Chapter 2: An Ordinary Town

The varieties of lechery, murder, violence, child abuse, thieving, racketeering, hypocrisy, double-dealing, deception, profiteering, low wages, long hours, sackings, cheatings, lying, one-upmanship, conniving, corruption and two-facedness which Michael Watson knew and heard about during his Lancaster childhood probably still thrive. The majority of local people still live their ordinary lives, with their usual loving kindness often taken for granted, their good deeds rarely publicised. It's not good news that sells newspapers!

After he'd moved away, in 1951, Michael used to go back home every few weeks. His journey would be by steam train. He’d catch the 6.30 p.m. from London Euston. There would be many Irish passengers, going on to Heysham, to make the overnight crossing to Ireland on the boat the Duke of Lancaster.

His parents would be at Lancaster Castle Station, waiting for his arrival. His father of medium height, a stocky figure, was still dark-haired, bright blue-eyed, peering through the steam from the engine, looking for "Our Michael".

Grabbing his suitcase, after a powerful handshake, it was, "Come on lad, hurry yourself up -- we might catch the last L6 bus!"

The briefest of pecks on his mother's cheek and they were off. Dad handed in their platform tickets and Michael had his return-ticket snipped by the ticket-collector.

Out of the Castle Station entrance, ignoring the taxis, "Too expensive for the likes of us!" he'd stride off up the incline, over the bridge, down the hill, along China Street, down another hill to the bus-station. Just in time to see the red Ribble bus disappearing down Cable Street, past the old baths towards Parliament Street.

"Never mind lad, it's not far to walk!"

Off again along St. George's Quay, up countless steps and over Carlisle Bridge, across Morecambe Road, up the hill, a short-cut past the prefabs and down the top of Sefton Drive, before turning right into their street, next to the Crows Wood.

Michael was just over six feet tall but he could not match his shorter father’s longer stride. His poor mother was soon quite out of breath.

"I don't know what all the hurry is, Gordon. I can’t keep up with you. I'm trying to have a word with our Michael."

Undeterred, Gordon marched ever onwards, still carrying Michael’s heavy case. All Gordon’s life he had had races to be won, self-imposed targets to be achieved. He never had much to show for all of his efforts, except some personal satisfaction. At the end of the day, perhaps that’s all that matters.

"15 minutes! We did it in 15 minutes!" he cried triumphantly, plonking the suitcase down and glancing at his watch, before taking out his front door key and letting them in.

He pushed Michael and his mother ahead up the hall, past the papier mache bowl on a stand, the one Michael had made at junior school.

"We are just as soon as the bus, seeing as how we'd have had to walk from Scale Hall Corner. We’ve lost no time. And we saved on the bus-fares!

"Now come on Margaret, make us a nice cup of tea. Michael will be tired after that long journey!" "Not to mention the long, knackering walk!" thought Michael. But he kept that to himself. It was only too easy for he and his Dad to start arguing about something or, more usually, about nothing!

Many years passed, and Michael prospered. In 1983, it was more than 20 years since he'd been on a train. He had his own car. He decided firmly to go to Lancaster alone. He'd leave the family at home. They lived out in the country but his wife had a vehicle too. She wouldn't be left in lonely isolation.

He needed some time on his own, time to go and find a part of himself all over again. Time to explore the foreign country of his past.

He drove to Lancaster in just over five hours, parked near the railway station and booked into the Castle Hotel, on China Street. It was great to be greeted by the old familiar local accents of the landlady and a chatty customer.

Michael lay awake most of the night, contemplating his first impressions and what they had told him. In some ways the place had been transformed. He recalled how it had been when he'd lived in Lancaster's, Edward Street, in the far away time before the Second World War...

• Information about the history of Lancaster Castle Station from the Lancaster Archaeological and Historical Society

Chapter 1: Michael Watson Looks Back

Michael Watson was aged 50 in 1983. Margaret Thatcher formed her second government that year. Michael’s father died. It was not a good year!

The night that Gordon lay dying in the  Norwich hospital, Michael stayed by his side. It was cancer, after two strokes. A man of physical and mental strength had been struck down suddenly. He was unconscious, unshaven, undone.

It was a very hot night of midsummer. An ineffective electric-fan hummed away in the ward, which was silent, apart from the occasional cough from a nearby bed. Michael sat in his shirt sleeves because of the humidity, staring at his father’s deadly pale face.

The bedclothes were drawn back from his father's hot, sweating body. He lay outstretched, inert, on his back. His night-shirt was up round his waist. His usually flat stomach was horribly swollen. Always a man proud of his appearance, there he was unashamed, not knowing, his flaccid penis docile, lying across his abdomen. For the last two weeks he'd even forgotten how to piss out of it. Once the cause of so much domestic misery, it was, like its owner, now completely clapped out.

It seemed incredible that, aged 79, the old boy had been walking his dog four miles a day only a month before the first stroke had felled him. He had been digging and tending his large garden, painting his house, finding any excuse he could to do additional tasks for Michael and his family.

Just like it had always been -- putting Michael first!

Michael held his father's hand during the hours of darkness, through the dawn and into daylight. Still the old man slumbered on, his breathing irregular, moaning intermittently. The doctor had said Gordon would soon be dead.

"A matter of days at the most, Mrs Watson," he'd told Margaret, his wife. About 5.00am, a nurse appeared and quietly pulled the curtains apart, the ones which were screening Michael and his father from the rest of the ward.

"You look all-in, love. Go down to the kitchen and get some breakfast! I'll sit with your father while you're away."

Reluctantly, Michael agreed. He was feeling very tired and hungry. He followed the signs along the corridors of the quiet hospital and found his way to the kitchen. A chef was just heating the ovens before preparing the patients’ breakfast. He was a friendly bloke in a white coat and hat.

"Been up all night have you? Just hang on a minute, I'll soon fix you something."

He made Gordon a fry-up and chatted away about the Canaries' prospects during the next soccer season. Michael gave some stock responses automatically, his mind back in the ward with his father.

He ate some of the food quickly, thanked the cook and went back to the ward. His father was in the nearest, end bed, next to the doorway, the bed that was always bad news, the one they put you in when you were soon going to be on your way out.

There was a doctor with his father, bending over him, behind the screen of curtains which surrounded the bed. The nurse was waiting to speak to Michael. ‘It's all right,’ Michael told himself. ’He's just checking in on him,’ he thought, knowing the reality already.

"I'm so sorry," the nurse whispered, her face blanching as Michael stood, staring down at his father from the foot of the bed. Somewhere in the ward, a phone started to ring. "I'm afraid you’ve missed him. He’s gone, went suddenly, just after you left." She touched his arm, a gesture of comfort. Michael didn't feel it.

Michael was completely gutted. Hadn’t it always been like that? Michael never there when he should have been! The old man had always been looking out for Michael. Always wanted the best for him. Thousands of good deeds, personal sacrifices, forgivings, a lifetime of giving and no taking. What, Michael pondered, had he ever done in return?

The only time he'd asked Michael to do anything substantial for him was when he'd begged to be taken home recently from the hospital. Michael felt he'd failed him, like always. It was no good telling himself that it was impossible to give him what he desired: the family could no longer lift him, nurse him, could not look after him. Hospital had been the only option.

Soon, Michael's wife and mother arrived. After days and nights of vigil over Gordon, they'd gone home for a sleep. They too had missed Gordon's ending. Not been there to help him through his last short agony.

"It was very peaceful at the end," offered the nurse who had been with him.

Before the family left the hospital, someone took the ring off his father's finger and gave it to Margaret. Margaret, quietly weeping, passed it silently on to Michael. Michael slipped it over one of his own fingers. It was the same ring that Gordon had had left to him by Henry, Michael’s Granddad back in 1938... It was a funny feeling, suddenly realising he was now the oldest male, the so-called head of the family!

The depth and length of his bereavement shook Michael. He could not get the past out of his mind. The good times and the bad. All of the colourful characters in his Lancaster childhood, a childhood where his father had been his king. He recalled mini family triumphs and joys -- and the terrible tragedies.

He grieved for many days and nights. He became depressed. He started picking at spots on the back of his hands and forearms, creating bloody patches. He lost weight. He developed a twitching tick in his left cheek. He was becoming a nervous wreck.

His wife was sympathetic but could not comprehend it.

"You weren’t that close," she said.

"Weren't we?" he responded gloomily, "That's what you think! Just because we never made much of a fuss."

"I think it's the male menopause," she replied.

He carried on brooding, thinking back to what had been and what might have been.

Finally, he decided to go back to Lancaster, to visit the places of his childhood. It might help. See if there was anyone still there whom he knew. Take a few photographs. Maybe write a bit down. His father had been a good man, always putting himself second to the needs of others. Nobody spectacular, just a sort of unsung, town Hampden.

The funeral was in Norfolk, where Gordon had chosen to live during the last 10 years of his life. He'd retired there to be near his son and grandchildren. It was a long way from his native Lancaster. There were not many people at the funeral. The memorial service seemed feeble, inadequate, not enough to celebrate his father's life. The priest had never known him. Something was lacking. Perhaps they should have had a Humanist’s funeral.

There and then, Michael decided he wanted his kids to know what their grandfather had been like when he was young. He wanted him to be remembered. He hoped they would be like their granddad when they grew up. Better than his own inferior self, who was nothing like so good a role model for them as his father had been for him.