The Life of Riley
By Frank Riley

BOOK 1 - SPIKE ISLAND

Chapter Twenty Seven: Odds and Ends

These final pages of Book One are a compilation of minor events which, in themselves, do not rate the dubious distinction of a chapter, but lumped together in this way I hope they are of some slight interest to you.

Slide Rules

When the tide went out in the river, and in those days, before inflation, that happened twice a day, the sweeping, broad reaches would be reduced to a mere trickle. Great sandbanks could be seen stretching for miles like giant seals basking in amphibious comfort. The banks of the river sloped down at a fairly sharp angle and at low-tide could be as much as forty feet from the top to the bottom where the stream, now almost inert, lay in wait for the next flood.

It was these banks which became the object of our impish interest, because, as luck would have it, they were constructed entirely of children's mud.

On some hot summer's days Mike and I would don our Gucci swimming togs and wander over to the marshes where the best mud banks could be found. If the sun was particularly hot it would partially bake the surface of the mud and cause cracks to open up, very much like a West Indian cricket pitch. When this happened it produced for us the most perfect slide you could possibly imagine.

First we would test the surface to see if it would sustain our weight and finding that it did we would make ready for the initial attempt. Holding on to the thick marsh grass we would inch our way down to the point where gravity could now take over.

Lord almighty, it was absolutely terrific once we let go. Down we would rush on our bums at breakneck speed until an hour later we would shoot out into the cool trickle of the river. Then up we would climb again for another go, panting and laughing with exhilaration.

Once the first fears had been overcome we would become a little more adventurous and try sliding backwards, or on our bellies, or even sideways. It was the best fun a kid could have. The breathtaking rush towards the water, the luscious feel of the creamy mud sliding under your body, the exquisite shock as you plunged all arms and legs into the cold river. It was all so unforgettable.

The game did however have its perils. Sometimes, hidden beneath the surface of the mud, there would lurk dangerous objects such as discarded galvanised-iron sheets, or lumps of wood with nails sticking out. One unfortunate lad had his belly slit open by just such a hidden piece of metal sheet and was lucky to survive the ordeal. But in the main we managed to keep from severing too many limbs off and generally had a smashing time of it.

Alas, alack, and lack-a-day, all good things must eventually come to and end. We could easily have played all day at this, but Mother Nature thought it best that we bring the game to a close and she would send in the tide, and in the process make our tummies rumble with hunger. Home we would trundle, looking like miniature versions of Al Jolson in his underwear, and immerse ourselves into the canal to wash away the guilty slime before Dad caught us. We had to be most careful to wash our eyelashes thoroughly for the mud would stick to them like ladies' mascara and give the game away. And if that happened, as you know by now, me Dad would have killed us.

To Have, And To Have Not

Not long after our dog, Spike, went to heaven, Mike and I found a stray bull terrier wandering sniffingly around our house. Without too much formality we introduced ourselves and before long we became great old pals.

He was a clever little fellow. He could sit on command, or lie down. He would fetch a stick if you threw it for him and lick your face without any qualms or questions. We asked Dad if we could keep him and in his guilt for what he had done to Spike, he agreed.

Well, this was a fine turn of events. And so unexpected. We took him for walks all over the island and asked him all sorts of questions as to his heritage. He was, however, somewhat reticent when it came to giving out such secret information. But that aside, he turned out to be a jolly good source of fun for us, and we for him, I expect.

One day, about three weeks after we had found him, we were on the marshlands with him and having a grand old time when a man approached us from our left. For a while the stranger said nothing and just watched us as we played with the dog. After a short time his presence began to be felt and for some unknown reason I started to experience a sinking, hopeless feeling as he kept his silent vigil by the perimeter fence. Eventually, he broke his silence and uttered the words I had been dreading: "That's my dog, you know!"

My heart sank. Mike's, I'm sure, did too. "No he's not!" we replied, defiantly. "He's ours!"

"I'm sorry, lads, but he's mine," he said, and came over to us.

"Oh yeah? Prove it!" we said, and therein lay our mistake.

He called the dog's name, Victor or Princeton, or something like that, and over came our friend. The little fellow didn't look too pleased about it all, its ears drooped and its tail curled noticeably between its back legs, but come it did.

The man began to issue orders to our friend and I was both amazed and crestfallen by what he could do. The dog would lie down and roll over at a simple command, or it would play dead. He could make it walk between his feet and jump through his looped arms. The evidence before us could not be challenged. It was obvious that the dog was his. Yet, all the time these "tricks" were being performed, I was hoping that the dog would not obey, and I felt a sense of betrayal when it did.

Away the man went, taking his dog with him, as Mike and I looked on forlornly. We watched them until we could no longer see them and then headed for home. It was a very long walk that day.

Heavens Above!

One starry night when I was about nine or ten years old, before the steam engine, that is, I happened to be in our back yard and generally making myself useless. For no earthly reason, to coin a phrase, I looked up and seeing the sky filled with stars, I decided to count them all. There were forty six.

As this great arithmetical feat was being performed my attention was drawn to a star which seemed to be moving. Odd! thought I. Frightfully odd! It was traversing the skies from north to south, if my memory and sense of direction serves me well, and moving at a very slow pace.

It was far too high to be a plane; gads, it was higher than the moon. What on earth, or not on earth, could it be? Now, it must be noted here that this was many years before the exploits of Yuri Gagarin and John Glenn, heck, it was only a few years after the Wright brothers went out of business. So, what could it be?

I continued to watch it and as I did a deep, inexplicable fear overcame me. Aliens! We're being invaded by the men from Mars! My little legs began to tremble and the hairs on my neck started to rise. I stood transfixed to the spot, terrified that any moment now we would be attacked by some strange beings from outer-space.

Eventually, the spaceship passed out of my vision, no doubt to threaten more populated areas. I didn't care, as long as it left us alone, it could do anything it wanted.

It was a startling sight for a young lad to see on a cold and clear winter's night. To this day, I have no idea what it was, but I know I saw it - it wasn't a dream.

The Sharpshooters

One summer, Mike acquired an air-rifle, the kind that shoots lead pellets, and within days he became such a crack shot that Davy Crocket would have blushed with embarrassment. He used to go down to the river-bank and throw bits of wood or tin cans into the water and shoulder his rifle and Blam! Blam! Blam! The targets would writhe in agony as his deadly fire tore out their innards. He would often take me along to watch and I would sit beside him and wonder how he became so good so quickly. Man alive, he was deadly! He could knock a speck of dust off the bum of a gnat at fifty paces.

Sometimes he would let me have a go, but I was hopeless. I couldn't hit the side of a house if the muzzle of the rifle were pressed against it. But it was great fun. Mike had to watch himself though when I was holding the gun. If he spoke to me as I was firing, more often than not I would turn to face him to see what he had to say and Mike would duck for cover as the barrel came to bear on him.

The air-rifle was Mike's pride and joy. He would pull it apart and clean it and polish the stock with loving care. He would fill his pockets with the lead pellets and off he would go to hunt for bison or Apaches, whichever he ran into first. Once, and I have this on good authority, -from Mike himself - he surrounded a whole tribe of Commanches just as they were beginning to mount an attack. I thought that that was pretty damn brave, myself.

But one day, a very sad day in the life of such an Indian-fighter, disaster struck. Mike was firing the rifle across the river, practising against the day when the entire Sioux nation staged an uprising. The shots cracked out, echoing across the broad reaches of the river. If Sitting Bull were to hear this commotion he would tremble in his moccasins with fear. He fired once more and the rifle disintegrated. The metal locking device at the back of the gun shot backwards and smashed into Mike's hand, dislocating his thumb. A spring went this way, a bolt went that way; the stock dropped on his foot, and the barrel drooped ignominiously and fell to the ground. All in all, it was a bloody shambles.

The rifle never worked properly after that. Neither did his thumb. But a day was to come when that disaster was to pass into history to make way for another military saga.

A man came along one day carrying a pistol. We'd seen him once or twice before and we eyed his gun with envy. This was no cap-pistol, I can tell you, nor was it an air-gun. No, it was the real thing, and it shot real bullets; long thin ones made of some shiny silver-coloured metal. Wow! It was a beauty!

He began to fire it at a telegraph pole about thirty yards away and each time he hit it you could see the wounds opening up even from where we were standing. This was awesome. We stood there watching with our jaws agape and our tongues slathering with desire.

He offered the gun to Mike to see if he could hit the pole and reluctantly - it took about three millionths of a second - he accepted. Mike raised the pistol slowly, savouring every moment, aimed carefully and fired. There was never a doubt in his mind that he was going to hit the target, it was just a question of where exactly.

The bullet struck the left-hand side of the pole cutting a deep gash about three inches long. A hit! A palpable hit! Well done, Mike!

Then it was my turn. What a laugh! I could hardly hold the gun level with my shoulder, let alone aim the stupid thing. Anyway, there I was, waving the pistol about forty-five degrees a I either side of me when the damn thing went off. Boom! it went, and I nearly fell over from the recoil. When the smoke had cleared we went to inspect the pole to see if, by any remote chance, I had managed to get anywhere near the target.

I am proud to say that not only did I hit the target, but my bullet had lodged itself behind Mike's, in the very same groove! Now, 'aint that something, pardner!

If I trained for the next hundred years, with the most sophisticated weapon firmly fixed on a tripod, I would never be able to repeat that exploit. So much for all this aiming nonsense. I showed them how it was really supposed to be done. Just wave the thing around, and when you feel like it, pull the trigger. It works every time. Well, it did for me!

Strangers In The Night

It was a cold, wintry night. Outside the house a gale was raging, venting its fury on anything that stood in its path. The wind howled and screamed, rain in horizontal sheets lashed the island, and our humble house groaned and creaked under the onslaught. Under the doors a fierce draught whistled and wailed in futile protest. Dad sat calmly in his favourite chair reading a paper and occasionally nodding off in half-sleep. Mike and I had been sitting by the fire amusing ourselves with whatever was to hand.

It was now bedtime for me, since I was the youngest; a time where the injustice of being the last-born hits home with a heartless jolt. Why do parents always send their children off to sleep when they are not in the least bit tired? It is a question that has perplexed countless millions of kids throughout the ages.

With all the un-enthusiasm I could muster I dragged myself up from the floor, while Mike looked on in eldest smuggery. I opened the door which led to the staircase and was about to climb the stairs when Dad said: "Haven't you forgotten something?"

I was at an age where kissing one's father goodnight was beginning to be embarrassing, besides which, I rather disliked doing it anyway. I knew what he wanted but in infantile protest I pretended ignorance. "What's that, Dad?" I said, with an angelic look on my face.

"Dont you kiss yer Dad goodnight any more?"

"Oh, that. Yes, well, er, sorry," I replied and trudged over to him. He proffered his cheek and I pressed my lips to it and waited for the pain to begin. It did. He had the stiffest bristles in the northern hemisphere. They were made out of iron-filings and he could, if he wanted to, scrape the paint off the side of a ship, as long as he was careful not to damage the bare steel plates underneath.

Anyway, duty having been done, I set off again for the dream station. The staircase had no light and as I reached the first step the whole chamber was plunged in darkness. But as I began to move a great crack of lightning shattered the gloom as it pierced through the top landing window. I froze in terror with what I saw. It was a man standing there silhouetted by the lightning. He was wearing a trilby on his head, and over his shoulders a raincoat with the collar turned up. For several moments I was quite unable to speak, or even to move, such was the fear which gripped me. Another flash of lightning, followed by a booming crash of thunder, revealed him to me again.

It seemed an age before I could get my limbs to work. I stepped backwards out of the door and in a voice I could hardly recognise as my own I ran to Dad and said: "There's a man on the stairs!"

Dad jumped up from his chair and ran to the fireplace to get the poker. Thus armed he began to run up the stairs shouting and cursing all the way. When he reached the man he let fly with a mighty blow of the poker and there followed a hideous tearing sound. I was at the bottom of the stairs watching all this in abject terror, as Dad fought bravely with the intruder.

Suddenly, Dad shouted out: "Yer daft little bugger, it's the bloody wallpaper that's come down off the wall!"

Bloody Nora! thought I, me Dad'll kill me. He came down the stairs again and I waited to see what kind of hiding I was in for this time. "It's all right, lad, it's only wallpaper," he said, trying hard to suppress a laugh. "Off yer go to bed, then."

I climbed the stairs with fear in my heart. Even though Dad had explained the presence on the landing I was not at all convinced. As I reached the spot where the battle had taken place I inched past with my back pressed against the wall, terrified that at any moment the dark stranger would leap out and get me.

I got past "him" and dashed into my room and closed the door. Not bothering to take off my clothes I jumped into bed and hid under the blankets. What a frightful night it was. I don't think I got a wink of sleep.

English As She Is Spoke

I remember a time when I was very small, before long words were invented, being asked to convey a message to my father. It just so happened that only the week before this event the government said everybody could use big words from now on. That was all very well, but what about us little kids? What were we supposed to do?

I was playing beside the railway-track about a hundred yards from the back of our house and in the process watching a gang of workers doing something to the railway-lines. I wanted to join in too, but they wouldn't let me play their game. Which, if you think about it, was pretty unsporting of them. Anyway, the foreman, that is, the one who wasn't doing very much, called me over and said:

"Listen, young Frank, will you ask you Dad if he's got a biddle tonker, because we need to

pengulate the wattlebidunker? And while you're there, ask him if he can stromp the ford-wangler with a shamtock, okay?"

Well, this was more like it. Now I could play too. Off I ran as fast as I could, memorising most carefully this message from the foreman.

"Biddle tonker, biddle tonker," run, run, run. "Pengulate the wattlebidunker," run, run, run.

I ran into the house and there was Dad in his armchair. "Dad! Dad!" I splurted. "The man by the railways asked me to ask you if you've got a dribbled bonker, cos' they want to thingy the pengledebom!" I informed him, breathlessly.

"Yer what?"

"The man at the railways wants a.... Hang on a minute, I'll go and ask him again." And off I dashed to get the exact details.

The foreman gave me the message again and I ran back to the house, determined that this time I would get it down pat. I confronted Dad and said:

"The man at the railways wants to know if you have got a pringled tonker for the genglewattlemaker. And he wants to stomp on the fordle with a shamrock," said I, proud of my memory.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Dad asked, scratching his head.

"You know," said I, amazed that he didn't know what these things were.

"Make sense, lad! I can't understand a word yer' saying."

"I'll go and ask him again," I replied and ran to the railway tracks once more.

Backwards and forwards I went, trying to get Dad to understand, but he just didn't have the vocabulary, poor man. In the end, after a half-dozen or so trips, he came out himself to find out what they wanted.

I could have told him, if he would only have listened. So, there you have it. The moral is: it's not what you say , but how you say it that's really important.

Let There Be Light

The day came when Spike Island was dragged kicking and screaming into the twentieth century. We had lived long enough in Victorian darkness and the powers-that-were decided that our two houses, the Masons' and ours, should have electricity. This development had been threatened for such a long time that when it eventually happened we could hardly believe it.

The workers came. Poles were erected. Cables by the mile were strewn out ready for connection. Before we knew it 1 Canal and 2 Canal cottages now proudly sported lights that didn't need to be lit with a match.

It was wonderful! Mike and I went all around the house switching lights on and off again and giggling in our silliness as we did so. After about an hour of this it became a bit passé and we would casually lean our elbows against the switch and "accidentally" switch a light on. Or nonchalantly brush our hand over the wall just "happening" to flick the switch down.

We had come a long way from the dark, primitive past. Now we could stand alongside our school chums and casually relate a story or two that somehow managed to include something to do with electricity. Not that they would have cared; to them it was as common as water. But to us, at least for a while, it was not just a small step for man; it was a giant leap for mankind, to borrow a famous phrase.

Postscript

Spike Island in modern times was turned into an amusement park. I'm told that it is a very popular place, and that the townspeople of Widnes, or the Borough of Halton, as it is known, take great pride in the awards they receive for its innovations.

I haven't seen the place for over thirty-five years. It would all seem so strange to me now. But one day, and I hope that day isn't too far away, I would like to go back there and wallow around in my childhood. It was a magical island.

As Frank says, Spike Island, below, looks very different now from the way it looked in his day, or even when pictured by Harry Arnold in the 1960s (inset). Frank's home stood about where the footpath now lies. Main Photo: David Long

Index for this issue     Index of all Canal Cuttings issues      Home Page

Site design and content © 2002 - 2009 Sankey Canal Restoration Society
Canal Cuttings Editor: David Long Site design: Phil D.Long