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."