THE LIFE OF RILEY
BY FRANK RILEY ©

BOOK ONE - SPIKE ISLAND

Chapter Fifteen: Home Trade

The lock-keeper's lot was not an easy one, by any yardstick. It required strength, knowledge of the tides and weather, boat handling, first-aid and rescuing abilities, and diplomacy. Dad was eminently skilled in all of these - except, perhaps, the latter. Tact, it must be said, was not one of his strong suits. In his dealings with other people they either did what he wanted, or suffered the consequences.

At least that was how it was with the men; women were an entirely different proposition, especially attractive ones. He could be quite charming when a lady turned a pretty ankle. But ladies were fairly thin on the ground on our island; I think it must have been the weather, or something.

My dad, Billy Riley, the lock-keeper, played an integral part in keeping the captains of industry afloat. Without him and his expertise the life-blood of the nation would have been drained. The economy would have suffered immeasurably, the pound would have collapsed, trade, as we knew it then, would have come to a standstill. I know this to be an indisputable fact, because he told me so himself - many times.

It devolved on him to ensure that the barge traffic ran smoothly, unencumbered, except for the elements, over which even he had no control, as they plied their worthy trade. The precious cargoes they carried were not gold, or frankincense, or myrrh, but coal, brown sugar, and ground-nuts.

Nor were the vessels great ships-of-the-line, or American tea clippers; they were remarkable in their ordinariness. They were squat, unimaginative, but functional, little tubs, devoid of all romance to adults, but not of course to children. The mother-ship, to give it a fancy name, would usually have in tow one or two engine-less barges, sometimes three, and these would follow behind like ducklings as the flotilla passed through from the river to the canal, or vice versa.

It was Dad's function to make sure that this operation was conducted with efficiency and safety. In all weathers, night or day, sober or otherwise, he would go out on to the middle promontory to guide the barges into or out of the canal. To be sure, he had to rely on the skills of the individual captains in this operation, but it was largely because of him that the whole thing was usually carried out successfully.

Mike and I were sometimes allowed to help him, especially if an unusually large number of barges were passing through. Although, I admit, Mike was far more useful than I. He had the strength to turn the paddles which opened the lock gates and could generally follow Dad's orders with equanimity. Whereas I tended more towards the romanticism of it all. Out of the mist the ships would come, hailing from such exotic places as the Roaring Forties, or Cape Horn.

There was Nelson's Victory! And over on the starboard beam the Cutty Sark! One day we had the Santa Maria, the Nina , and the Pinta all turn up at the same time, and Christopher Columbus himself came ashore to talk to Dad, no doubt to discuss the problems he was having with the crew as they neared the edge of the earth.

The night-time operations were, for me, the most exciting. Apart from the thrill of being allowed to stay up late, it was especially stimulating to see and hear all the fervid activity under the weak glow of the ancient gaslights. The men's voices strangely hushed as they shouted to each other in whispers; the scraping and bumping of the barges as they came into the locks from the black, swirling river; the clanking of the paddles as the giant gates opened and closed; the creaking of the ropes as the barges strained against captivity; then the mighty roar of the water as it gushed through the sluice-gates, raising the barges to the level of the canal. It was a nocturnal delight, especially in the forbidden hours when little boys were supposed to be in sweet slumber.

The three main cargoes transported up and down the canal, as was stated earlier, were coal, sugar and nuts. There were others, to be sure, but it is with these three that the narrative will now deal. Since there was no electricity on the island and only gas to feed the lights, coal was indeed a precious commodity. We had in the front room a fireplace and adjoining oven, which, incidentally, I was invited each week to clean and boot-blacken, and it was on this and in this that the cooking was done.

In the beautiful riverside town of Widnes, with its broad, sweeping chemical factories and many-coloured hues of smoke-filled air, it was common to see at regular intervals the hard-working coalmen going about their business. Almost everyone in West Bank had a coal-chute somewhere about the house and it was down these the coalmen used to pour sacks full of the stuff to stock up the residents' supplies.

The coalmen were all big lumps of fellows with muscles borrowed from Charles Atlas and they all wore capes made of hessian sacks - the posher ones wore leather ones. On their heads would sit skull-caps attached to which were neck flaps, like the Foreign Legionnaires had. They must have all come from the same family because they were so alike. Each one of them went around with a thick layer of coal-dust over his body and eyes black-rimmed, like an owls. You could always tell a coalman, even on Sunday in his church-scrubbed best, by his eyes. No amount of bathing could wash away the grime. The pores of their skin, underneath the fingernails, the eyes, were a clear testament to their trade.

In Spring, Summer and Autumn we were able to get our ration of coal every two weeks or so. Usually, two of them would deliver it and it was an awesome feat these poor men had to perform in carrying a hundred-weight sack each high on their shoulders for over half a mile. Down the winding covered footway they would come, straining and sweating and grunting with exertion as they made their tortuous way to our island. All for two bob a bag, or whatever the going price was at the time.

But in winter, when the snows came and the ice on the ground made it dangerous to walk, even unencumbered, the coalmen refused to come. And who could blame them? Why should they risk their necks for such a paltry reward? Life was hard enough for them; there was no value in putting their livelihood in jeopardy. If they fell and broke a limb or something it would not only be they who suffered, but their families too. And in the harsh northern winters that could indeed be a terrible prospect.

So that left us with three alternatives, as Dad saw it: one, we could pinch some coal off the wagons which lay idle on both sides of the canal (but more of that later); two, he could do some secret negotiations with the barge captains as they came up the river; or three, we could freeze, and while we were at it, starve.

The latter alternative, as you can imagine, did not hold sway. Out of necessity we were compelled to resort to nefarious acts in the dead of night. It was either that, or spend the winter in misery. With no heat, or means with which to cook, life on the island would have been unbearable.

Dad must have been a decidedly good negotiator for we never went without coal, even when the canal froze over and no barge traffic was moving. I've no idea how he managed it, especially when nothing was able to move. But the times when the barges were able to get through, the negotiations began as soon as the vessels approached the lock gates from the river. He would have a word on the quiet with the barge captains, always at night time, and suddenly there would be a flurry of activity. Mike and I would be recruited to help with the filling of the sacks and away we would scurry with the spoils to our house. Our coal-scuttle was situated underneath the stairs and it was here that the sacks would be emptied. What price he paid for the coal we were never to learn, but I'm sure he managed to get it at far less than the normal asking price. At no time, it must be said, did Dad ever acquire the coal for profit. It was indeed out of desperate necessity that these deals were made.

The same, however, cannot be said for the other deals he made. The great Spike Island sugar trade was run almost purely for profit. As with the coal traders, a discreet word with the captain of a barge he knew to be carrying a load of sugar signalled the opening of negotiations.

Sugar in the north of England was made white to match the snow, and also to signify our purity, for we were such a blessed tribe. Brown sugar, on the other hand, was considered posh. Only the wealthy and privileged could get to use it and before Dad came along with his clandestine deals it had not been seen north of the Thames since the days of Henry the Eighth.

Once again in the small hours of the night, when nary a mouse did stir - there were plenty of rats - Dad would conduct his secret negotiations with the sugar-boat captain. Money would change hands and Mike and I, ex-coal smugglers, would become sugar-runners. It took the two of us to lift the sacks, Mike lifting and I pointing the way, to get them off the barge and into our house. Three or four of the blighters would suddenly disappear from the hold, the loss to be explained later by the barge captain.

The next day we would have brown sugar with everything: cornflakes, toast, tea, a couple of spoonfuls with our milk. It was paradise. The strong, pungent smell pervaded every room like a rum-parlour on a Sunday morning. Then would come the serious business of filling countless paper bags with the remainder to be sold to all and sundry up at West Bank. Fred Harvey, the Grocer was one of our biggest customers, but there were scores of takers. It was such a rare delicacy that every bag we filled was snapped up in minutes. It is impossible to speculate how many rhubarb pies or apple tarts we were responsible for. The mothers in the district thought that Christmas had come early.

Even though the trade was highly illegal, with punishment by death, or worse, if we were caught, no one ever turned us in. We would come home with pockets full of coins and hand them over with pride to Dad. He never took part in the selling program, he didn't have to, he was the boss. He kept all the profits too - at least for a while; the local publican would soon see his share in the form of a dozen pints of bitter or so.

The same thing would happen with the ground-nuts. We would keep enough for ourselves and sell the rest in brown paper bags to anyone who wanted them. We used to call them monkey-nuts and they were well named; there was many a cheeky monkey who benefited from our enterprise.

I used to go to school with every available pocket crammed with them and eat them all day long, being careful to keep my munchings out of sight of the teachers. Kids from all over the school would hear about my good fortune and I would trade with them. Three monkey-nuts would get you a marble, or alley as we used to call them; ten would get you a catapult; twenty a pocket-knife, and so on. I was a veritable millionaire while it lasted.

And that is how I learned the rudiments of commerce. I went on to become the silent partner with the Woolworth Corporation, and held the position of Minister for Trade in Guatemala for several years, and became the adviser to the E.E.C. countries in their setting-up period. Well, I could have done if I had wanted to. But the funny thing is, I never did manage to keep my taste for monkey-nuts. I wonder why that is?

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