Chapter 70: Teacher's Pet

Authority decided that Michael's academic progress was such that it warranted him skipping a class, and going straight into the top year, when he was only nine years old.

Of course, he enjoyed all of the praise from his Dad, Mam and Nan. The downside was that he was no longer with Rob and Paul during lesson time.

"Teacher's pet!" Rob called him.
"Book worm!" said Paul.

He had Lamb's Tales From Shakespeare, with coloured pictures, for Christmas in 1943. He quite liked the stories but he preferred the Annuals he received.

"There's more to life than comics," Dad said.

Michael's favourite present that Christmas was a pair of roller-skates. In order to buy them, Gordon sold his cigarette ration for several months, to some of the men where he was stationed. He wanted Michael to have something really special as a present.

Uncle Frank was in the Army, in Ceylon. He sent Michael and Gwyn a box of lovely seashells.

Mam had bought a cheap collection of glass marbles. She'd got them from a woman who had advertised in the Lancaster Guardian. Michael and Glyn liked playing games of marbles against each other. When John offered to play 'for keeps' Michael declined. He knew all about John's skill at indoor games and he didn't want to see his collection rapidly becoming part of John's!

One of the blokes whom Dad was with in the Air Force sold him a stamp album with three hundred stamps in it. That was a super present and started him off on a new interest. It meant that he and John had another hobby which they shared.

Michael still enjoyed playing card games with John. Now that John had a small snooker table, the pair of them were learning to play yet another indoor game. As always, John usually won. Billiards was simpler but John was still the victor nearly every time.

"What exactly's wrong with John?" Michael asked his Dad.
"He was born with a weakness in his kidneys."
"What are your kidneys?"
"Look it up!"
"Why can't you tell me?"
"I don't know everything just because I'm your father. Anyway, you should learn how to use the encyclopedias. That's why I bought them."

The set of twelve heavy volumes, and a bookcase to put them in, had been a special Daily Herald promotional offer, which Gordon had somehow managed to afford for his children.

"The more learning you have the better!" he'd say. "You can't have too much of a good thing. Now, mind you wash your hands thoroughly before you handle those books. I don't want them to get dirty!"

John had a set of encyclopedias too. They were not the same as Michael's and Gwyn's. They were more grown-up.

One day, John said to Michael, "Have a look at this!" It came under the letter "R". It was a section on Reproduction. There was a drawing of a sow with piglets in its stomach. Michael had read some of the text and found it very interesting. Mrs Martin came into the room. "Can't you hear your mother calling you Michael?"

"No! Sorry, Mrs Martin. See you tomorrow John."

This new knowledge excited Michael. He asked his Mam, "Where do babies come from?" Margaret was not prepared for the question. Instead of answering it sensibly, she was overcome with embarrassment and blurted out, "Wherever did you get that question into your head?"

Sensing the possibility of a row like they always had, if he swore or used vulgar words, he replied, "From a book. John showed me a book all about it." There couldn't be anything wrong if it was in a book!

"Your tea's on the table. You can help yourself. I won't be long." She rushed off to see Mrs Martin, who was quite perplexed by Margaret's outburst of righteous indignation. Despite being bemused by her neighbour's words she accepted what she asked without question. The friends did not have an argument. She promised that John would not show the offending pages to Michael again.

When Mrs Martin told Mr Martin about it later, after a concerto had concluded on the wireless, she carried on knitting and ended by saying, "You have to make allowances. She never had a proper education like us." She was not being bitchy. She was very fond of Margaret. She had pondered the matter and it was the only reason she could think of for Margaret's peculiar reaction to Michael starting to learn what life was all about.

Mrs Martin was not the sort of person one would normally make tart comments about her neighbour or anyone else. But Margaret's reaction had seemed really bizarre to her. Her son, John, had not meant any harm, showing the drawings and letting Michael read what was in the book. What a fuss and all about nothing!

Usually, Margaret was delighted by her son's perpetual search for knowledge, his ability to absorb facts and remember them. Gordon was pleased when he came on leave and Michael was able to remember most of the Shakespeare stories.

"We're doing poetry at school now," he told his Dad. "It's great. We're learning 'Daffodils' by William Wordsworth and I know it already," he boasted smugly.

He recited it, putting expression into his voice, like Miss said they should, when the flowers danced in the poem. Gordon was amazed. Seeing Michael only at lengthy intervals, the leaps in his progress between his leaves seemed phemomenal.

The next day, when Michael came home from school, there was a slim volume of verse lying on the tea-table.

"For you! You deserve it for working hard," said his Dad. "I bought it at Wigley's bookshop, corner of Market Street. Hope you don't mind but I've had a read some of it myself this afternoon. There's some good ones in there."

It was a A Small Book of Verse for Girls and Boys.

"It's a cissy's book," Rob sneered when he came to tea on Sunday. "Only girls like poetry!"

Ryelands was a school with a progressive education ideas . The old idea of teaching the three 'R's' was far too narrow for Miss Fish, the formidable lady who had been appointed headmistress. There was to be a wide curriculum at her school!

The senior teacher was Miss Carter and Michael was with her for two years. There were never fewer than fifty in her class.

The desks were arranged formerly. Michael was quickly moved sideways across the room to the row where the so-called brighter children sat. Later, he moved from the back towards the front desk, where the two top of the class, he and a pretty, bespectacled girl, called Beryl, sat alongside each other. They hardly ever exchanged a word, except to borrow a rubber or pencil-sharpener from each other.

The latest taunt from Rob was a derisive, "He goes with girls!" Michael didn't want to be seen as being too friendly with Beryl.

Silence, was the order all morning, but there was some relaxation during the afternoons. Somehow, despite the large numbers, Miss Carter gave individual tuition in English and Arithmetic and organised small groups for readers who were all at the same level. They read round the group, corrected each other and only occasionally asked Miss Carter for guidance with an unfamiliar word.

Routine, organisation, fairnes, consistency and familiar boundaries were all part of a first-class learning environment.

They had singing, and playing percussion instruments, in the hall. Michael learned when to hit his triangle as he read music, from the large canvas sheet which Miss Carter hung upon the wall, while she played Schubert's 'Marche Militaire' on the piano.

They had country dancing in the winter, after they'd selected a pair of pumps out of the big box kept near the stage. They learned maypole dancing outside on the grass in the summer. None of the boys admitted to enjoying dancing with girls but they all did.

Michael and Rob had parts in a school production of Charles Dicken's Christmas Carol. The rest of the school watched it and neither of them forgot their lines. Both mothers were proud of how they performed.

They had a Carol Service at Christmas. All the little kids joined with the big kids for that.

 Michael's class sang the sad, 'In The Deep Midwinter'.

The little kids, including Gwyn, sang 'Away In A Manger'.

Everybody finished off, by singing loudly,

'Good King Wenceslas'.

And Rob was in trouble for roaring,

"Good King Wenceslas
He looked out
Of his bedroom window
Silly fellow
He fell out
Of his bedroom window."

Rob didn't care. "It was worth it. We had a good laugh, didn't we lads?" It being Christmas, he got away with a telling-off.

They brought to school what old newspapers they could spare from the lighting of coal fires at home. They tore the newspapers up and mixed the shreds up with paste made from flour and water. They made papier mache bowls and let them dry on the classsroom radiators overnight. Then , in order to decorate them, they cut out and stuck coloured wallpaper, out of wall-paper pattern books, over the bowls.

"You've done a lovely job there," Dad said, when he came home on leave. He picked Michael's creation up from a stand in the hall in order to admire it. It was a source of wonder to his Dad that Michael was having painting, craft, modelling, dancing, nature study, percussion, writing stories, poems, making up prayers and lots of other things.

Michael found school exciting and exhilarating. None of his enthusiasm for playing seemed to affect his progress in 'proper' subjects.

"School's changed a bit since I was there," Gordon said ruefully, remembering the harridan who had patrolled the aisles of his childhood classroom. She'd belted pupils over the knuckles, with or without reason, using a heavy wooden ruler as she went past the desks.

Margaret reminded her husband, once again, that it was she who had insisted that they should buy a house near a nice school.

When he took Michael to bed, Michael whispered to Gordon,
"Dad, would you like to hear the prayer I made up? Miss Carter gave me a star for it."

"I certainly would. Has your Mam heard it?"
"Not yet!"
"And Gwyn?"
"No!"
"Shall I fetch them to hear it too?"
"If you like Dad."

Michael sat up in bed. Mam and Dad sat on the bed. Gwyn sat on Dad's lap.
"You've no need to put your hands together or anything," said Michael. Then he began,

Dear Lord,
Please look after my mother and father and sister, my friends and relations and all the people in the world. Please look after our soldiers, sailors and airmen and help them to win the war. Please help all the dead people. Please let me be a good boy who's always kind to other people.
For Jesus's sake,
Amen.

Then they all said, "Amen!"

It reminded Gordon of how he'd once had innocent faith when he was a lad before he became an apprentice at Williamson's and stopped going to church.

Margaret had never thought much about religion although she'd been determined to have a church wedding and have the children Christened. She thought Michael's prayer just lovely. It was obvious that the lessons at Sunday School were having a good effect upon him. Perhaps Michael would one day become a Sunday School Teacher just like that shy, young man, Gordon Jenkins, who lived down their road.

Very few things worried Michael at school and what happened there. There was a boy in the same class as he was. His name was Arthur Pilkington. He was a year older than Michael. Michael remembered him from Marton Street before the war. He'd lived near Nan. When they'd moved people out of the street, Nan had been given a house on Hareruns. Not far away, Arthur had moved into another Corporation house, with his parents and numerous brothers and sisters.

Arthur occupied the desk furthest away from Michael. In Gordon's day, he would have been called a dunce. Subsequently, he would have been labelled backward, slow-learner or pupil with special needs. Michael remembered him as the 'bottom of the class'.

He was a quiet lad with no friends. He was a big boy whose clothes were always either too small for him or too large. He was the only one in the class who wore clogs. He smelled, looked unwashed and his hair was dirty. The sleeves of his jacket had dried snot on them. He always had candles coming down his nostrils, winter and summer. His appearance wasn't much better than the Watsons' evacuees from Salford. He was late for school most mornings.

Rules were rules and Miss Fish's patience wore thin but ner snapped. For a few weeks there was a supply headmistress probably because Miss Fish was ill.

Warned several times about his lateness, Arthur was sent for by this headmistress one morning. He returned a few minutes later to his classroom sobbing.

"Go back to your place, Arthur," said Miss Carter quietly. There was a hush in the class as the children toiled over their sums. You could hear Arthur crying for a long time. There had always been a rumour that Miss Fish kept a cane. This was the first and only time that the children had evidence of it. Everyone felt diminished by what had happened.

Miss Carter would give a naughty child, very occasionally, a slap across a leg but it didn't hurt. That caning of Arthur was different. They say that the day a condemned man is executed in prison, the whole place is affected in a peculiar way. It was a bit like that in Michael's classroom after Arthur had been caned. Everyone was so subdued! It wasn't natural.

One Sunday, when Gordon was on leave, he took the children round to his mother's. He wanted to have a private talk with her so he sent the children out to play on The Green.

Arthur Pilkington came wandering past. Michael wasn't friendly with him at school but he had a special feeling for Arthur. He didn't like it when the other kids poked fun at him or said nasty things about him. It made him feel uneasy. Perhaps, it was because Nan and Arthur's mother had been friends. He knew that they were coming from the same place. Their roots were the same. "Never forget who you are!" his Dad was always telling Michael.

"Hello Arthur."
"Hello Michael."

He watched Michael and his sister, throwing a ball to each other, for a while. Timorously, he asked, "Would you like some conkers?"

"Yes, please!" Michael responded eagerly.

Arthur had a bag full of them. "You can have six. Gwyn can have some too.I've got lots. I know where there's a good tree. It's full of them. It's down Barley Cop Lane. Do you want to come and see?"

Just then, Gordon called the children in to say goodbye to Nan. "Thanks Arthur. We've got to go. See you at school tomorrow!"

Gordon had seen what went on. He told Michael, "You should be kind to Arthur. He doesn't have it easy. I used to know his mother when she was young. Arthur's father's not good to her. She was a nice little girl. Her life is a hard one." Almost to himself, he murmured, "Life isn't fair. You never can tell what might be in store for you. She deserves better."

After that, Michael always tried to have a word with Arthur at playtime. Rob didn't approve and sneered but Michael didn't care. He didn't always do what Rob wanted especially if it contradicted whatb his father had told him. There was no harm in Arthur. He couldn't help it, if they sent him to school late. He couldn't help it, if he had lousy clothes to wear.

Britain was winning the war in North Africa. The Russians were stopping the Germans invading any more of Russia and sending them back home. The Americans were turning the tide against the Japanese. Optimism was in the air. People became convinced that victory would be theirs. 1943 was turning-out to be a good year.

Margaret was summoned to the school. Should Michael be allowed to sit for a scholarship for the Grammar School a year early? Miss Fish and Miss Carter were confident he would pass. Margaret said she'd have to write to her husband and ask him. Gordon wrote back, no, he thought that Michael was too young.

Dad was right. Staying at Ryelands School for that extra year was brilliant. Michael had one of the best year's of his life.

Chapter 69: More Lodgers

A brass shoulder title for the Non Combatant Corps

Life was always changing for some of the family. Margaret had done what she'd promised and packed in her job at the pub. Her brother Tom was in the Army and had gone abroad to Egypt. Gary and Dennis had been captured by the Japanese in South East Asia. There was no news of their plight.

Gary, wherever he was, had no idea that he was a father. Joyce had a little baby girl. She called her Margaret and Margaret Watson was her godmother.

"Why Joyce, that's lovely of you. I'm really touched," her friend said, when she was asked to go to the Christening, in Morecambe.

Marrying and having the baby had calmed Joyce down. She still had Talent Nights, in the pub but she never performed her Marlene Dietrich act any more. She had no new boy friends and remained faithful to her young, absent husband.

She had managed to buy a big, posh, second-hand pram and one of her chief joys was to walk the promenade with her baby. She remained a flashy dresser and progressed along the seafront in her high heels and short skirt, her bleached hair blowing in the breeze and her hips swaying.

One day, a passing squad of Airmen marching along the road was given the order by a drill corporal with a sense of humour, "Eyes left!" The men's heads swung to their left and they all stared at Joyce.

"Squad! Whistle!" commanded the NCO. All the men whistled. Joyce waved to them and carried on pushing her pram.
"Eyes front!" shouted the corporal.

Margaret was paid by her two friends to do some of their housework. Neither of the two women really needed her help but both of their husbands had agreed it was a good way to help the hard-up Watsons.

The war had made no difference to Jack Matthews's and Mr Martin's earnings. Both brought good money into the house. Jack had his private income, much of which he was still giving away to what he considered to be worthy causes. They were not the only ones with money to spare. Apart from those in the Forces, increased wages and salaries were more than adequate for the necessities of life and many families had spare money. Some was used to help the war effort, by investing in National Savings.

Margaret had a number of short-stay lodgers. Michael and Gwyn were forever changing rooms or giving them up and sleeping on the floor in Margaret's room.

A Mr and Mrs Routledge stayed for six weeks. They were Quakers and he was in the Non Combatant Corps. There was a brass badge on the shoulder of his uniform - 'N.C.C.' He was attached to the Army Pay Corps, in Lancaster. Mrs Routledge and their little baby followed him wherever he was posted.

Gwyn loved the baby and took every opportunity to help Mrs Routledge. Best of all, she liked helping give Therese a bath and being allowed to hold her, while Mrs Routledge prepared her bottle.

Michael was influenced by Rob's comment, "They're Conchies. You've got yellow bellies staying at your house." He didn't like Mr Routledge because of what Rob said.

Margaret wasn't too keen on Mrs Routledge, either. It's never easy for two women to share the same kitchen. And Margaret was envious and irritated by the amount and variety of food the other woman was able to prepare. They were middle-class and, what was worse, came from down South and had snooty accents.

"It's her mother who sends her the food parcels," Margaret told Sheila. "You'd never know there was a war on, seeing what she has."

"Black market stuff, I expect," said Sheila.
"Never gives me any of it!" Margaret moaned. "Not a jar of jam or a sweet for the children! Mean as muck she is. And supposed to be religious!"

They moved away from the Watsons, when local friends, who they'd met at the local Friends' Meeting House, offered them more spacious accommodation.

The Murdles only stayed a month. There was a Mrs Murdle and two boys who Michael liked. They slept on the second big- bedroom's floor, in the same room as their mother. Like the Routledges, they used the sitting-room as their living room. This meant Michael could keep the small bedroom.

They were Scots. Michael could hardly understand what they said because of their broad Glasgow accents. They went to Ryelands School with Michael. They were in the same class and Rob let them join the Gang.

Margaret never knew what the Murdles were doing in Lancaster. No husband was ever mentioned. The mother wasn't doing war work. Mrs Murdle was quite lumpy but she was an attractive young woman.

The two women didn't talk to each other very much. There was a suggestion of controlled aggression about the Scotswoman which made Margaret wary. Her eyes flashed when she told her two boys off usually about a complaint Margaret had made concerning their behaviour.

They often peed on the toilet seat, wiped jammy hands on the cushions and tramped dirt into the house on their shoes, which they never wiped on the doormat. In many respects, they were perfectly normal boys!

Margaret feared for her good furniture. She dare not reprimand the lads herself. She moaned to their mother and made sure that she should kept them in line.

Margaret's rules had to be obeyed. Finally, the two women had a row when Margaret accused her of leaving the electric light on unnecessarily during the day and of wasting gas.

"You're tighter than a tic," said Mrs Miller.
"I don't like your common ways," Margaret replied.
"Oh don't you Miss Snooty Bitch! And what's common about me then?"
"You gave Michael a biscuit to eat in the street. I don't let him eat outside."
"Oh, and that's what you think's common is it?"
"I do."
"Well I think you're stupid. Just plain stupid!"
"I'll have to give you a week's notice."
"Don't worry, we'll be off tomorrow."

Michael had liked the Murdles. Rob had approved of the boys and said he'd miss them. "They weren't softies. They were a couple of good lads."

Mr and Mrs Steward were ideal lodgers. They stayed six months and only moved when Mrs Steward found out that Mr Steward was having an affair with a woman at work.

They were a jolly, middle-aged couple and both looked like playful porpoises. Mr Steward always had a joke with Michael and sometimes invited the children into the sitting-room which they were occupying. Mrs Steward liked doing jig-saw puzzles and let Gwyn help her. "You are a clever girl. I would never have found that piece."

Mr Steward liked kids' comics and he used to lend some to Michael to read. "Look at this," he'd say to Michael, pointing to a cartoon strip and shaking with laughter. "It's a good one isn't it?" He was like a big, fat mischievous boy.

When Michael's Beano was delivered, Mr Steward would race Michael into the hall and to the letter box. He'd try to be the first there, to pick it up from the carpet and read it. It was a game every week. He was only teasing Michael, and always let him have his comic back.

They both worked at the ICI, near Heysham. He was too old to go in the Forces but had been drafted to Lancaster from Skipton, to do essential war work He'd found Mrs Steward a job there too.

After they left, Mrs Steward used to visit every few weeks. She'd weep and dab her eyes with a tiny handkerchief which smelled of lavender. She would tell Margaret, again and again, all the lurid details of Mr Steward's love life, with " that skinny bitch, Mavis Popplewell, who looks like Popeye's Olive Oil!"

He heard so many "Eees!" and Oose!" coming out of his Mam's mouth, Michael thought she was becoming like his Nan's neighbour. She certainly enjoyed the gossip.

"I'd never have believed it of him," Margaret told her friend, Sheila. "He seemed to be such a homely man. They were such a devoted couple. It just shows, you never can tell with folk!"

Sheila expressed her feelings in one emphatic word.

"Men!"

Chapter 68. Organising Michael

There was something in Margaret that had to have her own way with her husband and with her son. She loved them both dearly, but her affection was not going to overcome her steely willpower when it came to being the boss. She worked hard at manipulating and dominating her men. She'd managed to get the better of her domineering father when she was a child so she felt she was the match for any male. That's what she believed. Her belief in her power her son. She was determined to mould him, make him do what she wanted for him.

She knew she was at a disadvantage with Michael. When a parent is seen to be behaving badly by her child, her ability to make that child conform and obey her is considerably hampered. Michael was occcupying the moral high ground. He was instinctively exploiting his position and trying to make life difficult for his mother. Nine year old Michael had become quite a handful. He wouldn't do what his Mam told him. He was openly rebellious when she asked him to do some of the things which he had formerly done willingly.

"Michael, fetch some coal for the fire, please!"
"No, I'm busy. Can't you see I'm reading."

Or,

"Michael, will you go to the shop for me. I need a powder. I have a headache."
"I don't want to. It's a long way. My legs are tired. We had drill at school this afternoon."

Or,

"Michael, will you go on the bus for me to Aunty Charlotte's. I want you to take her a note from me."
"It's going to rain. I might have to wait for a bus. You say I shouldn't stay out in the rain."

He was awkward and argumentative. Also, she was never sure what he was getting up to when he was out of the house. He was always playing out and out of her sight. He was scuffing his shoes, tearing and dirtying his clothes. He and Rob led each other into too much mischief.

Margaret decided Michael's spare time needed organising. She was not going to let him get the better of her! She'd show him what was what!

She started him at St Chad's Sunday School. Paul Howson started there with him too. After a few weeks, the curate-in-charge, Mr. Bell, asked if the two boys could become choir boys. Margaret and May Howson agreed. That meant choir practice on Thursday evenings and singing in the choir, mornings and evenings, on Sundays.

Rob became a Wolf Cub so Margaret made Michael join the same pack. That was Tuesday evenings, and some Saturday afternoons, taken care of.

Mondays and Wednesdays, he went and played inside with Paul, next door. That only left Monday evening free. She agreed he could have Rob or Paul in the house or play with them outside, on the nearby field, the one near the houses which had been left unfinished when the war started.

It was strange what Authority had decided. The houses at the top of Sefton Drive were abandoned, half-built, for more than five years. It was the same with some on Lancaster Road, opposite the Morecambe Football Ground bus stop. But one day, many months after war had started, a gang of men came and prepared their road and Bowland Drive for asphalting. Apparently, not all building materials were in scarce supply.

Soon they had a proper road and Michael could ride his bike round the block, having races with Rob and with any of the other lads who'd been let out to play. Often, when he arrived home from school, his first words were, "Can I go out on my bike?"

"Ten minutes, then your tea will be on the table."
He was always more than ten minutes.
"Ten minutes!" I said. "Where do you think you've been?"
"I met someone."
"I told you ten minutes."
"How am I supposed to tell the time? I didn't know I was late did I?"

When his Dad came on leave, he was never awkward with Gordon. He always did what his father requested or asked. He never questioned Gordon's orders. That really sickened Margaret but she dare not ask him why. She knew she had to put up with it. Things were still improving between her and Gordon. She was worried that Michael might, one day, say what he had seen that morning, in Room Seven, at Joyce's.

Actually, her worries about what Michael was doing in his spare time were justified. There were many occasions when he was up tono good. There was mischief bordering on vandalism, boorish behaviour, stupidities, thoughtless pranks! There was a long list! The organisations he belonged to didn't really help. In some ways, they gave him greater scope and more time away from her watchful eyes.

His visits to the Odeon, in Lancaster, on Saturday mornings, were not of her organising. She was prevailed upon to grant permission for him to go only because Rob, Paul and three other lads, all with Michael at Ryelands School went.

"It's not fair Mam. All of the other lads go!"

The group gathered at Michael's house around nine-thirty, every Saturday morning. Michael was given sixpence for entry to the cinema and one penny to spend on "something else".

Until a fence was erected, preventing their access, because precious potatoes were grown there, during the second part of the war, the boys used to go over the fields to Carlisle Bridge. After the planting of the seed potatoes, they had to walk the extra distance down Scale Hall Lane and along Morecambe Road. They practised throwing and catching an old tennis ball to each other as they went.

The crossing of Carlisle Bridge did not fill Michael with terror any more although he was still not over-keen on the shaking and rattling of the structure, whenever a train went over at the same time as themselves.

When they reached the other side, Michael pointed to the factory buldings to the right. Their fronts had been painted, covered all over, with white and grey shapes.

"Why have they done that?"
Paul said he knew. "It's camouflage."
"It's what?"
"The shapes are meant to look like clouds. Any enemy planes are supposed to mistake the buildings for clouds. My dad told me."
"That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard," said Rob.

To their left, just along the quay from the bridge, was a shop. This was where Michael often spent his spare penny. The owner boiled a brand of black peas and sold pennyworths, contained in cones of rolled-up paper. The peas were all mushy.

"Good for making you fart," said Rob.

Sweets were unobtainable, without coupons, which could be exchanged for only two ounces a week. These peas were some kind of substitute for the boys who were all of the age when food was the most important thing in life. They tasted horrible but none of them admitted it.

They stood by the Old Custom House for a while, watching some Sea Scouts who were pulling their boat out from the basement. Double doors, level with the quay, were swung open, the boat extracted and wheeled on a trolley across the road and lowered into the water. It was the same spot where Gordon had landed, after being rowed through the snowstorm, from near the Golden Ball.

They meandered across town, to King Street, looking in some shops that still had toys in the windows. There was already a long queue of kids, the majority boys, when they arrived at the Odeon. They were an unruly lot, shouting and squabbling amongst themselves and screaming insults at new arrivals. Chants expressing hatred were directed at rival gangs from school.

Michael sometimes saw the bullies there, the ones from St Mary's. He wasn't worried about them anymore because he had his own gang now. Rob was their leader and they were a match for any other bunch. All the other groups were labelled 'softies' by Rob. The friends were a force to be reckoned with. None of the other gangs went out of their way to upset Rob's young lads.

There was often pandemonium outside the cinema. An aged rheumatic, wearing what looked like the cap and uniform of a pensioned-off courtier from an Ivor Novello musical, tried to keep order. If he had had any hair to tear out, the pavement would have been covered with it.

When it was time to open the double doors, leading into the cinema foyer, the ancient commissionaire's attempts to stem the rising tide of tumultuous childhood were swept aside. There was a push and a rush of bodies through the doors. Soon, there was a clamourous horde around the ticket kiosk, a clutch of pushers and shovers, screaming girls and combative mini-thugs, all trying to reach the window where the tickets were sold.

If it was your birthday, and you could prove it, you were allowed upstairs and given a seat on the balcony. This gave you a considerable advantage over those below, because it's a lot easier to spit downwards, rather than upwards! The snag for Michael's lot was they had no wish to be separated from each other when it was their birthday.

Their only safety was in numbers. In isolation, they could be preyed upon by members of other gangs. Consequently, none of them ever went upstairs. Downstairs, they always took care, never to sit in the seats which were immediately below the front row of the balcony. There, you would provide easy targets, for those above, hanging over the rails. They could and did use the unwary for improving the accuracy of their gobbing.

Despite the best efforts of several usherettes there were chaotic scenes until the lights were dimmed and the films started. This was greeted with a great cheer.
Comparative silence descended on the anarchic throng, broken only by the occasional scream from some young girl, who was being nipped by a neighbour.

There were occasional fights in the dark between youthful enemies, who had found themselves situated in adjoining seats. A burly assistant manager, freed temporarily from his office work, would head towards the scene of such disturbances, push along the row, make a rough guess at who was to blame for the disturbance and lift him by the collar. He'd drag him away along the main gangway and throw him out onto the street.This only happened very occasionally. Kids learn fast!

One Saturday morning, just before Christmas, management made a big mistake. It decided to give the children a special treat. Before the films started 'Uncle Dan, The Magic Man' appeared, live, on stage. He had been engaged, to entertain the little dears, with his conjuring tricks.

He nearly caused a riot.

His catastrophic error was to ask for a volunteer, to go up onto the stage. Immediately, about three hundred kids responded to his foolish request. They clambered over seats, rushed down the gangways, fought each other on the side-steps and vaulted onto the stage. Poor Uncle Dan disappeared, as the clamouring throng rushed towards him and surrounded him. If he had been a real magician, he would have done a quick disappearing trick.

The house lights were switched on and the combined efforts of the old commissionaire, usherettes, Assistant Manager, Manager and ticket-lady eventually restored some kind of order. Only four little kids needed first-aid in the foyer. It was a miracle that there were no serious injuries.

"If there's any more trouble, you'll all go home. That's final!" boomed the Assistant Manager from the stage. He glared at the audience. He still stood there, with his arms folded. The lights stayed on for the rest of the live entertainment.

Uncle Dan started doing his magic. He was still shaken and trembling, after the shock of his ordeal, during the kids' invasion. He wasn't much good at conjuring to start with and his shaking made him worse than useless. Most of the kids could see how he "vanished" things, what he had up his sleeve and where he kept the rabbit.

"We can see it!" they shouted.
"I've warned you!" the Assistant Manager bawled back.

There were quiet boos, after his every largely unsuccessful trick. He looked appealingly at the Assistant Manager. They whispered together. Uncle Dan bowed and left the stage. His exit brought forth the loudest cheer heard in Lancaster for years.

Back stage, Uncle Dan said, "I think I'll join the Army. I could be a paratrooper and lead a less stressful life."

Michael thought Saturday morning cinema was brilliant. It was the best adventure of the week. They were always out for fun. Nearly every day they were up to no good. The gang nearly always had something on. Between them, they had endless ideas, for having a good time, which usually involved giving Authority a bad one.

Margaret would have been appalled, if she had seen what went on, during Saturday mornings.

On the way home, Michael didn't go into Woollies with Rob and one of the other lads. There were limits to what he was prepared to do even if it did mean losing face. They two came out of the store looking furtively over their shoulders.

When the group reached the quay, Paul asked them what they'd stolen.

"Not a lot! Some elastic bands and a paint brush."
"Why's that?"
"Joe's sister wasn't serving. She must have had the day off."
Joe's sister, who looked after one of the counters, could usually be relied on to turn a blind eye to their petty pilfering.

Choir practice night was good too. They arrived at St Chad's separately. It was cold in there because the hot pipes round the hall couldn't compensate for the loss of heat through the wooden sides and thin. They kept their coats and scarves on and clustered round the harmonium. Michael enjoyed the singing and the words of some of the hymns.

"And did those feet in ancient time
A message came to a maiden young
All people that on earth do dwell
Gird on thy sword, O man, thy strength endure..."

Afterwards, was best. They messed about for about an hour, before heading for home. They liked knocking on doors and running away. They'd hide in the shadows and watch someone come to their door and then shout at them.

"Close that door! Put out that light! Don't you know there's a war on!"

 One night, Mr Jackson, the ARP Warden, came unexpectedly out of the darkness, grabbed Paul and gave him a clout across his face.

"Bad buggers!" he snarled. "Frightening old folk out of their minds! Get off home with you! Do it again and I'll be round to see your mothers!"
 They dispersed , running like hell for their several homes. Inside, there was usually an interrogation.

"Where do you think you've been?"
"Nowhere!"
"I asked you a sensible question and I want a sensible answer!"
"Choir practice."
"I know you've been to choir practice. Where have you been since?"
"Nowhere!"
"Bed, you! Go on! Straightaway!"
"What about my supper? I'm hungry. Singing makes me hungry."
"One more word from you and I won't be answerable for what I'll do. Move! Bed!"
"I haven't done anything. It's not fair!"

Slowly, reluctantly, with a hang-dog expression on his face, Michael left the room and climbed the stairs slowly. He went into his bedroom. He banged his feet down, heavily, on every step of the stairs.

His mother shouted up after him, "Stop that stamping! You'll wake Gwyn up. She's just gone to sleep."

Margaret's angry voice woke the little girl. "What's up Mam? What's happening?" Her mother had to go upstairs, tuck her in all over again and reassure her that nothing was wrong.

Before he went to sleep, Michael read one of his 'William' books by Richmal Crompton. That fictional hero never seemed to get into trouble for doing nothing. It just wasn't fair what his Mam did to him!

Michael thought Sunday School was all right, but he didn't like it when they split up into classes. Gwyn went with the younger children into the choir's vestry. Michael was with the middle juniors. They moved their chairs into a tight circle, with a spotty-faced youth, Gordon Jenkins, as their teacher.

He was supposed to give them a Bible lesson, but every week his first words were, "Anybody got a good one?" - meaning dirty jokes. Michael never had a good one. He didn't know any.

If and when his pupils had finished telling theirs, Gordon told any new one he'd learned at work. He used a lot of foul language and the content and meaning of the jokes were often a mystery to Michael. They all laughed, dutifully, when Spotty Face delivered his punch line, but quietly, for fear of attracting Authority's attention.

The second part of the lesson, Gordon Jenkins spent telling them about his sexual adventures with the lasses where he worked. Michael suspected that the things he said he'd been up to were wishful thinkings and imaginings. Gordon Jenkins was weird. Gordon Jenkins was boring. Michael did not like him.

After Sunday School, he took Gwyn to see their Nan. Nan used her sweet coupons on their behalf and there was either a two ounces bar of wartime, blended chocolate for them to share or two ounces of boiled sweets or jelly babies. They ate most of them on the way home or on their way to the Matthews. There was a new routine recently established between the friends. One Sunday, the Watson children went to the Matthews for tea and on the alternate Sunday, the Matthews' went to the Watsons, until it was time for church in the evening. With Gwyn in tow, Michael had to behave himself, not that she was a tell-tale. But he felt obliged to be good when she was with him. In contrast, when he was on his own with Rob, he felt a need to be bad.

When the light nights came, and the lads had the chance to play out together, they were sometimes joined by other kids from streets on the Scale Hall Estate.

Between the new fence, blocking off the potato crop, and the field that was left fallow, were the remnants of hedging. Rob's Gang played war games there with any other lads who turned up. Some of them had toy cowboy pistols and blank caps, which fired when you pulled the trigger. Others had rifles, which fired corks. The rest had pretend rifles made out of sticks. Rob had made himself a bow and arrow. Paul had a real soldier's tin helmet. They took turns at wearing it when they went on special 'reconnaissance missions' against the 'enemy', near the far end of the hedge.There were attempts to creep up on the enemy through the long grass. "Got you! You're dead!"

"No, I'm not. I ducked and you missed me," a surprised opponent might retort.

It was Rob, who came up with the idea of making hand-grenades and throwing them, from a safe distance, at the enemy. What you did was, you scrabbled in the soil after a tussock of grass had been pulled up. You tried to press the soil together into a ball. That done, you threw it at the enemy. Unfortunately, the soil was light and dry and the balls usually disintegrated before reaching their target.

"Piss on it!" said Rob. "Like this!"

He urinated onto the shallow hollow in the ground from where some soil had already been removed. Then he clawed at the dampened soil and pressed some between the palms of his hands. He hurled the wet lump in the direction of the other players. It went high into the air and then landed on the enemy's hedging. This fragmented the 'grenade' and the filthy dirt fell onto the boys below.

"Your turn!" said Rob to Paul.
"I'm not putting my hands where you've been pissing!" said Paul.
"I'm not either!" said Michael.
"Well make your own then!"

Paul always did what Rob ordered. But Michael said, "I'm off home. I'm fed up with this game."

Rob looked at him in exasperation. "You're always the same you. You're getting too soft. You're just a bloody spoil-sport!"

"No, I'm not," said Michael meekly.
"You bloody are!" retorted Rob.
Then they had a fight.
"Fight! There's a fight!" shouted Paul.

The enemy came running to watch the two best friends having a real go at each other. Rob had given Michael a bloody nose but Michael hadn't managed to hit Rob at all. He was beginning to wish he'd let his Dad, way back, show him how to box because Rob kept on hitting him and he kept on swinging at Rob and missing.

Michael started to cry.

"He's blubbing," said one of the enemy.
"Cry baby!" said another.
Rob stopped hitting Michael and said, "Shut it, you two!"
"Who's going to stop me?" asked one of the enemy.
"I bloody am!" said Rob, wading into him.

Then they all started fighting, punching and wrestling on the ground. Michael preferred the wrestling to the punching, especially as the boy he was wrestling with was a bit smaller than him.

"Michael!" came his mother's voice from his house about seventy yards away.
"Michael! Bedtime!"

The fighting stopped. Nobody wanted Authority to see what they were doing. Michael trudged home, wiping his bleeding nose on his sleeve. He could not make up his mind which was worse, the blows he'd suffered, or falling-out with Rob.

"What have you been doing now? Just look at the state you're in! Upstairs! Wash! And straight to bed!"

Gwyn was becoming quite used to being the second of the two of them to go to bed despite being the younger!

Michael enjoyed being a Wolf Cub for several reasons.There was a fat, friendly, whiskery cub-mistress and her two assistants, who were in charge of the St Chad's Pack. You had to learn cub's honour, fiddle with knots and chant peculiar choruses. There were relay games, between each of five teams. The leader of each team was called a sixer. They played the game British Bulldog and were taught about the superior habits of the British, compared with those of foreigners, although Australians, Canadians and New Zealanders were deemed to be almost human.

"They're like us really," said Paul.
"Sounds like you've let him join the equivalent of the Hitler Youth," Jack Matthews told his wife, half-meaning it.
"Don't be ridiculous!" replied Sheila. "Anyway, what do you care? I have the deciding of what they do, don't I?"

What Rob liked best, was when Akela and her assistants took them on Nature Walks. They were supposed to search for bits of bark and certain flowers, find tracks and traces of animals and so on. "There's plenty of sheep shit but not much else?" said Rob to Michael, as they tramped over fields and went through some woods.

The real aim of these outings, according to Rob, was to have a glimpse of, and thus determine the colour of, the two young assistants' knickers. The consensus of opinion, at the end of the afternoon, which was spent scrambling through prickly hedges, climbing over farmers' gates and being chased by a bull was that Miss Jones's were blue, with elastic round the legs, and Miss Smith's were pink and silky.

"Did you have a nice walk? Did you behave yourself ?" asked Margaret when Michael arrived home.

"Yes Mam! What's for tea?"
"I sometimes think that's all that's in your head. Food! Food! Food!"

It was true. There never seemed to be enough to eat. He was always hungry. It wasn't war shortages. Margaret saw to it that her children were always well-fed. It was just the normal, insatiable appetite of a nine year old boy.

Sometimes, the curate from St Chad's visited Margaret. It was a chance, not so much for confession, but for a heart-to-heart talk about problems arising from husband and wife being separated by the war. It was he, who had been partly responsible for Margaret's and Gordon's reconciliation, and her decision to try and let the past lie down and be forgotten.

One Tuesday afternoon, in the middle of a heat wave, he called at the Watsons. Margaret made him a cup of tea."Was young Michael ill on Sunday? We missed his and his friend's voice in the choir."

"Why, no!" replied Margaret. "He left home about six, on his bike, in plenty of time for evensong."
"Oh dear," said the curate, "I seem to have put my foot in it. Do you want me to have a word with him?"

"No thank you! I'll sort the matter," replied Margaret grimly.

About an hour later, Michael and Gwyn came in from school. They were old enough to go on their own now. Michael ate his tea and told her a bit about what he'd been doing at school.

"I did some proper skipping at playtime Mam," Gwyn added.
"That was good, love," Margaret said.

She turned to Michael again,"By the way, were there many at church on Sunday?"
Michael nearly choked on the last of the cake which he was eating, then replied, "About the usual!"
"How do you know?"
"Because I do. There were about four rows altogether."
"I see."
"Can I go out to play now?"
"No!"
"Why not?"
"I want to ask you a bit more. Was Rob there?"
"I suppose so."
"Oh, I heard he was with you."
"What do you mean?
"I mean he was with you wherever you were. It wasn't church. Where was it?"

Michael realised the game was up so he decided to tell the truth. "It was a nice evening. We went to Hest Bank for a bike ride."

He started to cry. He was not sorry for what he had done wrong. He was sorry to have been found out. She was angry but felt sorry for him too. That Rob was a bad influence. Always up to no good! He was leading her son into bad ways.

"I suppose that was another of your darling Rob's ideas!"

Michael said nothing. In fact, it had been his idea and Rob had taken a bit of persuading. His silence confirmed Margaret's suspicions. "I'll be having a word with Rob's mother. You two are bad for each other. You'll be seeing less of him in future. And now! Upstairs, into your room! You can stay there until bedtime."

It was double British summertime. It was hot in his bedroom. He could hear the birds singing in the woods. He could hear some of the lads shouting on the field nearby. He could hear the murmuring of his sister's and mother's voices down below.

Freedom called! But he was trapped, imprisoned, alone indoors. The call of the wild had to be ignored. For once, he accepted that it was all his own fault. He hoped that his silence, when he'd been questioned by his Mam, would not get Rob into trouble. Rob would think him a traitor.

Mam did not relent. He heard Gwyn going to bed. It was still daylight. The bright evening seemed endless. Then, at long last, dusk slowly came. The birds stopped singing. The boys had all gone home from the field. His mother still did not call him down. The world seemed like a very lonely place.

Finally, he fell asleep on top of the bedclothes as darkness descended. He still had his short-sleeved shirt and his trousers on.

When Margaret went up, she looked in on him. From the light on the landing, she could see him stretched out on the bed. A picture of innocence! How she loved him! She gently shook him awake, helped him into his pyjamas and tucked him up in bed.

"Are you sorry Michael?"
"Yes Mam! I'm sorry."
He started to cry again.
"And Mam, it wasn't Rob's idea. It was mine."
She stroked his head.
"I'm glad you've told me that son. You should never let your friends down. Have you said your prayers?"
"No, Mam."
"Well do so. Then go to sleep. We'll say no more about it."
"Right Mam. I'm sorry."

This time he meant it. He really was sorry for what he'd done. He was glad his Mam had come to see him before she went to bed. He felt a lot better for that.

She left his bedroom door open and went to her bed. It was one of the many times she wished Gordon was at home, to help her with the children. She knew that Michael had reached the age when he respected his Dad more than her.

Before Michael went to sleep his spirits revived again. Something in him rejoiced. He thought it had been worth getting into trouble. The joy of a stolen pleasure! The joy of freedom and breaking the rules of Authority! The comradeship with Rob!

"I'm no 'softy'!" he thought, contentedly.

The curate was a good sort. He occasionally took the boys, from the choir, on Adventure Walks. "Saturday afternoon, half-past two! Meet me at Oxcliffe Corner, on the grass, in front of the shops. We'll go and explore White Lund."

Back in 1917, there had been a munitions factory there. Hundreds of people were employed. There was a massive explosion. Several fire-brigades from the region were employed for days at the incident. The residents of Lancaster sought refuge from danger as far afield as Littledale. Some workers survived by swimming across the Lune to escape death. Hardly a pane of glass was left intact in Lancaster. Shells landed all over the place and some exploded creating damage and terror in the neighbourhood. The precise number of deaths at the factory was never established.

"I wonder if we'll find any bodies," wondered Paul.
"Don't be stupid. They'll all have rotted by now," sneered Rob.
"We might find some bones though. Maybe a skeleton or two," said Michael, optimistically.

Led by the curate, the boys walked over Cross Hill, past Thompson's Farm, which was right on the top, opposite the Congregationalist Church. In the autumn, Mrs Thompson used to put out a box of scabby apples by the road entrance to the farm. You could take your pick for a half-penny. They were sour but what a rare treat! "Wrong time of year for any apples," said Michael. The boys went down the hill, past the garden nurseries and then another farm on their left.

Michael remembered taking a can and going for milk there, straight from the cow. That was when James and Beatrice lived at Torrisholme. In Torrisholme Square, he noted the Club where James and his Dad went for a couple of drinks before lunch on some Sundays. It made him feel sad seeing those places.

They passed the George Hotel and Shaw's the bakery, where you could buy hot cross buns on Good Friday, even though it was wartime. It was a long walk but his Mam used to send him there for some. It was worth it because they were a real treat! Gwyn loved their taste. The last time Michael and Margaret had had a real row about him going there. "It's too far to go," Michael protested, "just for a measly bun!" His mother's view prevailed and secretly he was glad. The buns were delicious. He'd only been his awkward self with her. "Trying to cut off your nose to spite your face!" is what his Dad would have called it.

They passed the playground near Torrisholme Church. The playground had swings and a roundabout, just like the ones opposite where he used to live in Edward Street. That made him think of Aunt Elsie. He wondered if Joan ever thought about him.

They circumnavigated White Lund traffic island and went onto the site of the old factory. "You can see the back of it from Snatchems," said Paul. "My dad pointed it out to me one day, when we went fishing near the Golden Ball."

"You think your dad knows everything!" Rob sneered. He was really good at sneering, Michael thought. "He'll be the world champion at sneering soon!" He and Rob were good friends again but the falling-out and the fight had not faded entirely from Michael's memory. He saw more of the bad side of Rob now compared with how it used to be.

Some of the buildings were still partly ruined, others had been repaired and were being used by small businesses. There was still plenty of dereliction to explore.

Mr Bell sat down on top of an old oil drum. "I'll stay here. You can all go off on your own now. But no climbing! No doing anything stupid. Be back here in half an hour!"

Michael, Rob and Paul decided to stick together.They started collecting shrapnel. They viewed blackened bits of bricks. They imagined the explosion and the fires that had caused them to be like that.

They wandered into what was left of a huge building, with only parts of walls and the rusted iron frame of the roof. It was eerie in there. If you shouted, there was an echo. They all tried it in turn. When they stopped, the silence seemed profound.

"I'll bet there are ghosts. I wonder if we'll see one?"
"Shut up you, can't you?" whispered Paul. "It's scary enough without you making it worse."

It was Michael who noticed the manhole cover.

"Let's lift it!" ordered Rob.

It was stuck down fast. They scraped dirt away from the edges, put a length of rope under the handle and all three pulled. It moved and they shifted it to one side. They peered down into darkness. There was a vertical ladder. They could not see how far down it went.
"Go on Paul! Have a go down there! You've a torch."

Obediently, Paul carefully lowered himself over the edge and onto the ladder. The others peered down, as he disappeared from sight.

"It's thirty rungs down," he called up from the bottom. "I counted them."
"Let's give him a fright," said Rob. He pushed the cover back into position over the hole.

Michael said, "That's a dirty trick..."

Rob smiled, "He'll be all right. He has a torch hasn't he?"
"Come on! Be fair! Let's let him out again."

Rob agreed and they tried to lift the cover but it was stuck again. They tried for a couple of minutes but it would not budge.

It was then that they heard it. At first, it was a quiet wailing sound. Slowly, it increased in volume and began to echo back from the walls. It seemed to be coming from the far end of the building.

Both boys looked uneasy. They stopped trying to lift the cover, wondering what was going to happen next.

"I am the ghost of White Lund!" the voice wailed.

Then, Paul's head popped up out of the ground some distance from them and shouted at them, "And I'm coming to get you!"

It was him having them on. When they'd shut him in, he'd seen daylight pouring down from a coverless manhole at the far end of the underground chamber and he decided to have his own back on his friends.

Rob didn't like it. He always wanted to be the winner. Michael ran and helped Paul out of the hole from which he was emerging.

"That was a good one wasn't it lads?" said Paul.
"Smart arse! Didn't scare me! I knew it was you all the time," replied Rob

Margaret wrote to Gordon and told him that Michael was doing all sorts of interesting things in his spare time. The curate had told her that he had a lovely singing voice, he'd been made a sixer at cubs and he had lots of nice friends to play with from the new estate.

"Everybody speaks well of him," she concluded in her letter. "You can feel really proud about the way he's growing up."

Chapter 67: Nan Stirs The Pot

Within the Lancaster and Morecambe boundaries are a string of former villages: Scotforth, Greaves, Bowerham, Lancaster, Skerton, Ryelands, Scale Hall, Torrisholme, Bare, Poulton, Lower Heysham and Higher Heysham.The list is not a complete one, as It does not include ribbon developments and some new estates.

The total population was under a hundred thousand. Each area had its own distinctive character. The place was large enough for wrong-doers to think that they were safe in their deceptions. They might believe that straying from conventionally good behaviour would go unnoticed. It was very foolish of them to think so. Lancaster, Morecambe and Heysham did not offer the anonymity of a London Borough. No, they retained village status and gossip ghettoes.

Nan Watson had a finely attuned ear. She had her personal contacts in many streets. She had lots of time every day and plenty of opportunity to keep herself well-informed about all sorts of goings-on. Like many with time on their hands, being in the know was her chief interest in life.

Vital to her lines of communication was her old neighbour, from Marton Street. She lived just a few doors away from her, on Hareruns.

This elderly lady bore a striking resemblance to Norman Evans, the music-hall comedian with a broad Northern accent. She wore a long black frock, a flowery pinafore and always had her grey hair in curlers. Her false teeth had been hand-ons from a dead relative and were very loose in her mouth. When her tongue wagged, and her jaw went up-and-down faster and faster, it was a miracle that she did not spit the teeth out, along with the copious amount of spittle with which she sprinkled whoever she was talking to.

Michael called her Mrs Eease-and-Oose.

If she was in Nan's, having a cup of tea, and bringing Nan up-to-date with all of her latest tit-bits of news, she would greet the Watson children enthusiastically.

"Eeee! Just look at you. Aren't you getting to be a big lad! Oooo! And look at your Gwyn. Eeee! What a bonny lass isn't she?

Oooo! I'd never have thought it! Eeee! Thou was such a tiny little scrap of a thing. Oooo! Eeee! Let me see!"

She'd rummage in her apron pocket and find her purse. She'd extract a penny for each of the children.

"Eeee! Oooo! I am pleased to have seen you. Tell your Mam I said she's doing a good job with you two."

With that she was off, leaving the children, alone with Nan.

Nan was waiting for Gordon's next leave. From what her neighbour had told her, about Margaret, it was time her son was told what was going on. He needed to straighten his wife out.

Gordon had seven days, at home, in March. He went to see his mother, when the children were at school. He was going to meet them at the school gate, on his way back. Arriving at his mother's, he'd failed to lower the number of his strides compared with the last time. Mission failed! So that was the end of the game! He'd lost again. Acquaintances and strangers would no longer be staring at him as he leaped on his way past them.

His mother was pleased to see him but he was not pleased to hear what she had to tell him. "She's neglecting those kiddies!" she said. "Galivanting about all the time!"

"Don't be silly mother. The children are fine."

"Well that's as maybe. But young Michael's a lot quieter than he used to be. He's too moody. It's not natural. Not at his age. It seems to me he's something on his mind. It's right what I said. Your wife's out and about too much for a married women. Especially one with kids!"

"But mother, she has to work, to make ends meet. If it's anybody's fault it's mine. My Forces' pay isn't enough to put food on the table."

"There's work and work!"

"What do you mean?"

"Why does she have to work in a pub? She's the one who was always going on about being respectable. There's plenty of other jobs going."

"There's no harm in it. It's only part time and during the day."

"Not what I've heard!"

"It is. And it's at Joyce's. Joyce is her old friend. It's a good place to be. Joyce will see she's all right won't she? She has a free lunch too. That helps eke out the rations. She's treated well there."

"Too well!" his mother snorted. "From what I've heard. And as for that Joyce, we all know what she is!"

"I don't want to hear any gossip, mother. Typical Lancaster back-biting, I expect. There are too many women round here with nothing better to do. Always been the same! Gossiping on the Market, on the doorsteps, in-and-out of each other's houses! Pity they haven't better things to do. They love pulling people to pieces."

Nan could see she was getting nowhere with him. So she let the topic go. They chatted for a while longer about Frank, about the war and about old friends. It was nearly time for school to be out.

"I must be going," he said. "I'll be round to see you again, on Sunday, with the children."

"Aye," she replied. "Off you go then! Mind you look after yourself son!"

"Don't worry about me," he responded, "I'm all right. I'm over twenty-one."

Mrs Ease-and-Oose, watching from behind her lace curtains, saw Gordon's departure. She waited until he'd turned the corner, into Edenvale Crescent, and then went to see Nan.

"Eeee, Missus! I bet you gave him a shock," she said.

"He didn't want to listen," replied Nan.

"Ooo!" said her neighbour, "You should have made him listen. Somebody'll have to."

"It may be all rumours."

"Ooo, no! I don't think so. Our Enid was very definite, when she told me. She was there at the wedding. She could see what was going on with her and that young Airman. Just you mark my words. It's all true. Ooo, yes!"

After the children had gone to bed, Gordon decided to quiz his wife. Her response gave him a nasty shock. "Well, what if I have been enjoying myself? I need some fun as well as you! Yes, I have had a few dances with blokes. And I've loads of admirers, when I'm behind the bar.

"So what!" she continued. "What have you been up to? You did plenty when you were at home, never mind now you're away. All your nonsense about having to do your bit for the country! I expect you'll be doing plenty of bits, now you're out of my sight for weeks on end!

"I've a good idea what Active Service will mean to you. Can't get enough, I expect. No wonder you're on the twitch!"

Michael was upstairs and awake in his bed. The door was always left open. He could hear his mother's raised voice but he could not hear much of what his Dad was saying.

Gordon felt aggrieved. What she was implying, had absolutely no truth in it. He hardly ever left his RAF Station, except to come home on leave, whenever he had the chance and a free railway warrant. The aerodrome was miles away from the main road to Lancaster but if he had a day off, and no warrant, he would try for a lift from one of the transport lads as far as the A6. From there, he'd hitch his way home and back, risking being late and being put on a charge.

All he wanted, was to finish his bombing missions, be at home as often as possible with his kids, and feel better in himself. If only the bloody war would end and he could put everything in his life back to normal!

He knew that it was no good, protesting his innocence and telling Margaret he was leading a blameless life. For once, he decided to go on the attack.

"Look you!" he shouted, taking her aback. "I'm sick and fed up being a mere lamb and being strung up as a sheep. You think you're having a hard time. Well so am I. And you are making things a damn sight harder for me.

"When's it going to stop? If it doesn't stop soon, we may as well have a divorce!"

Divorce! The unthinkable word, thought Margaret. What was left of her respectability would be out of the window!

The only thing for it was to play the role of the poor, weak, litttle woman! Use the last resort, the final female defence.

She started to cry.

"You're horrible," she wept. "You've always been horrible to me. You and your unions and politics. You and your clever friends. You and your Halton woman!"

"What about you and your carrying-on at Joyce's? Probably a damn sight worse than anything I've done!"

Just then, Michael appeared in the room. He could not understand why they were quarrelling. He looked at their angry faces, contorted with hate.

"What time is it Mam? he asked. "I can't get to sleep. Can I go into your bed?"

Margaret went quiet, dreaded what Michael might say next. He might remember and tell Gordon about the last time he'd sought comfort in her bed.

It was Gordon who spoke, quickly regaining his composure and remembering, "Never row in front of the children!"

"Hello Sleepyhead," he said to Mchael. "Come on, I'll take you upstairs and read you a story."

Michael nodded his head in agreement. "Yes Dad, please! Will you piggy-back me upstairs?"

Gordon bent down. Michael climbed onto his back and placed his arms around his neck.

"Off we go then, Up the dancers! Say goodnight to your Mam!"

"I don't want to."

"Never mind! Off we go!"

He took Michael into his bedroom and tucked him in. He went over to the bookshelf, the one he'd made for Michael.

"What shall we have then, "King Arthur and His Knights"?

"I'd rather have a Biggles' story."

"Right then, Biggles it will be!"

Gordon sat on the bed, and opened the book, ready to start reading. But Michael spoke to him before he began, "Dad, why do grown-ups like sleeping with each other?"

Gordon thought for a minute then replied, "Because they are married. That's what married couples do."

The answer didn't make any kind of sense to Michael. He didn't say anything else to his Dad. Gordon started the story.

It wasn't long before Michael fell asleep. Gordon kissed his forehead and went back to his wife. Margaret had calmed down and had made up her mind that it was time to try and rebuild bridges.

"You know my job at Joyce's?"

"What about it?" Gordon asked defensively.

"Well, I've been thinking, I'm going to pack it in."

"Oh, why's that?"

"The cleaning's all right, I don't mind that. But I'm not really suited to being behind the bar. I get all confused sometimes when there's a rush on."

"You know what's best. But how will you manage?"

"We could have some lodgers," she suggsted. "Not men on their own! And Mrs Martin and Sheila have both offered to pay me if I help with their cleaning once a week. There's plenty of different work around. I'll only have to look for it. I'd always be there for the children. I don't like relying on friends having to see to them"

"Sounds like a good idea to me. You please yourself. You should know what's best." said Gordon.

What had not been said was best left unspoken. Enough was enough! They'd reached rock-bottom. It was time to decide to give up or make a go of it.

That night, they went to bed together and made love for the first time for ages.

Chapter 66: A Double Wedding

Britain was relieved. Hitler had invaded Russia and Japan had attacked the United States at Pearl Harbour. The enemy had made fatal mistakes. Britain had new, mighty, albeit reluctant allies. The war would definitely be lost by the Nazis.

Joyce had decided to marry Gary. It was going to be a just-after-Christmas wedding.

Tom's girl was from Barrow. As all of his Barrow family had been killed and Jill, his wife-to-be, had a mother living in Morecambe, they decided to have their wedding at Joyce's. It was Joyce who decided that a double-wedding would be a good idea.

Tom's call-up papers had just arrived. After the wedding, there would only be the shortest of honeymoons and he would have to leave for the Army, at Catterick.

Gary could not expect to be stationed in Morecambe much longer. Soon, he would be posted elesewhere. Rumours were rife. One suggested that he might be going to the Far East.

Posters everywhere reminded them:

BE LIKE DAD, KEEP MUM!

KEEP QUIET

YOU DON'T KNOW WHO MAY BE LISTENING

DON'T SPREAD RUMOURS!

CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

Quick registry office marriages were decided on, one immediately following the other, and then back to the pub for a big, big party.

Gordon had a long leave over Christmas and it was quite a happy one. Margaret was more relaxed than she had been for ages. But, she still wanted nothing to do with Gordon in bed.

Christmas presents were not easy to come by. She'd managed to buy some second-hand toys for the children. There were a couple of annuals for them to read, a printed train-spotter's booklet for Michael, with all the L.M.S. numbers in it, a bangle and coloured hairslides for Gwyn.

The Christmas stockings which they found at the end of their beds, on Christmas Morning, were filled with all sorts of special goodies. There was an orange and an apple each, a packet of dates, some chocolate drops, a rubber, a note-pad, six colouring pencils, a pencil-sharpener and a bag of nuts.

The days of his leave passed quickly. Soon Gordon had to go back to his dreaded bombing missions. He was pessimistic about surviving much longer. So many others he had known had aleady died! He'd enjoyed his leave but his mental state had not improved. Something else that occurred did not help his state of mind.

One day, quite by chance, he met red-headed Beth again.

When his leave began, the children had two days left at school, before their holidays. He walked with them there in the mornings.On his first day, as they arrived at the main gate, Beth dismounted from her cycle, and began to push it down the drive, past the caretaker's house, to the school building.

Gordon could hardly believe he was seeing her. "What's that lady with the red hair doing here?" he asked the children.

That's my teacher, Miss Farrell," Michael responded proudly. "Like I've told you, she's super!" Gordon had never twigged that it was beth who was teaching his son.

Upset by the sighting of her, Gordon found a pretext to take the children earlier than usual, the next morning. He saw them safely down the school drive. They waved goodbye to him and he waved back. Then he walked in the opposite direction from home. He went towards Jack Matthews's house. His intention was to meet Beth, as she cycled along Torrisholme Road. He walked swiftly towards the railway bridge.

He waved as she came towards him. She slowed down but did not recognise him at first, in his uniform and forage cap. When she did, she dismounted and it was, "Why Gordon! What a lovely surprise. What are you doing here?"

"I've just seen my kids Michael and Gwyn into school. Michael, Michael Watson, he's in your class."

She was surprised. "No! Why it never occurred to me, he was yours."

"Well, it wouldn't would it? We never knew each other's surnames did we!"

Her laughter gushed out. "Well I never!" she said.

"That's what my Michael's always saying, ‘Well I never'. You must have caught it off him."

She glanced at her watch. "I'll have to go, Gordon. I mustn't be late. You know how it is. Time waits for no man. Or woman."

She held out her gloved hand and they shook hands. He held on to hers, as long as he dared, letting her know how it was with him."You look just the same," he said.

It was no good. Gordon got nowhere with her. "I'm sorry, but I feel just the same too! Bye Gordon." She took her hand away. She smiled. And cycled away from him. He'd got the message.

For him, it had been a brief but heart-rending encounter. "Daft as a brush that's what I am," he thought. "Daft as a bloody brush." He began counting and calculating how many chimney pots there were between the school and his home.

The day he went back off leave was very cold but Margaret insisted they would see him off. It was freezing waiting for the bus. Gordon felt melancholic leaving the family. He stamped his feet and blew some warm breath onto his cold fingers.

"Might as well have walked. Wouldn't be so cold walking as standing here. Do it quicker than the bus and save the fare!" he thought. He didn't say anything.

The station platform was a draughty place to be. But the train was on time. Gwyn cried when he climbed aboard the train. "Look after your Mam and Gwyn," he said when he hugged Michael. "Remember you're the man of the house. I'm relying on you." He always said that to Michael. Michael thought that his Dad looked very sad, even more than usual.

Michael felt like crying too. But people kept telling him, ‘Big boys don't cry!' Seeing an express train thundering through the station on the main line was exciting and took his mind of his father's impending departure. But not for long. He wished the family could be together again. Why were there so many disruptions in his life?

The double-wedding was a cheerful occasion. Everything went well. But a wartime wedding had a special poignancy. There was more hope than expectation for a happy future. There was the bitter sweet taste of union and parting. It wasn't so much, love you for ever and a day, as love you for a day and maybe for ever.

The reception was a huge success. There were over a hundred people there. Lots of Michael's aunts, uncles and cousins attended. Tom's Jill did not have many relations and friends but Joyce had loads, including some of her best customers.

Gary had nobody there. Weeks before, he'd written to his parents and told them about the wonderful woman he had met, and that he was going to marry her. He'd told them that she owned a pub and that she was a bit older than him. He had enclosed a photograph of Joyce. It was a snap which one of the lads had taken of her, in her Marlene Dietrich pose.Mr and Mrs Smythe of Cheyne Walk, Chelsea were not impressed.

Mr Smythe visited Morecambe one Saturday. He came by train to Morecambe Promenade Station. He and Gary had a meagre, tasteless meal, the kind available during wartime, in a British Restaurant. Then Gary took his father to the pub, to meet his bride to be. Mr Smythe was polite to Joyce. He quite liked her. She reminded him of his blonde mistress, the one before the one he had now, who was a brunette.

"Definitely not good enough for you!" he told Gary. "Are you mad? What are you thinking about? Women like her are two a penny!"

Gary had been a docile son. Dad had always known best. Mr Smythe could not believe it when Gary gave him a real mouthful.

"Dad, you are a snob! You've always been a snob and you always will be one. I'm marrying her and that's all there is to it. She has more real life in her little finger, than most girls have in the whole of their bodies. Like it or lump it! She's good enough for me and if she's not good enough for you, well hard luck!"

"She's a tart," said Mr Smythe. "I know one when I see one!"

Gordon stormed off without another word.

His father caught the overnight train back to London. Gary's parents, and his other relatives, ignored their invitation to the wedding. One cousin sent a telegram wishing them well.

At the reception, the duo who played on Talent Nights provided music. There was Old Tyme and Ballroom Dancing. Everybody, including the kids, joined in the Progressive Barn Dance, the Hokey! Cokey! and the Conga. Michael didn't dance it but he thought the Gay Gordons was the best, with all the marching that went on and the swinging and swirling round of the couples.

Gary's friend, Dennis, danced with his Mam a lot."Why does Dennis keep on dancing with you, Mam?"

"Because I'm your Aunty Joyce's Matron of Honour and Dennis is Gary's Best Man.

"Oh!" said Michael. He didn't understand all the rigmarole attached to weddings but guessed that it was a sensible reason that his Mam had given him.

After the reception ended, Margaret and the children were staying the night. There were plenty of spare rooms because some of the Airmen had taken their leave over New Year, instead of Christmas.

The children had been in bed and fast asleep hours before the evening ended. Margaret had checked them three times and they were fine, all of them well-settled, after their tiring day.

"Room Seven?" Dennis asked, as Margaret headed for the stairs.

She smiled back at him. "Room Seven!"

It was three o'clock, in the middle of the night. Michael had one of his nightmares and needed to needed to be with his mother. As quietly as possible, without putting the light on, and without waking anybody else, he left his bedroom and crept along the corridor to Room Seven.

He opened the door and went in. He did what he used to do when he was little boy. He went over to the bed and eased in beside Margaret. She was fast asleep so he did not disturb her. He was happy to be there alongside her. He nestled up close to her, felt comfortable and dozed off.

He was the first awake in the morning. He was thirsty so he thought he would go for a glass of water. Carefully, he pushed the bedclothes back and put his feet on the floor. He stood up, with warm feet on cold lino. There was light behind the curtains. He wondered what sort of a day it was.

He tip-toed to the window and pulled the curtains apart, about a quarter of an inch. The sun was up. It was a bright day but there was white frost on the roof-tops. He pulled the curtains together again and turned, to go and leave the room.

It was only then that he saw a man's head on the pillow beside his mother's. The man was sleeping on the opposite side, from where he'd been sleeping. He recognised Gary's friend Dennis, the one he'd seen dancing with his mother, at the reception, the evening before. What was he doing in bed with his Mam?

"Mam! Mam!," he cried , shaking her awake. "There's a man in your bed!"

Startled, she awoke suddenly, appreciated the situation and panicked. All she could think of saying was, "Michael go back to your room right away! Gwyn might be worried where you are!"

"But Mam!"

"GO!"

Michael went.

"Where've you been, Michael?" Gwyn asked.

Michael didn't say. He kept it to himself. He buried his face in his pillow. "It's not fair!" he said to himself. "But I won't cry! I won't! Big boys don't cry!"

He didn't know what that man was doing in bed with his mother. But he knew, he'd let his Dad down. "Look after your Mam....You're the man of the house..."

Huh!

Chapter 65: Margaret Does The Dirty

Margaret decided to take a lover.

Well, she didn't exactly decide. It just sort of happened. One thing followed another, inevitably, with the sort of logic that doesn't require pre-consideration. The basic desire, from one bit of flesh to rub up against another bit of flesh, has its own rules.

What Margaret had written.in her letter to Gordon was true. Joyce had been going seriously with young Gary Smythe for a couple of months. She was twenty-nine and he was ten years younger. He was crazy about her and she'd become very fond of him. She enjoyed being something other than a boy friend's bit of fluff on the side, or a holiday-maker's one-week stand.

Gary's was young love. Something inside her was flattered and grateful for that. His freshness and vigour gave her a new lease of life. She was rejuvenated. Her practised smiles and sometimes assumed exuberance became spontaneous again. He was good for her in every way.

And he was worth a few bob!

The Air Force was a great leveller. Public school educated, a place at Cambridge University waiting for him after the war, his father a prosperous lawyer and an officer in the First World War, it was assumed that Gary would be commissioned too. But he hadn't been. The selection board was fickle. He'd stayed in the lower ranks and, surprisingly, he was pleased with life there. He felt more free and happy with his Air Force mates than he had ever been at school. He was not really a studious type and he'd disliked the school's emphasis on performing well at organised games. He'd enjoyed escaping from the constraints and conventions of his middle-class upbringing.

He was a kind young man. Joyce liked that. He was like a half-grown dog, not a puppy, not a lap-dog, but an eager companion glad to follow her lead. They were having a good time together and that was the main thing.

Having a good time was all that mattered! Doing it while you had the chance! Not knowing what might be just round the corner.

It was a Thursday evening in her pub when Gary first encountered Joyce. She was behind the bar during the first part of the evening. Gary was immediately attracted to her. He leaned on the bar and kept on glancing at her. She recognised the symptoms and responded. After she had done her stint announcing the turns and done her own act, she went back to chat with Gary. It was the beginning of their romance.

Before the war, the large lounge in the pub had been used as a restaurant in the summer. It was the venue for a few small works dinner-dances during the off-season. There was room for twenty tables-for-four, a space for dancing and a bar.

Now, it was only used for her Talent Nights and for the occasional self-catering wedding party. Thursday night was Talent Night. Joyce was the star turn. On Thursdays, she gave free drinks to an Airman who played the piano and to another who bashed the drums.

The event attracted some local girls and a few married women whose husbands were away. In addition to the lads who were billeted with her, word had circulated amongst others in the Forces. Word soon got round that Thursday night was a good night-out at Joyce's. Apart from Saturday nights, it was the only time that the pub was really packed. Joyce stayed in for both of those evenings every week. One Thursday, she could find no-one to look after the bar. She begged Margaret to help her out. Margaret did not want to but Joyce was very insistent. "It's only for once. Can't you leave the children with someone?"

Margaret's sister-in-law agreed to have the children. Michael and Gwyn did not mind staying with their Aunty Belle because they would be able to play with Peter and Maud. Aunty Belle's spare bedrooms were accommodating Airmen but the two boys could sleep in one bed and the two girls in another. That came into the category of a good adventure in Michael's book and he looked forward to enjoying himself.

Joyce didn't need her help until seven o'clock so Margaret had plenty of time to sort herself, the cats and the children before going back to Morecambe. She left Michael and Gwyn with her sister-in-law, before heading for Joyce's. "Make sure you behave yourselves! I'll pick you up in the morning."

She left them and walked out into the drizzle which was blowing in from the Bay. It was already quite crowded in the pub. She made sure that she pulled the blackout curtain back across the doorway after she'd entered.

"Wow, am I glad to see you!" said Joyce. "They're coming in early tonight. It must be the rain driving them off the streets."

"Give me five minutes," Margaret pleaded. "I need to tidy myself up a bit. I'm nearly soaked to the skin."

"All right love," said Margaret. "I've put you in Room 7. But do hurry up, please!"

A tight jumper, a short skirt, stockings with a black seam up the back and big earrings was her attire. Bright red lipstick applied lavishly, a pageboy hairstyle patted into place, a touch of mascara and she was ready. She looked at herself in the dressing-table mirror.

"Very sexy I'm sure! I'll have to do!"

She was soon very busy behind the bar helping Joyce who was also serving. Joyce's Gary came in and ordered drinks for himself and a friend. He introduced the friend to Margaret. His name was Dennis. He was in the RAF too - and young like Gary. He was a handsome guy with brown eyes and long eyelashes. He had big hands and long fingers. "Why am I noticing that?" Margaret thought.

The two men did not go and sit down or move away from the bar.

Occasionally, there were brief intervals, between serving customers. Gary spoke with Joyce and Dennis addressed himself to Margaret. "I'm being chatted up," she thought.

It was not the first time, since she'd been working for Joyce, but this time she was enjoying it. Meeting this young chap, who was giving her the eye, was different. It reminded her of the first time she'd met her Gordon at the Winter Gardens' dance. What a lifetime ago that seemed! She gave Dennis the come-on.

At nine o'clock, Joyce stopped serving and went over to the piano. The pianist crashed some discords and everyone quietened down and listened to Joyce. She announced the start of the Talent Competition and then introduced the volunteer acts

Various Airmen, urged on by their mates, went to the piano and sang popular songs, everyone joining in with the choruses:

I'LL NEVER SMILE AGAIN (UNTIL I SMILE AT YOU)

BLESS ‘EM ALL

THE LAST TIME I SAW PARIS

A couple demonstrated their prowess at jitterbugging.

DON'T SIT UNDER THE APPLE TREE

There was a juggler who kept on dropping the ashtrays he was using. There was a corny comedian. The audience booed and hooted as much as they applauded. It was all good-natured fun.

The three judges awarded the jitterbuggers the prize. It should have been a one pound note. Because there were two of them Joyce gave them a pound each.

When the applause had subsided a chant started. The regulars were calling for Joyce. Three lifted her and she sat on the top of the piano. The pianist handed her a top hat, a long cigarette holder and a stick. She crossed her legs, pleasing the lads with an American smile, and did her usual, weekly Marlene Dietrich impersonation.

LILLI MARLENE

She was quite good at imitating a German accent and singing in a sultry voice. Encores were demanded:

YOU DO SOMETHING TO ME

THE BOYS IN THE BACK ROOM

Gary had moved away from the bar to have a good view of Joyce's performance. Dennis stayed where he was. Margaret was not busy during the acts and they spent the time talking very quietly together.

When Joyce had finished, there was a rush for fresh drinks and there was no more time for chatting.

There was no late-night extension. Joyce called time and stopped serving. Although she was entitled to, she had made a rule not to serve the resident Airmen after hours, so the bar emptied quickly. It was a dark night and still raining. The jolly crowd soon dispersed after they left the pub and headed for home in the blackout. They were helped finding their way in the pitch black by electric torches. These had hoods on, to stop them being seen from the air. The street lights were out and the shop windows all dark. Wartime Morecambe was a miserable place at night.

Most of Joyce's Airmen had gone to bed. Joyce was at the far end of the bar washing glasses. Gary was assisting her. Dennis helped Margaret collect from the tables.

"I'm leaving the rest ‘til the morning," Joyce called. "I'm off to bed. I've had enough for tonight."

"How are you getting home? Is there a taxi coming for you?" Dennis asked Margaret.

"No, I'm staying the night here."

"Oh," he said.

"Room Number Seven," she said, looking straight into his eyes.

"Right then!" he raised an eybrow, quizically.

"Right then!" Margaret responded. Then she called out, "Good-night all!" and ran up the stairs.

"Good-night! And thanks!" Joyce shouted after her.

Margaret closed the bedroom door behind her but she did not lock it. She undressed. She had no night-clothes with her so she left her petticoat on but took offer her knickers.

She put out the light and went to bed.

She lay on her back.

She did not try to go to sleep.

She was waiting for something to happen.

It happened!

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.