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 59: Gordon's War

A Short Stirling bomber.
Via Wikipedia

Gordon spent a few weeks at Blackpool. It what was called a cushy number. He was kitted out with new uniform. He was visited one weekend, by his family. It was an easy initiation into Royal Air Force life. He made friends with several of the lads in his billet.

Then he had six weeks at Padgate for intensive initial training. That came as a shock. Drill, bull-shitting, tight discipline, verbal abuse from moronic drill-corporals and sergeants, insults from Physical Training instructors were all part of an extremely exhausting, daily routine. However, at the end of it he was fighting fit!

Christmas leave was a very welcome, temporary, respite from the enemy. The enemy was not German, he thought – but the petty tyrants at Padgate who ruled his every waking moment!

During his brief days of freedom, he and Margaret were much more at ease with each other. She was full of moans about his forsaking them and leaving them to a hard life at home. Nevertheless, there was an improved atmosphere in the house. She had missed him although she would not admit. She'd hated it being alone in their double bed.

After Christmas, he volunteered for Air Crew. He was sent to Hornchurch for aptitude tests. He was assessed as being suitable material. He was posted to Bomber Command for training as an Air Gunner. He would not be commissioned. If he passed the gunner's course, he would have the rank of Flight-Sergeant.

The chief benefit of it would be a substantial increase in pay. He strove as hard as possible to qualify. He desperately needed the extra money to help support his family. When he achieved the result he wanted at the end of April, his worries for those back at home eased.

The progress of the war was changing. The Phoney War was about to come to an end. The fall of France, the British Army's defeat and partial evacuation from Dunkirk were only weeks away. Talk of Hitler invading Britain was everywhere.

The obstacle to that was the Battle of Britain, in the late summer and early autumn. It was a crucial battle for supremacy in the air and the Luftwaffe lost. The prospect of having to face an invasion receded. When Hitler invaded Russia and, later still, the U.S.A. joined the Allies' side, it would only be a matter of time before the war was won.

That was a long way off when Gordon began his training to be an Air-Gunner in February. There would be setbacks and interruptions. It would be October before he was qualified and promoted.During that time and afterwards, a part of him came to be satisfied in a way that it had never been in civvy street.

As a trades unionist, he had looked for and preached the message of Unity Is Strength. As a Socialist, he had despaired when he read about the schisms and splits amongst the class strugglers, against the forces of Capitalism. As a family man, he had grown apart from his wife because her refusal to forgive him his straying with Beth. He hated her uncompromising attitude to life. He'd become impatient with her determination to put all of her effort into material things. He'd felt a desire for freedom and escape from the prison of his marriage.

"No, I'm being unfair there," he thought. "my marriage was hardly a prison!" But it was not the marriage he'd hoped for. It wasn't only Margaret's fault. Perhaps she was under-sexed or maybe he was over-sexed and that was the trouble. It was just how they were. No one was to blame. When they were courting, it had seemed different. She couldn't get enough of him then. Why was it so different once she had a ring on her finger?

"That's life!" he mused, as he sat finishing a letter to her with, 'All my love, Gordon'.

What he came to know and enjoy in the R.A.F. was the genuine team spirit, the camaraderie, the loyalty, the determination to 'stick by your mates no matter what.' He felt this very strongly as a member of Air Crew. There was a kinship amongst the crews of Bomber Command. Gordon developed an almost desperate sense of belonging with the men who shared his plane with him. It was a perfect consummation of mind and spirit.

Many men he had trained with and others who had flown alongside his aircraft had been killed. He felt a deep brotherhood with the dead and an acceptance that in due time it would be his fate in some respects his right to join them. In the meantime, there was the endurance, the bravery, the comradeship of the crew he was with. It all gave him courage in the face of his own cowardice, his doubts and uncertainties.

He clung desperately to the ideals which had brought him to what would probably be his coffin in the sky. At last, the instinctively good team-man within him was satisfied.

He tried to analyse it. Why should it be so when the cause was making war, of trying to kill an enemy, of slaughtering other human beings? Why did the worst of times bring out the best in people? Why had it not happened when he'd been trying to improve working conditions, to secure a fairer deal for his workmates? Why had there been so much apathy then?

Why had he betrayed his wife whom he loved? He knew that it was absolutely inconceivable he would ever betray or deliberately let down the other members of the crew of the aeroplane they flew in. Why? What unconscious forces remained dormant waiting arousal and then drove people in all kinds of unexpected ways?

During 1940, Gordon's Squadron was at Upper Heyford. It moved on to Finningley, Leeming and, in October, to Oakington. During August, Gordon flew in a Short Stirling bomber. They went on leaflet-dropping missions. They dropped mines at sea. There was no great element of danger in those early flights.

Authority had it all worked out. Crews had to bond. Any man who was uncomfortable with the other members could ask to join another crew. It was essential that their bonding should be tight and flawless. Gordon and the other seven airmen allocated to the Sterling Short were all more than comfortable with each other.

Officers and N.C.O's were on Christian name terms when flying. There was saluting, but only when a higher-ranking officer was present on the ground. They drank in the same bar in pubs. In one establishment, the barmaid informed them that the lounge bar was for officers only. The three officers amongst the crew went into the public bar with the rest of them. They drank with them and lodged a formal complaint with the management of the pub about the discrimination policy.

They shared the same fatalistic humour. When a plane went missing, it was a case of their comrades having 'gone for a Burton'. Burton ales had an advertisement which showed two men up a ladder and in the second of two illustrations, one was still on the ladder, the other had disappeared, having 'gone for a Burton Ale.'

That was a good laugh, wasn't it? Well, sort of...When you'd had a few pints, yes. It helped to be nonchalant, to be jocular, on the surface, when planes failed to return from missions.

The Stirling was a lousy plane. Its wings were too short because the Air Ministry had said they didn't have hangars to accommodate wider-winged planes! It had a towering undercarriage to compensate for that deficiency. Fully loaded, they could not persuade it to climb higher than 13,000 feet, although it was supposed to go to 17,000 feet. Its top speed was only 270 m.p.h. Its guns were only 7.9mm; the enemy's were 20mm or 30mm cannon. They were often out-gunned but at least it manoeuvred quite well when they had to take evasive action.

They survived their first five missions jubilantly. It was during those that inexperienced crews' losses were at the highest. After that, they were sent on ever more dangerous raids over enemy territory.

Gordon passed hours of inactivity up in his gun turret, isolated from the rest of the crew. They communicated occasionally on their inter-com. He damn nearly froze to death in sub-zero temperatures. To pass the time, he invented new Gordon games.

He counted the rivets in a small area of the aircraft. He estimated, by multiplication, how many there were on the whole aircraft. He multiplied that figure again by how many aircraft there were in the Squadron, then by how many in the whole Air Force. There were a lot of rivets! If he was a P.O.W. and interrogated would the enemy be interested in that information?

Doubtful!

If one plane weighed 46,900lbs, what was the total weight of all of the Air Force aircraft?

If it was 59 hours and 46 minutes since his last leave, how long was it to his next one, allowing for six weeks between each leave?

If the survival rate, for Aircrew, was approximately one-third after 30 missions, when they would be entitled to six months off active duty, what were the odds against him surviving now that he had completed 25 missions?

He made separate estimates for categories he'd heard about. What were his chances, he asked himself continually during each mission? What are the new odds? They slowly and dangerously progressed from 1 towards the target of 30. He based his calculations on some statistics that a half-crazed Canadian Bomb-Aimer veteran offered him over a few beers one evening. He said, "Listen mate, for every 100 Air Crew, during their full 30 missions, 55 will be killed, 3 injured, 12 made prisoners of war, 2 shot down and saved and 27 will survive."

Gordon asked, "Why does that only made 99?"

The mad Canadian ignored this and said, " Sod it! Who cares? Another pint for you or would you like a brandy?"

The missing unit bothered Gordon. He should have insisted on an answer. He didn't like things that did not add up properly. He carried on trying to make his own barmy calculations accurate. He spent the cold, boring hours flying over land and sea doing pointless crazy sums. It helped to stop him from going completely bonkers.

The engine droned monotonously. He wished he was at home with Margaret, Michael and Gwyn. He missed the cats. The last time he'd been on leave, his garden looked neglected and full of weeds. He'd dug up the potatoes they'd been urged to grow. 'Digging For Victory' they called it. Soon, it would be back to being the wilderness it had been before they'd moved into Sefton Drive.

He thought about Joyce and wondered what she was getting up to. He thought about Beth. He tried not to think about Beth.

He thought about Lancaster. How by enlisting, by one simple act, he'd transformed his existence. Instead of going over Carlisle Bridge and along the banks of the Lune to work every day, here he was, high in the air over Germany, in a bloody aeroplane that was supposed to have a range of 2,000 miles. It didn't meet any other of its other supposed specifications. Why should it meet that one? If they managed to drop their bombs and return, would they have enough juice to make it to their own aerodrome? This was the first time they'd been asked to fly almost to the limit of the distance it had been built for.

During the few minutes of anxiety during take-off and landing, during intermittent combat, and when over their target, all other thoughts were forgotten. They were the times of adrenalin flowing and of intense concentration. Gordon's flying time was 99 per cent extreme tension and one per cent absolute hell! Weird that such elements were what combined to inspire the mens' togetherness!

It never occurred to him to ask to be taken off flying missions. This was permissible. Your application could be accepted. You were not shot for cowardice. Not wanting to fight anymore did not mean you would be executed by your own side as had been the case in the First World War. Those who applied were simply stripped of their rank, classified as L.M.F. (Lacking Moral Fibre), humiliated publicly and despatched to another station and given the most menial jobs available. Bog cleaning, licking the boots of R.A.F. Policemen, and painting coal white were some of their more unpleasant jobs.

Michael knew his Dad was a hero and boasted about it to the all of the other kids at school.

The N.A.A.F.I. on Gordon's R.A.F. Station sold postcards. On the front of the cards were photographs of Britain's fighting planes. Before his every mission, Gordon wrote a message to Michael on the back of one of these. The cards were collected for posting, just before he made his way out to the board the aeroplane.

Dear Michael,
Glad that you like these postcards. Keep them clean. Love for you and Gwyn.
    Daddy.
Xxx For Gwyn.

Dear Michael,
 This is a photo of our latest fighter that is helping to beat the Germans. Be a good boy for your Mam. Daddy sends his love for you and Gwyn.
         Daddy.
       Xxxxxxxxxx

Dear Michael,
 This is a grand action photo of Wellington Bombers. It shows our brave and daring pilots and aircrews.
Love for you and Gwyn,
Daddy.

Dear Michael,
 This plane and the Spitfire are mainly responsible for the large number of enemy planes that have been destroyed. I hope you like this coloured one. Don't forget to keep the cards clean.
Love for you and Gwyn.

Xxxxxx For Gwyn.

When Gordon had completed his full set of 30 missions, he came home on leave. One evening, he and Michael placed all of the cards in an album, the sort that didn't need paste, so the messages on the back were not harmed. "You're a good boy Michael," Dad said, "The cards are in perfect condition. Well done!"

The next morning, Gordon dug the garden and planted some potatoes. He set himself a target. "I'll dig ten rows an hour. That means I'll be ready for planting by eleven. I'll be finished by noon. Just in time for some grub!"

Margaret watched him working. "Gordon, why are you going at it like a maniac? Why don't you stop and have a cup of tea?"

He replied, without looking round from his digging, "Can't stop! No time! Must be done by noon!"

"Why Gordon? Why?"
"Because! Because!"

She went on with her work. She smiled to herself, "The same old Gordon. He'll never change!"

During his leaves, Gordon went to see Jack and Nan. He followed the same route. Nan lived further on than Jack so he usually went to jack's on the way back from his mother's.

Going there he set himself other, meaningless targets. Successive visits which he sometimes confused with unavoidable missions had to be completed in an ever-decreasing number of strides. At first, it took him 760 strides to go from home to Jack's, and 1010 strides to arrive at his mother's. He had to reduce these by at least ten strides every time that he walked to one or the other.

The strain was beginning to tell and people gave him curious looks when his strides lengthened. He was an object of real curiosity when started making his journeys not by walking but by leaping.

It was when he visited Jack that Jack made one of his impassioned, impromptu statements. His words rang in Gordon's ears and stayed in his mind. Jack had told Gordon that he was no better then the Fascists who had bombed the towns of Spain.

"You're just as bad as them," Jack said. " You're killing innocent civilians on your bombing-raids. It can't be justified." He described vividly, the effect of bomb blast which he had seen on women and children in Barcelona. Dwelling on this was nearly enough to tip Gordon over the edge. Margaret noticed a persistent twitching in Gordon's right cheek muscles and an involuntary, pronounced blinking of his eyes.

The four of them were returning home from Morecambe by bus. At their stop, on Scale Hall Lane, he stayed on the bus, after Margaret and the children had alighted. When he arrived home, ten minutes later, he wouldn't say why he'd not got off with them.

The next evening, they went by bus to see Margaret's brother Dick, at Morecambe. Margaret and the children alighted at the Odeon cinema but Gordon stayed on again. He went as far as Euston Road before leaving the bus. He arrived at Dick's five minutes after the others. The children were worried. Michael could not understand why his father was doing strange things. In bed, Margaret coaxed an answer out of him.

Gordon explained, "You know that four-figure number, the one that is stencilled on the body of the bus upstairs, just above the big front window?"

"No, I can't say I've noticed," Margaret said. "What about it?"
"What I have to do, is start dividing it by two, time-and-time again, until I reach four places of decimals. Then I have to check it, to make sure that I've got it right. You have to have it right when you're on a mission?"
"What mission?"
"Every mission! They all count don't they! You have to complete your mission properly. Otherwise, there will be consequences.You don't understand! You've never understood! Nobody understands! Why did you ask me?"

Margaret frowned and said to him,"You're being silly Gordon."

Gordon smiled and replied, "Don't be stupid woman! Can't you see, I'm going stark crazy!"

Gordon counted the windows on a double-decker bus before he boarded it. He went to the upper deck. Before he alighted, he felt compelled to estimate how many buses were used on the Lancaster to Morecambe and Lancaster to Heysham bus routes. He allowed fifteen minute to go to Morecambe and half an hour to go to Heysham? How many panes of glass would there be in all of those buses, not forgetting the reserve vehicles, in the garages at Skerton and behind Roseberry Avenue? Not forgetting the single-deckers that were sometimes used! Not forgetting the other routes to Preston, to Warton and the outlying districts around Lancaster!

He'd started his calculations one evening when he was going home on leave. It was raining so he decided to catch a bus at Lancaster Bus Station. By the time the bus reached his stop, his calculations were only half over. He stayed on the bus way past his stop. The bus-conductor came and demanded extra money. "Sorry mate but you've gome past your stop. That will cost you extra."

Gordon replied, "I'll pay you when I decide to get off."
"Oh aye," said the conductor, "and when will that be?"
"When I've finished my decimals."

He went all the way to Heysham. He still had not finished his sums. He sat on the bus doing his mental arithmetic.

"You'll have to get off mate," said the conductor. "This is the last bus. We're going back to the depot now." When they arrived there, he told his driver, "We had a real nutter on board that last run."

Gordon had to walk four miles back to Sefton Drive. He still was not sure that he'd got his sums right by the time that he reached home after midnight. "Where on earth have you been? I was expecting you hours ago," asked Margaret.

"Shush! Just a minute, I'm thinking about something," he said, still trying to sort it all out in his mind.

His odd behaviour was noticed by Authority. He covered up cleverly at the medical he had to have. The R.A.F. doctors agreed, with some misgivings, that he could complete the second set of missions with his comrades. He was terrified that he might go berserk, while in the air, and be a danger to the others.

There were near misses. They encountered all sorts of dangers. Flak damaged the aircraft. Bullets from enemy planes injured some and killed one. The rest of Gordon's crew and himself survived. Many aeroplanes and their men did not. He learned that his best friend from gunnery school had been posted as missing after his aeroplane failed to return from the fourteenth mission of the second set of twenty.

Gordon was Michael's hero. He boasted about his father's role in the war, exaggerated his flying exploits and invented others. No one could contradict him. His father wore his uniform when he was on leave. Michael's friends had seen the wings on it which denoted that he was a flier. A generation of boys dreamed of growing up and being in Air Crew. They looked at Gordon with a certain amount of awe. They also wondered why he walked in such a peculiar fashion. Maybe flying in aeroplanes had that effect on you when you were back on the ground. A bit like a sailor's rolling gait.

Margaret had a regular job now helping Joyce, Monday to Friday. She worked during the
day in her pub.

Gordon carried on with his games. "How many boots are needed to shoe a Squadron or a Group or an Air Force? How many acres of leather are needed for the repairing of the soles? How many cattle hides are needed for the leather? How many nails are needed for fastening the soles to the boots?"

He felt compelled to find the answer to these and many other questions which clogged his brain. He muttered his calculations out loud during his lonely flights. At the same time he was ever vigilant for the enemy. Most of the missions were during the night, high in the sky, over Europe. At least they had a decent 'plane to fly now. It was a Lancaster, named after his own home town.

There was only the transparent canopy of his turret between him and the stars on cloudless nights, the dreaded moonlit cloudless nights, when they were an easy target for their enemy.

He decided against trying to count the stars. Even he had to admit that that would be an impossible target...

Chapter 57: Sheila and Margaret Confide

Sheila was fed up with Jack. Margaret was furious with Gordon. Neither woman knew what to do about what was upsetting them. Jack wouldn't listen to Sheila: he either ignored her or snarled at her. Gordon was away in the forces: Margaret couldn't sneer at him or nag him, he was out of her reach.

One morning, after Margaret had seen her children safely onto the school premises, she lingered by the gate to have a chat with Sheila. She often did that. They were not the only ones. There were several other mothers there too. You had to be careful what you said. Some of the females had big ears.

"Why don't you come home with me and the baby. I'll make you a cup of tea?" Sheila offered. Her house was only just down the road near the railway bridge.

"Thanks," Margaret said. She was in the mood for some friendly company. She felt that it was time for her to unburden herself. Sheila and she could have a proper talk, all on their own, at Sheila's. They sat either side of the fire with cups of tea. Margaret refused a biscuit, knowing that they were in short supply. "How did you feel after Jack went to Spain?" she asked her friend.

"Better than I have since he came back!" Sheila responded, with some feeling.
"Why's that?"

Sheila had nursed her grievances against her husband for months. She was more than ready to exchange confidences with Margaret. The pair of them proceeded to do demolition jobs on their respective husbands.

"I sometimes think that Jack's completely crazy," said Sheila. She'd said it to his face the night before. She'd told him he was barmy. His response before retiring to his den was , "I must be or I wouldn't have taken up with you!"

"There's no living with him since he came back from Spain," said Sheila. "He always had a bit of a chip on his shoulder. But he's becoming worse by the minute.He's full of frustrations."
"How do you mean?"

"His problem seems to be he thinks that he can wield a magic wand and put the world to rights," Sheila explained. "When he reads the news, he often goes berserk. I try to calm him down. All he says is, 'What do you know about it?'

"Then he storms off upstairs and reads his books. He writes pointless letters to people who think like him.

"He's obsessed with what's wrong with the world," she continued, ruefully. "I wish he'd pay a bit more attention to what's right under his nose and give me a some support. It's hard enough as it is with the three kids to look after and all of the housework and shopping to do. It's been worse this week because the baby's teething and keeps me awake half the night crying."

Margaret sympathised, "That's the trouble with men, they think that they're the only ones who do any work. I'd like to see them trying to do half what we have to do!"

Sheila replied, "I don't mind how much I have to do. But I'd like a bit of praise for my efforts now and again. All I have is criticism and bad temper from him!"

"He could be worse."
"How could he?"

Margaret decided to confide in her friend what she'd found out from Joyce and told Sheila about Gordon seeing another woman.

Sheila did not take a very serious view of it. "Don't you think you're over-reacting a bit love? I mean, Gordon's a nice easy-going chap. Wouldn't hurt a fly. He's devoted to the kids. Thinks the world of them. I'm sure he wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I bet he had a reason for seeing that woman. Who was she? Did he say?"

"No, he didn't. Wouldn't tell," Margaret sighed. "All he told me was a pack of lies. I still don't know the truth of the matter. He can be very close-mouthed when he feels like it. I'd just like to know who she is. Don't you worry, I'll find out one day."

"Perhaps you expect too much of him."
"Maybe, but I think I'd rather have a bad-tempered husband than a womaniser."
"Oh come on Margaret, that's laying it on a bit thick," Sheila retorted. "Gordon's no womaniser. If he wanted to be, where would he find the money for a bit of fancy stuff on the side? You know how hard-up you've always been. He hands all his money over to you.

"You've told me that he's sending you more than his Air Force marriage allowance home every week since he's been away." she pointed out. "It must be hard for him with nothing in his pocket to spend on himself. No home comforts and no comforts away from home."

Each woman had a more rose-coloured view of the other's husband than the wife herself. Neither had any advice to give the other, except to count her blessings, so they moved on to gossiping about some of the other goings on that they knew about. Wartime affairs were going on all over the place. Two of Sheila's neighbours had husbands away in the Army and they were down at Morecambe four nights a week, enjoying themselves with Airmen.

The two virtuous wives concluded that there were a lot worse husbands than Jack and Gordon, and both felt better for having had a good moan about their men. It was a case of soldiering on and putting up with what they didn't like. There was no alternative.

"Apart from anything else, the children have to be thought of. They come first. Their lives mustn't be upset," said Margaret, forgetting that Sheila had already split up from her husband in Durham when she'd already had Rob by him.

They changed the subject. Sheila wondered if Margaret still liked her new neighbours.

"They're not that new now are they? They've been living next door for months. They're just fine. We're not on Christian name terms but they are very nice. Both extremely pleasant. And our children are great friends with theirs. Michael goes next door to play with their John.

"Their little Doreen plays with Gwyn. John's a delicate boy and prefers indoor games. Doreen will be starting school soon and she'll be in the infants' class with our two after Christmas."

"What's he like?"
"Mr Martin? He's okay. They have things better than mine in their house. A lot like you really. Carpets instead of lino, expensive furniture, a fridge and electricity heats their water. Some new fangled thing called an immersion heater is what they call it. So they don't need a fire in the summer. But they aren't braggers. They're fine."

Sheila was pleased for her. "If you have good neighbours, it's a lot to be thankful for!"

Margaret told her more. "Michael says they listen to serious music in the evenings He can hear it when he's in the other room playing with John. And Mr Martin is an artist. I can smell the oil paint, when I go to borrow something from them. She asks me into the kitchen and lends stuff to me if I need something. Saves me having to go straight away to the shops.

"Yes, we've become very good neighbours. How about you? What are yours like?"

Sheila frowned. "I can't say. I say hello to one or two and that's it. You know Jack. I've had my orders. He doesn't want anyone in the house unless he knows them and gives permission. Remember how embarrassed I was, leaving you out in the rain, when we lived up near Williamson's Park? I felt so ashamed."

"Why do you do everything he tells you It's your house as well as his!"

Sheila frowned, "The atmosphere's bad enough without making it worse. Anyway, tell me more about the Martins. They sound very nice."

"Well, they're about ten years older than us. Must have been married late. She's a housewife and does most of her shopping locally. I've never seen her waiting for a bus to go up town. He looks a bit strange the way he dresses. He's something of an oddity. He works with a dentist. I think he makes false teeth.

"I think he's what you call a dental mechanic." she continued. "He goes to work by bus from Scale Hall Lane, to Morecambe. He wears an expensive black overcoat and a homburg hat. It's a laugh really, because every time he passes a woman in the street, he raises his hat and greets her politely. He raises his hat everytime. He looks and acts a bit pompous. He has a moustache, like Jack, but his is darker and wider. He wears dark-rimmed spectacles. Gordon says he looks like Groucho Marx."

"Is he good-looking?" asked Sheila.
"Not really! Quite a homely type. Very polite and formal with itl. But that's just his way with people. He's not frightened of digging his garden in old trousers and braces. Oh, and by the way, every Friday, when he comes back from Morecambe, he carries a nice bunch of flowers home for Mrs Martin. When the children were smaller, I couldn't even persuade Gordon to push the pram, in case his mates laughed at him. As for carrying a bunch of flowers! Need I say more."

"I know! Jack's the same with shopping. You'll never catch him holding a carrier-bag! 'Women's work!' he'll say.

"One day, I told him that what I was carrying was too heavy for me. You won't believe what his reply was - 'Should have put it in two bags! It would have been easier for you that way.' -
"Wasn't that thoughtful of him?" she laughed, wryly. "Always a man full of helpful ideas, is my Jack!"

Margaret thanked Sheila for the tea and for the company. Before she went, she remembered to ask Sheila if there was any shopping she wanted done. She put her coat on and was ready to go.

"Just one last thing about the Martins before I love you and leave you. Michael told them Gordon was going off to Blackpool into the R.A.F. Do you know he came round the evening before he went and asked to see Gordon? I asked him in and he made quite a speech."

"What sort of a speech?"

Margaret remembered that it went something like, "Well, Mr Watson, I've heard you are going away in the morning to do your bit for the country. As you have probably surmised, I'm too old this time but I was there in the thick of it, in 1918. I know how hard it will be for your family. But I will be here to help and anything that Mrs Watson needs she has only to ask. I will be here to assist and support her.

'I wish you the best of good luck Mr Watson! God willing, we will win quickly and this business will soon be finished.'"

Margaret said that his words were emotionally moving. "He was nearly crying by the time he finished and when he shook Gordon's hand and said good bye to him."

Sheila had put the baby to bed when they'd first arrived back from the school gate. Now, Lily started to cry and called for her mother from upstairs."I'll go," said Margaret, "and let you get on with things. I'll see you at lunchtime."

Soon after this, Michael had to take on the responsibility of going to school and returning home without his Mam, with Gwyn holding his hand all the way. Luckily, there was very little wartime traffic because of petrol rationing. Anyway, they did not have to cross any roads. They simply kept to the same side as their house, all the way down Sefton Drive, along Bowland Drive, round the bend at Oxcliffe Corner and along Torrisholme Road to school.

Margaret had had to find work. There was not enough money for them to survive unless she earned some cash. She hated the children going on their own and tried desperately to be there when they arrived home at lunchtime and after school. Just in case she was late, she left the back door key hidden for them in the coal house.She repeated her instructions to Michael over and over again.

"Walk! Don't run!"
"Yes, Mam."
"Hold her hand! All the way!"
"Yes, Mam."
"See her all the way to her classroom!"
"Yes, Mam."

And to Gwyn, "You be a good girl and do everything that Michael says!"

"Yes, Mam," said Gwyn.

Nan met them from school on Thursday afternoons and took them home to Sefton Drive. Michael had to take Gwyn, just the same, to see her at her house on Hareruns, every Sunday morning. It was what his Dad had always done before he went away. He gave Michael his instructions before he went in the Forces. "Nan is lonely without your Granddad, so don't forget son. You will go and see your Nan every Sunday, won't you?"

"Yes, Dad."

Michael didn't mind walking to school and to Nan's holding Gwyn's hand. He thought that she was really cute. She wasn't a moaner or a sniveller like some girls. His friends liked her. If they met anyone from school they all said, "Hello Michael!" and "Hello, Gwyn!" They never ignored her.

Some kids' sisters were given nick names like 'Droopy Drawers' and 'Snot Face' but nobody ever called Gwyn anything like that. All of the other kids accepted her for what she was: quiet, sociable, modest and pretty. Michael was jealous when Rob made a fuss of her and helped her too much when she joined in boys' games. Michael never made a fuss like that of his sister Rosa!

The day that his Dad went into the Air Force, the three of them had walked with Gordon to Castle Station to see him off. Nan had come to spend a little time with her older son before he left. She stayed behind at Sefton Drive and looked after, "Those two nice little boys," the evacuees, Billy and Mickey.

"No need for a bus! We'll save on the fares. It's not raining. I'll carry Gwyn if she becomes tired," Gordon said.

"All right, provided we give ourselves plenty of time. None of your racing! We're not out to beat any world records," said Margaret.

When the train came, Gordon picked the children up, hugged them and kissed them. "You're the man of the house now," he said to Michael. "Look after your Mam and Gwyn."

"Yes, Dad," said Michael. He hated his father going.
"Do you have to go, Dad?" he asked, hanging on to his hand.
"Yes I do Michael. Just you be a big boy. No crying, mind! I'll be home to see you soon."
"None of the other boys' dads are going. It's not fair!"

He was pleased when Gordon gave Margaret a long hug and kiss. He hadn't seen him do that for a long time. The guard blew his whistle and waved his green flag. Dad leaned out of the window and kept on waving as the train drew breath and puffed away out of the station. They were all waving back at Gordon until they could see him no more.

Michael could not remember seeing his mother cry before. She took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes."Come on children," she said," we'll go and catch a bus. I don't feel like walking."