Chapter Nine: Friendship

Friendship

Gordon had three aunts living in Edward Street and half a dozen second-cousins. Margaret had a sister, with her three youngsters, in Lodge Street, not far away. But none of their immediate neighbours were young. This was more of a problem for Margaret than Gordon who had his mates at work.

Margaret came from a very large family and had been used to a noisy house filled with her brothers and sisters. Now, she felt isolated from them and quite lonely. She had plenty to do, looking after the house and the two children, but missed compatible adult company during the day. There were plenty of kids at the far end of the street but most of them looked a bit rough to her. Anyway, Michael was still too young to be allowed to play outside.

One June afternoon, Baby Gwyn was very fractious. Michael's noisy, pretend games were getting on Margaret's nerves. If she put the pram outside in the yard, Next-door would complain about the baby's wailing and Margaret's neglect. She could not put the pram out the front because the pavement was narrow and people would not be able to get past easily.

She was fed up -- stuck inside, with nothing much to do and no one to talk with.
She'd finished her work for the day. She went upstairs and changed into a light, print frock and took her stockings off. Her legs were mottled with scorch marks because she spent so much time sitting close to the fire.

The night before, Gordon had said to her, "For heaven's sake Margaret, do you have to sit in front of the fire, like that? It's summer isn't it? You can't be feeling cold."
But she always did feel cold in the damp house. It was chilly away from the fire. She was only really warm when she was working.

"Well," she thought, "perhaps fresh air will do them good. A bit of sunburn and the brown scorch marks might start to blend with the rest of my skin."

She dressed Michael in a pair of shorts and put his jersey in the pram, in case it turned cold. Under his jersey, she placed her purse. Gwyn was still crying as she laid her in the pram.
Margaret hoped that she would go off to sleep as they walked.

"It'll be nice in the park. I've some stale bread. We'll feed the ducks on the pond." Michael hoped the taking of her purse with them meant she was going to buy some ice-cream or pop when they got there.

They'd only gone as far as the corner of the street when they met one of the great-aunts, who had been up-town shopping. Michael was fed-up because they stopped while she made a fuss of Gwyn. Ignored, he stood there like a prune, all fidgetty, but he daren't protest or misbehave or draw attention to himself, in case his mother decided to take him back home, to sort him out. So he decided to endure Eva's and Margaret's chat without making a commotion.

"Eee! Margaret, isn't she coming on well. Ooo! She looks s right little picture!"

Gwyn stopped crying, and gurgled, when the great-aunt bent over the pram and tickled her. The fussing went on-and-on but at last, Eva went on her way home and they were released to continue their walk.

"Blooming baby!" thought Michael, "Always spoiling things!"

It was really hard going, pushing the pram up Moor Lane, underneath the mill's gantry, over the canal bridge, along St. Peter's Road. It was even steeper and harder going up East Road, past the Grammar School and on, ever higher, past the old Workhouse and school playing-fields, until they finally arrived at an entrance to Williamson's Park.

"I was a good help, wasn't I Mam?" asked Michael, referring to his pushing on the handle of the pram part of the way there.

"Yes, love, you were," his mother responded, wiping the sweat from her forehead. They sat and rested for a few minutes on a seat next to the gatehouse. Gwyn was fast asleep.

"Can I go exploring?" asked Michael, still bursting with energy, although his legs had ached a bit during the climb.

"Yes, but don't go far, I don't want you to be lost."

It was a marvellous park, one of the lino kings' , the Williamsons', many gifts to their home town which, the cynical said, had helped buy the younger one a peerage from his friend, Prime Minister Lloyd George.

The Park was laid out on the instructions of James Williamson (senior), on the site of an old quarry. Local legend had it, that it was done with the cheap labour of his own employees. They'd toiled for a few pence an hour, men laid off from his linoleum works, when trade was slack. It was his son who had carried out major improvements and made it a fine attraction.

James Williamson (junior) was said, at one time, to be the richest man in the world. No-one, well hardly anyone, could argue that at least part of his fortune, earned off the backs of his neighbours, had been spent wisely and for the benefit of Lancaster.

There were varieties of evergreen and deciduous shrubs and trees spread over many acres, on many levels. There was also an incredible monument, to the memory of one of his wives, on high ground reaching up to the sky. Its proportions were monstrous, its architecture bizarre, a sort of St. Paul's Cathedral dome with a Taj Mahal influence. The locals called it disparagingly, 'T'structure'.

There was a long, shallow pool with a fountain and a lovely foot- bridge. There was a huge palm house, an observatory, an interesting temple-folly, a bandstand for Sunday afternoon concerts and paths which wound up and down and round all of the Park.
There were lovely views over Lancaster and far beyond, to the new ever-extending suburban estates You could see all of the way to Morecambe, across the Bay to the hazy Pennines. From the top of the structure, you could, on a clear day, discern the Isle of Man and Blackpool Tower.

Disgruntled by his unpopularity in his home town, James Williamson left Lancaster in 1911 and moved to a new home at Lytham St Anne's. If he ever visited the Park, and climbed to the top of his wife's memorial, he must have felt that much of it was his kingdom that he saw below him and stretched away to the horizon.

There were benches to sit on, lawns, grass to lie on, semi-wild places and hidden groves favoured by courting couples.

There was also a place, beneath the monument and near the bandstand, where they sold refreshments.

After Margaret had had her rest, Michael returned from his exploring. They pushed the pram together round a pathway and came to rest again on a seat near the ice-cream stall. The bench-seat was in the blazing sun but Margaret could stand the heat. She put a white sun-hat on Michael's head.

"We don't want you having sunstroke, do we?" she said to him as she reached for her purse, without waking Gwyn.

"What are you having, an ice-cream or some sweets?"

"Can I have a bottle of pop Mam?"

"Yes, love, and I'll have one too." She found a sixpence from her purse and gave it to him, to go and buy their drinks. He liked the responsibility.

"Don't forget the change and don't drop anything!" she urged as he went. The baby was awake now and whimpering. She lifted Gwyn from the pram to nurse her for a while.

When Michael returned from the queue, Margaret was talking to a woman sitting next to her. There was another pram. The stranger had her baby on her lap and there was a boy, of Michael's age alongside her.

The boy was taller and thinner than Michael. He had auburn hair and a few freckles. He had a coloured, beach-ball under one arm.

"I blew it up myself," said the boy, standing-up, as Michael approached.

"Well most of it," he added, looking at his mother for verification. His mother did not look back at him. She was too busy talking with Margaret, swapping baby stories.

The boy looked at Michael and Michael looked at the boy. Kids are like dogs. A quick mutual appraisal and then the two boys smiled at each other..

The tall boy ran onto the grass and threw the ball into the air. He tried to kick it but he wasn't any good at that. Michael was watching him. Then the boy asked him, "Want to play?"
Michael hesitated but his mother broke off from her conversation, briefly, to urge him, "Go on Michael. Go on!"

Michael put his bottle of pop down and went to join the boy. They played for ages, following the bouncy ball all over the flat grass. Then they left the ball with their mothers and went up the slope and climbed some of the steps of the monument and played hide-and-seek round it.

Before they went back to their mothers, the tall boy showed Michael how to lie down and then roll sideways all the way down the slope to the level grass. It was fun. Michael wanted to keep on doing it but it was time to go The babies needed changing and feeding.

"Blooming baby!" said Michael.

"Blooming baby!" said the tall boy.

Then they both laughed.

"Michael, say thank-you to Rob, for letting you play with his ball!"

"Thank-you, Rob!"

The boys waved to each other when they parted. Michael hoped that he'd meet Rob again.

Little did he know, but it was the beginning of a lifelong friendship.

Chapter Eight: The Trial of Buck Ruxton

The Ruxtons
(A Drama About A Lancaster Othello)

Red stains in the sunset,
Red stains on the knife,
Old Dr. Ruxton you murdered your wife.

The maid came and caught you,
You murdered her too,
Now Dr Ruxton what are we to do?

They'll hang you tomorrow,
They'll not spare you 'tis sure,
And then Dr Ruxton will murder no more.

Red Stains on the carpet,
Why Dr. Ruxton did you murder your wife?

Those were the verses on the broad-sheet which was circulated when Dr. Ruxton was tried, at Manchester, in 1936.

 The Trial

For the Defence: Norman Birkett K.C.
 
For the Prosecution: Mr. Jackson K.C.

The Judge: Mr. Justice Singleton

The Deceased: Isabelle Ruxton, wife of the accused.
Mary Rogerson, the live-in maid.

Other Victims: The Three Orphaned Ruxton Infants.

The Evidence: Circumstantial.

Important Witnesses:

Forensic Professor Glaister
Lancaster's Chief Constable Vann
Dentist, Lovers? Friends, Trades People and Employees of the Ruxtons

Inside and outside the court, in the pubs, on the doorsteps and in the market a cast of thousands of Lancastrians, all with a story to tell, or rumours to spread, about the strange goings-on of Buck and Isabelle Ruxton and the tragedy of the murders.

Buck Ruxton, described in the local press as a Mohammedan, of mixed French and Indian blood, was an exotic figure in a Lancaster unused to seeing people other than whites, all speaking with the distinctive local or regional accent.

Curiously, Gordon's wife, British but Welsh-born, had been seen as a weird foreigner when she first moved to Morecambe. She had been humiliated by her teacher, because of her accent, and ridiculed by some of her class-mates at Balmoral School, when she first arrived. Perhaps they thought that she was Irish, who were all, usually without justification, disliked and distrusted.

Nobody worried about Dr. Ruxton's background. With over two thousand patients on his panel, cheap fees, pleasant bedside manner, many friends amongst the workers he served, Buck Ruxton quickly became something of a local hero. He claimed to be the most progressive doctor in the area and the only people who disliked him were some of his colleagues, rivals for panel patients. Maybe, he exaggerated when boasting of his medical prowess but there was some truth in his extravagant claims. Certainly, he had the trust of his patients.

The Watsons had plenty of reason to be grateful to him. He had delivered their two children safely and skilfully despite two difficult births.

"Best doctor in the world!" was Margaret's verdict.

His care of their little, delicate Gwyn, during the first winter of her life, was meticulous and affordable. The doctor had never given up when Gordon and Margaret had despaired and begun to think that the child had no hope of surviving something very close to the dreaded pneumonia.

Soon, he was to be fighting for his own life. Although both of Watsons thought that he was probably guilty, they did not want him to die. But why had he killed the housemaid? That was not easy to understand or forgive.

Rumours had been rife in Lancaster about "goings-on" amongst some of the local Authority figures. The finger was pointed at Bobby Edmondson, a solicitor in the Town Clerk's Office. Many believed that he and Isabelle had been having an affair.

A bizarre rumour even suggested there had been a lesbian relationship with Bobby's sister, Barbara. "Why did they have rooms next to each other when they went as part of a group to Edinburgh for a weekend?"

There were dark hints about "Isabelle's masculine looks and thick ankles! Farcical fantasies were on many gossips' lips.

Mixed parties, including Isabelle, visiting places like Edinburgh and Blackpool were known about and viewed with intense suspicion. There were many witnesses, like Gordon, who had seen Buck beside himself with rage, after his wife had returned from one of her jaunts. She liked going away without him for a weekend and often stayed out late at night. Twice, she sought police protection after he had threatened her life during one of his jealous rages.
Lancaster Footlights, in China Street, was under suspicion.

"Actors are a funny lot, aren't they? Wasn't Isabelle Ruxton an active member there?"

Someone else said that their brother-in-law's brother's wife's sister was a waitress at the Conservative Club in Church Street. The distant relative of the rumour-monger had allegedly worked in a noisy mill and could lip-read. She said she'd observed two prominent local Freemasons discussing some of the disturbing evidence against a local solicitor. She insisted she'd seen them agree that any nasty publicity, arising from the murder case, could be held back with the help of a few weird handshakes and a nod to the judge.

People reported mixed bathing, cavorting and assignments at Cable Street Baths.
Afterwards, Isabelle was seen going home in another man's car!

There were dozens of reported sightings of the Ruxton or Edmondson car, parked at the end of lonely lanes or on quiet sea shores.

If only a fraction of the stories came to poor Buck's ears, it must have driven him to distraction because he loved Isabelle dearly. Certainly his outbursts from the dock were very convincing. He stated again and again that he was being victimised by the police.

The remains of two bodies had been found in a ravine in Scotland, wrapped in pages of a newspaper which had had a limited edition circulated in the Lancaster and Morecambe area.
Who were the missing persons from that area? Isabelle and Mary!

Forensic evidence, and new methods used to identify victims, proved that the body parts were the two women's.

Blood in the drains at Ruxton's! Bloody clothing burned there! Bloody carpets incinerated! Dustbins filled with bits of burned fabric! Bloodstains here and there in the house! Employees bore witness to a variety of frenzied and prolonged efforts to dispose of what might have been evidence.

The theory was that he had probably strangled one and stabbed the other victim. Using his surgeon's skills, including removal of some finger-tips, to prevent identification by finger-prints, he had cut the bodies up, using ordinary household knives, parcelled them, put them in the boot of his car and driven to Scotland, thrown the parcels down a ravine and driven back to Lancaster at breakneck speed, anxious to establish an alibi.
Dental evidence helped to establish that Isabelle and Mary were definitely the victims.
Chief Constable Vance had sat in the Police Station on one side of Dalton Square. Buck Ruxton had sat in his house directly opposite. The Police Station was fully visible from the Doctor's House. The detective could see the lights on late at night at Ruxton's. Dalton Square was like a stage with characters in a life-or-death drama. The main players strutted across it, playing their roles of hunter and hunted. Both used their considerable brain-power, trying to outwit the other. Both pondered the lack of concrete evidence. The new art of detection using a forensic expert was to be crucial.
Vance ordered sudden action and accompanied unexpected visits to the Doctor's House and searched everywhere thoroughly, even taking the floorboards up.
Anxious and restless, Doctor Ruxton crossed Dalton Square, visited the Police Station and said, "Look here Vann, haven't you found my wife yet? It's outrageous. They're trying to say these two bodies in Scotland are my wife and Mary Rogerson. It's ruining my practice. You must stop the newspapers from publishing such lies."
"What makes you so sure it isn't true, Doctor?" asked Vann.
"Well, here it says the younger of the two dead women, found in Scotland, has a full set of teeth in the lower jaw and I know from my own knowledge that both my wife and Mary Rogerson had teeth missing."
Slowly but surely, convincing circumstantial evidence was building up against the doctor. The police became convinced that he was guilty and that it could be proved.
Vann spoke to his men, "I think it's time we had him over here again."
Detective Inspector Bill Thompson agreed, "I think chummie across the Square is getting a bit desperate. Take care! Remember he has a revolver in that house, sir."
Vann picked up the 'phone, "Doctor Ruxton? Vann here. Those newspaper stories you complained about. I think we can put a stop to that sort of nonsense. Why not come to see me tonight?"
Buck rushed across the Square again, for another of their little chats, each man wary of the other, trying to detect what was in the other's mind.
The Doctor protested that he was the victim of jealous professionals. Lancaster's middle-class was ganging-up against him. Many workers, especially amongst his patients, believed his loud protestations of innocence and agreed with his objections, that he was being persecuted on very little, or no evidence. He had lots of letters of support from local people.
Gordon and Margaret read the notice on his surgery door, in the middle of October.

"To all my patients.
I appeal to you most humbly to remain loyal to me in this hour of trouble. I am an innocent victim of circumstances. Please do not leave my panel list as well as private list. My deputy will conduct business as usual.
Thanking you in anticipation for loyal support.
Signed,
B. RUXTON."

Many did stay loyal to the accused. For a time, Margaret went along with Buck's conspiracy theory. She thought he was the scapegoat, that there was a cover-up. It was Them behind it and they were getting at one of Us.
Gordon wasn't so sure, "You didn't see his face that night when I went for him to help you. He was out of his mind."
"It doesn't follow he really meant to hurt her," she said. "Anyone can lose their temper. You said he soon calmed down."
"Maybe only because he saw me standing there, watching him."

Chief Constable Vann had Buck arrested at five o'clock one morning, convinced that he'd got his man. There was plenty of sympathy for him in the town but all the evidence was against him during his police court appearances in Lancaster.
After his arrest, the kitchen staff of the cafe, where he had often eaten, sent a message with a meal he was allowed in the cells, "Good luck from the kitchen staff."
He wrote back on the serviette, which came with the food, "Thanks for the wishes and luck. It is surely coming my way, B. Ruxton."
During his trial, at Manchester, he took the oath on the New Testament although he was thought to be a Mohammedan or Parsee. He was said to be calm until he went into the witness box at the Assizes.
His relaxed manner was not to last. It was reported, "I most devoutly hope that I shall never again see a man or a woman or a child behave as Doctor Buck Ruxton did during the hours of his examination, cross-examination and re-examination. He cried, was excited, voluble, almost hysterical. Denunciations poured from him like water bursting out of a dam. Then he would beg forgiveness for his bad behaviour in court. His voice varied from beautiful modulation to shrieks."
When Professor Glaister maintained that he should never have worn the dirty suit which he wore during confinements, he shook with rage and beat his hands up and down in anger.
"I can only give one answer. Out of 230 confinements in Lancaster, Doctor Ruxton has never given a death certificate. You can verify that from the L.C.C. Authority. I will give £500 for it. I go by results, not theories. 230 cases and not a death certificate given!"
It was a remarkable demonstration of his professional pride. Sometimes he addressed Professor Glaister as , "Dear fellow" or "valued colleague". Next, he was protesting that everything and everyone was against him.
He pleaded with the judge to forgive his outbursts with, "I am sorry, very sorry sir. It is my fault. But I am fighting for my life. FOR MY LIFE! I must humbly, most humbly, beg your pardon for interrupting."
The report went on, "It was terrible to see an educated man go through such an ordeal and I pitied him."
He stated that he would have had to drive at over 100 m.p.h., on dangerous roads, to dispose of the body-parts in distant Scotland and be back by the hour he was next seen in Lancaster.
Just before and during the judge's summing up, his left arm was doubled on his knees, his face was cupped in the palm of his right hand. At one stage he even yawned, feigning boredom. The judge emphasised that any doubt must go to the prisoner.
The jury returned after an hour. Guilty! Was their verdict. The judge sentenced him with the words, "You have been convicted on evidence which could leave no doubt in the mind of anyone."
Ruxton seemed dazed and beaten. He muttered to himself. He smiled and nodded.
The judge pronounced a sentence of death.
Surrounded by four warders, Ruxton raised his right hand and said, "Don't fuss. I am alright. Don't fuss!"
There was a petition for clemency in Lancaster. More than 16,000 signed it.

One patient expressed the general feelings for the man, "Ruxton was clever, generous and helpful and I cannot but join in the general sympathy for him despite the fact that he has been proved guilty of a very terrible crime."

The fingers were still being pointed at Authority, "He was never allowed access or facilities at Lancaster Royal Infirmary."

His well-known adoration of his and other people's children was mentioned by many. People wondered what would become of his poor little children. After his execution, it was said that they went to the old workhouse, then to Buck's parents or were adopted. No-one knew for sure but their ordeal must have been terrible.

His trial had lasted 11 days in March, 1936. In the May, he was hanged by the neck until he was dead in Strangeways Prison, Manchester. It was stated that before his execution he admitted that he was guilty of the two murders.

The day after Buck was hanged, Gordon met his best friend Brian Howson. Brian had a black eye.

"Who gave you the shiner?" asked Gordon.

"Got into an argument about whether Buck Ruxton should be hanged. Bloke disagreed with me. He came on strong about him being a nasty, filthy wog. I said my bit back. And the bloke hit me. Bloody Fascist!"

The arguments, rights and wrongs of the case, raged for years in Lancaster. Amongst many, there remained an uneasy feeling that there were things going on in their town which only a few were privileged to know about.

Yes, he was guilty all right, but he'd been treated badly at times by some of his own colleagues and others in their circle. He had definitely been very severely provoked by his wayward wife. 

Web Links


• A tour of Buck Ruxton's House on virtual-lancaster

• A newspaper article in The Guardian on the Natural History Museum’s forensic entomologists on their role in solving murders revealed that the Museum holds the Ruxton maggots, vital evidence in one of the most celebrated murder cases of the 20th century that convicted Dr Buck Ruxton of the murder of his wife and the family maid.

• Glasgow University Archives holds the Buxton Case File [Ref. GUAFM/2A/25] which contains notebooks, correspondence, anatomical reports, witness reports, extracts from Ruxton’s diary, photographs, and lantern slides relating to the legal case. The material forms part of the important Glasgow University forensic medicine resource whiich contains a wide range of research material relating to a variety of fields including the history of medicine, criminology, sociology, and medical ethics. The records consist of teaching materials, correspondence, press cuttings, personal papers, photographs, and detailed case notes relating to some of Glasgow and Scotland’s most notorious crimes.

Chapter Seven: Dalton Square

Gordon liked to make the most of his weekends. It was a bit of alright having a lie-in and a late breakfast. After that, weather permitting, he felt the need for fresh air. When he'd been outside earlier, he'd noticed it was very warm for the time of year so he suggested, "As it's a nice day and I'm cooped up all week at work , maybe I'll take Michael for a walk."

"Hurrah!" said Michael.

"Oh no you don't!" retorted Margaret. "I've the baby to see to most of the time. I think you should have your share at weekends."

It was out of the question that he should be seen pushing a pram, in the town, so he couldn't take Gwyn. Pushing prams was a woman's job. On the other hand, he didn't want a row because he was hoping for a bit of loving that evening.

"Tell you what, we'll let Gwyn have a bit more sleep," he suggested, trying to find a solution to his wife's demands, "then how about us all going to see your mum and dad at Torrisholme? You can take some of our joint of beef with us and Grandma will soon find some extra vegetables for us, won't she Michael?"

Margaret's face brightened at the prospect and Michael shouted out with glee, loud enough to wake the baby up, which meant they could get ready right away.

Where St. Annes Church used to be today

Their house was on the end of Edward Street. They crossed the road and walked down Moor Lane, past Riley's, the grocer's shop window. It was nearly 11 o'clock and the town's church bells were ringing. On the opposite side of Moor Lane was St. Anne's Church, where Michael was soon to start Sunday School. A few people were just going in.

The bells of the Roman Catholic Cathedral of St. Peter, not far from the top of Moor Lane, could be heard, while the ringers at St. Mary's, near Lancaster Castle, were competing well. Michael thought they all sounded lovely.

Further down Moor Lane there was a variety of shops, including the newsagents. Gordon did not usually take an evening paper but since Dr. Ruxton's arrest for murder, in October, he'd been stopping there every day on his way home, to buy the local edition of the Lancashire Evening News. It was printing all the gory details as they unfolded during the investigation, arrest, police court appearances and trial of the accused man.

This Sunday morning, the newsagents excepted, all of the shops, including Riley's, were closed and the only people about were churchgoers. Everybody, apart from those who couldn't afford any, were wearing their best clothes, which they only wore on Sundays or for other very special occasions. It would be the same when the pubs opened. The men would go there in their Sunday outfits. In the afternoon, people going to take flowers to their dead in the cemeteries, or out for a relaxing walk, would wear their best attire. Indoors, many would put on their glad rags, in case they had visitors.

Usually, Margaret worked all morning making Sunday dinner, but after she had washed up she'd say to Gordon, handing him the baby, "Here love, look after her a minute, I'm just going up to change."

Half an hour later, she'd come back down in a nice, new frock she'd made for herself. She'd brushed her dark hair, rubbed in some face cream, powdered her cheeks and smeared a hint of lipstick onto her mouth.

Queen Victoria statue,
Dalton Square, Lancaster

Gordon kept on glancing at his wife. He could have done worse, he thought. She wasn't letting herself go. Jet black hair, chameleon eyes, very slim, lilting Welsh accent, kind face. Nicely turned out. No curlers. Pity about her legs and teeth. Not her fault, he supposed. They couldn't afford a dentist. And it being so cold and damp in the house, he could hardly blame her for huddling over the fire and scorching her legs. He wished that she wouldn't though because she had nice legs.

"How'd I look?" she'd giggle, pleased with her transformation. Once, Gordon put the baby down on the rug in front of the fire, took his wife in his arms and swung her round off her feet. Then he sat down with her on his lap and tickled her knees. That made her giggle a lot more.

"Stop it, Dad! You're hurting her. She doesn't like it," cried Sir Galahad, in the guise of Michael.

Margaret struggled free, stood up and smoothed herself down.

"I'll deal with you later," laughed Gordon. Michael did not understand what he meant by that. As his mother giggled again, he didn't worry.

Just before they turned left out of Moor Lane and passed the turning to Bulk Street, Gordon paused and took a deep breath. "Lovely!" he exclaimed.

He was referring to the smell of beer coming from Mitchell's, down Brewery Lane.
"Revolting more like it!" responded Margaret. Michael didn't like it either. Depending on which way the wind was blowing, he could sometimes smell it when he was lying in bed. He didn't like it at all. He agreed with his mother, it was revolting.

They went past where the shire horses were kept just round the next turning. They carried on up the slope and onto Dalton Square. The clock, on the far side of the Square, on top of the imposing Ashton Hall, was showing eleven and a bus for Morecambe was just leaving. It would be half an hour before the next one.

Margaret blamed her husband. "If you hadn't stopped to act the fool, sniffing that beer, we'd have been just right."

Gordon put on a brave face.

"Never mind love, it's not cold. We can go and sit in the park and Michael can have a run around in there."

Margaret handed over the baby, "Here, you take her, she's getting heavy."

Then she led the way into the little Park, in the middle of the Square, the one where the huge statue of little Queen Victoria was situated. It dominated everyone and everything she surveyed from the top of her plinth. People were sitting on the seats at the side of the circular path and there were a few weary blossoms still flowering in the flower beds.

It being such a nice morning, for December, most of the bench seats were occupied but a fat woman in a black hat and a thin man in a brown one moved up to let Margaret and Gordon sit down. Michael went to play on the steps around Queen Victoria's statue. Margaret was staring at the tall house, next to the County Cinema, on the side of the Square, facing the Ashton Hall.

"I feel sorry for him," she said, "I really do." She didn't have to explain who she meant. It was Buck Ruxton's house she was looking at.

"I know what you mean love," agreed Gordon, "knowing him like we do. I must say I feel a bit guilty that I didn't take more notice when I saw him having a go at her last year when you were having Gwyn."

"Don't be silly! It's not for us to tell doctors how to behave."

Three other local people, waiting there for the bus, started to join in the conversation and discuss the recent murder of the doctor's wife and his housemaid.

Many folk had a story to tell about the Ruxtons. Gordon told his to the couple sitting next to him.

"I don't think he was going to hurt her with the knife I saw," concluded Gordon. "I think I'd probably disturbed him at his supper."

"Bit late to be having his supper, wasn't it?" said the thin man.

"Lucky he didn't make a real meal of her there and then from what you've just told us," observed the fat woman.

Nobody laughed.

"He was driven to it, she was a wrong 'un."

"Aye, but he shouldn't have hurt the housemaid."

"True!"

"They'll hang him, they've said they will."

"Serve him right!"

"I don't agree with that."

The Golden Lion, Moor Lane

The discussion was becoming animated, so Gordon went over to Michael. He didn't want an argument but he was against capital punishment. Wherever you went, people in Lancaster were taking sides for-and-against the popular doctor, eventually to be hanged at Strangeways, in Manchester.

Many remembered his kindness. Nothing too much trouble for his patients, in a mainly low-paid, working-class area. His fees were modest and he refused any payment from destitute sick people. It was a real tragedy all round.

"But he shouldn't have harmed the girl!" said the fat woman. And for many, that settled the matter: he deserved to hang.

Chapter 6: Sunday Morning

One bright Sunday morning in December, Michael lay awake in his bed thinking. "It's not fair, I'm here all on my own, just because they have a baby."

From the other bedroom, there came his Mam's quiet singing and soothing words as she fed Gwyn. The baby was crying. It seemed to Michael that she spent most of her time crying. He was fed up with having to be quiet when she was asleep and having to be silent when his mother was trying to coax her to sleep. All she did was lie in her pram or cot or be carted about in his mother's arms. She was a dead loss. She was boring. She couldn't play any games. And she'd wet right down him when his Mam once asked him to hold her. Blooming baby!

Why couldn't he go in there with them? It used to be great, he thought, jumping on their bed and using Gordon's knees to slide down. He liked snuggling between them in their warmth. Every Sunday morning it had been like that. "Having a good lie in," Dad called it.

Now, they said, he was too rough or too noisy when he went in there to play with his Dad. He might hurt the baby or disturb her.

"Huh!"

He quite liked being left on his own with Gwyn. He didn't mind being asked to look after her when Mam was busy. He enjoyed seeing her growing day-by-day. She was interesting because she was always doing something new. He was trying to persuade her to speak.

"Say Michael! Say Michael," he'd ask her and she'd laugh back at him and kick her legs at his coaxing. She liked it when Michael tickled her and shook her rattle for her.

One day, when he asked her to, "Say Michael!" she didn't just gurgle and smile back at him, she went, "Mmmm."

Michael left her lying on the blanket in front of the fire and ran into the kitchen. "Mam! Mam! She said it! She said my name!"

Michael was delirious with excitement and pleasure.

She was still a bit young for that to have really happened, thought Margaret, but she was pleased. She could see that Michael really loved his dark-haired little sister. For a time it had worried her that he was not at all keen on having a baby sister who took up so much of her energy.

Yes, there were times when Michael thought Gwyn was really brilliant. But not on Sunday mornings!

Still lying in his bed, in his own room, he reached for his nursery rhymes book. He looked at the pictures and tried reciting the ones Gordon had taught him. It was no use: he was feeling too sorry for himself. He threw the book down, pulled the bedclothes over his head and said to himself again, "It's not fair! Not fair!"
From the dark, where he was hidden under the clothes, unexpectedly, he heard his father's voice, "Where's Michael? I wonder where Michael is?"

Michael stayed under the bedclothes and kept very still. He even tried holding his breath. Dad said, "I know where he is, he's gone downstairs."
Michael pushed the bedclothes back "No, I haven't! I'm here Dad, I was hiding from you."

Already partly dressed, Gordon lay down on top of the bedclothes. Laughing, he said, "Move over, you're taking up all the room. Now come on, I want to hear your nursery rhymes. Right?" Michael nodded eagerly.

And that's how it was every Sunday morning after that. His father came in, stayed with Mike, chatted with him and helped him dress. Then they went downstairs together, lit the fire, washed in cold water and made a cup of tea. Michael didn't like tea so he had a drink of water. Gordon took a cuppa up to Margaret.

Then they had their porridge. Gordon ate his quickly and went outside to the lav. It was a double-seater, in the shed, in the yard, the one they shared with Next-door. Michael hated it in there because underneath the seat there was a deep hole and nasty smells came up. He was terrified of slipping down into that hole. He wished he could still be allowed to sit on his potty. It was all right for Gwyn. ­ She didn't have to sit out there in the cold all by herself!

After he'd met his new friend Rob, he warned Michael, "Sometimes rats come up out of that hole. Mind they don't bite your bum!"

"You're only kidding me, aren't you Rob?"

"Suppose so," said Rob.

While Michael was carrying on eating his breakfast, he heard an angry voice outside. It was Next-door having a go at Gordon because, she said, Margaret wasn't keeping the wooden seat of the shared lav. clean enough. It wasn't true, because Mike had seen his mother scrubbing with carbolic soap and a stiff-bristled brush out there nearly every day. He didn't like the sickly smell of that carbolic.

"Well, just you tell your missus, it's time she mended her ways. All you young 'uns think on is lounging about, doing nowt, while us old'‘uns does all the work."

It went on like that until Gordon became fed up, left her to ramble on, and came in. He hadn't said much in reply. He wasn't one for trouble. Silent, in contemplation, he put the kettle on the fire again. He needed more hot water because he shaved straight after breakfast on Sundays. Michael loved to watch him, but he didn't like it when, sometimes, Gordon lifted him up and rubbed his unshaven cheeks against Michael's, really hard. It was just like sand-paper! Michael always screamed and Margaret would shout at his Dad from upstairs to stop it. So Gordon put him down.

When Margaret came for her breakfast and Gordon told her about Next-door, Margaret wasn't worried.

"Oh she's always at me! Best take no notice! She's a fine one to talk. Dresses like a scarecrow and smells like a drain! She's all on her own. Nothing else to think about!"

Chapter 5: Edward Street

Michael's father was a strong man with muscular arms and hairy legs. He had dark hair, weather-beaten features, and the bluest eyes you ever saw. His wife's friend, flighty Joyce, the one he used to have it away with before he met Margaret, said he had the nicest eyes she'd ever seen in a man.

Gordon could be moody occasionally but he rarely lost his temper. His and Margaret's was a love-match. Sometimes, they disagreed and fell out, Margaret alway found it was difficult to have a real row with Gordon. She might rave, but he would go quiet and sulk. It excited both of them when they rowed, though. After it was over, they usually made love.

Gordon enjoyed sex but didn't get enough of it. Sometimes, when he felt particularly frustrated, he wondered why he'd married. He'd had more of it when he was single. But he kept these thoughts to himself...

Gordon had two alarm clocks by his bedside. The extra one was there in case the first one failed to ring. He dare not be late for work. To ensure being there in time, he had to set out at six every morning. It was a long walk. He carried his lunch box and a rubber cape and leggings, in case it rained. In all seasons, he wore a flat cap when he went to work, one with a check pattern on the top. He was a craftsman so he wore a tie.

It was nearly two miles to where he worked at Williamson's lino factory. Many still called it the Shipyard, although linoleum had been made there for donkey's years. Gordon's long stride meant that he overtook many other workers on his way. He used to set himself a target as he left home, of how many he would pass on his way to Williamson's. Sometimes, he ran the last few hundred yards in order to meet his arbitrary target.

"Why's he running?" a mate who saw him would think, "We're not late?"

Working days, Margaret was always first up, her footsteps light on the stairs. There was the scratching of a match and soon, crackling from the wood, under the coal on the fire. Gordon always laid it the night before. The next thing Michael heard was the sound of his Mam filling the kettle to boil hot-water. Margaret brewed the first cup of tea of the day and made a bowl of hot porridge, to send Gordon off warm to work.

Even at that early hour, you could hear the machinery, in the mill, behind their Edward Street house, humming away. Twice a day, that mill's buzzer would sound, a sort of siren, to warn the workers that they had better hurry or they'd be late. That would mean, without exception, a punishment: a docking of wages, for a few minutes lateness; or a sending home, for a day without pay. Worse still you might get the sack, especially if one of the bosses didn't like you.

Some still paid a knocker-upper to bang on their bedroom windows with his long pole, to make sure they got out of bed promptly. He was a legacy from, not that long previously, when few had watches or clocks or could not tell the time. When Gordon hurt an ankle, playing football,for the works team, he worried even more about being late. He left the house half an hour earlier, every morning, because he could only limp there slowly. He kept that up for six weeks, in agony every day. Thankfully, the ankle mended. But he packed in playing soccer. He couldn't afford to have time-off, if he was injured. It was the same if he felt ill: somehow, he always struggled into work.

The buzer for afternoon work, in the mill up Moor Lane, fascinated the infant Michael. When he heard it, he'd persuade his mother to open the parlour door of their two-up and two-down house. She'd put one of their bent-wood chairs up against the window. She'd place a cushion on the chair and lift Michael on to it. He'd kneel there and watch what happened in the street.

As if by magic, people appeared outside and passed the window. They looked like Lowry's matchstick people. Nearly all wore dark clothing. They shuffled past and headed round the corner of Moor Lane. Some were wearing clogs, which clattered on the pavement, and a young lad would occasionally kick the cobbles of the road and make sparks fly, as the metal on the soles of his clogs smacked against the stones. Latecomers hurried past and finally, there was the odd scampering boy, his face anxious, determined not to be late, for fear of losing precious pence.

After the last one had gone, Mike would call to his mother to lift him down. He had power over her, exercised it mercilessly and she didn't seem to mind. His slightest wish, his every whim was catered for by his Mam. She had to jump to it or he'd moan at her or cry! Gordon thought that she pampered him too much.

After his sister was born, things changed. Quite a bit! Like, when he called to her to lift him off the chair, when all the workers had gone by.

Sometimes, she'd respond, "You'll have to wait a minute, I'm just changing a nappy!" or "I'm feeding the baby!" and finally, "You're big enough and old enough to get down yourself! And don't forget to put the chair back in its right place!"

He liked to kneel on the chair in the parlour at other times. He might look out through the window and look at the horse-and-cart which brought the coal. The coal-man used to put a nose bag on the horse outside theirs. The old horse would have a bit of a rest and a feed while the hefty, grimy, coal-man lifted the hundredweight bags off the cart. He'd prise open the cellar cover, which was let into the pavement, push it out of the way, ease the bags of coal over the hole and coax the fuel out. He'd let it tumble down into the cellar. When he'd finished, there would be coal dust all round the cover. It would not be there for long. It would soon be swept away by Michael's mother, the zealous housewife. The cleanliness of your stretch of stone flags was as important as your personal hygiene. Emblems of pride or shame!

Looking out onto the street was a thing to do when Michael was bored. Something else was ‘playing' an old harmonium which was kept in his bedroom. One of his great-aunts, who lived further down the street, had given it to the Watsons. Everyday, Michael liked to have a go on it. He had to stand up to reach the keys. He gave them a real bashing. He would sing along tunelessly with the discords he was creating.

His mother used to shut the living-room door, to keep most of the noise out. She was glad to have him amusing himself and not needing her to amuse him. Unexpectedly, and in Michael's view, unreasonably, a stop was put to his playing. It was, "You'll wake Gwyn up," or "I'm trying to get Gwyn to sleep." He didn't take a lot of notice but carried on going upstairs and hammering away at the organ whenever he felt like it.

She insisted, so he put on his parts. It was a daily battle which went on for weeks. It was solved when Margaret offered the organ to one of her sisters who lived in Lodge Street. Michael's Uncle Joe came with another man and took it away. Gordon had to hold tight to Michael until they were out of the house. He was kicking and struggling to be free.

"It's all her fault," stormed Michael, pointing at Gwyn lying happily in her pram, "I hate her."

Gwyn smiled and kicked her tiny little legs about. Michael shook a handle as hard as he could making the pram rock. And that made Gwyn gurgle with delight all the more!

"Michael! Behave yourself!" said Margaret.

"Huh!" responded Michael. He fetched his toy rifle and pretended to shoot both of them.

"Michael! I've had about enough! Just you wait ‘til your Dad comes home!"

"Huh!"

Edward Street, Lancaster today

• Dinner Time at the Mill painting by Tom Dodson. Reproduced with permission courtesy of Studio Arts, Lancaster. All other images © Bill Jervis

Chapter 4: A Birth

It was in the middle of the night that Margaret told her husband that her expected baby was on the way. Gordon dressed quickly, preparing to go for Mrs. Burnside, the midwife, and for the doctor.

"Take Michael with you," she urged. "I won't be able to help him if he wakes up and needs to go to the lav."

"Come on Michael," Gordon said, shaking his infant son awake.

"Why, Dad?" asked the resisting child, who was trying to turn over and go back to sleep.

"We've got to go for Dr. Ruxton. Come on, it'll be a good adventure. It's all dark outside."

He put Michael's jersey on over his night-shirt and tucked that into his short trousers. He took their winter coats from the hooks in the front passage and, wrapped up warm, they stepped out into the cold, dark night.

It was about half a mile to the doctor's and they knocked-up Mrs. Burnside on the way. "I'll go to there now," she told Gordon, peering down at him from her bedroom window. "Don't worry, I'll look after her. You go and try to fetch the doctor."

All of the lights were on in the doctor's house. Although he was worried for his wife, he noticed a car was parked not far away, with two people in it, sitting very close together. He couldn't see who, even as he walked past, carrying Michael to the doctor's front door.

As he knocked on the door, Gordon heard the car door slam and the car drove off. Almost immediately, Isabelle, the doctor's wife, was standing beside them.

Gordon just had time to say, "Hello Mrs. Ruxton," before the front door opened and the doctor appeared in the entrance. He completely ignored Gordon and Michael. His face was contorted with rage as he dragged his wife into the hall.

Gordon looked on stunned as he watched the doctor grab his wife by the throat and start snarling at her.

"You bitch!" he almost screamed. "You've been with him again haven't you? Don't you know what time it is? You're just a whore! You're a prostitute. Who was it this time? That bloody Bobby Edmondson?"

He still had her by the throat with one hand and now Gordon saw that he had a knife in the other. "Hell!" he thought, "doctors don't behave like this. What is going on?" Isabelle couldn't speak, Buck's grasp was so tight. Her eyes were bulging. She was struggling hard and managed to break free. She ran up the stairs, her husband shouting and swearing at her as she went.

Watching her go, the doctor looked at Gordon, almost as if he'd just noticed he was there for the first time. He seemed to make tremendous effort to pull himself together, calming down as he greeted Gordon.

"So sorry, Mr. Watson," he murmured. "Just a little something between a man and his wife. Why are you here?"

Gordon explained and the caring professional, who Gordon was familiar with, made all the right kind of reassuring noises.

"You go on home. I will be with you in a few minutes. I will take care of everything. Hello, Michael! You are out late."

Michael turned his head away and buried his face in his father's neck.

Gordon wondered if it was safe for him to leave Mrs. Ruxton with what had seemed to be a madman only a minute or two ago. But he was more worried about his own wife to think of the doctor's for long. "All right," he replied, coming to a decision. "We'll be off back home then. My wife is having a lot of pain. You will be coming?"

"Of course Mr. Watson. Pain is usual. Don't worry. She will be fine. I will be there within minutes. I have never lost a baby yet in Lancaster."

Gordon carried Michael back home. Mrs. Burnside was already upstairs with Margaret. The big kettle was boiling on the open fire. The lid was lifting and water was spilling out and making lots of steam when it landed on the coals. Gordon placed Michael in the big armchair next to the fire. He lifted the kettle and put it onto the bricked hearth, using a dampened cloth round the hot handle. Then he went upstairs to his wife.

"You stay there, our Michael. I'll be back in a minute."

Michael felt upset. He sat in the chair crying. His mother was screaming upstairs. He'd just seen nice Doctor Ruxton being nasty to Mrs Ruxton. He liked her a lot. At Christmas, he'd been to their house. They had a lovely big Christmas tree .

"The biggest in the whole world," little Billy Ruxton had said to Michael. Billy was the same age as Michael. Michael liked him too. Before they went home, Billy's mother had given all of the children, who had been invited, lots to eat and a present to be opened on Christmas day. It was a good present six packets of all different sweets.

There was a knock on the front door. Dad came down the stairs, went along the front passage and opened it for Dr. Ruxton. The doctor went up on his own. Gordon returned to Michael who had his hands over his ears and was sobbing. He was trying to stop hearing his mam's cries.

Gordon sat him on his knee and hugged him and rocked him, until he calmed down a bit.

"Dad, is Dr. Ruxton, hurting Mam?"

"No, of course not. He's helping her. Just like he helped you when you were ill. You know Dr. Ruxton, he wouldn't hurt a flea."

Until half an hour ago, Michael would have agreed, remembering the times he'd been to see the doctor in his surgery, in Dalton Square. The Doctor had three kids of his own and he was good with all children. He used to warm his hands before he examined you. He was very gentle with children. There would be a broad smile on the popular Parsee doctor's dark face when he'd finished.

"The best cure for this young man is a bottle of pop Mrs Watson was his usual verdict. "Don't you agree?"

Pretty Mrs Watson agreed.

Although he was tired, Michael did not fall asleep. He was watching and listening to everything that was going on. He knew that it was something important and to do with having a new brother or sister. But why his mother was screaming, something he'd never heard before, he could not understand. He wanted to go and see her but his Dad wouldn't let him.
The door which led to the cellar steps was set in the wall on one side of the living-room. Gordon took the coal bucket and went down into the cellar for more coal to put on the fire. At least, they were warm and cosy and there was quite a good light from the new gas-mantle over the mantelpiece.

He tried reading to Michael. But Mike could not settle. No question of falling asleep even though it got to four o'clock before his mother's shrieking stopped. The bedroom door opened and Michael heard a baby cry. The midwife told Gordon that he could go up and see his wife.
She sat with Michael and told him, "The stork has brought you a lovely little sister. Aren't you a lucky, big boy?"

Michael wasn't so sure about that. All he knew was that his mother had stopped screaming and he felt a bit better.

Dr. Ruxton popped his head round the living-room door and smiled at Michael, "Well young man, you've had quite a night. Mrs. Burnside can take you to see your new baby sister now. Then you can go off to Dreamland. Bye now!"

Michael turned away and buried his head in a cushion. He didn't like Dr. Ruxton anymore. Mrs. Burnside took him up to his new little sister, a tiny scrap, with a wizened face, all wrapped up in white linen and snuggled up to his mam. His mother looked tired and weary but she had a nice smile on her face.

"Come along Michael, have a good look at your sister. We're going to call her Gwyn." He gave his mother a kiss. Mrs. Burnside gave him a hug and told him, "You're a good lad, Michael."
His Dad took him back into his own bedroom and tucked him into bed. He didn't need the usual story because he went straight off to sleep.

• Read more about Buck Ruxton's house in Dalton Square
 
• The New Baby painting by Tom Dodson. Reproduced with permission courtesy of Studio Arts, Lancaster

Chapter 3: All Change

In 1935, Michael Watson was a lively infant who loved his home, his Mam and Dad and all of the other people in his life. His first two years had given him nothing but lots of affectionate routines and unchanging, consistent security. When he began to understand that his parents were saving money, planning to move, he protested, "I don't want to move. I like it here!"

He had no immediate worry on that score. It would take them three more years to save for a deposit on a new house.

Every weekday, without fail, at the same times, the town’s factories' buzzers went. All day, The Watsons' house vibrated ever so gently, never stopping, because there was a mill, with humming machinery, just above and behind Edward Street, where they lived.

Sometimes there would be the clatter of horses' hooves, or of clogs on their cobbled street. Carts carrying coal, supplies for corner shops or crates of milk or fizzy pop would occasionally rumble over the cobbles past the house. There was hardly ever a car to be seen, unless a doctor visited a very sick neighbour. Just once, there was a funeral procession with three cars, filled with people all in black.

Once a week, the dust-cart, pulled by an old, unhappy-looking grey horse, would wait outside the Watsons'. Corporation employees, in brown dungarees, with sacks over their heads and draped over their shoulders, would go down the side and back alleys and bring out the bins filled with ashes, from the coal fires, and all sorts of other household waste. They'd empty the contents onto their cart, eyes seeking any item which they might be able to retrieve and sell on. Then they'd take the empty bins back to outside each house’s backyard-entrance. There was always a horrible smell in the street for about an hour after they’d been.

Every evening, at dusk, a tall, Lancaster Gas Works employee, in heavy boots, would walk past. He was a tall man with a short ladder. He would prop his ladder up against the lamp-posts, one on Michael's side of the road and one down near St. Anne's School. He’d climb his ladder, open the hinged window of the gas lamp, turn the gas tap round and illuminate the street. He would return at every dawn and turn the lights down.

Every morning, some of the women of the street would appear outside the front doors of their two-up and two-down terraced houses, built with local stone. They would scrub their doorstep and whiten it, wash the pavement's flagstones outside their front door, as far as the kerb, and sweep the rest. Once a week, they'd clean their windows and whiten the windowsills. Friday evenings, at seven o'clock, there would be a knock on the front door.

"Margaret!" Gordon would call, if his wife was working out in the kitchen, "Insurance man!" Margaret would stop what she was doing and let rain-coated, thin-haired, stammering Mr. Smith in. Margaret would hand him three books and three separate insurance payments, all ready, waiting for him, on the mantelpiece, all calculated correctly to the last penny, no change needed.

"Thank-you, M...M..Missus. See you next week."

An ice-cream man passed their front-door twice a week in the summer. He had a fridge mounted on a modified tricycle. He pedalled slowly and bumped over the cobbles. He called out every few seconds, "Stop me and buy one!" His fridge was white with the letters LOVELY ICE CREAMS painted in black diagonally across it. He'd always say, when Margaret bought from him, "There you are love! One for you and one for the spring chicken!"

"What's a spring chicken Mam?"

"You are. Now go inside and eat your cornet. And don't spill any on the lino!"

Every Saturday afternoon, the loud ringing of a hand-bell would be heard in the house. It signalled the arrival of the Muffin Man in the street. Sometimes, Margaret would buy from him. She would toast them in front of their open coal-fire. When Michael grew older she would let him hold the metal toasting fork.

When the crumpets or muffins were ready and placed on plates, warmed in the oven by the side of the fire, fresh Empire Butter was spread over them. Scrumptious!

On Christmas Day, in 1935, just before lunch, it was snowing, and an old man, with a beard and dressed in a ragged coat and old hat, limped down the street playing Christmas carols, on a squeaky violin. It was like looking out onto a Victorian Christmas card. He had a card strung round his neck, with a tin mug attached to it.

Michael stood in the parlour watching him. The old man winked at him. Margaret gave him a penny. Michael took it out to the old man and put it in the mug hanging from his neck. He had a card hanging from his neck too. Michael was too young to read it. It said, UNEMPLOYED EX-SERVICEMAN.

There was another man who frightened Michael. He came down the street once a fortnight. He carried a sack over his shoulder with lumpy things in it. He was tall and fierce-looking. His skin was spotty and he had lots of stubble. Once, when Michael was looking out of the window at him, he shook his fist, rolled his eyes and leered at Michael.

As he strode past each house, he called out in a loud sonorous voice, "Rags! Bones!"
When Michael got to know his first childhood friend, Rob, he told Michael that the man kidnapped babies and put them in his sack.

Gas mantels sputtering and hissing. Steam trains panting, shrieking, shunting and grunting. Signals clanking, guards waving flags and blowing whistles. Kids out in the streets yelling and shouting. Gossips whispering on many doorsteps. Taps on bedroom windows of early-morning knocker-uppers. Brown corporation and red Ribble buses revving up their engines and crashing their gears.

Lads, yelling warnings, "Mind your backs!" pushing barrows in out of the market. Thousands of people walking in sunshine or rain to and from their workplaces. Sunday afternoon strolls into the countryside. The parks filled in summer with families.

Surely, young Michael had thought, all of this will last, will endure for ever. It's all necessary, all part and parcel of my life. How could it ever change?

50 years later, the Edward Street houses were nearly all demolished, the school closed, the corner shop vanished and the whole area turned into a car park.

The Greyhound Bridge no longer carried frequent steam and electric trains: it was a road bridge. Green Ayre Station, a lovely building, and its wide forecourt, gone. The sidings, with coal wagons; the coal merchants next to the railway, the old National School building on Parliament Street long destroyed and the debris taken away.

No more kids pulling prams or buggies with loads of cheap coke from the Gas Works to their homes, to augment their meagre and more expensive coal supplies.

No more working horses.

The Children’s Home and The Spike, part of the old Workhouse, above the town, up near Williamson's Park, were now part of an extended Boys' Grammar School.

The old mills had closed but some were saved from demolition when Authority decided they were architectural gems and worthy of grants for their preservation and conversion.

The list of sights, from Michael’s childhood, now vanished for ever, seemed endless.

Cars infiltrate everywhere. A few streets are for pedestrians only. Technology dominates! TV, 'phones, hi-fi, computers. Big Brother cameras watching. Enticing shop windows displaying goods, stimulating wants rather than reminding you of what you need.

Soft shoes or trainers, (no clogs or boots). Colourful clothes (no woollen shawls). University students and some black or brown faces.

Musak!

Kids bossing their mothers in the street. Once it would have been described as,"Showing me up like that!"

Cafes! Restaurants!

Supermarket and roads where there was once a railway station, engine sheds and sidings. Some things were the same. Trains (diesel) still rumbled over a renovated Carlisle Bridge. The River Lune still lapped at high tide against St George’s Quay. Inland seagulls occasionally screeched overhead. Customers still mingled and chattered in the new market just like their grandmothers had in the old one.

It wasn’t all change. Some things were better, some worse. Nostalgia could be tinted with rosy colours.

Michael learned, after a couple of days of his visit, that much tangible evidence of his early life in Edward Street had vanished. Worst of all was his inability to find people who had known him, or his family, 50 years ago.

He awoke in the middle of the night in the Castle Hotel and began to think that he might have been better off staying at home. His vivid memories would never change. Back in Lancaster, he seemed to be losing his past rather than regaining it. Nevertheless, during the day, he went round the town taking photographs, did some sketching and began to write down some of what he remembered of his own childhood. He recalled what his family had told him, about their lives in Lancaster, in the decades before the end of the War in 1945. As he wandered around, old associations were revived. Places began to remind him of much he had forgotten.

Old memories were beginning to circulate again in his consciousness.


Michael's father was born in Marton Street, Lancaster, in 1904. He lived, until he married, with his mother and brother, in a tiny terrace house. It was one of a row all condemned as unfit for human habitation.

Michael’s most vivid memory of being there was of something that happened when he was three years old.

The lav was out in the yard, in a shed, shaped like a sentry box. It was shared by six families whose houses all backed onto the yard. Each household had a key.

Michael needed to do 'number twos'. It took him a long time. Somebody banged on the door loudly, three times and a deep, bass voice shouted, "What the bloody hell are you doing in there? Baking a cake?"

Michael wiped his bottom on a bit of newspaper, pulled up his short trousers and tried to turn the key. But he couldn't.

In a tearful voice he said, "I can't open the door."

Bass voice urged him, "Take your key out of the lock and I'll open it from out here. And hurry up! I’m nearly pissing myself!"

Nan’s house used to stand where the new Police Station is now. There was a strong sense of community in that street, intensified by shared sorrows, after the deaths of so many of their loved ones during the First World War.

Margaret, Gordon’s pretty, dark-haired, slim wife, was born in Wales, in 1910, and moved, during the Great Depression, to lively Morecambe, where she was a young teenager, in the place which was a Mecca for the workers on holiday from inland towns. Morecambe holiday providers thrived and many prospered during the Great Depression.

Their son, Michael, was born in 1933, in Thurnham Place, just across the main road from the end of Marton Street. Michael was only two when they moved from there and he could not remember what it was like inside. A slum, the Place had been demolished many years ago.

Michael’s sister, Gwyn, was born in 1935, in Edward Street.

Unchanged Lancaster today

Margaret’s large, extended family, Gordon’s mother and brother and many other people touched their lives. These included the notorious murderer, Buck Ruxton, their family doctor and friendly acquaintance. He lived and had his practice in Dalton Square, next to the County Cinema, until late 1935. Early that year, he helped at Gwyn’s birth...

• Read more about Green Ayre Station from the Lancaster Archaeological and Historical Society

• Information about the history of Lancaster Castle Station

• The Old Town Hall and The Rag and Bone Man paintings by Tom Dodson. Reproduced with permission courtesy of Studio Arts, Lancaster