The Life of Riley
by Frank Riley ©
Book One - Spike Island
Heads You Win
I was having my first fight, my first real fight; well, not exactly real, but close enough; at least
it was better than not having one at all. The truth of the matter is that I was punching a big fat boy,
twice my size, in the stomach and chest. I had him backed against our back wall and he just stood there
looking a little confused and red in the face. He made no attempt to punch me back, which was probably
just as well; if one of his ham fists had been thrown at me and landed it is doubtful whether I would
still have enough living brain cells to relate this, or any story.
Well, there I was, feeling tremendously proud - or chuffed as the jargon would have it - when around
the corner my brother, Mike, appeared. There was a strange look on his face; a stunned, glazed stare.
I stopped what I was doing, the fat boy ran off, and I went over to Mike. He was wearing a silk
jockey's cap, which he had recently acquired from one of his chums during a swap session. His face
was as white as chalk. As I approached him he was in right profile, but as I got nearer he turned
his head slowly until his left profile could be seen. From under the cap a stream of blood trickled
down his face, snaked under his chin, and continued down on to his shoulder beneath his shirt collar.
"What's happened?" says I, feeling inexplicably frightened.
"The bloody handle hit me!" he replied. As if that explained everything.
"What handle?"
"On the paddle."
Evidently, he had been helping Dad on the middle, finger-like promontory as a small flotilla of barges
approached the locks from the river. As the two locks were to be used simultaneously, Dad made ready to
open the gates of the right-hand lock, while Mike prepared to open the ones on the left. The opening and
closing of the gates were worked by contraptions that operated on a pulley system with chains and cables
eventually attached to the gates. This, as I remember it, had a barrel and handle like an organ grinder,
the handle itself was shaped like an old-fashioned car-starter, but much bigger. The barrel had a ratchet
built into it with a stop pawl which should be flicked over to prevent backspin.
Photographs Copyright of Nigel Bowker, an authority on the Mersey’s barge traffic, show
laden boats from the Burton fleet entering the Sankey taking sugar to Earlestown.
Burton boats returning light from the Sankey Sugar Works preparing to lock out into the Mersey. The beams for
opening the gates are clearly visible - as is the frame with the gear for opening the ground paddles
(only these locks had them), and the gate paddle gear.
The lock into the dock at Spike Island - on the other side of the Rileys’ home (on left) - the gates
have no beams, and two sets of gear - one for the paddles, one for the gates - are visible near the round
keeper’s both. It is most likely that Mike was helping his dad with the canal locks, and was hit, as he
said, by the gate paddle windlass as he was knocked off balance by the boat hitting the gates. Frank
obviously has memories of the dock lock mechanism - and perhaps of other incidents involving them -
in writing his story. Read on with that in mind….
Apparently, as Mike was "grinding" away and the big gates began to open, one of the barges had approached with
too much way on her and failed to stop in time. It crashed into the gate with a mighty thud. The safety-catch
on the paddle had been left off for some reason and the force of the collision pushed the gates back to a
closed position. I had seen this happen on many other occasions and the sight was terrifying. As the gates
slammed shut the cables and chains attached to them would be pulled tight in the wrong direction causing
the unfettered handle to spin back so fast it became just a blur.
This is what had happened to Mike. He had been winding the handle forward when the barge hit. Instantly, and
with frightening speed, the handle came back on him, striking him fair and square on the crown of his head
and knocking him to the ground. The power of this spinning handle was enough to kill a dozen oxen, or at
least three and a half bull elephants, or at the very least, split a rock in two. But not Mike!
No, definitely not Mike. He had (and still has, I'm glad to say) the hardest head ever planted on man's
shoulders. He took off his cap to show me where the handle had hit. The bleeding gash was about two
inches long and looked quite deep. When I asked him how he felt, he replied: "Dunno, I've got a bit of a headache."
"Better have a nice cup of tea, then," says I.
There were other occasions where Mike and his fast becoming famous head was involved. One such occasion was a just a short time later. It must have been during the school holidays. A dredger was brought up from somewhere to deepen the canal near our house. Mike had landed a job as deck-boy or factotum - or hand-rag, as the position was commonly called. The dredger had a sturdy crane, dangling from which was a huge cast-iron grab. The grab would descend to the bottom of the canal, clutch a submerged mountain of mud which eventually would be swung on board and dropped into the hold. One day, as Mike was working away at something or other, the grab swung round and hit him on the side of the head, knocking down into the hold, which was empty at the time, and dumping him, of course, on his head. Two hits for the price of one, what?
Those two incidents should have been enough to finish him off. Any normal person would have thrown up his arms and said: "That's enough, I give up!" But not Mike. He was made of sturdier stuff.
There was one other occasion, however, which should have been recorded in the Guinness Book of Records under the heading: "Most improbable accidents." It did not take place on the island, but since we are talking heads, it might as well be told.
At the time, we had lodging with us a family of five from Ireland, who in turn brought with them their own lodger, who came from Wales. That made nine of us altogether cramped in our little cottage. There was Frank, the father; Kate, the mother, who, God bless her, became a mother to Mike and me; the sons, Mike, Pat and Frank; then Cled, their lodger.
Young Frank, it turned out, was quite a sportsman, especially at boxing and cricket. One day, at St. Patrick's junior school, he was involved in a cricket match on the patch of dirt to the west side of the school. He was batting. The bowler ran up, bowled a fast off-break, and Frank connected with a mighty swing. The ball flew over the bowler's head, soaring higher and higher, so high it easily cleared the roofs of the school. On the eastern side of the school there was a playground in which a million kids swarmed in playtime bedlam; perhaps not so many, but it was densely populated. It was in the midst of this throng of frolicking, screaming children that Mike happened to be strolling, minding his own business when the ball, now on its downward path, struck him, out of all the other kids, on the head!
Notwithstanding all these mishaps, I am happy to report that Mike did grow up to be a strong and healthy man. It is fair to say, he did get ahead!
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