Hi, David, I sent you an e-mail some time ago, telling you that I was born on Spike island, and that my father was the lock-keeper at the Widnes end of the canal. If you would like to contact me for further details, I would be happy to oblige.
Regards,
Frank Riley (In Australia)

To which I replied:
> Yes, please, Frank - as much as you can, as soon as you can - I'm putting together the next Newsletter next week.

and received the following in response:
Well, David, here is a potted history as I remember it. (I've actually written a book about life on Spike Island: if you're interested, I'll send you a copy.)
[The first instalments have now arrived, and will be serialised in future CUTTINGS - the Introduction being published in this issue. Ed.]

My father was William (Bill) Joseph Riley, born May 16th 1894, died some time in 1997. My mother was Kathleen Francis Riley (nee Phillips). She died six months after my birth. I do not know her birthday. My brother Michael was born 10th October 1943; there was another brother (we think) named Colin, who died when just four months old. I have tried to verify this but have struck a blank wall. I was the last born, actually on the island, on 28th May 1946.

My father was the lock-keeper until his retirement at age 65. [Which would mean that he retired as the last major traffic, the sugar boats to Earlestown, ended in 1959. Ed.] We lived in 1 Canal Cottages, a semi-detached house close to the locks. The adjoining house, 2 Canal Cottages, was occupied first by the Whitley family, then later by the Mason family. Mr Mason was a railway shunter.

There was no electricity on the island for most of my time there; oddly, it was installed at great expense to the railways shortly before we left the island. We did, however, have gas and, by golly, a telephone (owned by the railways), I still remember the number - Widnes 3417.

There were no trees on the island, as I recall, just ruins of buildings and webs of railway tracks. I used to think that the ruins were the result of bombing during the last war, but have recently been disabused of this notion.

In winter, when the canal froze over, it was the best ice-rink you could possibly imagine. You could skate for miles. But at times such as those, commerce, perforce had to have its way and an ice-breaker was used to clear a path for the barges.

The ice-breaker was nothing more than a sturdy longboat with a mast amidships, from which dangled a dozen or so thick ropes, like a Maypole. A gang of men would muster around a brazier outside our house, in readiness for the task. Dad was the leader of this gang and as such allowed my brother and me to go along for the adventure. Then on his orders the men would tramp to the boat, ropes were attached to horses on the bank, and on a signal from dad the men would start to rock the boat, using the ropes for purchase. It usually took a bit of time to make the first crack in the ice, but once it happened it was sheer delight for any kid. We would sit in the the sternsheets and imagine we were on the high seas. It was terrific! The ice would scream and zither in protest, but nothing could stop the power of these doughty men and such gallant, snorting horses.

There was, however, times of high dudgeon on the island, including smuggling and thieving of coal, but times were tough just after the war and people were desperate.

Then of course there were the toss-up games every Friday night and Saturday and Sunday afternoons. There were tremendous fights during these times as one loser or another had lost his wages or dole money. There were quite a few police raids, too, but these were more reminiscent of the Keystone Cops.

There were, sadly, many drownings, either accidental or otherwise, but there were also many rescues that we were involved in, especially my father.

There was also a whale drama in the early fifties when a whale beached itself on a sandbank and was executed in front of the whole school population of West Bank.

There were many stories I could tell you about, but this will have to do for now.