Book One - Spike Island

A Whale of a Story

A buzz of excitement carried around the classrooms at St. Patrick's junior school. Everyone was talking about the whales. There were ten of them; no, twenty; no, fifty; surely, someone said, there were hundreds! As it later turned out, if my memory serves me well, there were about a dozen of the huge monsters stranded in various parts of the river Mersey as the tide went out. Some, we heard, were almost a hundred feet long, others, eighty feet and so on as the rumours flourished. My whale was just thirty feet long, or thereabouts; a mere shrimp really, but it was stranded off our island and only my brother and I had territorial rights.
After lunch, or dinner as we used to call it, the teachers herded us together - the entire population of the school, that is - and off we marched in search of the whale. We walked from the school through the streets, eventually reaching the covered ramp which started just off the main street in West Bank then snaked down to the island, tumbling over or around the bombed out shells of buildings. As we descended, my heart was filled with pride; most of these kids rarely, if ever, came this close to the island and here they were in their droves. It was as if they were all coming to visit me.
Before long we reached the footpath which ran along the sea wall, the locks, and the canal. Across the bridges was our island where no trespassers were allowed - not even the teachers. My father was the lock-keeper whose reputation as a fierce guardian of his territory was well-known. If any child were foolish enough to set foot not only on the island, but even on the bridges, he would invariably chase them off.
We were joined by the kids from the other two schools in the area and before long there were hundreds of us, with scores of teachers attempting to maintain some sort of order. At first, I was unsure whether I should stay with my classmates on the mainland or cross the bridges to the island. I looked at my teacher, still trying to make up my mind whether to ask her permission, but saw that she was occupied. As I was dithering with this problem, a roar of excitement erupted from the crowd and hundreds of hands pointed simultaneously towards the middle of the river. There had been a dense fog hovering close to the surface but now it began to lift, and there, unmistakably, was the whale!
All the kids started yelling at once; even the teachers seemed to be caught up in the excitement. Amidst all this, I took the opportunity to stroll across the bridge to the middle ground between the two locks, where Dad, along with some other men, was standing discussing the situation. As usual, he ignored me, so I began to saunter along the middle finger-like promontory to the river's edge in full view of all the children and teachers feeling ridiculously proud that only I among them was privileged to tread this otherwise forbidden ground. It was only later that Mike joined me to revel in this unexpected glory.
The afternoon wore on, the tide was on the ebb, and great sandbanks began to appear in the river. The whale lay there now fully exposed. A tragic, lonely figure, unaware of the excitement it was causing. A whaling-boat arrived from somewhere further up the canal - I had no idea that such a thing existed in these parts. A great debate took place between Dad and the whaleboat captain as to whether there was enough water in the river to allow the ship to float. It was decided eventually that there was not and so new plans were hurriedly made.
A rowing-boat was lowered from the whaler, three men got in it, one of whom had with him a huge rifle, which, Dad later told me with great authority, was an elephant-gun, though how he would know this is beyond me.
Dad, with Mike and I proudly assisting, opened the sluice gates to raise the water level in the lock to allow the rowing-boat to enter. Once in the lock the far sluices were opened to bring the water-level down to that of the river. Having done that, the giant gates were opened and the rowing-boat passed out of the lock with the three grim-faced hunters poised for action.
On they rowed towards the sandbank half a mile or so away as the crowd looked on in anticipation. Several newspaper photographers had arrived and were busily lining up their shots. As the rowing-boat neared the sandbank I became transfixed with what was about to take place. Gone were the proud thoughts and the strutting back and forth in front of my classmates. Now death was at hand and we were all to witness the execution; emotions now very much a personal, private matter. A strange quiet had descended on the crush of people.
No longer were the children shouting or jumping about. Even the smallest ones seemed to realise that something grave was about to happen.
The rowing-boat reached the edge of the sandbank; the men got out and pulled the boat up on to the sand. An eerie mist began to form above them as they walked cautiously around the whale, almost as if Mother Nature wanted to cast a veil over the terrible act which was about to unfold. But no, the fog held until the deed was done.
The man with the rifle lifted it to shoulder-height, aimed, and fired. The flash came first, then a puff of white smoke, and seconds later, it seemed, came the flat thud of the report. Nothing happened! Another shot was fired - still nothing! The third shot must have hit a vital spot; the whale seemed to leap from the sand, its tail lifting high into the air and its flukes crashing down again, almost hitting one of the men, who in the gloom could be seen running for his life to safety. Shot after shot was fired with the delayed thud reaching us strangely disjointed. But nevermore was the whale to move. Twenty two shots in all were fired - for some strange reason I counted them - and then at last the executioners returned to their boat, leaving their victim lifeless and bleeding upon the sand.
Now, in deference to our saddened feelings, Mother Nature finally draped a shroud over the scene, hiding from view the abominable sight of this tragedy. The crowd, now that the drama was over, dispersed and went their separate ways. Darkness was falling as I looked out to where I thought the whale was, but there was nothing to be seen - only the vivid picture in my mind.
The next day, several kids including Mike waded out to the whale to inspect it and take souvenirs of its skin. Mike gave me a piece which, for some reason, I kept for quite a long time. It had a strange texture and an odd smell to it. When it dried it felt like a thin sheet of plastic. The smell was like nothing I'd experienced before, but I would know it if I ever come across it again - I hope I never do.

[Editor’s Note: Young Frank presumably didn’t know about Quennell’s dog-food factory at Fiddlers Ferry, between the Canal and the Mersey. We have seen press reports of a whale being taken in there, but reputedly from the Dee, not the Mersey. Further collaboration of this story, which may have made the local papers, would be welcomed from anyone more familiar with Widnes history.]