Chapter 13: Give Us This Day Our Bailey Dead

One morning, Aunt Elsie knocked on the Watsons' front door, called a greeting and came straight in. She was in quite a tizzy.

She was wearing a black coat, smelling of motballs, which usually hung on a coat hook, on the wall of the passage in her house, an entry too short and too narrow to be called a hall.

This was one of her rare excursions out of her dwelling. There had to be a good reason for it. Telling her youngest son, Geoff, to put his coat on and follow her, she'd grabbed her walking stick, slammed the front door behind her and limped up Edward Street, with her son Geoff, heading for the Watsons.

(Geoff, like Joan, was a child of her second marriage).

Elsie was half a generation older than Margaret and her children were several years older than Michael. Geoff was eleven and a very bright lad who had won one of the few scholarships available at that time, for the prestigious Lancaster Royal Grammar School. He was short and thin for his age and had a bit of a squint. He really needed spectacles but they cost too much. He tried to sit in the front row at school so that he could see the writing on the blackboard.

Margaret was surprised to see Elsie but greeted her warmly.

"Shall I make you a cup of tea?"

Elsie paused before accepting. She had a problem. She didn't know whether to go straight ahead and take action or tell Margaret about it and see what she thought. She'd decided to have a chat with Margaret.

"Thank you, love," she replied. "I could do with one. I was just going to leave our Geoff with you, while I went up to his school to sort something out. But thank-you, yes I will have a cuppa first."

She took off her coat and sat down. Michael had never seen much of Geoff. He was usually at school or working in their parlour doing his homework. He had a couple of friends on the other side of town, boys from school, whom he used to go and play with. Michael was a bit shy with him.

"Do you want to play at something?" Geoff asked.
"I've got some marbles," Michael ventured.
"Go on then," responded Geoff, "I'll give you a game."

The two women confided while the boys played.

"What's happened?" asked Margaret.
"It's to do with him," said Elsie, pointing at Geoff.
"Come here a minute Geoff, I want Margaret to have a look at your back."

Michael watched as Geoff went over to his mother and she lifted his shirt and lowered his grey shorts slightly. His lower back and his buttocks were covered with black and blue bruises.

Geoff said, "Be careful Mam, it still hurts!"
"I should think it does!" exclaimed Margaret. "How on earth did that happen?"
"Tell her!" said Elsie.
"Do I have to?" Geoff asked.
"I said for you to tell her. Go on, tell her what you told me!"

Reluctantly, Geoff told his story. You weren't supposed to tell tales, not about anybody, no matter what. That was drummed into you at his school.

"Well, the Headmaster takes us for Divinity."
"What's Divinity?" Michael asked.
"You! Little pig with big ears! Look at one of your picture books! And keep quiet!"

Geoff went on, "It's Scripture, all about the Bible. Anyway, he'd had our books in, to mark our homework. He handed them out. Then he glared at us. As usual, we were all a bit frightened because he gives you the cane if you get a really low mark. I wasn't that worried because I'm good at Divinity.

"I couldn't believe it when he called out the name of the boy next to me and then my name. Both of us had to go out to the front of the class. I knew what that usually meant. But I was convinced that I hadn't done anything wrong.

"He took his thick cane off his desk. It was the one he uses to point things out on the blackboard. He said that he couldn't stand cheating, and he was going to teach us a lesson we wouldn't forget.

"I was scared but I knew I hadn't done anything wrong. I plucked up courage and asked what I was supposed to have done?"

Margaret encouraged him to go on, "Quite right too! Nobody's guilty until it's proved."
"He said this other boy and I had been copying each other's work because all of our answers were the same. It wasn't me. Honest Margaret, I never do any copying. Some of the lads do but I don't!"
"I'm sure you don't Geoff. So what happened next?"

Geoff was close to tears telling about it.

"Well, me asking him that question made him go mad. He grabbed me and gave me a few hits with his stick. Then he put me over his desk and kept on belting me for a long time. He kept on shouting, working himself up! Right loud he was screaming, and calling me a liar, a cheat and a cheeky young thug."

Elsie said, "Dry your eyes son! Have you got your hanky with you?"
"Yes Mam!"
"Use it then! Go and play with Michael! I'm just going to finish my cup of tea."
"You won't go up to school will you Mam? Please don't. I'll only get into more trouble."

"Oh no you won't!" said Elsie grimly. "That's one thing that won't happen!"
She turned to Margaret, "Well what would you do, love?"

Margaret was absolutely sure that a terrible injustice had been done.

"You'll have to go and see him Elsie. He mustn't get away with that sort of thing. I know a lot of the kids get the stick but that is terrible. I've never seen bruises like those."

Elsie's mind was made up.

"I'll leave him with you," she said.
And off she went.

Going as fast her lameness permitted, she went up Moor Lane, then alongside the road next to the canal, climbed steep East Road, the adrenalin flowing, her temper rising, as she drew closer to the lair of her quarry.

Arrived at the school, she asked a pupil where the Headmaster was. She was directed to his house, went in without knocking, and confronted him in his study.

The startled sadist looked up from his desk. She started on him before he could utter a word. She crashed her walking-stick across his desk which made the old sod jump a bit.

"I'm Geoff Thompson's mother so you know why I'm here. I've got just one thing to say to you, you pig. If you ever lay a finger on my boy again, I'll spend my every last penny dragging you and your name though the courts. You hypocrite! You coward! You're nothing but a big bully. You should be ashamed of yourself! You're not fit to be in charge of a slaughterhouse!"

She hit his desk again with her stick, even harder than the first time. It caused ink to jump out of the inkwell and trickle down the desk onto his trousers. He just sat there transfixed, unable to believe that his Authority had been challenged.

After a few more seconds he managed to find his voice. "I'll send for the police!" he stammered.

"Go on! Send for them! I'll have plenty to tell them! You criminal!"

He didn't say or do anything. He just glared at her.

With that she flounced out, leaving the doors open behind her, and flung herself back down the long hill. She went back into Margaret's and told her all about it. Margaret told her she thought she was marvellous. Then she made Elsie another cup of tea.

Geoff was not impressed.

"He'll make my life a misery. He'll never forget. He'll be after me all the time!"

"Don't you be too sure about that," said Margaret. "Bullies don't like a taste of their own medicine. He'll leave you alone. You mark my words."

And that's how it was. The Headmaster never said another word to Geoff about the incident. He never laid another finger on him.

However, not long afterwards, Shackleton-Bailey was hauled into court by another irate parent whose son had been assaulted. The parent lost the case.

That's how it was, then.

Chapter Seven: Dalton Square

Gordon liked to make the most of his weekends. It was a bit of alright having a lie-in and a late breakfast. After that, weather permitting, he felt the need for fresh air. When he'd been outside earlier, he'd noticed it was very warm for the time of year so he suggested, "As it's a nice day and I'm cooped up all week at work , maybe I'll take Michael for a walk."

"Hurrah!" said Michael.

"Oh no you don't!" retorted Margaret. "I've the baby to see to most of the time. I think you should have your share at weekends."

It was out of the question that he should be seen pushing a pram, in the town, so he couldn't take Gwyn. Pushing prams was a woman's job. On the other hand, he didn't want a row because he was hoping for a bit of loving that evening.

"Tell you what, we'll let Gwyn have a bit more sleep," he suggested, trying to find a solution to his wife's demands, "then how about us all going to see your mum and dad at Torrisholme? You can take some of our joint of beef with us and Grandma will soon find some extra vegetables for us, won't she Michael?"

Margaret's face brightened at the prospect and Michael shouted out with glee, loud enough to wake the baby up, which meant they could get ready right away.

Where St. Annes Church used to be today

Their house was on the end of Edward Street. They crossed the road and walked down Moor Lane, past Riley's, the grocer's shop window. It was nearly 11 o'clock and the town's church bells were ringing. On the opposite side of Moor Lane was St. Anne's Church, where Michael was soon to start Sunday School. A few people were just going in.

The bells of the Roman Catholic Cathedral of St. Peter, not far from the top of Moor Lane, could be heard, while the ringers at St. Mary's, near Lancaster Castle, were competing well. Michael thought they all sounded lovely.

Further down Moor Lane there was a variety of shops, including the newsagents. Gordon did not usually take an evening paper but since Dr. Ruxton's arrest for murder, in October, he'd been stopping there every day on his way home, to buy the local edition of the Lancashire Evening News. It was printing all the gory details as they unfolded during the investigation, arrest, police court appearances and trial of the accused man.

This Sunday morning, the newsagents excepted, all of the shops, including Riley's, were closed and the only people about were churchgoers. Everybody, apart from those who couldn't afford any, were wearing their best clothes, which they only wore on Sundays or for other very special occasions. It would be the same when the pubs opened. The men would go there in their Sunday outfits. In the afternoon, people going to take flowers to their dead in the cemeteries, or out for a relaxing walk, would wear their best attire. Indoors, many would put on their glad rags, in case they had visitors.

Usually, Margaret worked all morning making Sunday dinner, but after she had washed up she'd say to Gordon, handing him the baby, "Here love, look after her a minute, I'm just going up to change."

Half an hour later, she'd come back down in a nice, new frock she'd made for herself. She'd brushed her dark hair, rubbed in some face cream, powdered her cheeks and smeared a hint of lipstick onto her mouth.

Queen Victoria statue,
Dalton Square, Lancaster

Gordon kept on glancing at his wife. He could have done worse, he thought. She wasn't letting herself go. Jet black hair, chameleon eyes, very slim, lilting Welsh accent, kind face. Nicely turned out. No curlers. Pity about her legs and teeth. Not her fault, he supposed. They couldn't afford a dentist. And it being so cold and damp in the house, he could hardly blame her for huddling over the fire and scorching her legs. He wished that she wouldn't though because she had nice legs.

"How'd I look?" she'd giggle, pleased with her transformation. Once, Gordon put the baby down on the rug in front of the fire, took his wife in his arms and swung her round off her feet. Then he sat down with her on his lap and tickled her knees. That made her giggle a lot more.

"Stop it, Dad! You're hurting her. She doesn't like it," cried Sir Galahad, in the guise of Michael.

Margaret struggled free, stood up and smoothed herself down.

"I'll deal with you later," laughed Gordon. Michael did not understand what he meant by that. As his mother giggled again, he didn't worry.

Just before they turned left out of Moor Lane and passed the turning to Bulk Street, Gordon paused and took a deep breath. "Lovely!" he exclaimed.

He was referring to the smell of beer coming from Mitchell's, down Brewery Lane.
"Revolting more like it!" responded Margaret. Michael didn't like it either. Depending on which way the wind was blowing, he could sometimes smell it when he was lying in bed. He didn't like it at all. He agreed with his mother, it was revolting.

They went past where the shire horses were kept just round the next turning. They carried on up the slope and onto Dalton Square. The clock, on the far side of the Square, on top of the imposing Ashton Hall, was showing eleven and a bus for Morecambe was just leaving. It would be half an hour before the next one.

Margaret blamed her husband. "If you hadn't stopped to act the fool, sniffing that beer, we'd have been just right."

Gordon put on a brave face.

"Never mind love, it's not cold. We can go and sit in the park and Michael can have a run around in there."

Margaret handed over the baby, "Here, you take her, she's getting heavy."

Then she led the way into the little Park, in the middle of the Square, the one where the huge statue of little Queen Victoria was situated. It dominated everyone and everything she surveyed from the top of her plinth. People were sitting on the seats at the side of the circular path and there were a few weary blossoms still flowering in the flower beds.

It being such a nice morning, for December, most of the bench seats were occupied but a fat woman in a black hat and a thin man in a brown one moved up to let Margaret and Gordon sit down. Michael went to play on the steps around Queen Victoria's statue. Margaret was staring at the tall house, next to the County Cinema, on the side of the Square, facing the Ashton Hall.

"I feel sorry for him," she said, "I really do." She didn't have to explain who she meant. It was Buck Ruxton's house she was looking at.

"I know what you mean love," agreed Gordon, "knowing him like we do. I must say I feel a bit guilty that I didn't take more notice when I saw him having a go at her last year when you were having Gwyn."

"Don't be silly! It's not for us to tell doctors how to behave."

Three other local people, waiting there for the bus, started to join in the conversation and discuss the recent murder of the doctor's wife and his housemaid.

Many folk had a story to tell about the Ruxtons. Gordon told his to the couple sitting next to him.

"I don't think he was going to hurt her with the knife I saw," concluded Gordon. "I think I'd probably disturbed him at his supper."

"Bit late to be having his supper, wasn't it?" said the thin man.

"Lucky he didn't make a real meal of her there and then from what you've just told us," observed the fat woman.

Nobody laughed.

"He was driven to it, she was a wrong 'un."

"Aye, but he shouldn't have hurt the housemaid."

"True!"

"They'll hang him, they've said they will."

"Serve him right!"

"I don't agree with that."

The Golden Lion, Moor Lane

The discussion was becoming animated, so Gordon went over to Michael. He didn't want an argument but he was against capital punishment. Wherever you went, people in Lancaster were taking sides for-and-against the popular doctor, eventually to be hanged at Strangeways, in Manchester.

Many remembered his kindness. Nothing too much trouble for his patients, in a mainly low-paid, working-class area. His fees were modest and he refused any payment from destitute sick people. It was a real tragedy all round.

"But he shouldn't have harmed the girl!" said the fat woman. And for many, that settled the matter: he deserved to hang.