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 55: Evacuees

It all happened during one week: starting a new school, war declared and the introduction of two evacuees into the Watson household! Michael liked adventures but all this took a bit of getting used to.

A cream-and-green charabanc made its way slowly round the new Scale Hall Estate. It had started off full, with over 30 boys and girls and two teachers from Salford, part of a consignment from the Manchester area -- assumed to be a prime-target for Hitler's bombers.

The children had been separated from their parents, sent by train to Lancaster and transported by coach around the city and the outlying districts. A Women's Voluntary Service member was on the coach and it was her job to find homes for the teachers and the children.

By the time that the vehicle and the evacuees had reached the top of Sefton Drive, it was almost dark and the woman in charge was beginning to despair. Would she ever be able to find anyone willing to take her few remaining scraps of humanity? Not many local households had been keen to have their numbers suddenly swollen by the more presentable.

The last two were far from presentable.

The teachers had stayed on board with the last of their pupils. It was their duty to see them safely billeted. Billy and Mickey had been rejected by all who had been asked to take them in. They had runny noses, filthy hair, dirty clothing and smelled of pee.

Britain was a nation was divided. There were those who paid lip-service to unity, pulling-together, sharing-the-burden etc. And then there were the Watsons and their kind, the ones who were reluctant heroes -- but when the time came and the need was genuine, they were prepared to do their duty. They helped others and did everything possible to help win the war.

Although they had had their differences, mainly arising from the Beth business, neither Margaret or Gordon had a moment's hesitation in saying "Yes," when they were asked if they would go and look at the two pathetic little kids, huddled together on one of the double seats of the charabanc.

"Yes," said Gordon, "of course we'll have them. They can stay with us."

"I'll have to have a look at your accommodation," said the dutiful W.V.S. woman, although she was thinking that even if the house was a slum inside, it would have to do. The Watsons were her only hope of finding the two boys a home.

They showed her round. Mr Mort was in his downstairs room and Michael and Gwyn were, seated at the table, drawing in their sketch books. The woman went upstairs with Gordon and Margaret. Gordon explained that Gwyn could move into Michael's room and the two little boys could sleep in her room.

"We could do with some extra bedding," Margaret suggested.
"I'll see to that first thing tomorrow," the woman replied, overjoyed to be unloading the last of her responsibilities on the Watsons.

The Martins had noticed the charabanc and went outside to find out what was going on. They were talking to the teachers and offering them accommodation. "Our Doreen will have to move in with John," said Mrs Martin.

"I'm sure that we'll manage," pronounced Mr Martin.

Gordon and Margaret went back to the coach to collect the two boys. "Come along, Billy, Mickey," Gordon urged the two lads.
"Don't want to!" said Billy.

Mickey turned his back on Gordon and huddled closer to Billy. Gordon turned to the W.V.S. woman, who asked the teachers to help. One of the teachers ordered the boys to move and go with 'the nice man'. They obeyed reluctantly, and Gordon guided them indoors.
"I'll bring the extra bedding tomorrow," said the fat, grey-haired W.V.S. woman. "I won't forget. I'll come and see if they've settled in. And thanks for taking them! It's very kind of you."

The two boys stood looking at Michael and Gwyn in the dining-room. None of the children said anything to each other.

The newcomers looked as though they were traumatised, their spindly legs stuck into Wellington boots. Billy's were too small for him and Mickey's too large. Both had cold sores on their lips and red marks at the back of their knees, where the boots had chaffed them.

Their short trousers were patched and dirty. Both wore grey jerseys with had holes in them and which were too small and tight around their chests. There was a gap, where bare skin was seen, between trouser tops and jersey bottoms. Both had wiped their runny noses on the sleeves of their jerseys and the snot still glistened there. Gas masks hung over their shoulders in cardboard boxes, supported by string. Attached to the breast of their jerseys were labels, with their names and addresses on.

Each of them carried a brown-paper carrier-bag with a few clothes inside. There were pumps, with holes in the soles, and a dirty raincoat, with buttons missing and no belt. Mickey's coat was too small and Billy's too big.

Both were pale, of dismal visage and skinny physique. Both were aged five but they looked like undernourished four-year-olds.

Michael didn't like the sight of them at all, but Gwyn felt sorry for them because they looked so sad. Gordon and Margaret wondered what they had taken on.

"They'd better have a bath to start with," Margaret suggested.
"Agreed!" replied Gordon.
"You find some clean clothes for them and I'll take them up to the bathroom."

Gordon placed a protective hand on their shoulders. "Now me lads, let's be having you! What you need is a nice warm bath."
"Piss off, mister!" Billy snarled.
"Get off!" said Mickey, shaking Gordon's hand away.

Momentarily taken aback, Gordon decided it was time for action. It was a case of starting in the way he intended carrying on. He grabbed both of them by the scruff of the neck. He pushed them up the stairs and into the bathroom. He closed the door and turned on the taps.

"Come on lads, get undressed!"
"Not bloody likely!" said Billy.
Mickey cowered away from Gordon.
"I'm not going to hurt you," said Gordon. "You'll like a nice bath. You'll feel better for it."
"I bloody won't!" said Billy.
"I don't want one!" said Mickey.

Later, Gordon told his wife, "I think they thought I was going to drown them. Never seen a bath before!"
"Neither had we 'til recently. Not a modern one," she reminded him.

Gordon needed assistance. "Margaret!" he called. "Leave what you're doing! I need some help."

Somehow, between them, they managed to undress the boys. All they had on were dirty jerseys, stained trousers and smelly Wellington boots. Screaming and struggling, they were placed in the bath facing each other. They were given a thorough soaking and washing. When their hair was washed all hell broke loose. Billy's language was unbelievable. Margaret was distraught at the thought of Michael and Gwyn hearing it.

Downstairs, Michael said to Gwyn that he didn't like them. "They'll be all right when they get used to us," his sister replied. But they weren't. They were terrible. Years later, Gordon read 'Put Out More Flags' by Evelyn Waugh. "Not a word of exaggeration in that book," Gordon told Jack, when he went to see him during one of his leaves from the Air Force. "The pair we had were just like that."

Usually one for doing his duty, Jack had refused to have evacuees. "No more brats in this house!" was his comment.

"I thought you believed in putting your money where your mouth is!" Sheila reminded him.
Jack shuddered. "There are limits!"

After two hours of striving, threatening and coaxing, the two boys were bathed, put into clean shirts and trousers belonging to Michael. Their hair was deloused. Both were smacked by Margaret for resisting and swearing. They howled the place down. "My mam'll kill you," snarled Billy. She fed them and gave each a cup of hot cocoa.

Still no words were exchanged with Michael and Gwyn. While all of the commotion was going on, Mr Mort stayed-put in his own room. He had not been consulted. He was so easy-going no one had bothered to ask if he objected to two more in the house.

When it was time to put them to bed, it was long past Michael's and Gwyn's normal bedtime. Margaret had done some rearranging upstairs. Gwyn was going to sleep on the floor in Michael's room. She liked the idea and Michael didn't mind. Curiously, during the three months that she slept in there Michael never had a nightmare. He slept soundly and awoke early every morning. "Fresh as a daisy!" his Dad said. Michael wondered if the Uglies had retreated. He hoped that they had decided to leave him alone and go somewhere else.

The first night, and most nights, Billy and Mickey wet the bed. Margaret had not been prepared for that. "I'll bring you some rubber under-sheeting," said the W.V.S. woman when she came the next day. She was prepared to really put herself out and ensure that the Watsons did not drop those two back onto her lap!

Classes for the evacuees were set-up in St Chad's Church, where they were taught by their own teachers. The floor-to-ceiling blue curtain was pulled across in front of the altar. This was normal practice when cubs, scouts and other organisations used the church for their activities. It was a wooden, temporary mission church, built hastily for a congregation drawn from the nearby, private and corporation estates. Portable chairs and trestle tables were moved around to form an open plan school, with screening for separate classes. It wasn't that different to what had always been done on Sunday afternoons when the Sunday School split up into different groups.

At home, Margaret managed well. Hadn't her own mother had to survive with nine children? Hadn't Beatrice's circumstances been much more difficult than hers? She was determined to cope -- and cope she did.

Routines, which they had never known before, were imposed on the two boys. They walked with Margaret and the other children to their 'school' which was right next door to Ryelands School. They learned some table manners and cleanliness. They ate well and thrived. After a month they looked quite healthy. It was a remarkable transformation.

"If you look carefully enough, you can find gold underneath muck!" Gordon commented.

Curiously, mothers who had refused to accommodate any evacuees themselves distanced themselves from Margaret. They avoided her and her charges. Perhaps they felt guilty. One might have expected some support from them or a few words of encouragement but no, people kept their distance and looked askance at the bad behaviour of the boys. It was as though some locals were frightened of catching something off them.

Nan didn't stand any nonsense. When Gordon took them to see her they recognised Authority as soon as they saw it. They sat on the rug in front of the fire quite meekly, models of good behaviour. Nan found them a sweet or two and a couple of pence for pocket-money. They said, "Thank you!" without being asked. "Nice little lads!" she told Gordon. "Must be missing their mothers. Poor mites!"

Michael really hated them. They played with all of his toys, without asking. They were careless and willful. They broke or damaged most of precious belongings. Sometimes they did it accidentally, often on purpose. It was a good job they were younger than he was, or he would have been frightened of them. They were younger versions of the bullies at St Mary's, only worse, much worse! Even so, the way that they ganged up against him and never conversed with him worried him and made him resentful and angry.

After two months, Gordon went into the Air Force and Mr Mort had to leave. It would not be proper for him to be in the same house with a woman whose husband was away in the Forces. His quiet presence in the house was hardly missed. But his money for lodging was.

On the day he left, he gave Michael and Gwyn half-a-crown each. He didn't give the evacuees anything. He told Margaret he'd been happy lodging there and was sorry to go. For him, that was a long speech.

The Watson's income shrunk overnight, even though Gordon sent home most of his own Air Force pay, as well as his married man's allowance. But it wasn't enough to pay the bills. Margaret hated him for leaving her like he had.

After three months, the evacuee boys' mothers came to take them back home. There had been no bombing raids on Manchester, so what was the point of them being evacuated?

It was a Saturday, a dreary November afternoon when they arrived. Gordon was on a 48-hour pass from Blackpool where he was still stationed. It was he who opened the door, to admit the mothers. Margaret bristled as soon as she set eyes on them.

"Common! Common as muck!" she thought.

Both of them had cigarettes on the go."We don't smoke in the house!" were her first words to them.

"Don't worry, we're not coming in," replied the tall one, with dyed blonde hair. "Posh, snooty bitch!" she thought, staring back at Margaret.
"We just want the children back, please," said the short one, the brunette with streaks of grey in her hair.

"Anyone would think I'd kidnapped them!" Margaret thought. Margaret had only received their letter that morning. It was ill-mannered of them and too short notice. Billy and Mickey were very excited when she told them and looking forward to seeing their mothers.

Gordon insisted that the two women enter the house. "You can't stand out there in the rain. The boys are almost ready for you." They trod on their cigarette ends and went in, where there were joyful reunions.

"Mam, we have to have a wash before we go to bed every night," Billy protested.
"Mam, she makes us have a bath every week!" said Mickey.
"Mam, she makes me wear socks," squealed Billy.
"Mam, she's always telling us off about something," said Mickey.
"Even when we've done nowt wrong!" added Billy.
"Ungrateful little sods!" thought Gordon.

Margaret frowned, sighed, then thawed a little, and offered a cup of tea, which was accepted. Gordon took their coats and they sat down. They were all face-powder and lipstick, short skirts and stocking-tops. Gordon didn't mind them. Margaret hoped they wouldn't stay long. "Could do with a good wash, the pair of them! All that make-up! Covering up the dirt I expect!"

Gwyn showed them her dolls. Michael sat in a chair, saying nothing, reading a book.
Mickey and Billy were pleased to be leaving. The old freedoms at home would more than compensate for the home comforts of Sefton Drive. Their mothers were not impressed and did not remark on the incredible improvement in the appearance of their offspring. They drank their tea and then they asked for the boys' ration books. Margaret had already used some of the coupons for the coming week so an argument developed. "How are we going to feed them, if we can't buy their rations?"

"I'm sorry, but I only got your letter this morning! I'd already used some of their coupons. I went shopping yesterday."

Blondie sniffed significantly. She seemed to be hinting that Margaret was not telling the truth.

"You'll have to let us have some of what you've bought," said the long-nosed brunette, crossing her legs and showing Gordon a bit more thigh.
"That seems fair," Blondie seconded. She was going to light another cigarette but her friend nudged her and spoke sarcastically. "Rules! No fags indoors!"

Gordon intervened, "If you want to have a smoke, I'll go and unlock the shed. You can go in there."
"Thank you very much. I'll take you up on that," said Blondie, fluttering her artificial eyelashes at Gordon.

They both stood up, and followed Gordon out into the pouring rain, where they made a dash for the shed. Their kids went with them. Gordon ran back to the house. Margaret was hastily packing Billy's and Mickey's belongings into new carrier-bags. She put some sugar and tea-leaves into an empty jam-jar and wrapped some butter and slices of meat in grease-proof paper. She put those items and the boys' ration books on the top, ready for inspection, in the carrier-bags. "That should be enough to shut them up," she hissed. "And as for you, Mr Prince Charming, perhaps you'd like to go and tell them I've everything ready for them, so they can be on their way. But be careful, those two would eat you alive in five minutes."

"What are you talking about, love?"
"You know what I mean!" she whispered hoping that Michael and Gwyn wouldn't hear. "Your eyes are out on organ stops. All bums and tits aren't they? Right up your street!"

It wasn't like his wife to be crude. He could sense her burning resentment, his affair with Beth never far from the surface, it seemed. She hated his having joined-up and wondered what he was doing during his spare time in Blackpool.

"Come off it Margaret! I'm only trying to be pleasant."

Margaret had them on their way within minutes. Gordon decided it would be better if he didn't offer to walk with them to the bus stop. Margaret, Gordon and Gwyn said goodbye.

Michael didn't. Rob had taught him a useful phrase to suit the situation. "Good riddance to bad rubbish!" he thought, relieved to see the back of the two boys.

Nobody thanked Margaret for having them stay with her and for looking after them so well.
The quartet wandered away, down the road, in the rain. Gordon watched from the shelter of the hall, just inside the front door. As they turned into Borwick Drive, he saw Blondie give Billy a terrific swipe across the back of his head. He could hear the lad's shrieking from where he stood.

That was the end of the evacuees. There were similar departures from all over Lancaster. Within a few months, nearly all had returned from whence they came. Back to their slums! For many lower-middle-class and aspirant working-class families who had given them shelter their encounters had been something of a culture shock and a reminder of the very real differences which existed within the country. Lancaster might have its poor but most of those evacuated kids came from real dumps!

Margaret had liked the two boys. They'd responded well to her carrot-and-stick kind of discipline and had learned not to step outside her well-defined boundaries, when it came to good or bad behaviour. But, overall, she was vastly relieved that they had gone. Now that Gordon was in the Air Force, they were really hard-up. The meagre payments she'd received from Authority for lodging the boys had been quite inadequate for their needs. She would find it much easier to make ends meet now they had departed. She decided to try and find herself a little job. If she succeeded, it would be her first. She'd never worked outside of home. First her father, and then her husband, had always provided for her. The war was changing everything. Margaret's good times were over. Never again would she be able to say that her life was perfect.

"I'll have to go on with it the best I can," she mused, feeling sorry for her self. "How is it that everything has changed so dramatically for the worse in just 12 months?"