During the summer holidays, Margaret occasionally took her two children and Rob and Paul with her to Joyce's pub. On other days Mrs Martin, Sheila Matthews or May Howson looked after Michael and Gwyn for her. She did not like doing it but a few times she even had to call on her mother-in-law to help out. It was the only way to keep her job.
Margaret had to make a special effort to have her house spic and span, before Nan visited, because she knew that her mother-in-law would be prying everywhere, looking for things to find fault with. She had to put up with snags connected to Nan. She could not afford to absent herself. Money was still tight. Joyce relied on her to be there every day.
Michael and Gwyn liked Nan looking after them. She brought them lollipops on a stick and they didn't have to wait until they'd had their tea before they were allowed to lick them right down to the bare stick. Nan was good to them, letting them have her two ounces of sweets ration between them every week.
One day, Michael needed to wee. He went upstairs to the toilet. He stuck the lollipop in his mouth because he needed both hands to fiddle with the buttons on his trousers. He coughed suddenly and the lollipop popped out of his mouth and fell into the toilet. It upset him no end and he called down to Nan, who came upstairs to see what was wrong. She bent down, picked the lollipop out of the water and washed it under a tap."I can't have it now," said long-faced Michael. "It'll be dirty."
"Course it won't," Nan responded. "It's only your own wee that's touched it. That can't do you any harm." Michael believed her . He licked it again and it tasted all right.
When he told Margaret what had happened, she was furious. "And she tries to find fault with me! What a filthy thing to tell you to do!"
The reason she didn't always take her children with her was because Michael was bored at Joyce's, unless he had friends with him. He drove her crazy, with his moaning and pestering.When he was fed-up he made sure that it showed. It was impossible to have him under her feet while she tried to work. But she did not want to lose her job. It made all the difference to her week's housekeeping.
When the children went with her to the pub, Gwyn stayed with her and helped her do her work. She enjoyed assisting. Margaret gave her a duster with which to polish the furniture.
Michael was spreading his wings more. He liked to be out and about with his mates. He enjoyed it if they were with him. Margaret had no problems then. If he'd managed to make a prior arrangement, his cousin Peter would be waiting for them and the four young lads would go out together. Peter was a couple of years older than the others and was considered capable of taking responsibility. It was up to him to see that the quartet didn't do anything stupid or put themselves in danger.
It was on one of these days in Morecambe that Michael learned how to swim. His friends had already learned in the new Lancaster Kingsway Baths. Their dads had taken them there and taught them. On the one occasion when Gordon was on leave, he'd taken Michael.
He'd hated it. He started to shiver after a few minutes of being waist-deep in the water. His fingers went ivory white. Gordon held him tight but his head went under and he had revolting chlorine up his nose and down his throat. He didn't want to go there again.
But he also hated being the odd one out. The others were practising and becoming proficient swimmers. He was having fun poked at him. Apart from Michael, there was only sickly John Martin who couldn't swim and that was because he wasn't allowed to try.
"Don't worry about it!" his kind cousin Peter had said. "Bring your costume with you tomorrow. The tide will be just right. I'll show you how. You'll float better in salt water."
The next morning, the boys walked along the prom. They were heading for the stone jetty. There were huge slabs of stone piled high at the side of it. Dropping into the water off those was just right for learning to swim. The water wasn't too deep there and the current wasn't strong. Before the tide turned, it was quite safe.Before they reached their goal, they went to see why there was a crowd outside the Super Swimming Stadium.
"It's a Spitfire," shouted Rob. "Come on lads!"
What he'd said was true. There was a Spitfire parked on the grass just the other side of the Kursaal Spa building, with the Midland Hotel just behind. It was roped off and you could not go near enough to touch it.
The boys went as close as possible squeezing their way between the adults who were surrounding the plane. This was the machine which had helped save the country from invasion. It was a national icon.
"It's beautiful," said Michael.
"Just like my Dinky Toy model," breathed Peter.
"I wish I was old enough to be a pilot," whispered Rob.
"My dad got me a bit off the fuselage of one that was shot down," said Paul.
"Liar!" retorted Rob.
"He did. I've got it at home."
"Why's nobody ever seen it then?" asked Rob.
"I'm not allowed to take it outside," protested Paul.
"Liar!" said Rob, again.
"Do you want a fight?" asked Paul.
"Do you?" replied Rob, putting up his fists.
"Let's go and explore the wooden jetty," shouted Michael, pushing his way back through the crowds of adults who were admiring the Spitfire.
"Yes!" shouted Rob.
"Good idea!" called the others going after him.
Over his shoulder, running as fast as he could round to the back of the Super Swimming Stadium, Michael shouted, "Last one there's a Cissy!"
They all chased after him. Paul was last. "Cissy! Cissy! Cissy!" they all chanted. Then they all laughed.
"Who's coming for a roller?" Rob shouted. He made his way to the low wall, on the other side of which was a steep grassy banking. He lay down at the top and rolled sideways all the way down, finally coming to a rest up against the base of the outside wall of the Stadium.
It reminded Michael of the first day that he'd met Rob in Williamson's Park with their mothers. They'd rolled down the grass there, near the foot of the Structure. "Come on lads!" he urged the other two.
All three followed Rob's example and rolled down there after him, ending in a heap of laughing bodies at the bottom.
"Did you mind that dog shit?" asked Rob.
Anxiously, they all examined their clothing. Nothing smelled worse than dog shit.
"Only kidding.you!" said Rob, laughing at their fright.
"Last one to the jetty's a Cissy!" he shouted as he climbed back up the banking. Off they went again. Peter was last this time and it was his turn to be cat-called by the others.
There was a rotting wooden jetty nearby. It was out of bounds. It had not been used for years, not since the ship-breakers who'd worked there after the First World War, had abandoned it.
It stretched outwards from the back-promenade, all the way out into the Bay, parallel with the stone jetty and its equal in length. But its floor was decaying and it had big holes. They were not little holes, like those between the planks of Carlisle Bridge.
The tide was well in and was lapping up against the promenade wall. From where they were standing, they could see the grey tide through the gaping holes of the jetty. It looked ominously deep down there.
Michael's stomach turned over. All of the boys waited, uncertain what to do. Nobody wanted to be the first to back off. Peter made up their minds for them. He pointed to the notice hung on the railings.
DANGER!
KEEP OFF!
"We'd best not!" said Peter, pointing to the notice.
"I'm not frightened of that old notice!" said Rob, starting to climb over the railing.
"No!" said Peter. "I'm the one in charge of you lot. No!"
Authority was obeyed. Simply by trying to go onto the dangerous structure Rob's honour was sufficiently satisfied. He desisted and climbed back to safety. Michael and Paul pretended to be disappointed.
"Anyway," said Peter, settling it for good. "We've come for a swim haven't we? Let's go onto the rocks!"
"Anything will be better than going onto the rotting jetty," Michael thought.
Even so, he was dreading going into the sea. There was nothing else for it, he'd just have to trust his cousin Peter to look after him. He hoped that he would keep his promise.
It was nearly noon and the sun was high in the sky. Although it was wartime, there were quite a few people on the beach; others were sitting, or lying sunbathing on the rocks.
Sitting on the wall, bordering the grass of the Midland Hotel which backed onto the curve of the promenade were some Airmen. They were dressed in bright, hospital-blue uniforms, white shirts and red ties. Some were blind and accompanied by sighted comrades. Others were lame and needed crutches or walking-sticks. There were men with arms in slings. Many had burned faces and bandaged heads.
These were war heroes. There were Pilots who'd been in dog-fights with enemy planes; Aircrew from planes damaged, on bombing missions; Ground-staff bombed, or machine-gunned, on their Airfields during the Battle of Britain. All were convalescing at the Midland Hotel. Inside, were the intensive-care cases. By the front door, ambulances came and went.
Those who could see were enjoying the view. The Pennines were clearly visible, an imposing backdrop to the gleaming water. Coastal towns and villages could be seen vaguely through a heat haze on the opposite fringes of the Bay.
The tall cranes of Vickers, at Barrow, could be glimpsed, if you concentrated your gaze, over there where the tip of the land met the sea. It made Michael sad when he noticed them as he was changing into his swimming costume. He remembered his dead relatives buried over there.
The other boys jumped into the warm water and ducked their heads under. When they stood up, the water came up around their waists. "Come on Mike," said Peter. "You'll be all right."
Michael lowered himself gingerly into the water. It felt cold but he soon got used to it. Peter stood in front of him, drops of water all over his face, his hair slicked back on his head.
"Hold out your hands," he said.
Michael held out his hands.
"No, not like that! Turn them over, palms down," said Peter.
He took both Michael's hands in his and stepped backwards slowly, pulling Michael with him into deeper water. "Let your feet go! Push off the bottom!" he urged. "You'll float all right. Keep your head up and hold my hands."
Peter was very patient. He was a good sort. Michael trusted him and obeyed his instructions. He let his feet go and he floated. Peter was delighted. "Now, kick with your feet!" he said.
"You won't let me go?"
"No!"
"Promise?"
"Trust me!"
Michael kicked with his feet. He felt himself being propelled towards Peter, who backed away but still held him tightly.
"There you are! Told you didn't I? Easy pie!"
Peter called to the others to come and watch. They were all pleased for Michael. Michael said, "Can we go back to where it's not so deep now?"
Peter pulled him back to where they'd started. "I'm a bit shivery," Michael complained. "I think I'll change back into my things."
He'd had enough for that day but he also felt a tremendous sense of achievement. He'd be able to tell his Dad he could swim. Well, sort of!
"Okay Mike," said Peter.He turned and swam off to join the other two. Michael wondered why they didn't feel the cold like himself. The sun was really hot.He was still shivering after he'd rubbed himself dry with his towel and put his clothes back on.
He went and sat on the low wall by the Midland. One of the Airmen came along with a young woman and sat near him. Michael's heart leaped, then sank again, because the pretty, dark-haired girl looked just like his Aunty Julia. But of course, it wasn't her. She was dead. He knew he'd never see her again.
He looked at the cranes, over the far side of the Bay, and thought about his Grandma and Granddad. Then he thought about poor old Granddad Henry and Celia Wilkinson. He didn't get it. He could not understand why people had to die. It wasn't fair. He was awakened from his reverie. The mutilated Airman was smiling at him and saying something. "I say young man, will you do me a favour?"
Michael was a bit shy but he responded politely, "Yes mister! What do you want?" Kids weren't frightened of talking to strangers then.
"We've a camera. My friend Betty managed to lay her hands on a film and we've two snaps left. Will you take our photo for us."
Michael frowned. He'd never used a camera before. "I d.d.don't know how to," he said, his teeth still chattering with cold.The pretty woman stood up and bent over him. She showed him how simple it was to operate her box camera. She had nice, kind eyes and a lovely smile. He tried to concentrate on what she was saying.
"If you stand here," she said, gently ushering him to the middle of the prom, "I'll go and sit with my friend and you press the button when we're ready. Okay?"
Michael concentrated, took the photo successfully, gave the camera back and went and sat down close to them. He told them about his Dad who was in the Air Force. They were quite happy talking to the youngster. Michael liked it because it was one of the first occasions any grown-ups had spoken with him as though he was one of them. He felt their equal talking about Lancaster, where he lived, Joyce's pub and where his Dad was stationed.
After a while the Airman said to Betty, "Take Michael's photo with me, please" So the pretty girl did.
"Tell me your address and I'll send you a copy," she said. So Michael did.
"We've used all the film now so we can have it developed right away," the young woman said.
It was time to go. "Come on Mike, we'll be late for our food!" Peter called, as the other boys came off the rocks, all ready for home.
"Cheerio, young man! Thank-you for your help," said the wounded Airman. He shook hands with Michael.
"Bye now!" said the girl. "I won't forget. I'll send you the photo." She kissed her own fingertips and then pressed them onto Michael's forehead.
Michael was in love again!
It was that funny, special feeling. He pondered it. He still loved Miss Farrell and when he thought about it, he still loved Miss Clemence at St Mary's and his cousin Joan in Edward Street. Then there was his Mam, but that was a bit different. And his Dad! And his friends! And other relations! And his dead ones! Perhaps you could love hundreds of people. Maybe thousands! Maybe millions! Maybe everybody!
Maybe not!
What about Hitler? What about the Germans who'd dropped a bomb on his relations? What about the lad who'd persuaded him to grab that hot poker? What about the bullies at St Mary's?
"Come on you farter!" called Rob. "Hurry up! Stop day-dreaming! Last one back to the pub's a Cissy!"
Michael came last but he didn't care. He'd had a lovely morning.
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