Chapter 18: Nightmares

Michael began screaming, in the middle of the night. Twice, he was found by his father at the foot of the stairs sleepwalking, his eyes closed.

He was having terrible nightmares.

"It's no wonder," said Gordon. "What with the Ruxton murders, and little Billy Ruxton being put in the Old Workhouse. Then, Next-door clumping him and her being carried away. And, Henry telling him weird stories and always on about his war! It stands to reason he's all upset inside himself."

Inevitably, Nan had her views. Some she shared with Gordon and the rest with Henry.

"Too sensitive a nature! Hyperactive! Impressionable! Huh! All those books in the house! Gets too much of his own way! Mother ruins him! Knows too much for his own good! Stupid nursery rhymes! Just ignore him! Enjoys the attention! He'll grow out of it! Just a passing phase! Needs his bowels emptying! Give him a tonic!"

Gordon's mother could still be influential. They gave Michael malt out of a jar, a table-spoonful every Friday night, castor oil on Saturdays.

"Sit on the lav 'til you've done what you're supposed to!"
Twice a day!

Purging himself in purgatory. He hated it out there in that cold, dark, frightening, outside lav.

"Can I leave the door open?"
"No!"
"Nobody'll hear me if I fall down the hole!"
"Don't be silly!"

When he went to bed, after his Dad had gone downstairs, he didn't know whether he was awake or asleep when it all started happening in his mind.

He imagined there were witches in the backyard. Black beetles crawled all over his bedclothes. Rats scratched at the window. Gigantic spiders dangled from his bedroom ceiling. The corner for hanging criminals at Lancaster Castle was imagined to be in a dark corner of his bedroom. Processions of the condemned being prodded up Brewery Lane to Golgotha for execution entreated him for mercy . His dead Granddad and his soldier mates sprang out of their graves after being blown up. There were all sorts of unknown things that moved and made a noise in the dark. He called them his Uglies.

Worst of all was the imagined tiger that lived down Leonardgate. In his dream, Michael went looking for it. As he left the house, he lifted the cover off their coal-cellar, the one on the pavement outside their parlour window. He then made his way down the street in the dark. There were unimaginable dangers in every shadowy place.

When he got to where the tiger lived, behind the wired windows of Waring and Gillows' factory, he banged hard on one of the windows then turned and ran away. He had a good start on the beast, with its big yellow eyes, glaring at him in the dark, from a top window. It growled ferociously and launched itself through the air. It chased Michael towards his home.

He was terrified but he had his plan to fall back on.

He would jump over the opening on the pavement. The tiger wouldn't notice it and it would fall down into the cellar and be trapped. Then he would replace the cover and the frightful beast wouldn't be able to escape. He'd be safe.

But it all went wrong!

His plan never worked. The same thing always happened. Michael tripped as he got close to the hole in the pavement.The tiger was almost near enough to bite his head off, when Michael fell down the hole .

Down he went, falling over and over. His falling went on forever. The tiger was staring down at him its greeny-yellow eyes like seachlights. He should have been falling away from it but its head, its face, its teeth loomed nearer and nearer. It had a horrible leer on its hideous features.

Finally, the tiger's face slowly transformed itself. It turned into Doctor Ruxton, smiling down at him, brandishing a knife which was dripping with blood, trying to reach him. To cut out his heart!

The only way to escape from the nightmare was for his Dad to come and wake him, to rescue him. He had to find his voice and scream.

"Dad! Dad!"

Was he succeeding? As he continued falling, he tried to shout, "Dad!" again, to call out for salvation. Was he asleep and dreaming? Or was it really happening?

His father was his only hope. At last he was shaken awake.

"Waken up Michael. Come on son! It's alright. You're safe now. It's only me. It's your Dad!"

He came back to his senses, crying and shaking with terror, the dream still vivid in his mind. If only he could sleep in their room, in his old cot. The one Gwyn slept in now!

He thought, "I'll never have any peace so long as I'm on my own."

Every evening his mother or father had to read him a story and help him to sleep before he could be left alone in his bedroom. He had to have a candle light.

It was no use. Nothing helped. Night after night the Uglies were after him. In one form or another they pursued him relentlessly. They were awesome phantoms in many disguises.

"But who are they? What do they look like?" his Dad asked.

Michael couldn't say. They had countless possibilities for manifesting themselves. The Uglies' presence was sensed rather than seen or heard. They were always waiting just out of sight in dark corners of his mind. He felt that he was doomed. They'd always be after him. Sooner or later they would kidnap him, carry him off and he'd never see his Mam and Dad or Gwyn ever again. His family wouldn't know where to find him, no matter how hard they tried. The Uglies would win in the end.

"No, they won't," his Dad insisted. "You're safe here in the house with us. Nothing can harm you."

But it wasn't true. Michael imagined he could hear them jeering and laughing, even as his Dad was trying to console and convince him that there was nothing to worry about.

They sent him to St. Anne's Sunday School, with Joan, every week. That only made things worse. Now he had the Devil and the fear of hell fire to contend with!

There was a funny side to some of his daytime imaginings. His Mam and Dad thought so! When he came home and asked about the hymn with the line, "Lettuce with a gladsome mind," they laughed. He found it weird!

"Why is there a 'green hill without a city wall'? Why did the hill need a city wall?"

Michael held on tight to Margaret's hand when they walked the old route that condemned criminals had taken to the gallows, up near where Rob lived now. He imagined seeing their terrified faces and eyes popping out of their heads after they were strung up at Golgotha.
On Sundays, he didn't want to go with his Dad for a walk across town to the castle to where the Lancashire Witches' ghosts haunted the dungeons.

He didn't want to go with his Grandad along the canal banks, in case he saw Davy Jones, the water demon.

He wouldn't go on the top of a double-decker bus because the height made him dizzy and he was frightened it would topple over going round the roundabout at White Lund.

Nan said, "It's all her fault," meaning Michael's mother.
"Gives him too much attention. Fills his head with a lot of nonsense."

Margaret heard she'd said this and didn't go near her mother-in-law for six weeks.

Chapter 17: Coronation Day, 1937

Coronation Day painting by Tom Dodson. Reproduced with permission courtesy of Studio Arts, Lancaster

Crafty Prime Minister Baldwin had managed to rid the country of a king with fascist tendencies and a peculiar social life. The woman the king was intent on marrying was really weird. She had been followed by secret service agents and there was evidence of her having sex with a car salesman and fooling Edward. The king wanted her as his consort no matter what. It was all too much. It was decided that Authority would fool the people. A legend was born. It was widely believed the sole reason the king was abdicating was because he would not give up the woman he loved. But there was a lot more to it than that. They were a couple of Hitler lovers.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish!" was Jack Matthews's verdict.

There was going to be a Coronation in May. Some streets were going to have parties. Where to be involved? Relatives were scattered far-and wide around the area. There were few friends where the Watsons lived and the aunts weren't interested.

Margaret discussed it with Elsie.

"Not for me love. I'll be carrying on as usual. Royalty's never done anything for me. Not that I've anything against them. But I'll be staying here inside as usual."

Margaret Watson became determined that they would join the party which Nan was helping to organise in Marton Street. Nan had invited them and for once the two women were in agreement.

Margaret didn't think much of the alternative. That was to join with households at the far end of Edward Street, down towards Leonardgate. Her normally hostile feelings towards Nan were secondary to her determination not to be contaminated in the jovial company of the smelly Harrisons and their like. Wasn't Joe Harrison always up in court for being drunk and disorderly!

Nan agreed that their new family friends, the Matthews, and some of Margaret's relatives could come, so long as they paid their way. Gordon accepted the deal. Marton Street it would be!

Michael loved the leading-up to the day and everything connected with the day itself. The Saturday before the big event his Mam and Dad took him to Nan's and left him there in the care of Uncle Frank.

Until then, he had always been frightened of going near coal cellars. His Mam was fearful that he would open the door, the one under the stairs in their living-room, and fall down the stone steps in the darkness to the cobbled floor below. She scared him into never being tempted to go near the cellar. He stood well back when she or Dad opened the door and went down there to fetch a bucket of coal for their fire.

On the Saturday morning, tins of sweets had been delivered to Nan's. Frank was in charge of them and he was to see to it that all the kids had a tin each when the day came.

Uncle Frank was easy-going and he was the first to give Michael pocket-money. He could spend it on whatever he wanted. It was only a penny but you could buy a lollipop, a bag of sweets or sherbet for that and there was a shop on nearly every corner glad to have those pennies. He was spoiled for choice.

Anyway, it was Uncle Frank who coaxed Michael down into Nan's cellar, while Gordon and Margaret did some shopping. It was dark down there but Uncle had a candle, which he held up high. There in the corner of the cellar was treasure. Michael's eyes gleamed as he looked at the neatly-piled heap of tins. They were all bright colours, with pictures of flags and the King and Queen on them. They looked lovely and soon he'd have one for his own!

After that, he helped Frank decorate the front window with red, white and blue trimmings and crossed flags. A photo of his dead Granddad was carefully hung underneath the flags. Michael and Frank went outside and looked at the window.

"Beautiful!" said Frank. Michael had to agree.

"Yes, Uncle Frank, it's beautiful."

Later, on the way home, holding his mother's hand and helping her push the pram with Gwyn in it in addition to the shopping, he kept on shouting.

"Beautiful! Beautiful! Beautiful!"

During the next few days, Michael's excitement mounted. His mother was good at sewing and making things. Sheila bought suitable material and came to Edward Street and chatted to Margaret while she made Rob's Mickey Mouse outfit. Michael was entering the fancy dress competition as Robin Hood.

Both boys were becoming extremely boisterous as the great day of the party drew nearer.

"I'll be glad when it's over," moaned Margaret.

"Michael's nearly driving me crazy."

"You know you really enjoy every minute of it," said Gordon, giving her a hug.

Gwyn was lying on the rug, shaking her rattle. "Da!" she called. Gordon's eyes sparkled with delight.

"Did you hear that? She said 'Dad'."

He knelt beside her and looked into her eyes which were the same deep blue as his own.

She gurgled, shook the rattle and said it again.

"Da! Da!"

At last! She'd been a bit slow starting to talk but this was a start. It made Gordon and Margaret feel very happy.

Marton Street Coronation Party was a great success. Everyone enjoyed themselves, especially Uncle Frank, who had it away with a more than willing Joyce, on top of the coal, down in Nan's coal-cellar, with the light from a single candle to help him see what he was doing. It was the middle of the afternoon and everyone else was watching the kids' games and races.

"You would have thought she'd have had plenty to do at Morecambe on Coronation Day," said Gordon to Margaret, when he saw her arrive, a bit late in the day. But no, there she was, once again near him, greeting him and flashing her eyes at him.

When she arrived, some of the events had already taken place but there was plenty of food and cups of tea left on the tables outside. She had a good appetite and tucked in. Then she went inside Nan's to be alone with Frank who wasn't involved with organising the children.

During the competitions for the kids, Nan saw to it that all of the children won something. She was a good organiser. Time went quickly and soon it was late afternoon. Most of the men, but not Gordon, were looking forward to some booze as soon as the party was over.

Margaret was teetotal and disapproved of the drink, because of how her father had carried on, putting the pub and his friends before his family during her childhood. But Gordon had always liked a drop of alcohol and was a regular drinker. Until he got married!

"Under the thumb!" his brother Frank called it.

Frank had not forgotten this and shortly after his brother arrived, he said to him, "If you fancy a snifter, I've left a bottle for us in the cellar, under the stairs. Help yourself if you feel like one."

Jack Matthews had come to the event with his family. He made a beeline for Gordon, who expressed surprise at seeing him there.

"I thought you were anti-royalist. I didn't expect to see you."

"I wasn't going to come. But you know what wives are like. She kept on about me being anti-social so I've come, to keep the peace."

"Fancy a drop of booze?" asked Gordon.

"Wouldn't mind!"

"Come this way!"

Gordon opened the cellar door, went down a step or two and then saw Frank, his trousers pulled down. Joyce was lying on her back with him on top of her. Joyce just grinned up at Gordon and at Jack who was peering over his shoulder.

When Gordon called, "What the hell are you two up to?" she was the first to reply.

"What does it look like? You selling tickets or something?"

Frank called out, "Close that door our Gordon, you're causing a hell of a draught."

Then, to Gordon's horror, he heard Michael, in the living-room, behind him, calling.

"Dad! Dad! Where are you? I want to show you my prize."

Luckily, Jack was in the way so Michael's view was blocked and he did not see what Frank and Joyce were doing. Jack ushered Michael back outside with, "Children are supposed to be outside. Your dad will be with you in a sec."

"You might at least have locked the door, our kid!" Gordon stormed. 

"There isn't a lock is there, stupid! If you've seen all you want to see, leave us in peace will you!"

Gordon slammed the cellar door shut and went to find Michael. Michael was overjoyed because he'd won an extra tin of sweets.

Coronation Day was in the middle of May, and though it was still broad daylight, it was soon well past Michael's bedtime and Gwyn was already fast asleep in Margaret's arms. All of the children's events were finished . A few people had already gone, some home, some to the pub on the corner of Penny Street. Gordon told his mother that it was time for his family to be off home.

The day had been a success. Michael had really enjoyed being with his cousins and Rob. He was proud of winning that prize in the fancy dress parade. Now, he clutched his two tins of toffees, a balloon atached to a stick and a special commemoration mug. He gave his Nan and Grandad a hug and was ready to go but not before Uncle Frank had given him sixpence.

"For being a grand lad!"

Fond farewells all round and they left, Margaret carrying Gwyn and Michael holding Gordon's hand.

The Matthews went with them and intended walking as far as Edward Street before continuing the steep climb up to their rented dwelling. It was a comfortable grouping. The men together and talking intensely a yard or two behind the wives and children. All of the family were becoming firm friends as a result of the two men's meeting.

They were halfway to Dalton Square when Joyce caught up with them. She sort of crept up and suddenly. Michael was swept up into the air and swung around by Joyce.

"Hasn't it been a lovely day?" she enthused.

That was generally agreed but Gordon just grunted.

Joyce didn't go any further than Dalton Square, where she was going to catch her bus home. The rest hung around, Margaret chatting to Joyce. When the bus came, she gave Margaret and Michael a hug, Gwyn a butterfly kiss and then threw her arms round Gordon and gave him a smacker right on the lips.

Both she and Margaret laughed. Jack and Sheila thought it was hilarious but Gordon just frowned. Jack sidled up to him.

"She'll be after you next," he whispered, "Keeping it in the family!" Jack didn't know the past history of Gordon and Joyce.

Gordon didn't say anything.

Then they were off home. Joyce was on her bus and waving back to them.

Margaret offered a cup of tea to the Matthews. This was declined by Sheila.

"No it's too late for the children. I'll see you Monday, about two o'clock. Okay?"

"Right," agreed Margaret, "I'll look forward to that."

"Bye Rob!"

"Ta-ra, Aunty Margaret," said Rob. He just put his thumbs up and smiled at Michael.

"And I'll see you Tuesday night. Okay Gordon?" Jack queried.

Gordon looked at Margaret. Her lips pursed involuntarily. He ignored the implied admonishment. Sometimes, Gordon was out three times a week now. If there was a council election on it would be nearly every night and most of his weekends.

"Right, thanks! Same time seven thirty?" asked Gordon.

"Seven-thirty it is!"

The Matthews left and the Watsons went indoors. Margaret hissed at Gordon.

"You make me sick. All he has to do is curl his little finger and you go running.Yes sir! No sir! Three bags full!"

"What about you and Sheila? I never complain about her coming here."

"Huh!" Margaret responded.

"Huh!" murmured little Gwyn. And they all laughed.

As Michael was about to go upstairs to bed, with Dad following him, to tuck him up as usual and to read him a story, Mam said, "Gordon, don't forget to rub the lipstick off!"

He rubbed his wrist across his mouth and all red stuff came off onto it. That did make Michael laugh.

Later, Gordon told Margaret about Frank and Joyce in the cellar.

"I wouldn't have cared but our Frank used my waterproof cape to lie on."

"Why worry love?" said Margaret, "He cleaned it up for you afterwards. It's not dirty is it?"

It was like that with Margaret and Gordon. It was hard to forecast who and what she was for and what against, what was deemed acceptable and what was not. Joyce seemed able to break all Margaret's rules and still be her best friend.

"Why," Gordon wondered, "am I expected to be perfect?"

He was quite determined to spend as much time as he wanted with Jack and his other new friends who all shared the same interests. Margaret couldn't complain about him wasting any money on them. All they did was talk, lend each other books or go canvassing for local candidates. She expected too much of him that was the trouble. Everything had to be for the home. He felt that his best would never be good enough for her.

Related Links

• Read an extract from The Daily Worker, describing how Hitler "celebrated" Coronation Day with a massive bombing raid in Spain: Go

• Coronation Day painting by Tom Dodson. Reproduced with permission courtesy of Studio Arts, Lancaster

Chapter 16: Class Distinctions

One evening, Gordon returned home from one of his meetings quite late, very excited. Taking off his coat, he stood in front of the fire, warming his hands and his backside.
"I know that I said I'd be home early tonight," he told Margaret, "but I met the most amazing bloke at the meeting and we went for a drink together afterwards -- Jack Matthews. He's a teacher at the Grammar School and he's a Socialist."

"Well that's funny, in fact quite a coincidence," said Margaret, "Sheila, Rob's mother's name is Matthews. I don't know much about him except that he's a teacher. We never discuss politics. It could be him you've met. I doubt it though, because I get the impression he's not very friendly with people. If it is him, he must be an anti-social sort of Socialist!"

Gordon Watson considered himself to be working-class through and through. And proud of it. After he joined the Labour Party, he dare not advertise it at work, nor did he tell his mother, when he still lived at home. His mother was an active Liberal supporter and very grateful that Gordon had been given a good apprenticeship at Liberal Lord Ashton's factory. Now that Gordon was married and independent he was more open about his politics. He was helping to form a trades union branch in his department at work..

He had really enjoyed the chat with Jack Matthews, who had liked hearing Gordon speak at the meeting about the opposition to trades unions at Williamsons.

"The trouble is," Gordon had said, " There are so many people frightened of their own shadows. It's hard to get support. They're frightened of the bosses. We're not asking for the moon. Most are frightened of asking for anything."

Jack had invited him to have a pint in a pub in Moor Lane, after they'd walked that way together on their way home.

"I live up by the Park," he told Gordon, so neither of us will be going out of our way." Gordon had already told him he lived in Edward Street.

Jack was a bloke who liked the sound of his own voice. He was a little man, with a head of blonde hair and a short bristly moustache of the same colour. He spoke with a southern, educated accent. Once you got him onto politics, there was no stopping him. He tended to lecture rather than converse. Gordon didn't mind because he agreed with everything he said.

"The trouble is, we're so divided amongst ourselves," he told Gordon, after he'd taken a swig at his pint.

In his view, the subtleties of class division in Lancaster were multifarious. They were being exacerbated by the breaking up of old communities, by slum clearances, by the aspirations of higher-paid workers to better themselves. Then there was unemployment and the apathy of others. There was much irritation, stress and envy amongst the workers -- often stronger than between master and employee!

Although a harsh boss could make life very difficult, there was often a pathetic meek acceptance of the 'Them' and 'Us' in factory and mill. Most in work, remembering hard times, were glad of a job. They did not want to rock the boat. Worst of all were those promoted to minor positions over the rest: they often gave their former mates a hard time. Brian Howson, Gordon's best friend and workmate said, "Working-class corporals! Give them a couple of stripes and they think they're generals! Some of them are power mad and only on a few more bob than the rest of us!"

Jack told Gordon about local factory history. It didn't occur to him that Gordon might already know it backwards. It was typical of a newcomer to the area that he thought he knew more than the natives, thought Gordon, but he didn't mind. It was marvellous to be talking to someone who had had a good education and could put stuff across better than him.

Jack had hardly touched the rest of his drink by the time Gordon's glass was nearly empty. He just went on and on about how at the turn of the century, there had been some demonstrations organised by the Trades Council. Meetings, he said, were held in the Co-operative Hall. He'd heard there was a thriving Independent Labour Party.

He described how just before the Great War, disgruntled Jimmy Williamson had cleared off to St. Anne's to get away from the town he'd come to hate. It was mainly because of what he considered to be ingratitude and unnatural opposition to himself personally and politically. A radical Mr Wall was a specific target for his hatred.

"A good lad, that Wallie. He must have had real guts!" Jack tried desperately to broaden his accent and use words that he would not use in the classroom. His aim was to try and identify with the workers and be one of the lads.

It was a bit phoney. Gordon didn't mind. Jack seemed to be a well-meaning, decent man.
Gordon had finished his pint. At last, Jack noticed and went to buy his round.

"Mustn't let you think I'm a temperance man!" he said.

When he came back with the pints, he started on about how Lancaster's drinkers and abstainers had often been very hostile towards each other. Once, there was a confrontation between the Temperance Society members outside the Temperance Hotel and several pro-drinkers were arrested.

"That isn't all!" he laughed. "You can dream up any feeble excuse and some folk will have a go at those who should be their comrades!" Jack liked using words like'comrades' and 'brothers' when he spoke about workers.

According to Jack, a slight difference in accent would have you labelled as 'common' or 'snooty'. The Co-op 'divi', and shopping at 'cheapo' Woolworths was sniffed at by some aspirant working-class wives. Marks-and-Spencer's was acceptable. Regular soldiers, Irish labourers, tramps and Roman Catholics were viewed with suspicion or downright hostility. Did you go barefoot, wear clogs or Wellingtons, pumps, boots or shoes? Did you have any socks on? It all counted!

Gordon was still mainly silent as Jack became serious again and went on about how manifestations of real poverty could invite ridicule.

There were the slum clearances, from China Lane and Bridge Street, for example, and social-engineering in the placing of 'respectables' and 'disreputables' as neighbours on the new council estates at Ryelands, Hareruns and Beaumont. It was causing a lot of ill-feeling.
Accusations of snobbishness or snootiness carried on into the schools amongst the kids. As for those who were starting to move out of town and into private houses on pub-free Scale Hall, Morecambe Road, Cross Hill and Torrisholme Road, they might as well have gone to a foreign country.

At last, Jack seemed to have exhausted his pet themes. He finished by saying, "Sorry Gordon, once I get started, I don't know when to stop."

"That's fine by me. I've really enjoyed listening to you."

They drank up and left the pub.

"Goodnight lads!" called the landlord, "See you again!"
"Goodnight all!" Jack shouted back.

It was not far to Edward Street. They paused on the corner and shook hands. Then Jack said,
"Would you like to come to a meeting at my place tomorrow night? If you like discussions, about what's really going on in this world, you'll enjoy it."

On the spur of the moment, his head dizzy with words and a couple of pints, Gordon agreed. Jack told him where he lived, near Christ Church, up Wyresdale Road. The two men shook hands again and departed for their separate homes.

Margaret was not over-impressed by Gordon's recounting of the evening's events. She was positively displeased to hear that Gordon would be out again the next evening.

"That's a bit much," she protested, "two evenings on the trot!"

When Gordon told her where Jack lived, she was convinced he must be Sheila's husband. She wondered what Sheila would think about the two men meeting.

She was a bit uneasy. She and Gordon were leading quite tranquil lives, all things considered. She saw no reason to complicate things. She did not like his increasing interest in trades unions and politics. Politics were all right up to a point. So long as you didn't start taking them too seriously. Politics, like religion, could lead to trouble if you weren't careful.

Margaret considered herself to be rising quite quickly from amongst the 'disreputables' into the ranks of the 'respectables'. It was a case of helping yourself to get on, she thought. She knew that Gordon took a different view and that he was in the business of trying to be helpful to others as well as looking after himself. Not that they were going to fall out about party politics because Margaret voted Labour too. But you didn't have to spend all of your spare time thinking about how to change the world. There was still plenty to do nearer at home!

Gordon went to bed happy. He thought he had met someone who saw things the same way as himself, someone who liked people in general and thought they were all okay, unless they went out of their way to prove otherwise. He'd enjoyed the absence of small talk and gossip. It was no good judging the quality of a coat by its colour! Wear it for a while and see if it fits properly. He was really looking forward to going to Jack's place the next evening.

Comparing notes with his wife, after he arrived back, it was obvious her friend Sheila was Jack's wife. Gordon confirmed that the house he had visited for the meeting was the one Margaret had been denied entry to even when it rained.

That never happened again. The men, women and children became family friends and met at each other's houses quite frequently.

Chapter 15: Christmas Day Afternoon 1936

Gordon had banked the fire up before they went to Nan's, placing ashes on top, so that it didn't burn away too quickly. He'd rolled the rug away from the fender, just in case a spark flew out and set it on fire. He'd left a box of matches by the gas-light. He lit the mantle and the room brightened. The trimmings and tree ornaments glistened and reflected the light magically. Michael loved it. It reminded him of Aladdin's cave. And there on the lino, partly under the table was his railway. Brilliant! He headed straight for it.

"Coat off first!" said his mother firmly.

For once, the house seemed really lovely and warm, even to Margaret. There were plenty of comfortable seats because of her new three-piece suite.

Henry admired the trimmings.

"I helped you put them up didn't I Dad?" said Michael.

"Well you did a grand job lad. That's a lovely tree you've got there," said Henry.

"I helped you carry it back from the Market didn't I, Mam? And I put some of the ornaments on." He enjoyed the praise which followed.

Gordon told Michael, "There isn't room in here for all of us and your train. Come on, we'll split the lines up and set it out again in the parlour. Bring your turntable with you."

"It'll be cold in there, Dad."

"No it won't, we'll put the oil stove on. Come on, I'll give you a hand."

The oil stove was a bit smoky and more than a bit smelly. The parlour was a tiny room so it soon got warm. There was a draught because they had to leave the door open in case it became too suffocating in there. Michael could feel that draught right across his back as he and his Dad fixed the lines together again.

Henry had come with them. The two women were left to their verbal sparrings and fussing of Gwyn. Henry smoked his pipe which gave off a better smell than the oil stove. But it became very muggy in there.

When Nan came to summon them to the tea-table, she was annoyed. "You know that child," meaning delicate Gwyn, "has weak lungs. For heaven's sake what are you two doing, trying to kill her?"

She made Henry put his pipe out.

"Outside!" she demanded, as he leaned forward to knock the fillings out in the empty parlour grate. Henry went obediently to the front door.

"And you," she said to Gordon, "turn that filthy thing off. What are you trying to do, poison all of us?"

Nobody argued with Nan. Michael knew that was the end of playing with his train for the day.

They all sat down to tea. There were crackers to pull, but the noise Michael a bit apprehensive -- which set the baby off crying.

Margaret rose from the table and took the baby with her. "She's had a long day, I'll put her to bed. You can pour the tea, if you like Nan."

Nan took charge until Margaret came back. There were enough paper hats to go round and it was a truly festive occasion. Nan made only one upsetting remark. That was when they'd nearly finished eating and slices of the Christmas cake were passed round.

"A bit on the dry side! Could have done with a drop or two of sherry in it!"

Michael wondered why Nan managed to eat a second slice if she hadn't liked the first one.

After tea, Michael pondered what to do. Nan wanted to play cards and Gordon and Margaret agreed to give her a game. Henry didn't play because of his difficulty remembering which cards had been played so he asked Michael if he would like to go for a walk.

"It's foggy. Who'd want to be out in it?" muttered Nan.

"Please, Mam!"

Margaret let Gordon decide. She was in no mood for a confrontation with her husband's mother.

"Make sure you put a scarf on and button your coat up round your throat! Don't be out in it too long!"

Henry went into the passage where the coats were kept. They wrapped up warm to keep the cold out.

"We'll just go round the block," Henry promised The pair of them stepped out into the thick fog.

Michael thought, "This is going to be a good adventure." He'd never been out on a really foggy night before.

It was dead quiet in the street. Everybody else was indoors. The house next door was in complete darkness. It was like a gost's house. That's what Rob had told Michael. "I'll bet it's haunted. I bet you anything, that old woman comes back and mooches about in there." For a moment, Michael fancied he did see a light gleaming dimly in the upstairs bedroom window, through the thick fog. Perhaps there was a ghost of Christmas Past in there. But no, it was just a trick of the light reflected from the gas-lamp hissing on the top of the lamppost on the edge of the pavement.

The fog was so thick that they could not see the street light near St. Anne's School until they were close to it . It being Christmas Day, most of the front parlours had people in them and the lights from those illuminated the pavements, which were wet and slippery because of the damp mist.

The fog was a mixture of low, misty clouds and smoke from all of the town's chimneys. The smell of it caught the back of Michael's throat. Worse still, there was the strong beer-brewing smell from Mitchell's on the other side of the empty site across from the Watsons' house.

Michael held his Grandad's hand. They crossed the road and walked as far as Lodge Street, went down there and edged along the side of the Grand Theatre. The fog was so thick here that they could hardly make out the ramshackle shed, on the opposite side of the road, where a few men normally toiled, doing foundry work.

They turned into Leonardgate. The front of the Grand Theatre was in complete darkness and there were no lights on in the pubs which had closed after lunch. It seemed all strange and eerie to Michael, so used was he to the noise and bustle of the area during the day.

They had not seen a soul or heard a sound.

"We'll not go much further," said Henry. "We'll cut down the alley at the side of Gillows and go back along North Road."

"Right Granddad. It's a bit cold isn't it?"

It wasn't turning out to be much of an adventure after all. It was worth a pause to have a good look at one shop window where Parliament Street met North Road. They'd left the shop's electric lights and Christmas tree lights on. It was a sweet shop and the goodies in their brightly-coloured Christmas packaging looked very attractive. But of course it was no good hoping for anything because the shop was closed.

Then the strange thing happened.

"Shh!" said Henry.

"Listen! What's that? Can you hear it?"

Michael listened intently. The distant sound was coming from near Skerton Bridge. They stood there waiting, as the sound came closer, all along Parliament Street, echoing through the gloom. They heard it quite near before they could make out what it was.

"Sounds like a horse coming," said Henry, peering down the road.

It was a horse, trotting steadily along down the middle of the road. It had a choice between going down Cable Street or North Road. For a minute it paused and they had a good look at it. It was a big animal, not as big as the shire horses, but the same colour, grey, as one of them. It looked warily at the two humans, then it snorted, turned its head away and trotted off along North Road. They could hear it for a long time as it made its way through the deserted town.

"Well, I'll be blowed! Would you believe it?"

"I'll be blowed too Granddad!" said Michael, thinking he'd had a good adventure after all.

They headed for home but had not gone far when Henry said, "Stop! Listen there's summat else coming!"

Michael listened again and he heard it too. This time it was the sound of footsteps, someone running. Suddenly, they saw him, emerging from the swirling fog, and he saw them. He was a short man, in a thick pullover, which his big, fat belly made bulge out. He stopped. He was panting and breathing deeply.

"Have you seen an 'orse? A grey one?" he asked.

"Yes," said Henry. "You'll have a job catching it. It went that way. It must be the other side of town by now."

"Bloody thing!" said the man. "I'll half kill it when I do catch it." He ran off again disappearing quickly into the swirling mist.

"Well I never!" exclaimed Grandad. "Not in a thousand years! Who'd have thought it?"

"Well I never as well Grandad," repeated Michael.

By the time they arrived back in Edward Street, Nan had had enough of playing cards, Margaret had kept on winning. Nan had had enough. She was ready for home.

"Keep your coat on!" she said to Henry. "It's time we were off. It's been a long day."

"But a nice one mother," said Gordon. All the others agreed.

After she had seen them go, Margaret locked the front door and went back to the warm room. She sighed and remarked, "Company's alright but I'm glad we're on our own now."

Gordon took Michael up to bed, read him a story from one of his new books and saw him off to sleep.

He went back downstairs where he and Margaret lay together for a long time in front of the fire. Everything nice and cosy!

"Michael might come down!" she protested.

"Nothing to worry about! He's had a full day. He's fast asleep."

Gordon had had a really good Christmas Day, apart from seeing Joyce. Why had his brother picked up with her!

Margaret was relieved that everything had gone off reasonably well. The usual tension between her and her mother-in-law had been there all day but it had been bearable. Her reaction to seeing her friend Joyce was different from Gordon's. It had been an unexpected bonus. She wished her husband would treat Joyce with more consideration.

Next day, with Margaret's parents was an unqualified success. It being Christmas, Gordon was off the hook and spent freely with his father-in-law in the local club and had some good laughs with the brothers-in law. Margaret loved being with all of her relatives, especially her mother. 

Only Michael was sorry to be away from his new toys for the day and anxious to be back home as soon as possible. Unfortunately for him, it was late when they arrived back and he was packed off to bed without a chance to play with his new train set.

"There's always another day," his Dad said. "You'll enjoy it all the more for waiting!"

His Dad had an answer for everything, Michael thought, and he was usually right. That night he had pleasant dreams of travelling on a real train, just like his Hornby. He went all over the world in it and had all kinds of wonderful adaventures. Next morning, he was up early and playing with his toys even before the fire was lit.

Chapter 14: Christmas Day Morning 1936

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now he came and sat next to Henry and Michael.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Chapter 13: Give Us This Day Our Bailey Dead

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

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

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

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

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

Margaret was surprised to see Elsie but greeted her warmly.

"Shall I make you a cup of tea?"

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

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

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

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

The two women confided while the boys played.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Geoff was close to tears telling about it.

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

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

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

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

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

Elsie's mind was made up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Geoff was not impressed.

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

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

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

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

That's how it was, then.

Chapter 12: Up Town

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Rocking Horse Shop on New
Street, now Trojans Restaurant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lancaster's Junior Library today. Photo © Bill Jervis

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