Chapter 14: Christmas Day Morning 1936

Margaret would have liked to have spent the whole of Christmas Day in her own home, then go and visit Nan on Boxing Day, before going to see her own parents later on.

As usual, Gordon was caught between the two strong-willed women's points of view. His mother wanted them to spend the whole day with her and Henry, Gordon's step-father.
Gordon came up with a just-about-acceptable compromise. They would have Christmas Dinner at Nan's and then transfer to Edward Street for tea. All of Boxing Day would be spent at Torrisholme with Grandad and Grandma Davies.

Michael was nearly four years old now, and well aware of what Christmas might mean. It was, along with his birthday, an opportunity to have big presents. Last year, he and his friend, Rob, had had their scooters, which they'd put to good use, pushing and riding them up and down the street when they played out. They liked racing each other. They enjoyed pretending they were aeroplanes or racing cars.

For months, Michael had been persuading his mother to let him look in the toy-shop windows when they went up-town shopping. He'd eyed-up everything there and decided he wanted a model train for Christmas. He was fascinated by trains. There were seven railway stations and three railway lines within a few miles of where he lived and his Dad or Grandad Henry had taken him on walks to see all of them, apart from the one at Heysham Harbour.

When he went with his mother to Cuthbert's chemist' shop, on the corner of North Road, he could see Green Ayre Station. He could hear engines and caught glimpses of steam trains all over town.

From near the Castle, where his Dad sometimes took him for a walk, you could see main line trains going over Carlisle Bridge and electric trains going underneath it to Morecambe. His Dad bought them a penny platform ticket each, one Sunday morning, and they explored Lancaster Castle Station. When his Dad told him where the trains went to from all the different platforms, he found it enthralling.

Rob had had a Hornby train for his last birthday and that was what Michael was hoping for.
"Can I have a train for Christmas, Dad, one like Rob's ?"

"Wait and see our Michael. Christmas is a long way off. Wait and see." Waiting seemed endless.

Come Christmas Day, there it was: the best one out of the "Hornby Train Catalogue". It had never occurred to Michael it would be that one, the beautiful Riviera Blue. There was the long brown engine and tender and two cream and blue carriages. One was a dining car and the other had sleeping compartments. There was a junction, a signal and a workmen's model hut.

The family were hard-up and it had cost Gordon half a week's wages.

Nothing was too good for his Michael. He insisted on buying it, despite Margaret's reminding him that they were supposed to be saving money for one of those new houses over Scale Hall. He got round her objections by saying that most of the money had come from his occasional winning bet on the horses.

He had lots of other presents and so did Gwyn. She had a big doll which opened and closed its eyes and said, "Mummy," when you leaned it forwards. That did make Gwyn laugh. Michael spent a little time showing her how it worked. But playing with the train was what he did from early morning until it was time to go to Nan's.

"Oh, Mam do I have to go? I want to play with my train."
"Hurry up and put your coat on, we're late as it is."
"I don't want to go."
"Pick him up Gordon. I'll carry Gwyn. It's not far."

The protesting Michael was carried as far as Dalton Square. Gwyn was laughing at him so he pulled faces at her. Then his Dad plonked him down and said, "Now, straighten your face and be nice to Nan. I expect she'll have something for you."

"Can't see the point of having a train if I can't play with it!"
"One more word about that train and I'll put it away for a week."

Michael recognised a certain tone of voice of his father's and knew that he meant it. So he shut up. Gwyn was still laughing at him.

When they got to Nan's, all trimmed up, nearly as good as theirs, there was a big welcome and a lot of fussing of the baby. Margaret managed to rescue her from Nan's clutches while Michael sat on his Granddad's knee, fiddling with his gold watch chain and the gold sovereign attached to it.

"Presents after dinner," said Nan. "I've still a lot to do." The smell of the roasting chicken was coming from the oven next to the fire, potatoes were boiling in a saucepan over the red coals, along with other vegetables.

"Smells like lovely grub!" said Dad. It used to annoy Margaret the way that Gordon went out of his way to praise his mother's cooking. "I'm as good a cook as her any day of the week," she thought. Presently Margaret handed the baby over to Gordon and she helped Nan by setting the table.

"Where's Frank?" she asked Nan.
"He'll be here in a minute. He's gone to meet his new girl-friend."

It was a big surprise for Gordon and Margaret when he did arrive, by taxi. Frank's new girl-friend was Joyce Jackson. Frank had been to Morecambe to collect her.
"He must be keen," thought Margaret, "going to all that expense."

She was pleased to see her because she had known Joyce all of her life. They had been good friends back in Wales where they were both brought up. There'd been a coldness between them when Margaret and Gordon had first started going steady, after Gordon packed Joyce in for Margaret, but that hadn't lasted long.

Michael liked Aunt Joyce, she was always laughing and she smelt of lipstick and perfume and scented soap; you could smell how nice she was when she picked you up and hugged you to her.

She lived at Morecambe and came to see Margaret sometimes on one of her afternoons off from the laundry, where she worked mornings ironing clothes, mainly from nearby boarding houses. The work made her back ache but she enjoyed the money, which her father let her keep all for herself.

She always seemed to be bursting with energy when she visited and it cheered Margaret up to see her. She swore a lot and what was usually absolutely forbidden she got away with in Margaret's house. All Margaret said to her was, "Shh! Keep your voice down Joyce! Not so loud in front of the children!"

Some evenings, especially in the season, she worked behind the bar in her father's pub. Her father, Glyn Jackson, was one of the very few Welsh exiles who had left Wales with much money in his pocket. No-one was sure exactly how his wealth had been acquired. It must have been a considerable sum because he'd bought quite a big pub, a free house, half-way down Queen Street, in Morecambe.

Joyce was the joy of his life. She looked just like the mother who had died giving birth to her. He spoiled her rotten.

When Joyce visited Edward Street, Michael would be playing, as usual, on the floor and over-hearing what the two women said.

It was, "Bloody this and Bloody that," as Aunty Joyce told her friend all about her most recent escapades, usually with visitors, staying at the pub for bed-and-breakfast.
Queen Street, known as Morecambe's 'Barbary Coast' could be very lively. Some visitors called Joyce 'The Queen Of The Barbary Coast'.

Every season, just before the war, Joyce ensured that some of her dad's visitors got very good value for their money, a lot more than they'd expected.

Both Margaret's and Joyce's families had fled the unbearably hard times in South Wales during miners' strikes of the Twenties and ended up in Lancaster and Morecambe in 1927.

Margaret was very fond of her friend and despite her behaviour, her heavy make-up, blonded hair, cigarette-smoking and swearing she always made her welcome. Not like some, who Margaret branded as 'Common'! and to whom she gave the 'Frost.' Michael's Dad, said Joyce got on his nerves. She visited the house only when he was at work.

When she arrived at Nan's, with his brother, Frank, for Christmas lunch, Gordon was far from happy. His early friendship with Joyce had been much more than a casual affair. He felt embarrassed seeing her again. She reminded him of what he'd got up to with her before he met Margaret. He knew that she sometimes visited his wife during the day, when he was at work, and he'd never discouraged it. But he did not want to see her. She departed before he arrived home. This was normal procedure. Any daytime visitor would say, "I'd better be going, before your husband comes in from work."

As usual, Joyce was dressed a bit flashily. It was fashionable to wear dresses which flattened the bust but Gordon knew from personal experience that she had plenty hidden up-front to get hold of. The woolly material of her frock clung to her backside and you could just see the outline of her knickers. Gordon could not help noticing and remembered the dates with him when she hadn't bothered wearing any. Blue suited her pale complexion and fair hair. She had real silk-stockings on and high-heeled shoes. Gordon remembered that her bare legs were as smooth as silk to his touch.

She was very natural, at ease and chatty, taking the baby from Gordon and making eyes at him as she did so. She made eyes at all the men. Nan had told Frank that he was courting trouble with that one but he didn't care.

"You always have something to say against my girl-friends," he'd laughed. "Anyway we're not serious. Not yet!" And he'd laughed again.

Now he came and sat next to Henry and Michael.

"How's the Boss then?" he asked Michael. Michael liked it when Frank called him 'Boss'. He told him all about his new train.

"I'll show it to you later," he said.
"Not today Boss," Frank said, then he turned to Nan.
"After we've eaten, Joyce and I will be going to spend the rest of the day at Joyce's."

Lucky brother, thought Gordon. With Joyce, living in the pub, in Morecambe, no doubt it would be one hell of a lively evening, behind closed doors, because it was Christmas Day, with her family and a few merry, favoured guests.

Frank was only two years younger than Gordon and shared his good looks and even-temper. But he was more carefree. He never took life seriously like Gordon. Unlike his brother, he had no time for politics or unions.

"You'll never put the world to rights. Have a good time while you can!" was his motto. He was determined to stay single, and on the loose, at least for the near future.

"Plenty of new pebbles on the beach, our Gordon!" he'd boast. Somewhat ruefully, Gordon could see the sense of it.

Nan frowned but didn't say anything. She'd hoped the family, and only the family, would be together all day.

Margaret had to admit, her mother-in-law was a good cook. The meal was a great success.
Afterwards, there was an exchange of presents. Everyone was pleased with what they received, mainly items of clothing for the grown-ups; a hundred cigarettes, from Frank to Joyce. For Michael, pride of place was given to a railway turntable, to add to his Mam's and Dad's train set. He could hardly wait to go back home and fit it to the rails which he'd left set out, awaiting his return.

Because it was Christmas Day, the two brothers did all of the washing-up. This meant boiling lots of water over the fire. There was no kitchen. The dishes were carried through to the scullery, more like a bit of a shed, attached to the only downstairs room.

The cold water, for rinsing the dishes, was from a tap, shared by others, out in the yard. There was a stone sink and a sloping slab to drain the dishes on. The water off them dripped down into a bucket. Nan had a washing-up bowl in the sink. When the water got dirty, it was thrown out into the yard and it drained away from there.

It took three kettles-full to do all of the dishes, cutlery and pots and pans. The washing-up took over half-an-hour.

"Glad I haven't got that lot to do every day," remarked Frank.

While Gordon and Frank were still larking about, flicking each other with tea towels, there was the honking from outside of the taxi Frank had ordered. He and Joyce embraced everybody in turn, apart from Gordon, who shouted his farewell from the scullery. A chorus of, "Merry Christmas!" and off the pair went. Soon, it was time for the rest to transfer to Edward Street.

They waited in the street until Nan had put out the gas-light and locked the back door. Henry brought plenty of coal up from the cellar, ready for when they came home. Nan locked the front door and they all walked down Thurnham Street to Dalton Square. For once, there was no traffic on the main road and very few people out walking. The Town Hall clock was already glowing in the very early dusk of a foggy afternoon.

"What nasty weather," Nan moaned, "it's a pity we had to turn out in it."

Henry responded, "Oh I don't know, I think the walk will help to settle our stomachs. I think we all ate a bit too much."
"Yes mother, you certainly did us proud. It was a smashing meal," Gordon flattered.

As they turned into Edward Street, Margaret said, "I hope the fire's not gone out. There's nothing worse than going into a cold house."

Luckily, it was still alight. Gordon used the poker to shake out the ashes and pile coal on the glowing embers. In no time at all, there was a blazing fire.

"One thing less for her to moan about," thought Margaret, wondering what her mother-in-law would be picking holes in, once her eagle eye had orbited all the way round her place, looking for something to criticise.

Margaret got off lightly. Nan looked at the new furniture and sniffed, "Very nice! Must have cost a pretty penny! Don't know how you can afford it, with only one wage packet coming in!"


• First released in 1926, the Hornby Railway Collector's Asscociation notes that Riviera Blue Train (influenced by the important French market) was the first of the imposing 4-4-2 No.3 Locomotives - the "Blue Train" coaches were the largest and most impressive to date. A new M series replaced the unsuccessful tinprinted trains. 
The Hornby Control System allowed control of clockwork trains, points and signals from a lever frame in the signal cabin. Goods Depot, Island and Passenger Platforms were introduced. Great Western trains were added to the range.

• In 2010, a Hornby Series No 3 locomotive "The Riviera Blue" sold for £1550 at auction in Shrewsbury

Chapter 12: Up Town

Summer Blooms painting by Mario Ottonello.
Reproduced with permission courtesy
of Studio Arts, Lancaster

There were days when Margaret had to no choice but to take her children up-town with her, to do some shopping. Rob's mother wasn't always available to look after the children.

She liked going without the children because Michael held her up, always pestering her and trying to have his own way. It wasn't easy pushing the pram along the crowded pavements, with him moidering her as well. Michael could be quite aggressive and
self-assertive. His emotions would soon surface and he shared his mother's determination to have her own way. Public confrontations were embarrassing and threats to deal with him for his bad behaviour, when they arrived back home, were not always effective.

Road trafic was increasing, year on year, all over Lancaster. North Road, New Street and New Road had all been made one-way streets in early efforts alleviate developing problems with vehicles. It was a busy town, people coming from the countryside to do their shopping swelling the numbers of local customers. Buses up Cheapside, along Market Street, King Street, Common Garden Street and Brock Street were a nuisance. There were awkward junctions and lots of vans, lorries, horses and carts. Cars had to be looked out for - and dodged - when you tried to cross the road. Horses and carts were slowly disappearing. The trams from Scotforth to Stonewell, whch had served Lancaster since 1905 had stopped running in 1930, also victims of the rise of the motor competing for room.

It was quite a business getting the children ready. Michael still wore a harness, for her to hold, to prevent him straying off the pavement, and Gwyn had to be made comfortable in the pram.

They were always telling Michael, "You're a big boy now. Big boys don't ride in prams."

Routine shopping bored him and sometimes he would hop about impatiently, tugging Margaret's coat and urging her to hurry up, when she was being served. It was different if they spent most of the time in the shops he wanted to visit! Returning from the town, he would try to persuade Margaret to let him ride on the pram, his legs swinging over the end, down between the handles. That was really hard-going for her. Luckily Church Street, was mainly down-hill on the way home.

Michael never stopped bothering her. Anything to gain her attention. He was three-and-a-half now and she wished he'd let up on her a bit more. She wished that Rob could come and play with him every day. It was the only time when Michael gave her peace.

As they left the house it was, "Mam! Mam!"
"Yes Michael?"
"How do you know Mrs. Smith has crows feet?"
"Don't be silly Michael!"
"I'm not. I heard Aunt Eva telling Aunt Betty."
"They didn't mean what you think."
"What did they mean Mam?"
"For heaven's sake Michael! Be quiet! We've got to cross Stonewell."
"Why's it called Stonewell, Mam?"
"Because it is!"

That was the trouble with grown-ups, Michael thought. They never told you what you wanted to know. If only they'd explain things better! His Grandad Henry, who'd married Nan, Granddad Eli's widow, wasn't bad. He'd usually tell you what you wanted to hear but even he had his limitations.

Michael was now absolutely terrified of "Davy Jones's Locker", which his Grandad assured him he would end up in, if he went too near the edge of the canal bank. His Grandad often took him for walks alongside Lancaster Canal. He liked going, but it was frightening under the dark bridges, because the water looked ominously very deep there.

He imagined Davy Jones waving up at him from the inscrutable depths below the surface. Grandad wouldn't reassure him, just left it to his imagination to run riot.

Margaret and the children crossed Stonewell, she keeping a wary eye out for traffic where four minor roads met the main one going through Lancaster. Having done that, Michael was immediately confronted with a place of mystery.

One Sunday morning his Dad had taken him past the long, wooden hut at the bottom of the hill next to Stonewell. From inside, there were the sounds of people singing and a brass band playing.

"What's that noise, Dad?"
"That's Sally's Army. That's where they meet. And that," said his Dad, pointing to the tatty-looking cinema next door, "that's the Bug Hut. Come on, we're late!"

Before Michael could ask more, his Dad pulled on his arm and they hurried up the hill, passing all of the other little shops and pubs which decorated the street with their wares, their signs and their local names.

Mam's first stop was Cavendish's, to pay her weekly 'on the never never'. It was part of the repayment for the new three-piece suite in the living-room. Her arrangement with the shop was not one to be divulged to Nan or other relatives. Hire-purchase was not respectable! Almost as bad as going to the pawnshop!

Mam left the pram outside and tied Michael's harness to a pram handle. Don't move!" she warned. "I won't be long."

"Where are you going Mam?"
"To pay 'The Never-Never Man'."

It sounded like somebody out of one of his nursery rhymes. "Who's 'The Never-Never Man', Mam?"
"Never you mind! Stay there and behave yourself!"

She disappeared into the shop to make her payment. When she came out, they carried on up the hill, crossed busy Cheapside and went up Church Street. It being Wednesday, one side of the street was filled with carts and stalls. There were loads of people buying fresh fruit and vegetables. Margaret bought herself a bunch of flowers. She liked a bit of colour in the house. Carnations were her favourite, same as the ones she'd had in her wedding bouquet.

They turned left at the next corner and Michael said, "Can we look in The Rocking Horse Shop?"

The Rocking Horse Shop on New
Street, now Trojans Restaurant

High above the toy-shop, on the opposite side of the road, there was a full-sized rocking-horse, fastened to the wall, a sign which attracted any child who went down New Street.
"All right," Margaret replied, "But we're only looking today. No more big toys 'til Christmas!"

After that, they crossed the road again to go to the new Children's Library. They went there once a fortnight.
Margaret lifted Gwyn, who had just woken up, and carried her into the building. Michael went ahead to the section of picture books. He soon found one he wanted. It was Myths and Legends of the World. On the front and back were brightly-coloured pictures of knights rescuing beautiful maidens.

He handed it to his mother to give to the lady.

"It's a bit old for him," said the fat lady, with spectacles, who stamped your books for you.
"It must have got mixed up with the picture books. Shall I help you find something else?"
She flicked the pages open for them to see and showed that there were no more pictures inside. Michael was adamant. That was the one he wanted.

"Dad will read the stories to me," he said. He told the lady, "My Dad's a good reader."

When Margaret was settling the baby back in the pram, Michael asked her, "What's a myth, Mam?"

"It's a sort of story which may have been true once upon a time."
"Aren't all stories true Mam?"
"Don't be silly! You know they're not!"
"No, I don't!"

He knew all of the marvellous stories he'd been told, all the nursery rhymes which he'd learned off by heart, to be true. They seemed true enough to him. He liked them because they never changed. If his Dad altered one of his favourites slightly during a repeat hearing, he would protest, "No Dad, it doesn't go like that. Tell it true!"

Margaret was ready to push the pram through the indoor market, where she would buy some meat, but Michael had another question for her, "What's the world like Mam?"

She sighed and tried to answer, "It's like a big ball. Huge! With all different people in it?"
"What people?"
"All sorts! Brown, black, yellow and white people like us."
"Why are we white Mam?"
"Because we're lucky and we're British. That's why we have to look after all the other people who aren't British. We have to help them so they can be like us."
"Why aren't they like us?"
"Because they're not!"
"Why do we want to change them?"
"Because we know what's good for them!"
"I'm a good helper Mam, aren't I?"
"Yes love. Come on, you can help me push the pram."

They went into Market Street, past the old Town Hall, crossed the road and had a look round the market. Margaret was looking for a cheap remnant of cloth, to make herself a new dress. She didn't find anything.

Michael was fidgetty again, so they went to one of the butchers who had their shops situated there. The butchers took up most of one side of the market. She was one of Burt's regulars and they exchanged friendly greetings.

Michael looked at the blood-stained sawdust on the floor and Mr. Burt's blood-stained hands. He looked at the animal carcasses hanging there and they reminded him of what he'd overheard about Doctor Ruxton and how he had 'butchered' his victims.

As they left The Market he asked, "Does Mr. Burt kill people too?"
"Of course not Michael! Will you stop being silly!"

"I'm not! Dad told me once that Doctor Ruxton wouldn't hurt a flea and look what he did."

His eyes then alighted on Atkinson's toy shop window on the corner of Market Square. Margaret agreed he could look but she wasn't buying anything expensive. He could have something out of Woolworths, for sixpence, but that was all.

Inside Woolworths, with the baby lifted from the pram again, she bought him what he wanted. It was a bomb and some explosive caps to go with it.

Caps were on strips of paper, divided up into little circles which you could tear off. Each cap was impregnated with gun-powder. You could put them inside toy guns, or bombs, and when impacted they would explode with a cracking noise, produce smoke and a smell of cordite. Caps fascinated Michael.

"We haven't bought any foreign muck have we Mam?"

Michael's Dad had given Margaret definite instructions about which fancy goods she should purchase.

"Look underneath!" he urged her. "There's usually a label. 'British Made' or 'Empire Made' is what you want! No 'Foreign Made' muck or 'Made in Japan' shoddy stuff. And definitely nothing with 'Made in Germany' on it, even if it is a bargain!"

By the time they arrived home, Gwyn was asleep in the pram. Margaret opened the front door and bade Michael to be quiet. She eased the pram over the front doorstep and left it in the passage. She and Michael tip-toed into the living-room. She took the poker and poked the fire then put the kettle on to boil, for a nice cup of tea.

"I think there's a drop of Tizer left. You can have that."

Michael loved Tizer. They sat together at the table which was covered with washable Williamson's oil-cloth. He liked it when there was just himself and his Mam.

"Mam," he asked, "what's Grandma's school like?"
"You mean 'grammar' not 'grandma'. You'll have to ask your cousin Geoff, that's where he goes."

She ruffled his dark curly hair and said, "You are a one. You wear me out. You and your questions!"

"Mam?"
"Yes Michael, what now?"
"Mam, can I go and try my bomb out in the backyard?"

Margaret was about to prepare the baby's bottle. Gwyn would be awake soon.

"I suppose so. But keep away from Next-door's side of the yard."
"Right Mam, I will. I promise."

Michael went out through the back door and into the yard, which was paved with flagstones. He placed three caps, side by side between heavy metal sections of the bomb. He just as carefully let the two bits close, firmly but gently, together.

He pretended to be an aeroplane. He stretched out his arms and flew around the yard.
"Mmmmmmmmm!" he droned, pretending to be an aeroplane engine. Just outside his own house's back door the pilot dropped the bomb.

Plop! No explosion!
He picked the missile up and the aeroplane took off again.
"Mmmmmmmmmm!"
This time he threw the bomb up into the air. It landed just outside the outside lav.
Plop! No explosion!
He picked it up again.
"Mmmmmmmm!" he went yet again. This time he threw the missile high up into the air with all of his strength. It came to ground.
Bang! it went! Right on Next-door's doorstep.

She must have been watching him. Out she came, at full throttle. The enemy plane came straight for him and smacked him one right across the cockpit. He was shot down immediately and was lying on the ground screaming, "Mam! Mam!"

By the time that Margaret had put the baby down and rushed to his assistance, the enemy had returned to base. The rescue party retrieved the pilot, heard his story and decided to wait for reinforcements.

After she'd comforted him and he'd calmed down a bit, Michael said to his mother, "She's a real bugger isn't she?"

As soon as Gordon arrived home, Margaret told him what had happened. She showed him the red mark on Michael's cheek where he'd been smacked. Then she told him about Michael swearing. Fortunately, during the commotion that was to follow, his swearing offence was forgotten.

"As soon as I'm in!" said Gordon, "Trouble! I don't really need this. I've had a hard day. Jepson's been on my back all day. Couldn't you have sorted it?"

"No I couldn't. This one is down to you."
"Who's Jepson, Dad?" asked Micheal, wondering who'd been playing piggy-back with his Dad all day.
"Shut up, you!" hissed Gordon.

He went out the back. For once, he was in a temper and ready to have a real go at Next-door. Being difficult was one thing but hitting Michael was different.

As soon as she answered his knock, he bundled her inside. He didn't want any of the nosey neighbours to hear him sounding off. They went straight into her living-room. But, before he could say anything, he was so astonished by what he saw, and what he smelled, that he forgot why he was there.

Most of the floor space was piled high with rubbish. There were stacks of newspapers. Heaps of old, tattered materials and clothing! Broken pieces of wood in one corner, and small branches and twigs off trees, all cluttered in another, almost up to the ceiling! Empty tins and packets were scattered everywhere. Loaves of stale, mildewed bread, in number several dozen, lined one wall. It was a stinking dump.

The curtains were closed, though it was still daylight. The mantelpiece was set out as a sort of altar. Two candles were lit there in tall holders. Hung on the wall was an enlarged photo, in a big, black frame. Surrounding that was a wreath, just like the one the King laid at the Cenotaph every Remembrance Sunday.

All this and more he took in at a glance. But it was the lumps of shit everywhere, where you could see the bare floorboards, that nauseated him, that assailed his senses. He was badly affected and had an almost uncontrollable urge to add to the mess by vomiting on it.

He turned towards her in disbelief. Her haggard face and mad eyes stared back at him. She held one arm protectively over her head.

She started crying and sobbing, then whimpered, "Don't hit me our dad. Don't hit me! I won't do it again. I'm sorry dad. Don't let him hit me! Please mam stop him!"

Then she let out an almighty shriek, rushed out of the room and Gordon heard her scuttling up the stairs.

Swearing was forbidden in the Watsons' abode. "Bloody hell!" said Gordon, still standing in the entrance to the room. "Bloody, bloody hell!"

He went out, leaving the door ajar. Shocked to the core, he went back into his own house, carefully examining the soles of his shoes before he did so, in case they had excrement on them.

"You weren't long!" said Margaret. "What did she have to say?"
"Never mind, I'll tell you when I get back. Keep the doors closed while I'm gone."
"Where are you going? she asked.
"To the Police Station!"
"What for?"
"I won't be long."

They never saw Next-door again and nobody ever moved in to her house, after she was taken away. The fumigators came and other men cleared up the mess. All the furniture and her other belongs were removed. The house stayed empty. Nobody rented it after that. No old friend, no relative visited the place.

They heard later that the poor old soul had had a dreadful life. She'd been ill-treated as child, suffering terrible cruelty, at the hands of her father. Married at seventeen, she'd lost her elderly husband in a mill accident forty years ago and her son was killed, in Flander's mud, in 1917.

Every time Gordon saw the empty house, with its curtainless windows, he felt guilty. He just knew that they'd got it wrong. They should have done something, anything, to help their neighbour. She should not have been left to sink into such squalor!

The house looked derelict and spooky. There was no-one to worry about out in the yard anymore. At least Margaret didn't have to worry about being moaned at every time she went out the back.

Lancaster's Junior Library today. Photo © Bill Jervis

• Summer Blooms painting by Mario Ottonello. Reproduced with permission courtesy of Studio Arts, Lancaster