Chapter 75: Epilogue

On the third, and final evening of his visit to Lancaster in 1983, Michael Watson telephoned and arranged to meet his old friend Rob. Paul Howson was living in Australia, and he had not seen him for five years but Rob had never moved very far from the Lancaster area. He lived near Millom, in Cumbria, and came down willingly to Lancaster by car to see Michael.

They'd always remained friends, ever since the day they'd met in the park when they were infants. Usually, Rob went to Norfolk and spent a week with Michael and his family every summer. Michael's visits to Rob were infrequent because Michael's wife strongly disapproved of his old friend. She wished she could stop Rob from coming to see them.

"He bosses you about," she'd say. "He has a a funny attitude to life. Thinks he knows everything. What's more, I know he doesn't like me."

Michael thought his wife saw Rob as a threat. He had been married four times. After his father Jack died, he'd inherited a lot of money and never worked again. That was more than twenty years ago, since when he'd led a carefree existence; the only barriers to what he did to enjoy himself were the limitations of his imagination. To an extent, Michael envied him but he also felt sorry for him. Rob had never been able to settle. He'd never had anything like a responsible attitude. He'd never had to, and didn't want to, take care of anything or anybody.

"Life's about pleasing yourself," he'd say. "I never do anybody any harm." His was a blinkered existence.

During the twenty years of their marriage, Michael's wife had worked hard to ensure her husband was a reformed character. Before he'd met her, he had been into all sorts of dubious dealings and semi-crooked activities. He and Rob had been in a number of scrapes together.

In Lancaster, with no wife around, Michael was looking forward to a really good night out with Rob. They were going pub-crawling, before returning to the Castle Hotel. Rob had decided to stay there overnight, rather than drink and then drive back to Millom.

Rob arrived promptly at seven o'clock. He was ageing well, despite his debauchery. He was tall, well-built and walked with a swagger. He came in through the front entrance. Michael was waiting for him at the bar, looking out for him. They shook hands.

"Hello Rob! Nice of you to come all this way. Pint of bitter?"
"Hello mate! Glad to be here! Yes please." Rob looked around. "Not exactly the Ritz is it?"
"Suits me fine! I had a good time in here last night with the locals. Met a couple of blokes who used to work with the old man, at Williamson's. Your dad would have enjoyed it."
"Oh yeah! He loved to wear a hair shirt. Miserable sod!"
"Go on! He wasn't a bad sort really. He did all right by you in the end, didn't he?"
"You could say that. Eventually! Anyway, I'm damned glad to see you. Where's your minder? She let you off the hook for once? Into your second adolescence yet?"

"Never mind mine! Where's yours? Have you got one? Or are you still looking for Miss Perfection?"
"No such thing! Never found one yet who knew when to open her legs and keep her mouth shut!"

The landlady heard what Rob said and was frowning at him. Michael noticed and told Rob to watch what he was saying.

"Quite right!" he said to Michael. "Only joking, love!" He smiled at the landlady. "Anyway, Mike, what are you doing here in the old town, all on your own?"
Lancaster had been a city since 1937 but the label 'town' still stuck.

"My dad died recently, and it seemed a good idea to have a few days round here where I was brought up. Kind of a memory-lane kick."
"So Gordon's dead, why didn't you let me know? I'd have come to the funeral."
"When you're dead, you're dead. Honour the living I say. The dead can look after themselves. They haven't much choice have they?"

He didn't say that his wife hadn't wanted Rob at the funeral.
"My! My! We are getting cynical in our old age aren't we?"

They finished their pint in the Castle Hotel and then rang for a taxi, to take them to the George, at Torrisholme.

They didn't talk much on the way. Gordon remembered how their two fathers had been friends too. And so different in their ways.

Gordon had come back from the war, a staunch family man and a pillar of the local society. He was on the City Council, a Church Treasurer and always up to some good.

In 1945, a few weeks after Gwyn died, Jack had put up for Labour and become an MP. Subsequently, he'd spent most of his time, away from his family, down south living with that Beth Farrell who had been a teacher at Ryelands School. She was supposed to be his personal assistant!

Rob had had to grow up fast in those years. His father having departed, he was the only male in the house, when he was in the house, right from being a very young teenager. "More like the male out of the house," his mother described him.

Rob was street-wise at fourteen. He did well at the Junior Technical School, at the Storey Institute. He'd started there when he was twelve and eventually had good trade qualifications. Not that he'd ever put them to good use! "There are easier ways to make a living than working!" he'd boast.

"Did he die happy? I mean, your old man," Rob asked his friend.

"Yes, I think he did. He never complained. Always called himself a lucky man. But you remember what he was like. He always said, "Deeds should speak louder than words!"
"Not like mine, he never stopped yapping."

They paid the taxi man and went into the lounge. It was quite crowded and smokey in there. There was nobody they recognised.

"Tell you where we could go, just for a laugh?"
"Go on! Try me!"
"Let's go to your Aunty Joyce's, in Queen Street. If she's still there, we might have a good night."

Michael was a bit doubtful. His mother and Joyce had been good friends when he was a boy. But something went wrong between them, even though she married his Dad's brother, Frank, when he came home from the war. Joyce never visited Gordon and Margaret after Gwyn died. The Watsons never called at Joyce's when they occasionally shopped in Queen Street.

Michael would have liked to have seen more of his Uncle Frank but his mother would have none of it, for a reason she did not disclose. The two brothers occasionally saw each other in the canteen at work, until Frank left Joyce, and took a ten pounds, one-way passage to Australia. After that, it was just the exchanging of Christmas cards and a short note once a year.

Michael knew the adults in his childhood and youth had hidden plenty from him. He had certainly kept secret from them all sorts of things. Now they gave it a fancy name, 'The generation gap', as though it was something new!

He'd finished his beer and decided he didn't want another one in there. He went along with Rob's suggestion. "We could give it a try. I don't suppose I've seen her for over thirty years. She's probably dead by now."

But she wasn't! There she was, a lively peroxide blonde, bright blouse and skirt, heavy make-up, same perfume as ever. Not bad for seventy! She'd worn well, Michael thought, recognising her immediately, serving behind the bar. She came to serve them, and her perfume brought back a memory of when he was a child.

He used to like the smell of her when she picked him up and gave him a hug.

"Two pints of bitter please," Michael asked.
"Coming up love!" She smiled, her professional smile.

He smiled back at her. "What's up with you?" she asked. "You're giving me an old-fashioned look. Either that or I've got something on the end of my nose!"
"You don't know me do you? I'm Michael. Michael Watson."
She took a long look at him. "Well I never!" she exclaimed, totally surprised.

While she was catching her breath, Michael said, "Well I never, either! But I wish I'd had the chance!"
"Ee! Love! I should have known you straight away. Your eyes! You've got your father's eyes."

She stared at Michael's hands, grasping his glass of beer. "And his hands! You've got the same big hands as him. He always had lovely hands did your Dad. My God, it takes me back a bit! How are your Dad and Mam?"
"I'm afraid my Dad died recently but Margaret's fine."
"That's a shame! I used to be fond of your Dad. He was a real sport!" She didn't say anything about Margaret.

Rob had been silent while all this was going on. "You'll not know me love," he said to her, "but Michael and me, we've been friends all our lives. I'm Rob. I think you met my mother once or twice way back. Mike's Mam used to say I led him astray."

"Didn't need much leading! Not in those days did I?" Michael smirked.

The pub was in need of decorating and the bar furnishings could do with replacing. Like Morecambe, the place had seen better years. "How's business these days? You have a good crowd in tonight."

"Not like it used to be! I have my ways of making ends meet so I don't do too badly. Anyway, what are you doing here? Have you come back to live locally?"
"No! Just visiting old haunts. You're the first person I've met from way back."
"It's lovely to see you. I'll have to leave you for a minute! Excuse me! I'm keeping my regulars waiting." Joyce carried on serving. Mike felt it had been a good idea of Rob's. There was a good atmosphere in the pub.

They spent the evening there. It was Talent Night and the beer was good. "We're a free house," Joyce laughed. "Free entry, free entertainment, free-and-easy we are. But you'll have to pay for your beer! And those two don't come cheap!" she whispered as two likely-lasses came to the far end of the bar and gave Michael and Rob the eye.

"How about it?" Rob asked Michael. "We'd be all right there!"
"You might be. I'm a settled married man. Knowing you, you could manage the pair of them."

It was an exceptionally good crowd in the pub, for a Thursday night. The customers were mainly Joyce's regulars and were a noisy, friendly lot. The Talent Night entertainment wasn't too bad. It included two disco dancers, a singing duo and a blue comedian. The two disco dancers won. The bloke looked a bit like John Travolta but his head was twice as big. You could see from his body-language that he really fancied himself.

The two likely lasses made their mark with Rob. The more he drank, the more attractive the blonde of the pair appeared to be to Michael. When the pub closed, the quartet joined Joyce for an after-hours drinking session.

"We'll have to order a taxi," Michael urged Rob, around midnight.
"Or book in here for the night!" Rob replied, giving Michael a nudge and a wink.
"Plenty of rooms to spare, haven't we girls?" Joyce urged.

The girls agreed enthusiastically.

The next morning, when she was having her breakfast with Joyce the blonde asked her,

"Why were you so keen to fix me up with that chap last night? Why did you tell me he was the one I had to have?"
Joyce took a sip of her tea, inhaled, blew a cloud of smoke up into the air and answered, "Reasons!"
"Another of your games I suppose?"

Joyce responded with, "Well, let's face it, we're all on the game, one way or another, aren't we?"
"Very funny! The point is, I hope he paid you before he went. He didn't give me a penny and he'd gone when I woke up. Not exactly the generous sort! Jan got fifteen pounds off her bloke."
"Don't worry, I'll see you're all right. Oh yes, he paid me all right! Some old dues!"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing you'd know about love! Just something I arranged for my own satisfaction. Something to amuse me.

“You know me,” she continued. “Memory like an elephant. I lost somebody I was fond of to a friend of mine, a long time ago, and your bloke being with you was a sort of final settlement. Gave me satisfaction. I just wish I was twenty years younger, I'd have taken him on myself. That would have been perfect."

Her young friend stubbed her cigarette out on her saucer, shrugged and said, "I'm off to get dressed. You keep your mystery to yourself!"

When he collected his luggage from the Castle Hotel, Michael apologised for not having stayed his last night there.

The landlady smiled. "All the same to me love. You paid when you arrived. That's all I'm worried about. Have a good journey home!"

It took Michael five hours to drive back. "That bloody Rob!" he thought. "He always was a bad influence on me."
  
As he drove, he wondered why Joyce had been falling about laughing the previous night, when he and the blonde girl went upstairs, about one o'clock in the morning. Why had she found it so hilarious? Were they such an incongruous looking couple. You'd have thought his shirt tail was hanging out through a hole in his trousers.

"Coincidence is a funny thing!" she'd said, when she handed him the key to the room for himself and the girl. He pondered the meaning of her laughter. He was nearly home when he thought back to the incident in his childhood right in the middle of the war. It was so long ago! But his sub-conscious must have been working on it. Himself, his mam and that man, all waking up in the same bed!

That bitch Joyce! She'd remembered! She'd put him in the same room last night on purpose! Room 7! He remembered now. Yes, Room 7!

Well, all he could think was, it had been a good adventure!

He'd always enjoyed a good adventure…

Chapter 64: Michael Spreads His Wings

During the summer holidays, Margaret occasionally took her two children and Rob and Paul with her to Joyce's pub. On other days Mrs Martin, Sheila Matthews or May Howson looked after Michael and Gwyn for her. She did not like doing it but a few times she even had to call on her mother-in-law to help out. It was the only way to keep her job.

Margaret had to make a special effort to have her house spic and span, before Nan visited, because she knew that her mother-in-law would be prying everywhere, looking for things to find fault with. She had to put up with snags connected to Nan. She could not afford to absent herself. Money was still tight. Joyce relied on her to be there every day.

Michael and Gwyn liked Nan looking after them. She brought them lollipops on a stick and they didn't have to wait until they'd had their tea before they were allowed to lick them right down to the bare stick. Nan was good to them, letting them have her two ounces of sweets ration between them every week.

One day, Michael needed to wee. He went upstairs to the toilet. He stuck the lollipop in his mouth because he needed both hands to fiddle with the buttons on his trousers. He coughed suddenly and the lollipop popped out of his mouth and fell into the toilet. It upset him no end and he called down to Nan, who came upstairs to see what was wrong. She bent down, picked the lollipop out of the water and washed it under a tap."I can't have it now," said long-faced Michael. "It'll be dirty."

"Course it won't," Nan responded. "It's only your own wee that's touched it. That can't do you any harm." Michael believed her . He licked it again and it tasted all right.

When he told Margaret what had happened, she was furious. "And she tries to find fault with me! What a filthy thing to tell you to do!"

The reason she didn't always take her children with her was because Michael was bored at Joyce's, unless he had friends with him. He drove her crazy, with his moaning and pestering.When he was fed-up he made sure that it showed. It was impossible to have him under her feet while she tried to work. But she did not want to lose her job. It made all the difference to her week's housekeeping.

When the children went with her to the pub, Gwyn stayed with her and helped her do her work. She enjoyed assisting. Margaret gave her a duster with which to polish the furniture.

Michael was spreading his wings more. He liked to be out and about with his mates. He enjoyed it if they were with him. Margaret had no problems then. If he'd managed to make a prior arrangement, his cousin Peter would be waiting for them and the four young lads would go out together. Peter was a couple of years older than the others and was considered capable of taking responsibility. It was up to him to see that the quartet didn't do anything stupid or put themselves in danger.

It was on one of these days in Morecambe that Michael learned how to swim. His friends had already learned in the new Lancaster Kingsway Baths. Their dads had taken them there and taught them. On the one occasion when Gordon was on leave, he'd taken Michael.

He'd hated it. He started to shiver after a few minutes of being waist-deep in the water. His fingers went ivory white. Gordon held him tight but his head went under and he had revolting chlorine up his nose and down his throat. He didn't want to go there again.

But he also hated being the odd one out. The others were practising and becoming proficient swimmers. He was having fun poked at him. Apart from Michael, there was only sickly John Martin who couldn't swim and that was because he wasn't allowed to try.

"Don't worry about it!" his kind cousin Peter had said. "Bring your costume with you tomorrow. The tide will be just right. I'll show you how. You'll float better in salt water."

The next morning, the boys walked along the prom. They were heading for the stone jetty. There were huge slabs of stone piled high at the side of it. Dropping into the water off those was just right for learning to swim. The water wasn't too deep there and the current wasn't strong. Before the tide turned, it was quite safe.Before they reached their goal, they went to see why there was a crowd outside the Super Swimming Stadium.

"It's a Spitfire," shouted Rob. "Come on lads!"

What he'd said was true. There was a Spitfire parked on the grass just the other side of the Kursaal Spa building, with the Midland Hotel just behind. It was roped off and you could not go near enough to touch it.

The boys went as close as possible squeezing their way between the adults who were surrounding the plane. This was the machine which had helped save the country from invasion. It was a national icon.

"It's beautiful," said Michael.

"Just like my Dinky Toy model," breathed Peter.

"I wish I was old enough to be a pilot," whispered Rob.

"My dad got me a bit off the fuselage of one that was shot down," said Paul.

"Liar!" retorted Rob.

"He did. I've got it at home."

"Why's nobody ever seen it then?" asked Rob.

"I'm not allowed to take it outside," protested Paul.

"Liar!" said Rob, again.

"Do you want a fight?" asked Paul.

"Do you?" replied Rob, putting up his fists.

"Let's go and explore the wooden jetty," shouted Michael, pushing his way back through the crowds of adults who were admiring the Spitfire.

"Yes!" shouted Rob.

"Good idea!" called the others going after him.

Over his shoulder, running as fast as he could round to the back of the Super Swimming Stadium, Michael shouted, "Last one there's a Cissy!"

They all chased after him. Paul was last. "Cissy! Cissy! Cissy!" they all chanted. Then they all laughed.

"Who's coming for a roller?" Rob shouted. He made his way to the low wall, on the other side of which was a steep grassy banking. He lay down at the top and rolled sideways all the way down, finally coming to a rest up against the base of the outside wall of the Stadium.

It reminded Michael of the first day that he'd met Rob in Williamson's Park with their mothers. They'd rolled down the grass there, near the foot of the Structure. "Come on lads!" he urged the other two.

All three followed Rob's example and rolled down there after him, ending in a heap of laughing bodies at the bottom.


"Did you mind that dog shit?" asked Rob.

Anxiously, they all examined their clothing. Nothing smelled worse than dog shit.

"Only kidding.you!" said Rob, laughing at their fright.

"Last one to the jetty's a Cissy!" he shouted as he climbed back up the banking. Off they went again. Peter was last this time and it was his turn to be cat-called by the others.

There was a rotting wooden jetty nearby. It was out of bounds. It had not been used for years, not since the ship-breakers who'd worked there after the First World War, had abandoned it.

It stretched outwards from the back-promenade, all the way out into the Bay, parallel with the stone jetty and its equal in length. But its floor was decaying and it had big holes. They were not little holes, like those between the planks of Carlisle Bridge.

The tide was well in and was lapping up against the promenade wall. From where they were standing, they could see the grey tide through the gaping holes of the jetty. It looked ominously deep down there.

Michael's stomach turned over. All of the boys waited, uncertain what to do. Nobody wanted to be the first to back off. Peter made up their minds for them. He pointed to the notice hung on the railings.

DANGER!

KEEP OFF!

"We'd best not!" said Peter, pointing to the notice.

"I'm not frightened of that old notice!" said Rob, starting to climb over the railing.

"No!" said Peter. "I'm the one in charge of you lot. No!"

Authority was obeyed. Simply by trying to go onto the dangerous structure Rob's honour was sufficiently satisfied. He desisted and climbed back to safety. Michael and Paul pretended to be disappointed.

"Anyway," said Peter, settling it for good. "We've come for a swim haven't we? Let's go onto the rocks!"

"Anything will be better than going onto the rotting jetty," Michael thought.

Even so, he was dreading going into the sea. There was nothing else for it, he'd just have to trust his cousin Peter to look after him. He hoped that he would keep his promise.

It was nearly noon and the sun was high in the sky. Although it was wartime, there were quite a few people on the beach; others were sitting, or lying sunbathing on the rocks.

Sitting on the wall, bordering the grass of the Midland Hotel which backed onto the curve of the promenade were some Airmen. They were dressed in bright, hospital-blue uniforms, white shirts and red ties. Some were blind and accompanied by sighted comrades. Others were lame and needed crutches or walking-sticks. There were men with arms in slings. Many had burned faces and bandaged heads.


These were war heroes. There were Pilots who'd been in dog-fights with enemy planes; Aircrew from planes damaged, on bombing missions; Ground-staff bombed, or machine-gunned, on their Airfields during the Battle of Britain. All were convalescing at the Midland Hotel. Inside, were the intensive-care cases. By the front door, ambulances came and went.

Those who could see were enjoying the view. The Pennines were clearly visible, an imposing backdrop to the gleaming water. Coastal towns and villages could be seen vaguely through a heat haze on the opposite fringes of the Bay.

The tall cranes of Vickers, at Barrow, could be glimpsed, if you concentrated your gaze, over there where the tip of the land met the sea. It made Michael sad when he noticed them as he was changing into his swimming costume. He remembered his dead relatives buried over there.

The other boys jumped into the warm water and ducked their heads under. When they stood up, the water came up around their waists. "Come on Mike," said Peter. "You'll be all right."

Michael lowered himself gingerly into the water. It felt cold but he soon got used to it. Peter stood in front of him, drops of water all over his face, his hair slicked back on his head.

"Hold out your hands," he said.

Michael held out his hands.

"No, not like that! Turn them over, palms down," said Peter.

He took both Michael's hands in his and stepped backwards slowly, pulling Michael with him into deeper water. "Let your feet go! Push off the bottom!" he urged. "You'll float all right. Keep your head up and hold my hands."

Peter was very patient. He was a good sort. Michael trusted him and obeyed his instructions. He let his feet go and he floated. Peter was delighted. "Now, kick with your feet!" he said.

"You won't let me go?"

"No!"

"Promise?"

"Trust me!"

Michael kicked with his feet. He felt himself being propelled towards Peter, who backed away but still held him tightly.

"There you are! Told you didn't I? Easy pie!"

Peter called to the others to come and watch. They were all pleased for Michael. Michael said, "Can we go back to where it's not so deep now?"

Peter pulled him back to where they'd started. "I'm a bit shivery," Michael complained. "I think I'll change back into my things."

He'd had enough for that day but he also felt a tremendous sense of achievement. He'd be able to tell his Dad he could swim. Well, sort of!

"Okay Mike," said Peter.He turned and swam off to join the other two. Michael wondered why they didn't feel the cold like himself. The sun was really hot.He was still shivering after he'd rubbed himself dry with his towel and put his clothes back on.

He went and sat on the low wall by the Midland. One of the Airmen came along with a young woman and sat near him. Michael's heart leaped, then sank again, because the pretty, dark-haired girl looked just like his Aunty Julia. But of course, it wasn't her. She was dead. He knew he'd never see her again.

He looked at the cranes, over the far side of the Bay, and thought about his Grandma and Granddad. Then he thought about poor old Granddad Henry and Celia Wilkinson. He didn't get it. He could not understand why people had to die. It wasn't fair. He was awakened from his reverie. The mutilated Airman was smiling at him and saying something. "I say young man, will you do me a favour?"

Michael was a bit shy but he responded politely, "Yes mister! What do you want?" Kids weren't frightened of talking to strangers then.

"We've a camera. My friend Betty managed to lay her hands on a film and we've two snaps left. Will you take our photo for us."

Michael frowned. He'd never used a camera before. "I d.d.don't know how to," he said, his teeth still chattering with cold.The pretty woman stood up and bent over him. She showed him how simple it was to operate her box camera. She had nice, kind eyes and a lovely smile. He tried to concentrate on what she was saying.

"If you stand here," she said, gently ushering him to the middle of the prom, "I'll go and sit with my friend and you press the button when we're ready. Okay?"

Michael concentrated, took the photo successfully, gave the camera back and went and sat down close to them. He told them about his Dad who was in the Air Force. They were quite happy talking to the youngster. Michael liked it because it was one of the first occasions any grown-ups had spoken with him as though he was one of them. He felt their equal talking about Lancaster, where he lived, Joyce's pub and where his Dad was stationed.

After a while the Airman said to Betty, "Take Michael's photo with me, please" So the pretty girl did.

"Tell me your address and I'll send you a copy," she said. So Michael did.

"We've used all the film now so we can have it developed right away," the young woman said.

It was time to go. "Come on Mike, we'll be late for our food!" Peter called, as the other boys came off the rocks, all ready for home.

"Cheerio, young man! Thank-you for your help," said the wounded Airman. He shook hands with Michael.

"Bye now!" said the girl. "I won't forget. I'll send you the photo." She kissed her own fingertips and then pressed them onto Michael's forehead.

Michael was in love again!

It was that funny, special feeling. He pondered it. He still loved Miss Farrell and when he thought about it, he still loved Miss Clemence at St Mary's and his cousin Joan in Edward Street. Then there was his Mam, but that was a bit different. And his Dad! And his friends! And other relations! And his dead ones! Perhaps you could love hundreds of people. Maybe thousands! Maybe millions! Maybe everybody!

Maybe not!

What about Hitler? What about the Germans who'd dropped a bomb on his relations? What about the lad who'd persuaded him to grab that hot poker? What about the bullies at St Mary's?

"Come on you farter!" called Rob. "Hurry up! Stop day-dreaming! Last one back to the pub's a Cissy!"

Michael came last but he didn't care. He'd had a lovely morning.

Chapter 48: Morecambe Illuminations

Earlier in the year, Nan had taken Michael to see Walt Disney's Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs. It was being shown at the Odeon cinema, on King Street, in Lancaster. The cinema was a new exciting building, a symbol of the progress and improvements which were very slowly transforming some few working-class lives. The architecture was jazz moderne, (art deco). It was one of many similar film palaces being built all over the country.

Inside, there were thick carpets, a spacious foyer and what looked like expensive decorations. There were comfortable couches for those who had bought their tickets and were waiting for friends or for a performance to start. The discreet electric light fittings and wall coverings were well designed. The overall effect was intended to sooth and welcome. It was the most luxurious place that Michael had ever been to.

Inside the cinema itself was a vast, cavernous space with plush seats, set in tiered rows downstairs and upstairs. The seats were tip-ups with plenty of room for your legs and soft and comfortable. There was a stage with a high and wide curtain onto which soft lighting was projected with subtly changing colours. There must have been room in there for thousands, Michael thought. It was so capacious. It was the biggest place that Michael had ever been in.

Nan and he sat in the cheap seats, just three rows from the front. They were set well back from the screen so Nan didn't have to tilt her neck back much. Occupants of the cheap seats in some cinemas came out with stiff and aching necks. When the film started, Michael stood up some of the time. He hid behind the back of the seat in front, whenever the evil step-mother appeared on the screen.

Before they went to the cinema, Nan had tried to describe to him what a film was, but the experience amazed him. Its impact exceeded his wildest dreams. It was the most astounding thing that had ever happened to him. He'd always believed in magic, ever since he'd heard his first nursery rhymes, and read about Merlin and Aladdin and his lamp and many other similar stories. But for Michael this was reality exceeding imagination. It was marvellous, exciting and frightening. It did all sorts of things to him.

The story lived with him, long after seeing the film. Mam bought him colouring books with outline figures of Snow White and the Dwarfs. They had table mats, which Dad brought from work, with the cartoon figures on them. Michael learned the songs and sang them with Dad when he was taken up to bed each evening. "Heigh Ho! Heigh Ho! It's off to sleep we go!" He and Rob acted the story and made up new adventures for the characters.

Michael found it difficult to imagine anything that could give him more pleasure than his first visit to a cinema.

But Gordon had a real treat in mind for the kids. Michael was even more enthralled by what they did one weekend. It was a Saturday afternoon when Michael's Dad said, "After tea, we'll go down to Morecambe and see the Illuminations. I've heard that they've got Snow White in Happy Mount Park. We'll walk to Torrisholme and catch a Circular bus. That will take us as far as the Promenade, at Bare. We can walk to the Park from there. Afterwards, we'll go on a bus from the Park, all the way to the West End. At the Battery, we'll catch a bus back home."

Margaret said, "Why can't we catch a bus on Scale Hall Lane? Why do we have to walk all the way to Torrisholme? We'll be tired before we see the lights."

"Because all the Ribble buses from Lancaster will be packed. There will be loads of people from Lancaster trying to go to Morecambe. The buses will go sailing past us. We could wait there for ages. But Torrisholme Square's where the green buses start from. We'll catch one there quite easily. No problem!"

"All right then!" agreed Margaret. "But no racing! None of that fast walking! We'll take it easy."
"Okay!" said Gordon.

Michael was jubilant "Hurrah! Hurrah! Gwyn, we're going to have a good adventure." "Hurrah! No problem!" said Gwyn.

It was late October. It was already dark when they set-off from Sefton Drive to walk to Torrisholme. They took an electric torch because there was no moon and there was no street lighting down their road.

Gwyn was quite a good walker now and did not tire until half way up Cross Hill. Dad carried her from there to Torrisholme Square. On their way three double-decker Ribble buses passed them.

As they sped past Gordon said, "Look, I told you so. They're packed. All the seats are taken. Look at all the people standing!"

One of the green-and-cream Morecambe and Heysham Corporation buses had just arrived in the Square. Gordon was proved right. There wasn't much of a queue.

Michael didn't want to go on the top deck so they went downstairs. The bus-conductor rang his bell twice, which told the driver it was time to go. Then he came round for the fares.
He had a machine with a handle hanging from his neck. He selected the right price on his machine's dial and turned the handle. The machine printed the tickets. There was a whirring noise. The tickets came out of a slit in the front of his machine.

"Can I have them, please?" asked Michael. Dad handed over the roll of five tickets. The bus-conductor gave Gordon his change. He kept his money in a leather bag, which was also hung from his neck.

"Fares please!" called the conductor as he moved along the bus. People would call out, "Next stop please!" There was one ping on the bell and the bus slowed to a stop. He gave it two pings when he wanted it to go. Michael thought it must be good to be in control of a bus like that. Nobody else was allowed to ring the bell.

"Ping! Ping! Ping!" sang Michael and Gwyn as they skipped ahead of their parents on their way to the Park. Everywhere it was magic. There hundreds, thousands, it seemed like millions of coloured bulbs strung up between the lamp posts. They were on the sides of buildings and attached on high to cables from oneside of the wide Promenade to the other. The lights extended as far back as the eyes could see towards the centre of Morecambe and beyond.

"Miles and miles of them!" Michael shouted.

The darkness was transformed into Wonderland. Anticipating crowds were making for the Park and you could feel the excitement in the air. There was a long queue when they arrived at the park. It was quite a cool night but they were wrapped up warm. "Michael, hold your Dad's hand! Gwyn hold mine! We don't want you getting lost. We'd never find you again in this crowd."

Michael clutched his Dad's hand tightly. He didn't want to be lost in the dark.

The queue shuffled forward slowly. At last, they reached the gates. Dad bought four tickets and they followed other families down the main path.

At Sunday School they'd talked about the Gates of Paradise. Michael thought they must have meant something like the illuminated Happy Mount Park because going through the iron gates and into the park was like entering another world.

You had to keep to the paths as you went round so everybody had a good view. There was no pushing or shoving and no loud shouts. Just the loud murmurs and mutterings of astonishment. Hordes of children were astounded by the ingenuity and realism of the moving tableaux. It was like a dream place. The delighted adults were like children themselves taking a naive pleasure in all that attracted their eyes.

Michael went wild with excitement when he saw Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. "Look Gwyn! Just like the film! The one I saw with Nan."

There was a train you could have a ride on. It was all lit up. There were monsters with flashing eyes and nodding heads. There was every conceivable combination of bright bulbs illuminating the gorgeous flower-beds. From behind shrubs and trees little mythical creatures suddenly appeared. Lights flickered dimly in a grotto. Magic lanterns swung overhead in a gentle breeze.

There were fairies and elves and huge toadstools with weird creatures sitting on them. Gwyn wasn't too keen on the dragon, which roared and puffed out green smoke from its jaws.
In different areas of the park, music filled the air with tunes appropriate to the nearby exhibits. Michael's favourites were the models of the Seven Dwarfs. They looked so real. Michael was sure that it was them really singing the tunes from the film.

They were in the park ever such a long time. There was no question of being bored. However, it was becoming cooler. Gordon said, "Come on, we haven't finished yet. We'll go for the bus. There'll be lots to see on the Prom."

They made their way to the exit. There was a long queue of people waiting for the buses. It moved quickly. Everything was well-organised. There were four double-deckers filling up just outside the gates and four more across the road waiting to cross into a parking space as the full buses moved away. There must have been a bus leaving every two minutes.

"We'll see a lot more from the top deck," Margaret declared and Michael was persuaded to go up the stairs. They were lucky, because the front seats were empty. They were going to have a perfect view.

"Ping! Ping!" went the bell and the bus moved off. Michael forgot all about being dizzy. There were dozens of other kids on the bus with their parents and they were all pointing at whatever took their eyes. They called out to each other hardly able to contain their excitement. Michael recognised a big kid from school but they didn't speak to each other.

The further the bus went: past the Broadway, Headway and Grand hotels, the new Town Hall, the Tower Ballroom and Cinema, the more lights there were to be seen. Most boarding houses were competing with each other and had their own displays. The nearer they came to the Central Pier and Euston Road the greater the profusion of colour. What a stupendous spectacle! Margaret pointed down Queen Street. The street was jam-packed with revellers.

"Look Gordon, you can just see Joyce's pub. Down there on the right. Did you see it?"
"I think so," replied Gordon.

Michael tugged on his Dad's sleeve. "Look Dad! Look the other way! The Clock Tower, it looks lovely all lit up!"

The Promenade Gardens, the shops, the pubs, the amusement arcades and the Winter Gardens all were illuminated and all were a feast for the eyes. There were no vulgar displays. It was a class act. The overall design was splendid.

Morecambe's new pride, a fine example of municipal planning, came next. There were superb examples of art-deco architecture: the marvellous Midland Hotel, Woolworths, Littlewoods, the Super Swimming Stadium, the Empire and Arcadian complex were all passed. There was plenty of time to see everything because the traffic was so dense and moved very slowly. Next came the lights on the Midland Promenade Station, the Empire and Arcadian theatres, the cafes and the arcade.

There was so much traffic now that the bus was often at a standstill. The conductor did not need to ping his bell, passengers jumped on and off the bus when it suited them. Michael was glad that it was a slow journey because he was able to absorb everything. It was like going into a tunnel of majestic splendour. The coloured lights shone prettily everywhere, all the way past the new helter-skelter Cyclone, the Dodgems the amusement arcades, the Whitehall cinema and the West End Pier.

Michael's asked his Dad, "I think we must be in Heaven Dad. Do you think Heaven is like this?"

"Could be!" Gordon laughed.

Thinking about Heaven made him think about Granddad Henry and he suddenly felt sad. A shiver went down his spine. There was a hint of bitterness even in an experience as sweet as this. He hoped his Granddad was happy in his heaven. Then the sad thought went away as quickly as it had come.

The Clarendon Hotel was amazing. It had so many lights you could hardly see the building. "I bet they'll win the prize for the best lit hotel," Margaret said.

The West End Pier's illuminations were reflected in the calm water of the tide which had crept across the Bay and was now lapping against the sea wall.

"Ping!" went the bell. "Battery! Terminus!" called the bus-conductor. Dismayed, the children realised they had reached the end of the promenade. They had to leave the bus. They mingled with the crowds on the pavement. Even here, well away from the crammed central part of the Promenade, you could hardly move. There were so many people out for the evening.

There were locals, day-trippers and holiday-makers. All were enjoying lovely Morecambe, with its proud and justifiable boast of being a place where health abounded and beauty surrounded. "Can't we go back again Dad, when the bus turns round? I want to see it all again" "No, not tonight son. It's long past your bedtime. There'll always be another time."

But there wasn't! There was never another time like that for the Watsons.

War would be declared before the next Morecambe Illuminations. It would be another ten years before the lights were switched on again. By that time Michael and Gwyn's childhood would be over. Things would never be the same. Never! Not ever again! The magical moments would be lost. But always remembered by those who had experienced them.

Image via HistoricImages.co.uk

Chapter 31: Joyce Takes Gordon for a Ride

Gordon was a worried man. He'd risked a lot for very little. He'd done something foolish and was very apprehensive about the possible consequences.

It was something he wasn't proud of and he was terrified that Margaret might find out about what had happened. "How strange life is,"he thought, "I've spent all these years trying to sort the world's problems out and now I've had one evening of madness and put my own little world at risk! It's no good blaming Joyce. I'm just as much at fault!"

Joyce Jackson had acquired a new car. In 1938 not many women knew how to drive cars, and very few owned one, so Joyce was one of the first to drive herself around the Lancaster and Morecambe area. She was a determined, independent young woman. She knew what she wanted. She knew how to have things her own way.

Her manipulating of men, including her own father, was a favourite pastime. The joy, the pleasure, the satisfaction in twirling them around her little finger! The power of her smile and other physical attractions! Most women act instinctively in the war of the sexes, usually defensively. Joyce was different. She had battle plans and long-term strategies. She liked taking the initiative, seizing the moment, catching men off-guard! She loved winning!
She also had a weakness: Gordon Watson. She still wanted him, despite his choosing her friend Margaret as his wife. Her losing him rankled. Maybe it was just perversity because she had lost him to her best friend and she hated not winning. Perhaps she really loved him. Certainly she had the hots for him! She bided her time. She'd think of something.

"You're not finished with me yet Gordy my love!"she decided.

In the meantime, she was preoccupied with enjoying life. Living in her father's pub she had plenty of chances for meeting a wide variety of attractive men. She took full advantage of the opportunities this offered. As well as having dates with local males, she'd been out with many visitors to the town.

Nan told Frank, "That one's too fast for you!"
"Be quiet mother! Joyce is a good sort! Heart of gold!"

Some of the men staying in Morecambe came in their own posh cars. Some of the most expensive were parked prominently outside a lovely art deco hotel, The Midland on the sea-front overlooking Morecambe Bay. She went in there occasionally for a meal, a drink and to find suitable boyfriends. She was usually successful. She knew how to pick a winner and was often taken for a good time to Blackpool or the Lake District.

Big-time music hall artists stayed at the hotel every week. She never made it with any of the top stars. They would be appearing just across the road at the Winter Gardens. Worldy-wise and experienced performers, they were always wary of Joyce's gold-digging ways.

Occasionally, she stayed overnight with a man friend in good hotels in distant locations. She enjoyed living-it-up in expensive places. By accepting gifts and money to buy things from the more wealthy amongst them it did not occur to her that she was prostituting herself. It was all part of having a good time.

By 1937 she had her regulars. By 1938 there was one in particular. Morecambe was known as 'Little Bradford'. Many people retired from Yorkshire to Morecambe. Others commuted on the "Businessmens Special", a steam train which left Promenade Station early every morning. It went via Lancaster Green Ayre along the Midland Railway line following the Lune Valley to Leeds and Bradford.

Joe Treacle's factory was in Leeds. His firm made garments for the clothing trade. He accumulated plenty of money when he landed a big contract for army uniforms from the government. A serious program of re-arming and expansion of the armed forces was under way.

Joe's was one of many businesses which profited as the country prepared for war.
He owned a big house, near the Broadway Hotel in Morecambe. The first time Joyce met him was in her father's pub. She was serving behind the bar. It was a quiet mid-week evening just after the Autumn Illuminations had finished.

"Fancy a drink, love?"he asked her.
"Oh thank you! Yes, I'll have a brandy and soda please."

She brought her drink to his end of the bar, looked straight into his eyes and gave him the famous Joyce smile.

"Bottoms up!"
"Bottoms up!"

Joe was often away from his home on business. Joyce began to accompany him. During the daytime she'd do the shops or go to the flicks. He kept his business appointments. They'd spend the evening dining and wining and then sleep together overnight. She knew how to work all of the angles by then so she did not come cheaply. Joe thought that Joyce was good value for money. Her cost figured in his accounts under 'sundries'.

He was a bit on the fat side and balding but he was jovial, generous and good company. He was kind to her but she'd heard him on a hotel phone giving a hard time to a subordinate who was not working to his satisfaction. She heard him being nastily abusive and the heavy-handed boss. There was obviously a rude, cruel streak in him. She was under no illusion as to why he was so nice to her. It was one big act. His idea of charming himself into her knickers. She did not care because she was using him too.

He thought she was very fond of him. It did not occur to him that his only attraction was his money and what it offered her. "Vain sod!"Joyce thought. "All I want from you is an open wallet!"

She'd enjoyed the freedom of the open road and going places with Joe. She decided to save up and buy a car of her own. Her father gave her fifty pounds towards its purchase and Joe gave her more. She paid for a few lessons and failed two tests. It did not deter her. She decided to buy a vehicle anyway and risk being stopped by the police and found not to have a driving licence or insurance.

She bought a second-hand MG sports car from Pye's garage opposite Green Ayre Railway Station. The manager took her for a ride in it. With the hood down and her chiffon scarfe and blonde hair blowing in the breeze she felt like glamour personified.

 She decided there and then that the car would suit her image. She paid cash. She'd withdrawn a fistful of fivers from her bank account that morning. The manager was delighted and over-polite with his mouthy "Thank you madams!"

He escorted her from his office back to the car and handed her the keys.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy the car madam."

The mechanic grinned when he went on, "And don't forget, we'll be glad to service you whenever it's needed."
 "You bet!" he whispered in his boss's ear.

The driver's door was hinged halfway down its body. Joyce eased herself onto the driver's seat and swung her legs inside. As she did so, she treated the manager and a mechanic to a broad American smile. They waved and wished her good luck as she let in the clutch and crashed the gears. She drove off, smirking.

"You did well there boss,"said the mechanic, "her paying the asking price. That motor's been a lot of trouble. She'll be back to us soon.."

She parked the car in Dalton Square. She gave the British Legion attendant there the usual penny for a parking ticket. He saluted her his hand touching his peaked cap. "Thank you madam."

Next she went to see her dentist. She saw him regularly for check-ups and cleaning of her gums. She was as proud of her teeth as she was the rest of her assets. She did her best to keep everything in top condition all in smooth running order.

"For heaven's sake,"she'd said to Margaret, "why don't you have your teeth seen to? They're all going rotten."

Aware of this, Margaret had taken to smiling with her lips together, because her front teeth were so blackened and brown.

"It's all right for you, Joyce,"she responded, "you've money to throw away as you like. We're not penniless but we're saving hard. That new house we want is more important than my teeth!"

Many people had poor mouths then, and could not afford anything other than emergency treatment. Joyce was exceptional in having a full-set of gleaming molars all her own. Film-star quality was what she aimed for! She tried to emulate her celluloid heroines. They all flashed manufactured, magnificent, gnashers when they smiled on the silver screens of the local cinemas. She fantasised, imagining herself to be Morecambe's answer to the glittering stars of stage and screen.

Joyce was 26 years old. It was old enough to be seen as being on the shelf. If you were not married at that age you might have missed the boat. She did not feel she was missing anything. She was still pushing the boat out! She felt glamorous in her fashionable clothes, purchased in Leeds, Bradford, Manchester or Liverpool. Wherever Joe took her she had the time and money to buy the latest fashions for herself. He liked her to have a fresh hair-do and he paid for her weekly visit to the best stylists.

Her hair was shorter than before and her skirts a bit longer. Her legs were as lovely as ever. No scorch marks on hers! Her breasts were still firm. She felt good about herself. Really good, as she waltzed out of the dentist's!

She went back to her car. She waved to the British Legion veteran. She started the car, crashed the gears again and drove jerkily to her friend Margaret's house.

As usual, their conversation revolved around the doings of Margaret's two children. They wondered how Michael would take to school. He was due to start at St Anne's further down Edward Street as soon as the Christmas holidays were over.

Margaret was delighted for her friend, when she went outside and was shown the new car. "You've come a long way since we were in Wales love. No searching the slag heap for bits of coal now!" Michael thought it was super.

Margaret felt embarrassed after she mentioned a slag heap. She remembered what Gordon had told her about Frank and Joyce's behaviour on the coal in Nan's cellar on Coronation Day.

"Slag on a slag heap!"Gordon had sneered when he'd finished telling his wife what he'd seen. Joyce did not react.

It was dark outside and Joyce realised she didn't know how to put the car's lights on."Can you put your parlour light on for me?" she asked. "It might give me enough to see where the switches are."

Margaret went back inside and did as she'd been asked, and Joyce quickly found the switch and on came the lights.

"I'm off to the Odeon now," Joyce said as Margaret watched her friend from her doorstep. "There's a musical I want to see. See you in a fortnight! I'll take you for a ride then Michael."

Neighbours were peering out from behind their lace curtains. Cars were a rarity in the street then.

There was flash of stocking-tops, white thighs and underwear as she swung into her car. She slammed the car door and revved the engine After a bumpy start away she went to the car park at the side of the cinema.

"What a girl!" Margaret exclaimed to Michael.
"She's nice isn't she Mam?"Michael responded enthusiastically.
"Yes love,"Margaret agreed. "We've been best friends for a long time."
"Just like me and Rob?" he quizzed.
"That's right love. But ever so much longer."

Joyce came out of the Odeon just before nine p.m. Her timing was just right for what she had in mind. Her expectations were high. Her adrenalin was flowing. The feelings aroused in her while watching the temptress seduce the hero in the film had made her determined to go after her man.

She drove slowly along King Street, turned the corner and headed for the Trades Hall. She knew that Gordon would be there in a meeting. She parked about fifty yards away from the entrance. She had not long to wait. Soon, men started to leave the place and she saw Gordon Watson chatting in the lit doorway with his friend, Brian Howson. It was to be Brian's last evening at the union meetings.

"There's no point,"he told Gordon, "I'm never going back to Williamson's. I'm earning more in my new job."

Joyce drove up alongside them, stopped and called out, "Hello boys! Fancy seeing you here at this time of night!"

Gordon did not know how to react. Joyce had been his girlfriend about ten years ago. He'd dropped her and taken-up with Margaret. Now he was thirty-four and long-married. But she was single and still only in her mid-twenties. He'd heard from his brother that she was very much available. How to react when there was no Margaret around to watch him?

He hadn't met Joyce often since they'd parted. He had mixed feelings about her. He showed disapproval in public. In private, he remembered her as the first girl with whom he'd had it away. She had been and still was an exciting physical presence.

Brian was the first to respond to her greeting. He expressed surprise at her being behind the wheel of a car.

"Going up in the world aren't we?"

Brian knew Joyce from the old days when they had all been part of the Winter Gardens' crowd.

He pointed to the car as he made his remark. She smiled back at him.

"Nice isn't it? Only bought it today. Went to Pyes for it! Quite a bargain really!"
"Oh yeah, I'm sure. If you have the necessary brass."
"Well I have, haven't I?"

Brian had heard rumours about Joyce.
"I'm sure you've earned every penny for it."
"That's right!"She smiled again. "I paid them cash. Plenty more where that came from!"
"I dare say,"said Brian, keeping his smile going and without allowing a trace of disapproval to creep into his voice.

She chatted with him for a while then he said that he'd have to be off home. She focused her full attention on Gordon. She flashed her white teeth at him.

"I was round yours earlier. I hear you're moving house soon."

Gordon responded politely. He gave her some details of the proposed move. She kept on looking straight at him giving him the eye while he talked. He knew her of old and what she was up to. She sensed his vulnerability.

When she said, "Would you like to go for a ride?"it was a defining moment for Gordon.

He paused then said, "Yes, that would be nice."
Brian raised an eyebrow -- but said nothing.
She leaned over and opened the passenger side door.

"Jump in then! Let's be off!"

Without hesitation, he went round the other side of the car, slid in beside her and she revved up.

"Good-night, lads!"she called ou, offering them a cheery wave as they sped off. Gordon beamed at Brian and one or two others from work who had gathered outside the Hall. They were all watching and listening to what was going on.

Gordon had a surge of exhilaration within himself He felt the years roll back. He was fifteen years younger again. He was going to recapture his lost youth! He waved to the lads.

"See you!"called Brian. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

The other mates laughed.

"That one always was trouble!"said Brian ruefully.
"Yes,"said another, "just the sort of trouble I could do with a bit of!"

The car disappeared down Meeting House Lane.

"Right lads,"said Brian, "who's coming with me to chase a pint? Beer's best! And a bloody sight safer than what he's getting into with that one!"

Chapter 22: Grandpop

Michael was a very inquisitive child. He liked listening to the grown-ups talk and gossip. He might be playing under the table with his toys but he would also be listening to what they were saying. He might be sitting on a chair looking at one of his books, but he was taking in the words he heard. Some of it, he only made sense of when he grew older.

"Big ears!" his Nan called him.

He heard many stories about his Mam's dad. The aunts and uncles were always talking about him and their lives with each other back in Wales. Michael was able to imagine what it was like then.
James Davies was called 'Jimmy' by his wife, Beatrice, and by his friends. He was 'Pop' to his nine sons and daughters and their spouses. He was 'Grandpop' to their kids.

Ever since he'd left school in 1892 at twelve, he'd been a roamer. Determined not to go down the mines in his native Wales, he was taken-on by a local man as an unofficial 'apprentice'. He followed his gaffer wherever he went looking for work, sometimes fifty miles or more.

They sought projects that paid well for hard labour and long hours. They worked on railways and roads, constructions and demolitions. Often they slept rough under hedges or in primitive, temporary dwellings; sometimes in isolation, often in riotous navvy towns. Once they worked up on a bridge but they never went down a pit.

There were six of them, including another boy from his village. What they had in common was the loss of a close friend or relative in a mining disaster, not headline-making ones, just local tragedies which snatched a few loved ones away.

Cinemas were being built. On their travels, they all picked up a variety of skills. They became specialists in ornate plastering. The gaffer had learned to read and he scanned the Western Echo for advertisements for plasterers. There was hardly a town or village cinema which they had not worked on as a team or as individuals.

Eventually, James left the gaffer, when he was old enough to stand-up to him and thrash him if it came to his objecting. He left to work with two of his own sons. For several years they prospered.

Then the work dried up. Gloom and depression spread over the whole region. James knew it was time to move on. Like his old gaffer, he found work by reading the newspapers, this time the national ones. Morecambe, in Lancashire, needed workers on a building site so he and his oldest boy, Malcolm, went by train via Pontypool Road, Crewe and Lancaster all the way to the North West.

He was only a little guy. Aged 40, he was fit as a fiddle, but already his once jet black hair was becoming white though his drooping moustache was so dark that the nicotine stains on it hardly showed.

He was a hard man: hard-working, hard-drinking, a hard-fighting man who knew nothing about Queensberry Rules! His sons obeyed his every command and kept strictly in line. He only spent a little of his time at home with his wife and the other offspring but they too knew who was boss when he was around.

Morecambe turned out to be good for him. He rented a decent house near the Battery Hotel and sent for his family, a few at a time. Margaret Watson, aged thirteen, was the last to arrive. Before moving to Morecambe, for four years she had been living with her oldest sister. Her sister was married at sixteen and had three kids of her own. It was a sensible arrangement which had relieved pressure on the family household and Margaret was a great help with Rachel's infants.

In late August, 1923, Margaret arrived at the Promenade Station, after the long train journey, all on her own. It had been a tremendous adventure for a young girl, who had never been outside her enfolded Welsh valley.

James was there on the platform waiting for her. He gave her a hug and took hold of her four paper carrier bags. He hired a horse-drawn laundau for them to be taken along the promenade to her new home. There were crowds of people and twinkling lights everywhere in the dusky evening. She felt like a princess in a magic coach. The place gave her a sense of wonder which she kept for the rest of her life. She loved Morecambe, a boom town during the years of national depression!

James was content. Apart from Rachel, who had married a miner and stayed back in Wales, he now had all of his family around him. Eventually, he moved to a smaller house at Torrisholme, where he and Beatrice were visited regularly on Sundays by most of the clan. He held court in the drinking club in Torrisholme Square, a happy, merry, sometimes very merry man.

He'd always been a bit weird. When his favourite daughter, beautiful Margaret, married presentable Gordon Watson, whose company he enjoyed, he nevertheless refused to go to the wedding. He stayed at home with a bottle of whiskey, got drunk and maudlin and cried to himself, "I'm getting old. I'm getting old."

Beatrice kept quiet. She just let him be. At times, she too had experienced his quite brutal hardness.
Margaret Watson, formerly Davies, was the favourite of her father and her brother, Malcolm. When James returned with his sons from working away, Margaret would go and meet them at the railway-station and her heart would leap when she saw the steam train come puffing round the bend.
Her returning older brothers would greet her and her dad would lift her up, give her a big kiss and smile.

"How's my princess then?"

He'd lower her gently to the ground then he'd walk with her holding his hand, all the way home, not diverting into one of the pubs on the way. She would chatter about what the new baby at home had been doing -- there was always a new baby -- and how she was getting on at school. She was a happy child, everybody succumbed to her winning ways, and her father adored her. She was over the moon when she was sent for from Wales to join her parents in Morecambe.

When she left Balmoral Road school, at fourteen, it was James who insisted she was not to go out to work She was to stay at home and help her mother. James would see she was all right for pocket-money. He made sure that she always had nice clothes and had everything that the other working children had. None of her brothers and sisters resented her preferential treatment because she did not take advantage of it and she was so nice to everyone. The older ones did feel that they had known the really hard times and that the younger five didn't know how lucky they were but they were pleased for them.

One snag for her was that her father was over-protective. She did not have the opportunities that her older sister, flashing-eyed, flapper Charlotte had, to attract local boys. Margaret was seventeen before her older brother, Malcolm, persuaded James to let her go to a dance at the Empress Ballroom in the Winter Gardens.

Malcolm didn't mind that much when he had to promise to have Margaret back in the house a whole hour before the dance ended. But it did cramp his style with the local girls quite a bit so he refused to take Margaret with him every Saturday night.

Malcolm was the third child, the second oldest boy of the family. There were four others who had died, two as babies and two as infants but he couldn't remember any of them. His mother did and they were the main reason for the habitually sad expression on her face.

Malcolm got on well with all of the family, especially his father. Like Dick, his older brother, he'd worked as part of the labouring gang with his dad all over South Wales. Naturally rebellious by nature, he was loyal to his father but fell out with some of the contractors who employed them. No taller than James, he inherited his father's strength but did not always use it wisely. He loved the pubs which his dad took him into and was just as friendly as James, until he had one too many. Then the shit might hit the fan! He started brawls and his father and brothers had to help him end them, sometimes his arms flailing and his feet kicking-out as they man-handled him away from surprised strangers.

He was never arrested for behaving badly. In those days, police kept away from working-class ghettos and especially from navvy camps. So long as they only fought amongst themselves, didn't commit murder or damage property, they could get on with it. Most publicans kept a heavy piece of timber under the bar and employed one-or-two likely lads on a 'free drinks' basis in return for helping with 'aggravation'.

Everywhere was the same in those days It could be quite rowdy in Lancaster, especially when the King's Own were stationed at Bowerham Barracks. But the Winter Gardens at Morecambe was deemed a safe place for Margaret to go to. Nevertheless, James insisted that Malcolm keep a close eye on her.

Before she went for the first time, the family cleared a space in their sitting-room. They put a record on the wind-up gramophone and Malcolm showed her how to waltz. She soon picked it up and he assured her that those few steps were the basis of most Olde Tyme Dances. And all you needed to get by at ballroom dancing was to remember to make your feet go 'slow, slow, quick-quick, slow' as you toddled around the dance floor.

"You'll never be short of partners!" Malcolm stated with conviction.

Despite his reassurances, it was with butterflies in her stomach that she went with him to the dancehall. They walked along the promenade from the Battery Hotel and went up the steps to the entrance of the building which she had only seen from the outside during daytime.

There were hundreds of people already inside. There was a polished wooden dance floor. Girls waited on one side to be asked to dance. There was a bar crowded with young men. There were thick carpets! Electric lights illuminated everything and everybody from overhead and shone from brackets on tastefully decorated walls! There was a richness of crimson-and-gold in the drapes and curtains and the painted walls. The girls wore many-splendoured things and the men were in their Sunday-best outfits. Malcolm showed her the cloakroom where she should leave her coat and where the Ladies' room was.
Soon, he was able to go off on his own because her young friend Joyce was there. She came over and greeted her. She told Malcolm she would look after Margaret. Gratefully, he departed to the bar to meet his cronies.

It was true: all you needed was to be able to waltz. She had six dances that first night with six different boys. Joyce asked Margaret whether her boyfriend's friend could take Margaret home. She had to say no, because of the promise to her father. It didn't worry her, because she didn't like the look of the youth with oily hair and a spotty face. On the other hand the older boy who was taking Joyce home really attracted her and she felt a tingling go up-and-down her spine when he shook her hand as Joyce introduced them.

"Gordon," she said, "this is my friend Margaret. We used to be friends, back in Wales."

He smiled then he helped Joyce on with her coat.

"See you next week then. Bye!" said Joyce. Margaret went looking for her brother. He was not pleased to see her because he had met a new girl who he wanted to take home. Fearful of breaking his promise to his father, he had to go home early with Margaret. As they left from the ballroom, he watched furiously as one of his friends whirled the girl of his choice round the dance floor.

He found it difficult to respond to Margaret's enthusiasm as they walked home. Margaret had enjoyed every moment of her evening out.

"You will take me again, won't you Malcolm?"

"I suppose so."

"Next week?"

"I'll have to see about that."

"Please Malcolm!"

"I said, I'll think about it."

That night, Margaret waltzed through her dreams and her partner was the young man -- Joyce's boyfriend.