on his skates, sometimes on his bike, sometimes on foot, always with a friend or a group, Michael expanded his boundaries. He walked along the canal banks, with Rob all the way to Hest Bank on the coast. They walked along the coastal road and cut through Bare village, Torrisholme, Cross Hill and so back home. It was miles but his legs were getting stronger. He was always out and about whenever he had the chance. All the physical activity made him fit for anything.

One day, they saw a horse on the canal tow path. It was pulling a barge piled up with coal. A young lad was walking with the horse. There was a little shelter, near the stern of the barge. A man sat right at the back holding the tiller. He was steering the barge. He had a clay pipe in his mouth. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. He had a coloured kerchief round his neck. He had a long black beard and sunburned arms. He waved the pipe at them and called across the narrow waterway, "Lovely evening lads. Found any tiddlers yet?"

"Not yet, Mister," Michael shouted back, looking up from where he was lying on his stomach, dipping a jam jar into the calm water. The canal wound its way through Lancaster then through lush countryside. It didn't look as though it was man-made; it was in a natural setting, like any lovely river.

There were fields with cows on the other side. The hedges at the side of the tow path had brambles, with ripening blackberries. Beyond, were meadows where all kinds of beautiful wild flowers grew. Butterflies flitted here and there, not just cabbage whites, but all sorts of colours.

The sun was still high during wartime's long double summer evenings and it endowed nature with magical touches, flecks of sunlight contrasting with bluey shadows. A taste of honey in winter would remind Michael of the wonderful scents, which filled the air and attracted bees there that summer. The war seemed a long way away.

The ripples from the passing of the barge disturbed the thousands of black and grey tiddlers, which swam near the overhanging grass of the banking, and they all disappeared.

The horse plodded on. The barge moved smoothly and serenely over the flat water. Michael waved to the bargee. Paul and Rob waved too. "Ta-ra! Mister!" they called.

The man waved his pipe again, this time in farewell.

That autumn, the family took jam jars and went picking blackberries wherever rumours told them they might be found. They ate so many the children had stomach ache. "Serves you right! You'll have no sympathy from me. I warned you!" said Mam. "I was going to make a nice pie but you haven't left enough for me!"

Michael knew where all the ginnels, lokes and shortcuts were in-and-around the city and town. He knew it was quicker to cut across the fairground, go behind the Winter Gardens, by-pass the Royalty Theatre and nip down Cheapside rather than crowded Euston Road, when he was hurrying for a bus to carry him back from Morecambe.

He knew that the quickest way, walking from Lancaster to his home, was by skirting the castle, going down Vicarage Lane, then along the quay and past his old school, St. Mary's. There was Khyber Pass, which was a short-cut from Carlisle Bridge to Rob's. He could avoid Edenvale Crescent on his way to his Nan's and go via a footpath at the side of the railway. 

Michael enjoyed rare wins and frequent disappointments in the Amusement Arcades, at Morecambe, and spent precious pennies on the rides on the the Whip, Bumper Cars and the Cyclone.

Some Saturday afternoons, Michael was spoiled for choice. He could go for a bike ride with his mates, on a Nature Walk with Miss Carter, go tracking with Akella and the Cubs or enjoy an adventure walk with the Curate. Hills, sea-shore, river, canal, lanes and promenade all beckoned. In all seasons, there was much to be done. Whenever possible, he was out and about, something urgent within him, telling him to make the best of everything, while he could. He was never bored, always restless for the next good adventure in familiar or new places. He made the most of the unexpected and exploited pleasure from many situations.

If it rained, he pestered Margaret, for money, to go to the cinema. "You'll end up with square eyes!" she'd say, reminding him that he'd already been to the Odeon in the morning.

"But it's a good one Mam. All the lads have seen it. It's Roy Rogers and his horse. Please Mam!"
"Only if Wilf takes you!"
"Will you Wilf? Please!"

Wilf usually took a girl out on Saturday afternoons but he agreed, reluctantly, to take Michael too.

As soon as they were out of the house he'd say to him, "You're not sitting with me. I'm going on the back row with June."

Michael didn't care. He loved going to the pictures. He did not mind sitting on his own.

He didn't like the Bug Hut much, the cinema at the bottom of Church Street. It was only tuppence for admission but that was its only advantage. The customers were mainly rough kids. Occasionally, rats scuttled about round your feet. Some of the kids gained entry by bartering six jam jars, none of them chipped.

Before the film started, you only got one and some trailers, a man came round with a spray, and squirted disinfectant over the audience. All the kids booed when he appeared again during the interval and did the same.

"Look out! Here comes Stinker!" Rob would say, if he was with Michael. Michael preferred the smell of the disinfectant to the other sweaty, damp and dog shit stinks which circulated in there. The films were old and the apparatus for showing liable to break down. It was cold and draughty in the building. It was a mystery where Wilf got all his money from but he took his girl friend Julia upstairs, into darkness and comparative solitude, at a cost of seven whole pence.

Michael liked the County Cinema, which was next door to Doctor Ruxton's old house, in Dalton Square. Originally, the building had been a Roman Catholic church; then a music hall, called the Hippodrome. They showed Warner Brothers films, some musicals and thrillers with stars, like James Cagney. Michael was too young to see some of the 'A' films but Wilf knew the girl in the ticket-office and he used to sneak him in.

On another side of Dalton Square, at right angles to the Ashton Hall, was The Palace. This was a classy joint, second only in opulence to the new Odeon. They had technicolour films there like Meet Me In St. Louis, with Judy Garland. The only snag was at the interval when a huge cinema organ was played. It was very loud. Michael hated the sound of it but it was very popular with most people. There would be popular songs like, 'I'll Be seeing You', 'Wish Me Luck', 'Roll Out The Barrel' and 'There'll Be Blue Birds Over'.

The trouble, for Michael, was that the man's rendition was nothing like the originals, which he'd heard on John's gramophone.

"I can play better than him," Michael told Paul, remembering the time when he used to bash the old harmonium, in his bedroom, at Edward Street.
"Dream on!" replied Paul.

When they went to the Palladium, in Market Street, he often went in without paying. Wilf would buy a ticket and take a seat near the emergency exit, which opened into an alleyway, leading into Lancaster market, where Michael lurked. Wilf would leave his seat and pretend to head for the toilet, which was off the passage, leading to the exit.

He would tap on the door and, if the way was clear, Michael would tap back. Wilf would open the door and Michael would dart in. They would go to their seats separately. After a few minutes, waiting to see if they were being watched by Authority, they would find seats together. Wilf would say, "Now you can afford an ice-cream in the interval." The Palladium was a long, narrow, cinema with no balcony. It was quite comfortable and warm. Michael liked British films and the Palladium used to show the ones made by Gainsborough and Ealing studios.

The Grand Theatre, another old music hall, in Leonardgate, was closed during the war. There was another place, near the Alexandra Hotel, which also showed films, but Michael never went there.

Wilf's favourite was the Palladium at Morecambe. This had an advertisement on the promenade, above an arcade, which led directly to the entrance to the cinema. Why Wilf liked it, was because it had double seats for lovers. These were set in an elevated position, to one side of the other seats and staggered so the curious found it difficult to see what was going on between the likes of Wilf and June.

The Whitehall Cinema, on the prom, showed mainly RKO films. Michael only chose to go there if he visited his Cousin Peter and if Peter wanted to see a Howard Hughes film.

The Tower, at Morecambe, right up the east end of the prom, near Poulton, was a really pleasant venue. There was a big cinema, with shops outside, and a ballroom attached. Doors opened from the ballaroom onto gardens where perspiring dancers could go for a breath of fresh air. They showed technicolour films by Walt Disney and some British ones by J.Arthur Rank. There was a short-cut to the Tower, from Euston Road Bus Station, across Morecambe Market and Poulton Square.Shrimp fishermen and their families lived nearby.

Paul had an aunty who lived there. Sometimes, after the flicks, they'd go and see her. Her hands were all deep creases, broken nails and arthritic. She had a long, black dress, like Aunt Elsie's, and grey hair, in a bun. She had a young girl's sparkling, brown eyes. She had a lovely smile and was always pleased to see the boys. She exuded goodwill.

If Paul's uncle came in, he would have a thick blue jersey on during all seasons. He wore a flat cap at a jaunty angle. Because he took his long waders off before he came into the house, Michael only ever saw him in his stocking feet. An unlit fag-end was stuck in the corner of his mouth but he was able to talk quite freely without removing it. Before they left, he'd select two tubs of shrimps-in-butter with seasoning. He brought them from the cool outhouse and offered them to the boys. "Here you are my lads. Fit for a king! He enjoys them. So they should do you some good!" The boys had eaten the last one before they arrived back at the bus station.

There was the Alhambra Theatre and the Palace Cinema but Michael knew nothing about their films. Peter never took him to see anything there.

Morecambe Odeon showed the same films as the Odeon at Lancaster. He hardly ever went there, because it was threepence return by bus, and he could walk to Lancaster for nothing; or catch a bus for a penny each way. There was no point in wasting money!

Chapter 70: Teacher's Pet

Authority decided that Michael's academic progress was such that it warranted him skipping a class, and going straight into the top year, when he was only nine years old.

Of course, he enjoyed all of the praise from his Dad, Mam and Nan. The downside was that he was no longer with Rob and Paul during lesson time.

"Teacher's pet!" Rob called him.
"Book worm!" said Paul.

He had Lamb's Tales From Shakespeare, with coloured pictures, for Christmas in 1943. He quite liked the stories but he preferred the Annuals he received.

"There's more to life than comics," Dad said.

Michael's favourite present that Christmas was a pair of roller-skates. In order to buy them, Gordon sold his cigarette ration for several months, to some of the men where he was stationed. He wanted Michael to have something really special as a present.

Uncle Frank was in the Army, in Ceylon. He sent Michael and Gwyn a box of lovely seashells.

Mam had bought a cheap collection of glass marbles. She'd got them from a woman who had advertised in the Lancaster Guardian. Michael and Glyn liked playing games of marbles against each other. When John offered to play 'for keeps' Michael declined. He knew all about John's skill at indoor games and he didn't want to see his collection rapidly becoming part of John's!

One of the blokes whom Dad was with in the Air Force sold him a stamp album with three hundred stamps in it. That was a super present and started him off on a new interest. It meant that he and John had another hobby which they shared.

Michael still enjoyed playing card games with John. Now that John had a small snooker table, the pair of them were learning to play yet another indoor game. As always, John usually won. Billiards was simpler but John was still the victor nearly every time.

"What exactly's wrong with John?" Michael asked his Dad.
"He was born with a weakness in his kidneys."
"What are your kidneys?"
"Look it up!"
"Why can't you tell me?"
"I don't know everything just because I'm your father. Anyway, you should learn how to use the encyclopedias. That's why I bought them."

The set of twelve heavy volumes, and a bookcase to put them in, had been a special Daily Herald promotional offer, which Gordon had somehow managed to afford for his children.

"The more learning you have the better!" he'd say. "You can't have too much of a good thing. Now, mind you wash your hands thoroughly before you handle those books. I don't want them to get dirty!"

John had a set of encyclopedias too. They were not the same as Michael's and Gwyn's. They were more grown-up.

One day, John said to Michael, "Have a look at this!" It came under the letter "R". It was a section on Reproduction. There was a drawing of a sow with piglets in its stomach. Michael had read some of the text and found it very interesting. Mrs Martin came into the room. "Can't you hear your mother calling you Michael?"

"No! Sorry, Mrs Martin. See you tomorrow John."

This new knowledge excited Michael. He asked his Mam, "Where do babies come from?" Margaret was not prepared for the question. Instead of answering it sensibly, she was overcome with embarrassment and blurted out, "Wherever did you get that question into your head?"

Sensing the possibility of a row like they always had, if he swore or used vulgar words, he replied, "From a book. John showed me a book all about it." There couldn't be anything wrong if it was in a book!

"Your tea's on the table. You can help yourself. I won't be long." She rushed off to see Mrs Martin, who was quite perplexed by Margaret's outburst of righteous indignation. Despite being bemused by her neighbour's words she accepted what she asked without question. The friends did not have an argument. She promised that John would not show the offending pages to Michael again.

When Mrs Martin told Mr Martin about it later, after a concerto had concluded on the wireless, she carried on knitting and ended by saying, "You have to make allowances. She never had a proper education like us." She was not being bitchy. She was very fond of Margaret. She had pondered the matter and it was the only reason she could think of for Margaret's peculiar reaction to Michael starting to learn what life was all about.

Mrs Martin was not the sort of person one would normally make tart comments about her neighbour or anyone else. But Margaret's reaction had seemed really bizarre to her. Her son, John, had not meant any harm, showing the drawings and letting Michael read what was in the book. What a fuss and all about nothing!

Usually, Margaret was delighted by her son's perpetual search for knowledge, his ability to absorb facts and remember them. Gordon was pleased when he came on leave and Michael was able to remember most of the Shakespeare stories.

"We're doing poetry at school now," he told his Dad. "It's great. We're learning 'Daffodils' by William Wordsworth and I know it already," he boasted smugly.

He recited it, putting expression into his voice, like Miss said they should, when the flowers danced in the poem. Gordon was amazed. Seeing Michael only at lengthy intervals, the leaps in his progress between his leaves seemed phemomenal.

The next day, when Michael came home from school, there was a slim volume of verse lying on the tea-table.

"For you! You deserve it for working hard," said his Dad. "I bought it at Wigley's bookshop, corner of Market Street. Hope you don't mind but I've had a read some of it myself this afternoon. There's some good ones in there."

It was a A Small Book of Verse for Girls and Boys.

"It's a cissy's book," Rob sneered when he came to tea on Sunday. "Only girls like poetry!"

Ryelands was a school with a progressive education ideas . The old idea of teaching the three 'R's' was far too narrow for Miss Fish, the formidable lady who had been appointed headmistress. There was to be a wide curriculum at her school!

The senior teacher was Miss Carter and Michael was with her for two years. There were never fewer than fifty in her class.

The desks were arranged formerly. Michael was quickly moved sideways across the room to the row where the so-called brighter children sat. Later, he moved from the back towards the front desk, where the two top of the class, he and a pretty, bespectacled girl, called Beryl, sat alongside each other. They hardly ever exchanged a word, except to borrow a rubber or pencil-sharpener from each other.

The latest taunt from Rob was a derisive, "He goes with girls!" Michael didn't want to be seen as being too friendly with Beryl.

Silence, was the order all morning, but there was some relaxation during the afternoons. Somehow, despite the large numbers, Miss Carter gave individual tuition in English and Arithmetic and organised small groups for readers who were all at the same level. They read round the group, corrected each other and only occasionally asked Miss Carter for guidance with an unfamiliar word.

Routine, organisation, fairnes, consistency and familiar boundaries were all part of a first-class learning environment.

They had singing, and playing percussion instruments, in the hall. Michael learned when to hit his triangle as he read music, from the large canvas sheet which Miss Carter hung upon the wall, while she played Schubert's 'Marche Militaire' on the piano.

They had country dancing in the winter, after they'd selected a pair of pumps out of the big box kept near the stage. They learned maypole dancing outside on the grass in the summer. None of the boys admitted to enjoying dancing with girls but they all did.

Michael and Rob had parts in a school production of Charles Dicken's Christmas Carol. The rest of the school watched it and neither of them forgot their lines. Both mothers were proud of how they performed.

They had a Carol Service at Christmas. All the little kids joined with the big kids for that.

 Michael's class sang the sad, 'In The Deep Midwinter'.

The little kids, including Gwyn, sang 'Away In A Manger'.

Everybody finished off, by singing loudly,

'Good King Wenceslas'.

And Rob was in trouble for roaring,

"Good King Wenceslas
He looked out
Of his bedroom window
Silly fellow
He fell out
Of his bedroom window."

Rob didn't care. "It was worth it. We had a good laugh, didn't we lads?" It being Christmas, he got away with a telling-off.

They brought to school what old newspapers they could spare from the lighting of coal fires at home. They tore the newspapers up and mixed the shreds up with paste made from flour and water. They made papier mache bowls and let them dry on the classsroom radiators overnight. Then , in order to decorate them, they cut out and stuck coloured wallpaper, out of wall-paper pattern books, over the bowls.

"You've done a lovely job there," Dad said, when he came home on leave. He picked Michael's creation up from a stand in the hall in order to admire it. It was a source of wonder to his Dad that Michael was having painting, craft, modelling, dancing, nature study, percussion, writing stories, poems, making up prayers and lots of other things.

Michael found school exciting and exhilarating. None of his enthusiasm for playing seemed to affect his progress in 'proper' subjects.

"School's changed a bit since I was there," Gordon said ruefully, remembering the harridan who had patrolled the aisles of his childhood classroom. She'd belted pupils over the knuckles, with or without reason, using a heavy wooden ruler as she went past the desks.

Margaret reminded her husband, once again, that it was she who had insisted that they should buy a house near a nice school.

When he took Michael to bed, Michael whispered to Gordon,
"Dad, would you like to hear the prayer I made up? Miss Carter gave me a star for it."

"I certainly would. Has your Mam heard it?"
"Not yet!"
"And Gwyn?"
"No!"
"Shall I fetch them to hear it too?"
"If you like Dad."

Michael sat up in bed. Mam and Dad sat on the bed. Gwyn sat on Dad's lap.
"You've no need to put your hands together or anything," said Michael. Then he began,

Dear Lord,
Please look after my mother and father and sister, my friends and relations and all the people in the world. Please look after our soldiers, sailors and airmen and help them to win the war. Please help all the dead people. Please let me be a good boy who's always kind to other people.
For Jesus's sake,
Amen.

Then they all said, "Amen!"

It reminded Gordon of how he'd once had innocent faith when he was a lad before he became an apprentice at Williamson's and stopped going to church.

Margaret had never thought much about religion although she'd been determined to have a church wedding and have the children Christened. She thought Michael's prayer just lovely. It was obvious that the lessons at Sunday School were having a good effect upon him. Perhaps Michael would one day become a Sunday School Teacher just like that shy, young man, Gordon Jenkins, who lived down their road.

Very few things worried Michael at school and what happened there. There was a boy in the same class as he was. His name was Arthur Pilkington. He was a year older than Michael. Michael remembered him from Marton Street before the war. He'd lived near Nan. When they'd moved people out of the street, Nan had been given a house on Hareruns. Not far away, Arthur had moved into another Corporation house, with his parents and numerous brothers and sisters.

Arthur occupied the desk furthest away from Michael. In Gordon's day, he would have been called a dunce. Subsequently, he would have been labelled backward, slow-learner or pupil with special needs. Michael remembered him as the 'bottom of the class'.

He was a quiet lad with no friends. He was a big boy whose clothes were always either too small for him or too large. He was the only one in the class who wore clogs. He smelled, looked unwashed and his hair was dirty. The sleeves of his jacket had dried snot on them. He always had candles coming down his nostrils, winter and summer. His appearance wasn't much better than the Watsons' evacuees from Salford. He was late for school most mornings.

Rules were rules and Miss Fish's patience wore thin but ner snapped. For a few weeks there was a supply headmistress probably because Miss Fish was ill.

Warned several times about his lateness, Arthur was sent for by this headmistress one morning. He returned a few minutes later to his classroom sobbing.

"Go back to your place, Arthur," said Miss Carter quietly. There was a hush in the class as the children toiled over their sums. You could hear Arthur crying for a long time. There had always been a rumour that Miss Fish kept a cane. This was the first and only time that the children had evidence of it. Everyone felt diminished by what had happened.

Miss Carter would give a naughty child, very occasionally, a slap across a leg but it didn't hurt. That caning of Arthur was different. They say that the day a condemned man is executed in prison, the whole place is affected in a peculiar way. It was a bit like that in Michael's classroom after Arthur had been caned. Everyone was so subdued! It wasn't natural.

One Sunday, when Gordon was on leave, he took the children round to his mother's. He wanted to have a private talk with her so he sent the children out to play on The Green.

Arthur Pilkington came wandering past. Michael wasn't friendly with him at school but he had a special feeling for Arthur. He didn't like it when the other kids poked fun at him or said nasty things about him. It made him feel uneasy. Perhaps, it was because Nan and Arthur's mother had been friends. He knew that they were coming from the same place. Their roots were the same. "Never forget who you are!" his Dad was always telling Michael.

"Hello Arthur."
"Hello Michael."

He watched Michael and his sister, throwing a ball to each other, for a while. Timorously, he asked, "Would you like some conkers?"

"Yes, please!" Michael responded eagerly.

Arthur had a bag full of them. "You can have six. Gwyn can have some too.I've got lots. I know where there's a good tree. It's full of them. It's down Barley Cop Lane. Do you want to come and see?"

Just then, Gordon called the children in to say goodbye to Nan. "Thanks Arthur. We've got to go. See you at school tomorrow!"

Gordon had seen what went on. He told Michael, "You should be kind to Arthur. He doesn't have it easy. I used to know his mother when she was young. Arthur's father's not good to her. She was a nice little girl. Her life is a hard one." Almost to himself, he murmured, "Life isn't fair. You never can tell what might be in store for you. She deserves better."

After that, Michael always tried to have a word with Arthur at playtime. Rob didn't approve and sneered but Michael didn't care. He didn't always do what Rob wanted especially if it contradicted whatb his father had told him. There was no harm in Arthur. He couldn't help it, if they sent him to school late. He couldn't help it, if he had lousy clothes to wear.

Britain was winning the war in North Africa. The Russians were stopping the Germans invading any more of Russia and sending them back home. The Americans were turning the tide against the Japanese. Optimism was in the air. People became convinced that victory would be theirs. 1943 was turning-out to be a good year.

Margaret was summoned to the school. Should Michael be allowed to sit for a scholarship for the Grammar School a year early? Miss Fish and Miss Carter were confident he would pass. Margaret said she'd have to write to her husband and ask him. Gordon wrote back, no, he thought that Michael was too young.

Dad was right. Staying at Ryelands School for that extra year was brilliant. Michael had one of the best year's of his life.

Chapter 69: More Lodgers

A brass shoulder title for the Non Combatant Corps

Life was always changing for some of the family. Margaret had done what she'd promised and packed in her job at the pub. Her brother Tom was in the Army and had gone abroad to Egypt. Gary and Dennis had been captured by the Japanese in South East Asia. There was no news of their plight.

Gary, wherever he was, had no idea that he was a father. Joyce had a little baby girl. She called her Margaret and Margaret Watson was her godmother.

"Why Joyce, that's lovely of you. I'm really touched," her friend said, when she was asked to go to the Christening, in Morecambe.

Marrying and having the baby had calmed Joyce down. She still had Talent Nights, in the pub but she never performed her Marlene Dietrich act any more. She had no new boy friends and remained faithful to her young, absent husband.

She had managed to buy a big, posh, second-hand pram and one of her chief joys was to walk the promenade with her baby. She remained a flashy dresser and progressed along the seafront in her high heels and short skirt, her bleached hair blowing in the breeze and her hips swaying.

One day, a passing squad of Airmen marching along the road was given the order by a drill corporal with a sense of humour, "Eyes left!" The men's heads swung to their left and they all stared at Joyce.

"Squad! Whistle!" commanded the NCO. All the men whistled. Joyce waved to them and carried on pushing her pram.
"Eyes front!" shouted the corporal.

Margaret was paid by her two friends to do some of their housework. Neither of the two women really needed her help but both of their husbands had agreed it was a good way to help the hard-up Watsons.

The war had made no difference to Jack Matthews's and Mr Martin's earnings. Both brought good money into the house. Jack had his private income, much of which he was still giving away to what he considered to be worthy causes. They were not the only ones with money to spare. Apart from those in the Forces, increased wages and salaries were more than adequate for the necessities of life and many families had spare money. Some was used to help the war effort, by investing in National Savings.

Margaret had a number of short-stay lodgers. Michael and Gwyn were forever changing rooms or giving them up and sleeping on the floor in Margaret's room.

A Mr and Mrs Routledge stayed for six weeks. They were Quakers and he was in the Non Combatant Corps. There was a brass badge on the shoulder of his uniform - 'N.C.C.' He was attached to the Army Pay Corps, in Lancaster. Mrs Routledge and their little baby followed him wherever he was posted.

Gwyn loved the baby and took every opportunity to help Mrs Routledge. Best of all, she liked helping give Therese a bath and being allowed to hold her, while Mrs Routledge prepared her bottle.

Michael was influenced by Rob's comment, "They're Conchies. You've got yellow bellies staying at your house." He didn't like Mr Routledge because of what Rob said.

Margaret wasn't too keen on Mrs Routledge, either. It's never easy for two women to share the same kitchen. And Margaret was envious and irritated by the amount and variety of food the other woman was able to prepare. They were middle-class and, what was worse, came from down South and had snooty accents.

"It's her mother who sends her the food parcels," Margaret told Sheila. "You'd never know there was a war on, seeing what she has."

"Black market stuff, I expect," said Sheila.
"Never gives me any of it!" Margaret moaned. "Not a jar of jam or a sweet for the children! Mean as muck she is. And supposed to be religious!"

They moved away from the Watsons, when local friends, who they'd met at the local Friends' Meeting House, offered them more spacious accommodation.

The Murdles only stayed a month. There was a Mrs Murdle and two boys who Michael liked. They slept on the second big- bedroom's floor, in the same room as their mother. Like the Routledges, they used the sitting-room as their living room. This meant Michael could keep the small bedroom.

They were Scots. Michael could hardly understand what they said because of their broad Glasgow accents. They went to Ryelands School with Michael. They were in the same class and Rob let them join the Gang.

Margaret never knew what the Murdles were doing in Lancaster. No husband was ever mentioned. The mother wasn't doing war work. Mrs Murdle was quite lumpy but she was an attractive young woman.

The two women didn't talk to each other very much. There was a suggestion of controlled aggression about the Scotswoman which made Margaret wary. Her eyes flashed when she told her two boys off usually about a complaint Margaret had made concerning their behaviour.

They often peed on the toilet seat, wiped jammy hands on the cushions and tramped dirt into the house on their shoes, which they never wiped on the doormat. In many respects, they were perfectly normal boys!

Margaret feared for her good furniture. She dare not reprimand the lads herself. She moaned to their mother and made sure that she should kept them in line.

Margaret's rules had to be obeyed. Finally, the two women had a row when Margaret accused her of leaving the electric light on unnecessarily during the day and of wasting gas.

"You're tighter than a tic," said Mrs Miller.
"I don't like your common ways," Margaret replied.
"Oh don't you Miss Snooty Bitch! And what's common about me then?"
"You gave Michael a biscuit to eat in the street. I don't let him eat outside."
"Oh, and that's what you think's common is it?"
"I do."
"Well I think you're stupid. Just plain stupid!"
"I'll have to give you a week's notice."
"Don't worry, we'll be off tomorrow."

Michael had liked the Murdles. Rob had approved of the boys and said he'd miss them. "They weren't softies. They were a couple of good lads."

Mr and Mrs Steward were ideal lodgers. They stayed six months and only moved when Mrs Steward found out that Mr Steward was having an affair with a woman at work.

They were a jolly, middle-aged couple and both looked like playful porpoises. Mr Steward always had a joke with Michael and sometimes invited the children into the sitting-room which they were occupying. Mrs Steward liked doing jig-saw puzzles and let Gwyn help her. "You are a clever girl. I would never have found that piece."

Mr Steward liked kids' comics and he used to lend some to Michael to read. "Look at this," he'd say to Michael, pointing to a cartoon strip and shaking with laughter. "It's a good one isn't it?" He was like a big, fat mischievous boy.

When Michael's Beano was delivered, Mr Steward would race Michael into the hall and to the letter box. He'd try to be the first there, to pick it up from the carpet and read it. It was a game every week. He was only teasing Michael, and always let him have his comic back.

They both worked at the ICI, near Heysham. He was too old to go in the Forces but had been drafted to Lancaster from Skipton, to do essential war work He'd found Mrs Steward a job there too.

After they left, Mrs Steward used to visit every few weeks. She'd weep and dab her eyes with a tiny handkerchief which smelled of lavender. She would tell Margaret, again and again, all the lurid details of Mr Steward's love life, with " that skinny bitch, Mavis Popplewell, who looks like Popeye's Olive Oil!"

He heard so many "Eees!" and Oose!" coming out of his Mam's mouth, Michael thought she was becoming like his Nan's neighbour. She certainly enjoyed the gossip.

"I'd never have believed it of him," Margaret told her friend, Sheila. "He seemed to be such a homely man. They were such a devoted couple. It just shows, you never can tell with folk!"

Sheila expressed her feelings in one emphatic word.

"Men!"

Chapter 68. Organising Michael

There was something in Margaret that had to have her own way with her husband and with her son. She loved them both dearly, but her affection was not going to overcome her steely willpower when it came to being the boss. She worked hard at manipulating and dominating her men. She'd managed to get the better of her domineering father when she was a child so she felt she was the match for any male. That's what she believed. Her belief in her power her son. She was determined to mould him, make him do what she wanted for him.

She knew she was at a disadvantage with Michael. When a parent is seen to be behaving badly by her child, her ability to make that child conform and obey her is considerably hampered. Michael was occcupying the moral high ground. He was instinctively exploiting his position and trying to make life difficult for his mother. Nine year old Michael had become quite a handful. He wouldn't do what his Mam told him. He was openly rebellious when she asked him to do some of the things which he had formerly done willingly.

"Michael, fetch some coal for the fire, please!"
"No, I'm busy. Can't you see I'm reading."

Or,

"Michael, will you go to the shop for me. I need a powder. I have a headache."
"I don't want to. It's a long way. My legs are tired. We had drill at school this afternoon."

Or,

"Michael, will you go on the bus for me to Aunty Charlotte's. I want you to take her a note from me."
"It's going to rain. I might have to wait for a bus. You say I shouldn't stay out in the rain."

He was awkward and argumentative. Also, she was never sure what he was getting up to when he was out of the house. He was always playing out and out of her sight. He was scuffing his shoes, tearing and dirtying his clothes. He and Rob led each other into too much mischief.

Margaret decided Michael's spare time needed organising. She was not going to let him get the better of her! She'd show him what was what!

She started him at St Chad's Sunday School. Paul Howson started there with him too. After a few weeks, the curate-in-charge, Mr. Bell, asked if the two boys could become choir boys. Margaret and May Howson agreed. That meant choir practice on Thursday evenings and singing in the choir, mornings and evenings, on Sundays.

Rob became a Wolf Cub so Margaret made Michael join the same pack. That was Tuesday evenings, and some Saturday afternoons, taken care of.

Mondays and Wednesdays, he went and played inside with Paul, next door. That only left Monday evening free. She agreed he could have Rob or Paul in the house or play with them outside, on the nearby field, the one near the houses which had been left unfinished when the war started.

It was strange what Authority had decided. The houses at the top of Sefton Drive were abandoned, half-built, for more than five years. It was the same with some on Lancaster Road, opposite the Morecambe Football Ground bus stop. But one day, many months after war had started, a gang of men came and prepared their road and Bowland Drive for asphalting. Apparently, not all building materials were in scarce supply.

Soon they had a proper road and Michael could ride his bike round the block, having races with Rob and with any of the other lads who'd been let out to play. Often, when he arrived home from school, his first words were, "Can I go out on my bike?"

"Ten minutes, then your tea will be on the table."
He was always more than ten minutes.
"Ten minutes!" I said. "Where do you think you've been?"
"I met someone."
"I told you ten minutes."
"How am I supposed to tell the time? I didn't know I was late did I?"

When his Dad came on leave, he was never awkward with Gordon. He always did what his father requested or asked. He never questioned Gordon's orders. That really sickened Margaret but she dare not ask him why. She knew she had to put up with it. Things were still improving between her and Gordon. She was worried that Michael might, one day, say what he had seen that morning, in Room Seven, at Joyce's.

Actually, her worries about what Michael was doing in his spare time were justified. There were many occasions when he was up tono good. There was mischief bordering on vandalism, boorish behaviour, stupidities, thoughtless pranks! There was a long list! The organisations he belonged to didn't really help. In some ways, they gave him greater scope and more time away from her watchful eyes.

His visits to the Odeon, in Lancaster, on Saturday mornings, were not of her organising. She was prevailed upon to grant permission for him to go only because Rob, Paul and three other lads, all with Michael at Ryelands School went.

"It's not fair Mam. All of the other lads go!"

The group gathered at Michael's house around nine-thirty, every Saturday morning. Michael was given sixpence for entry to the cinema and one penny to spend on "something else".

Until a fence was erected, preventing their access, because precious potatoes were grown there, during the second part of the war, the boys used to go over the fields to Carlisle Bridge. After the planting of the seed potatoes, they had to walk the extra distance down Scale Hall Lane and along Morecambe Road. They practised throwing and catching an old tennis ball to each other as they went.

The crossing of Carlisle Bridge did not fill Michael with terror any more although he was still not over-keen on the shaking and rattling of the structure, whenever a train went over at the same time as themselves.

When they reached the other side, Michael pointed to the factory buldings to the right. Their fronts had been painted, covered all over, with white and grey shapes.

"Why have they done that?"
Paul said he knew. "It's camouflage."
"It's what?"
"The shapes are meant to look like clouds. Any enemy planes are supposed to mistake the buildings for clouds. My dad told me."
"That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard," said Rob.

To their left, just along the quay from the bridge, was a shop. This was where Michael often spent his spare penny. The owner boiled a brand of black peas and sold pennyworths, contained in cones of rolled-up paper. The peas were all mushy.

"Good for making you fart," said Rob.

Sweets were unobtainable, without coupons, which could be exchanged for only two ounces a week. These peas were some kind of substitute for the boys who were all of the age when food was the most important thing in life. They tasted horrible but none of them admitted it.

They stood by the Old Custom House for a while, watching some Sea Scouts who were pulling their boat out from the basement. Double doors, level with the quay, were swung open, the boat extracted and wheeled on a trolley across the road and lowered into the water. It was the same spot where Gordon had landed, after being rowed through the snowstorm, from near the Golden Ball.

They meandered across town, to King Street, looking in some shops that still had toys in the windows. There was already a long queue of kids, the majority boys, when they arrived at the Odeon. They were an unruly lot, shouting and squabbling amongst themselves and screaming insults at new arrivals. Chants expressing hatred were directed at rival gangs from school.

Michael sometimes saw the bullies there, the ones from St Mary's. He wasn't worried about them anymore because he had his own gang now. Rob was their leader and they were a match for any other bunch. All the other groups were labelled 'softies' by Rob. The friends were a force to be reckoned with. None of the other gangs went out of their way to upset Rob's young lads.

There was often pandemonium outside the cinema. An aged rheumatic, wearing what looked like the cap and uniform of a pensioned-off courtier from an Ivor Novello musical, tried to keep order. If he had had any hair to tear out, the pavement would have been covered with it.

When it was time to open the double doors, leading into the cinema foyer, the ancient commissionaire's attempts to stem the rising tide of tumultuous childhood were swept aside. There was a push and a rush of bodies through the doors. Soon, there was a clamourous horde around the ticket kiosk, a clutch of pushers and shovers, screaming girls and combative mini-thugs, all trying to reach the window where the tickets were sold.

If it was your birthday, and you could prove it, you were allowed upstairs and given a seat on the balcony. This gave you a considerable advantage over those below, because it's a lot easier to spit downwards, rather than upwards! The snag for Michael's lot was they had no wish to be separated from each other when it was their birthday.

Their only safety was in numbers. In isolation, they could be preyed upon by members of other gangs. Consequently, none of them ever went upstairs. Downstairs, they always took care, never to sit in the seats which were immediately below the front row of the balcony. There, you would provide easy targets, for those above, hanging over the rails. They could and did use the unwary for improving the accuracy of their gobbing.

Despite the best efforts of several usherettes there were chaotic scenes until the lights were dimmed and the films started. This was greeted with a great cheer.
Comparative silence descended on the anarchic throng, broken only by the occasional scream from some young girl, who was being nipped by a neighbour.

There were occasional fights in the dark between youthful enemies, who had found themselves situated in adjoining seats. A burly assistant manager, freed temporarily from his office work, would head towards the scene of such disturbances, push along the row, make a rough guess at who was to blame for the disturbance and lift him by the collar. He'd drag him away along the main gangway and throw him out onto the street.This only happened very occasionally. Kids learn fast!

One Saturday morning, just before Christmas, management made a big mistake. It decided to give the children a special treat. Before the films started 'Uncle Dan, The Magic Man' appeared, live, on stage. He had been engaged, to entertain the little dears, with his conjuring tricks.

He nearly caused a riot.

His catastrophic error was to ask for a volunteer, to go up onto the stage. Immediately, about three hundred kids responded to his foolish request. They clambered over seats, rushed down the gangways, fought each other on the side-steps and vaulted onto the stage. Poor Uncle Dan disappeared, as the clamouring throng rushed towards him and surrounded him. If he had been a real magician, he would have done a quick disappearing trick.

The house lights were switched on and the combined efforts of the old commissionaire, usherettes, Assistant Manager, Manager and ticket-lady eventually restored some kind of order. Only four little kids needed first-aid in the foyer. It was a miracle that there were no serious injuries.

"If there's any more trouble, you'll all go home. That's final!" boomed the Assistant Manager from the stage. He glared at the audience. He still stood there, with his arms folded. The lights stayed on for the rest of the live entertainment.

Uncle Dan started doing his magic. He was still shaken and trembling, after the shock of his ordeal, during the kids' invasion. He wasn't much good at conjuring to start with and his shaking made him worse than useless. Most of the kids could see how he "vanished" things, what he had up his sleeve and where he kept the rabbit.

"We can see it!" they shouted.
"I've warned you!" the Assistant Manager bawled back.

There were quiet boos, after his every largely unsuccessful trick. He looked appealingly at the Assistant Manager. They whispered together. Uncle Dan bowed and left the stage. His exit brought forth the loudest cheer heard in Lancaster for years.

Back stage, Uncle Dan said, "I think I'll join the Army. I could be a paratrooper and lead a less stressful life."

Michael thought Saturday morning cinema was brilliant. It was the best adventure of the week. They were always out for fun. Nearly every day they were up to no good. The gang nearly always had something on. Between them, they had endless ideas, for having a good time, which usually involved giving Authority a bad one.

Margaret would have been appalled, if she had seen what went on, during Saturday mornings.

On the way home, Michael didn't go into Woollies with Rob and one of the other lads. There were limits to what he was prepared to do even if it did mean losing face. They two came out of the store looking furtively over their shoulders.

When the group reached the quay, Paul asked them what they'd stolen.

"Not a lot! Some elastic bands and a paint brush."
"Why's that?"
"Joe's sister wasn't serving. She must have had the day off."
Joe's sister, who looked after one of the counters, could usually be relied on to turn a blind eye to their petty pilfering.

Choir practice night was good too. They arrived at St Chad's separately. It was cold in there because the hot pipes round the hall couldn't compensate for the loss of heat through the wooden sides and thin. They kept their coats and scarves on and clustered round the harmonium. Michael enjoyed the singing and the words of some of the hymns.

"And did those feet in ancient time
A message came to a maiden young
All people that on earth do dwell
Gird on thy sword, O man, thy strength endure..."

Afterwards, was best. They messed about for about an hour, before heading for home. They liked knocking on doors and running away. They'd hide in the shadows and watch someone come to their door and then shout at them.

"Close that door! Put out that light! Don't you know there's a war on!"

 One night, Mr Jackson, the ARP Warden, came unexpectedly out of the darkness, grabbed Paul and gave him a clout across his face.

"Bad buggers!" he snarled. "Frightening old folk out of their minds! Get off home with you! Do it again and I'll be round to see your mothers!"
 They dispersed , running like hell for their several homes. Inside, there was usually an interrogation.

"Where do you think you've been?"
"Nowhere!"
"I asked you a sensible question and I want a sensible answer!"
"Choir practice."
"I know you've been to choir practice. Where have you been since?"
"Nowhere!"
"Bed, you! Go on! Straightaway!"
"What about my supper? I'm hungry. Singing makes me hungry."
"One more word from you and I won't be answerable for what I'll do. Move! Bed!"
"I haven't done anything. It's not fair!"

Slowly, reluctantly, with a hang-dog expression on his face, Michael left the room and climbed the stairs slowly. He went into his bedroom. He banged his feet down, heavily, on every step of the stairs.

His mother shouted up after him, "Stop that stamping! You'll wake Gwyn up. She's just gone to sleep."

Margaret's angry voice woke the little girl. "What's up Mam? What's happening?" Her mother had to go upstairs, tuck her in all over again and reassure her that nothing was wrong.

Before he went to sleep, Michael read one of his 'William' books by Richmal Crompton. That fictional hero never seemed to get into trouble for doing nothing. It just wasn't fair what his Mam did to him!

Michael thought Sunday School was all right, but he didn't like it when they split up into classes. Gwyn went with the younger children into the choir's vestry. Michael was with the middle juniors. They moved their chairs into a tight circle, with a spotty-faced youth, Gordon Jenkins, as their teacher.

He was supposed to give them a Bible lesson, but every week his first words were, "Anybody got a good one?" - meaning dirty jokes. Michael never had a good one. He didn't know any.

If and when his pupils had finished telling theirs, Gordon told any new one he'd learned at work. He used a lot of foul language and the content and meaning of the jokes were often a mystery to Michael. They all laughed, dutifully, when Spotty Face delivered his punch line, but quietly, for fear of attracting Authority's attention.

The second part of the lesson, Gordon Jenkins spent telling them about his sexual adventures with the lasses where he worked. Michael suspected that the things he said he'd been up to were wishful thinkings and imaginings. Gordon Jenkins was weird. Gordon Jenkins was boring. Michael did not like him.

After Sunday School, he took Gwyn to see their Nan. Nan used her sweet coupons on their behalf and there was either a two ounces bar of wartime, blended chocolate for them to share or two ounces of boiled sweets or jelly babies. They ate most of them on the way home or on their way to the Matthews. There was a new routine recently established between the friends. One Sunday, the Watson children went to the Matthews for tea and on the alternate Sunday, the Matthews' went to the Watsons, until it was time for church in the evening. With Gwyn in tow, Michael had to behave himself, not that she was a tell-tale. But he felt obliged to be good when she was with him. In contrast, when he was on his own with Rob, he felt a need to be bad.

When the light nights came, and the lads had the chance to play out together, they were sometimes joined by other kids from streets on the Scale Hall Estate.

Between the new fence, blocking off the potato crop, and the field that was left fallow, were the remnants of hedging. Rob's Gang played war games there with any other lads who turned up. Some of them had toy cowboy pistols and blank caps, which fired when you pulled the trigger. Others had rifles, which fired corks. The rest had pretend rifles made out of sticks. Rob had made himself a bow and arrow. Paul had a real soldier's tin helmet. They took turns at wearing it when they went on special 'reconnaissance missions' against the 'enemy', near the far end of the hedge.There were attempts to creep up on the enemy through the long grass. "Got you! You're dead!"

"No, I'm not. I ducked and you missed me," a surprised opponent might retort.

It was Rob, who came up with the idea of making hand-grenades and throwing them, from a safe distance, at the enemy. What you did was, you scrabbled in the soil after a tussock of grass had been pulled up. You tried to press the soil together into a ball. That done, you threw it at the enemy. Unfortunately, the soil was light and dry and the balls usually disintegrated before reaching their target.

"Piss on it!" said Rob. "Like this!"

He urinated onto the shallow hollow in the ground from where some soil had already been removed. Then he clawed at the dampened soil and pressed some between the palms of his hands. He hurled the wet lump in the direction of the other players. It went high into the air and then landed on the enemy's hedging. This fragmented the 'grenade' and the filthy dirt fell onto the boys below.

"Your turn!" said Rob to Paul.
"I'm not putting my hands where you've been pissing!" said Paul.
"I'm not either!" said Michael.
"Well make your own then!"

Paul always did what Rob ordered. But Michael said, "I'm off home. I'm fed up with this game."

Rob looked at him in exasperation. "You're always the same you. You're getting too soft. You're just a bloody spoil-sport!"

"No, I'm not," said Michael meekly.
"You bloody are!" retorted Rob.
Then they had a fight.
"Fight! There's a fight!" shouted Paul.

The enemy came running to watch the two best friends having a real go at each other. Rob had given Michael a bloody nose but Michael hadn't managed to hit Rob at all. He was beginning to wish he'd let his Dad, way back, show him how to box because Rob kept on hitting him and he kept on swinging at Rob and missing.

Michael started to cry.

"He's blubbing," said one of the enemy.
"Cry baby!" said another.
Rob stopped hitting Michael and said, "Shut it, you two!"
"Who's going to stop me?" asked one of the enemy.
"I bloody am!" said Rob, wading into him.

Then they all started fighting, punching and wrestling on the ground. Michael preferred the wrestling to the punching, especially as the boy he was wrestling with was a bit smaller than him.

"Michael!" came his mother's voice from his house about seventy yards away.
"Michael! Bedtime!"

The fighting stopped. Nobody wanted Authority to see what they were doing. Michael trudged home, wiping his bleeding nose on his sleeve. He could not make up his mind which was worse, the blows he'd suffered, or falling-out with Rob.

"What have you been doing now? Just look at the state you're in! Upstairs! Wash! And straight to bed!"

Gwyn was becoming quite used to being the second of the two of them to go to bed despite being the younger!

Michael enjoyed being a Wolf Cub for several reasons.There was a fat, friendly, whiskery cub-mistress and her two assistants, who were in charge of the St Chad's Pack. You had to learn cub's honour, fiddle with knots and chant peculiar choruses. There were relay games, between each of five teams. The leader of each team was called a sixer. They played the game British Bulldog and were taught about the superior habits of the British, compared with those of foreigners, although Australians, Canadians and New Zealanders were deemed to be almost human.

"They're like us really," said Paul.
"Sounds like you've let him join the equivalent of the Hitler Youth," Jack Matthews told his wife, half-meaning it.
"Don't be ridiculous!" replied Sheila. "Anyway, what do you care? I have the deciding of what they do, don't I?"

What Rob liked best, was when Akela and her assistants took them on Nature Walks. They were supposed to search for bits of bark and certain flowers, find tracks and traces of animals and so on. "There's plenty of sheep shit but not much else?" said Rob to Michael, as they tramped over fields and went through some woods.

The real aim of these outings, according to Rob, was to have a glimpse of, and thus determine the colour of, the two young assistants' knickers. The consensus of opinion, at the end of the afternoon, which was spent scrambling through prickly hedges, climbing over farmers' gates and being chased by a bull was that Miss Jones's were blue, with elastic round the legs, and Miss Smith's were pink and silky.

"Did you have a nice walk? Did you behave yourself ?" asked Margaret when Michael arrived home.

"Yes Mam! What's for tea?"
"I sometimes think that's all that's in your head. Food! Food! Food!"

It was true. There never seemed to be enough to eat. He was always hungry. It wasn't war shortages. Margaret saw to it that her children were always well-fed. It was just the normal, insatiable appetite of a nine year old boy.

Sometimes, the curate from St Chad's visited Margaret. It was a chance, not so much for confession, but for a heart-to-heart talk about problems arising from husband and wife being separated by the war. It was he, who had been partly responsible for Margaret's and Gordon's reconciliation, and her decision to try and let the past lie down and be forgotten.

One Tuesday afternoon, in the middle of a heat wave, he called at the Watsons. Margaret made him a cup of tea."Was young Michael ill on Sunday? We missed his and his friend's voice in the choir."

"Why, no!" replied Margaret. "He left home about six, on his bike, in plenty of time for evensong."
"Oh dear," said the curate, "I seem to have put my foot in it. Do you want me to have a word with him?"

"No thank you! I'll sort the matter," replied Margaret grimly.

About an hour later, Michael and Gwyn came in from school. They were old enough to go on their own now. Michael ate his tea and told her a bit about what he'd been doing at school.

"I did some proper skipping at playtime Mam," Gwyn added.
"That was good, love," Margaret said.

She turned to Michael again,"By the way, were there many at church on Sunday?"
Michael nearly choked on the last of the cake which he was eating, then replied, "About the usual!"
"How do you know?"
"Because I do. There were about four rows altogether."
"I see."
"Can I go out to play now?"
"No!"
"Why not?"
"I want to ask you a bit more. Was Rob there?"
"I suppose so."
"Oh, I heard he was with you."
"What do you mean?
"I mean he was with you wherever you were. It wasn't church. Where was it?"

Michael realised the game was up so he decided to tell the truth. "It was a nice evening. We went to Hest Bank for a bike ride."

He started to cry. He was not sorry for what he had done wrong. He was sorry to have been found out. She was angry but felt sorry for him too. That Rob was a bad influence. Always up to no good! He was leading her son into bad ways.

"I suppose that was another of your darling Rob's ideas!"

Michael said nothing. In fact, it had been his idea and Rob had taken a bit of persuading. His silence confirmed Margaret's suspicions. "I'll be having a word with Rob's mother. You two are bad for each other. You'll be seeing less of him in future. And now! Upstairs, into your room! You can stay there until bedtime."

It was double British summertime. It was hot in his bedroom. He could hear the birds singing in the woods. He could hear some of the lads shouting on the field nearby. He could hear the murmuring of his sister's and mother's voices down below.

Freedom called! But he was trapped, imprisoned, alone indoors. The call of the wild had to be ignored. For once, he accepted that it was all his own fault. He hoped that his silence, when he'd been questioned by his Mam, would not get Rob into trouble. Rob would think him a traitor.

Mam did not relent. He heard Gwyn going to bed. It was still daylight. The bright evening seemed endless. Then, at long last, dusk slowly came. The birds stopped singing. The boys had all gone home from the field. His mother still did not call him down. The world seemed like a very lonely place.

Finally, he fell asleep on top of the bedclothes as darkness descended. He still had his short-sleeved shirt and his trousers on.

When Margaret went up, she looked in on him. From the light on the landing, she could see him stretched out on the bed. A picture of innocence! How she loved him! She gently shook him awake, helped him into his pyjamas and tucked him up in bed.

"Are you sorry Michael?"
"Yes Mam! I'm sorry."
He started to cry again.
"And Mam, it wasn't Rob's idea. It was mine."
She stroked his head.
"I'm glad you've told me that son. You should never let your friends down. Have you said your prayers?"
"No, Mam."
"Well do so. Then go to sleep. We'll say no more about it."
"Right Mam. I'm sorry."

This time he meant it. He really was sorry for what he'd done. He was glad his Mam had come to see him before she went to bed. He felt a lot better for that.

She left his bedroom door open and went to her bed. It was one of the many times she wished Gordon was at home, to help her with the children. She knew that Michael had reached the age when he respected his Dad more than her.

Before Michael went to sleep his spirits revived again. Something in him rejoiced. He thought it had been worth getting into trouble. The joy of a stolen pleasure! The joy of freedom and breaking the rules of Authority! The comradeship with Rob!

"I'm no 'softy'!" he thought, contentedly.

The curate was a good sort. He occasionally took the boys, from the choir, on Adventure Walks. "Saturday afternoon, half-past two! Meet me at Oxcliffe Corner, on the grass, in front of the shops. We'll go and explore White Lund."

Back in 1917, there had been a munitions factory there. Hundreds of people were employed. There was a massive explosion. Several fire-brigades from the region were employed for days at the incident. The residents of Lancaster sought refuge from danger as far afield as Littledale. Some workers survived by swimming across the Lune to escape death. Hardly a pane of glass was left intact in Lancaster. Shells landed all over the place and some exploded creating damage and terror in the neighbourhood. The precise number of deaths at the factory was never established.

"I wonder if we'll find any bodies," wondered Paul.
"Don't be stupid. They'll all have rotted by now," sneered Rob.
"We might find some bones though. Maybe a skeleton or two," said Michael, optimistically.

Led by the curate, the boys walked over Cross Hill, past Thompson's Farm, which was right on the top, opposite the Congregationalist Church. In the autumn, Mrs Thompson used to put out a box of scabby apples by the road entrance to the farm. You could take your pick for a half-penny. They were sour but what a rare treat! "Wrong time of year for any apples," said Michael. The boys went down the hill, past the garden nurseries and then another farm on their left.

Michael remembered taking a can and going for milk there, straight from the cow. That was when James and Beatrice lived at Torrisholme. In Torrisholme Square, he noted the Club where James and his Dad went for a couple of drinks before lunch on some Sundays. It made him feel sad seeing those places.

They passed the George Hotel and Shaw's the bakery, where you could buy hot cross buns on Good Friday, even though it was wartime. It was a long walk but his Mam used to send him there for some. It was worth it because they were a real treat! Gwyn loved their taste. The last time Michael and Margaret had had a real row about him going there. "It's too far to go," Michael protested, "just for a measly bun!" His mother's view prevailed and secretly he was glad. The buns were delicious. He'd only been his awkward self with her. "Trying to cut off your nose to spite your face!" is what his Dad would have called it.

They passed the playground near Torrisholme Church. The playground had swings and a roundabout, just like the ones opposite where he used to live in Edward Street. That made him think of Aunt Elsie. He wondered if Joan ever thought about him.

They circumnavigated White Lund traffic island and went onto the site of the old factory. "You can see the back of it from Snatchems," said Paul. "My dad pointed it out to me one day, when we went fishing near the Golden Ball."

"You think your dad knows everything!" Rob sneered. He was really good at sneering, Michael thought. "He'll be the world champion at sneering soon!" He and Rob were good friends again but the falling-out and the fight had not faded entirely from Michael's memory. He saw more of the bad side of Rob now compared with how it used to be.

Some of the buildings were still partly ruined, others had been repaired and were being used by small businesses. There was still plenty of dereliction to explore.

Mr Bell sat down on top of an old oil drum. "I'll stay here. You can all go off on your own now. But no climbing! No doing anything stupid. Be back here in half an hour!"

Michael, Rob and Paul decided to stick together.They started collecting shrapnel. They viewed blackened bits of bricks. They imagined the explosion and the fires that had caused them to be like that.

They wandered into what was left of a huge building, with only parts of walls and the rusted iron frame of the roof. It was eerie in there. If you shouted, there was an echo. They all tried it in turn. When they stopped, the silence seemed profound.

"I'll bet there are ghosts. I wonder if we'll see one?"
"Shut up you, can't you?" whispered Paul. "It's scary enough without you making it worse."

It was Michael who noticed the manhole cover.

"Let's lift it!" ordered Rob.

It was stuck down fast. They scraped dirt away from the edges, put a length of rope under the handle and all three pulled. It moved and they shifted it to one side. They peered down into darkness. There was a vertical ladder. They could not see how far down it went.
"Go on Paul! Have a go down there! You've a torch."

Obediently, Paul carefully lowered himself over the edge and onto the ladder. The others peered down, as he disappeared from sight.

"It's thirty rungs down," he called up from the bottom. "I counted them."
"Let's give him a fright," said Rob. He pushed the cover back into position over the hole.

Michael said, "That's a dirty trick..."

Rob smiled, "He'll be all right. He has a torch hasn't he?"
"Come on! Be fair! Let's let him out again."

Rob agreed and they tried to lift the cover but it was stuck again. They tried for a couple of minutes but it would not budge.

It was then that they heard it. At first, it was a quiet wailing sound. Slowly, it increased in volume and began to echo back from the walls. It seemed to be coming from the far end of the building.

Both boys looked uneasy. They stopped trying to lift the cover, wondering what was going to happen next.

"I am the ghost of White Lund!" the voice wailed.

Then, Paul's head popped up out of the ground some distance from them and shouted at them, "And I'm coming to get you!"

It was him having them on. When they'd shut him in, he'd seen daylight pouring down from a coverless manhole at the far end of the underground chamber and he decided to have his own back on his friends.

Rob didn't like it. He always wanted to be the winner. Michael ran and helped Paul out of the hole from which he was emerging.

"That was a good one wasn't it lads?" said Paul.
"Smart arse! Didn't scare me! I knew it was you all the time," replied Rob

Margaret wrote to Gordon and told him that Michael was doing all sorts of interesting things in his spare time. The curate had told her that he had a lovely singing voice, he'd been made a sixer at cubs and he had lots of nice friends to play with from the new estate.

"Everybody speaks well of him," she concluded in her letter. "You can feel really proud about the way he's growing up."