The Life Of Riley
By Frank Riley

BOOK TWO - PARTS FOREIGN

Frank Riley has written three volumes about his life. We finished publishing the first in our last issue. In it Frank described his life as the son of the lock-keeper at Woodhead Locks, Widnes, and entertained us with his childhood memories of life on Spike Island in the 1950s.

In the second volume he describes his teenage years, when he wandered the world, beginning as a merchant seaman sailing out of Liverpool, and ending with his flight from Iran with just one penny to his name, and an unpaid hotel bill. His third volume describes his life from 1969, when he emigrated to join his brother in Australia. Both later volumes are a fascinating read… but of limited relevance to the Sankey Canal. Unfortunately, therefore, we will not be publishing them here - apart from the early chapters of the second volume, which lead up to his leaving his Spike Island home.

Chapter One: Welsh Rarebit

The Year is 1960, electricity had already been discovered in great quantities on Spike Island. The Riley Mansion, known throughout the land as 1 Canal Cottages, basked complacently under the Northern sun. On the dirty brown table in the front room by the window, amidst the grease stains and brown sugar granules, a note lay in waiting for Dad to read and, after doing so, it was hoped he would castigate himself in his remorse and anguish. It was to be a testament of all the injustices, real or imagined, suffered unto me by him. Instead, since words or courage inhibited me, it stated briefly that I was going to run away.

I placed the front door key on top of the note, not so much as a paper-weight, but more as an act of final commitment. Shrouded in my threadbare overcoat with an apple in one pocket and an orange in the other, and about seven or eight shillings, I stepped out on to the front doorstep.

"Should I slam the door? If I do, I won't be able to get back in. What if Dad sees the note? He'll kill me!"

These and similar thoughts raced through my head as I stood there trying to summon the courage to take that drastic step. Finally, with great trepidation, yet with immense determination, I slammed the door shut, And so, on that sunny afternoon, at the grand old age of fourteen, little Frankie Riley set out on his first foreign adventure.

I ran like a rabbit across the bridges and up the winding footpath which led to West Bank, terrified that at any moment Dad would suddenly appear. For some inexplicable reason I made my way to my school chum Tommy Walker's place. I suppose I felt the need to tell someone about the great adventure that was about to unfold.

His first words when he opened the door were: "What yer got yer overcoat on for?"

"I'm running away."

"Don't be daft, yer silly bugger!"

"I am, honest."

"Where yer goin'?"

"Talacre."

"Where's that?"

"Wales."

"Bloody hell! Yer not, are yer? Yer Dad'll kill yer."

"Me Dad won't bloody catch me!"

And so, after that deep and meaningful exchange I bade farewell and disappeared into the sunset. I ran across the railway bridge to Runcorn and made my way to the bus terminal. I had no idea how to get to Talacre, but somehow I knew that if I headed for Chester I'd be going in the right direction - more or less.

Night fell with a heavy thud as I left Chester behind me. I walked for hours, first through residential areas and eventually along country lanes. It was pitch black. Trees lined the road on each side and beyond the trees lay the dark, mysterious forests where the beasties lurked.

I heard a rustling in the undergrowth. A twig snapped! Was it a bear? Wolves? I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Holy Mother of Mercy! Let's get out of here, I said to myself, and ran down the middle of the road as fast as my little legs could carry me.

Some time later I saw headlights of a car approaching. I stuck out my thumb and right there, on my very first attempt, I became a hitch-hiker. It didn't seem to matter at first that the man who was driving was obviously very drunk. He had rescued me from the terrors of the night and that would suffice for now.

However, it soon became apparent that I had jumped from the proverbial frying-pan into the equally proverbial fire. He drove in a multi-national way; first on the left side and then on the right side of the road, and at great speed. He attacked hair-pin bends as though they were the enemy and steep descents like a dive-bomber. I'd never travelled so fast. I was terrified. Yet he was laughing all the while.

Eventually the journey ended. He let me out at a bus-stop in some town or village and carried on in his swerving, happy way. It must have been one or two o'clock in the morning by this time. No buses were running at this hour so I started to walk again. I came upon a pub, the King's arms or the Queen's legs, or whatever and now I was extremely tired.

To sleep, perchance to dream... I went round the back and found some old beer-barrels stacked on a concrete slab. It was dark and quiet and away from prying eyes. I nestled down between the barrels and tried to sleep. It wasn't easy; the slab was cold and my little bum soon became solid.

I must have dozed off at some stage because suddenly it was dawn. The black sheet of night was being turned back to reveal the grey undercover of morning and not three feet away from me a monstrous German Shepherd dog stood baring its fangs and giving out a low growl.

''Nice doggy! There's a good doggy!''

I left my lodgings somewhat hurriedly and set out once more on my mission. It occurred to me that at some stage in the night I must have crossed into Wales. Street names and village signs were suddenly unpronounceable.

As the sun began to appear over the horizon I came to the edge of a small town or hamlet with just one street and a row of houses on either side. On each doorstep one or two milk-bottles stood shivering in the cold waiting for their owners to let them in. Having long since consumed my meagre rations I was ravenously hungry and thirsty.

"Thou shalt not steal!" a voice said to me.

"But I'm starving!"

"Hellfire and damnation await you!"

But a lad with an empty belly is not easily dissuaded. I decided to risk the wrath of a vengeful God, and to hell with the circumstances. I began to reach down for a bottle, but as I did so, the door in front of me opened!

A vision appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in rags, and over her rags a tattered shawl trailed to the floor. Her face, which was shrouded in a filthy, floppy bonnet, was covered in skin which would have been more suitable on the back end of a cooked turkey. Her eyes seemed too small for her head and looked in two different directions at once. Oh, God! My first major crime and you send me a witch!

To my everlasting surprise she invited me inside; at least I think she did, because she spoke in a language that in all other parts of the world has long since been forgotten. The front room was mostly dark, the only source of light coming from a large open fireplace. Rubbish in all shapes and sizes was piled along two walls, an old trestle-table dominated the centre of the room, a couch that had all but been disembowelled sat underneath the front windows - the curtains of which served also as an antimacassar.

It was on this magnificent piece of furniture that I sat as she proceeded to make me welcome. To prepare the china for morning tea she poured some water into the cups from a big black cast-iron kettle that had been sitting on the hot coals, swished the hot liquid around a few times and threw the contents into the fire, causing a cloud of steam and dust to rise and spread into the room. She then dried the cups on her apron, which could have been washed in the last year, but not for certain.

Having thus administered the formal part of the service she then began to prepare breakfast, which consisted of lettuce sandwiches and black slimy eels. I ate the lettuce sandwiches. Throughout all this she chattered constantly. I nodded and muttered in what I supposed was all the right places and generally we got on famously.

I made up a story that I was in a race - a sort of endurance test for boys. Whether she understood me or not I will never know. However, having eaten a respectable amount of food and drunk her tea without any noticeable ill-effect, I bade her good morning, thanked her profusely and continued on my adventure.

As I approached the edge of the village I noticed a ramp on my left hand side which reached down from the hills to the main road. Down this incline a posse of about twelve to fifteen horses was trotting in single-file in search, no doubt, of the O.K. Corral. Having registered this pleasant diversion I promptly forgot about them and carried on with my journey.

Not more than a few minutes later I heard a terrific clatter behind me. I turned to look and was aghast at the sight which confronted me. The horses had stampeded and were bearing down on me at great speed. In a blind panic I turned and ran. But it was no use; they were gaining on me. I veered to my right and dived over the hedge which lined the road. The horses galloped past me and scattered into the distance.

I lay behind the hedge gasping for breath and listening for any noise that might indicate where they were. After some little time I ventured out on to the road again, my eyes searching everywhere for signs of the beasts.

I was almost convinced that they had dispersed and were no longer a threat when, suddenly, from a gap in the hedge on my right, one of them saw me. It panicked. I panicked. With a snort and a toss of its head it ran straight at me. I jumped to one side. It missed me by inches and raced off down the road.

Needless to say I was now in a quandary. To go forward was to risk great danger; should I run the gauntlet knowing that these fickle animals could be lurking behind every bush waiting to leap upon me? Should I remain where I was in comparative safety? - No, to sit still was against my nature. Yet, to go back the other way was unthinkable. All my being was centred on reaching Talacre - that haven on the Welsh coast where many happy days awaited me. Had I not enjoyed countless adventures among the sand hills in previous years when holidaying with Dad and brother, Mike?

There was nothing for it but to press on. I made my way back on to the road with great caution, peering round every bush or hedge, my whole body tensed and ready for flight if need be.

The danger passed. I did not see the horses again. As I continued along the road I noticed a police-car speeding towards me and eventually passing out of my sight. It occurred to me that they must be trying to round up the wayward stallions before an horrendous accident happened.

Within the next hour or so I reached the road which led from the foot of the mountains to the beach at Talacre. I sat down beside a brook and took off my boots and socks to bathe my feet, which were by now quite swollen and blistered. As I rested there, with my feet dangling in the cool water, a strange thought entered my head. No longer did I desire to go to Talacre. Why, I cannot say. Some weird impulse to seek other horizons took hold of me. I determined there and then to venture further. Prestatyn, Rhyl and who knows where else were beckoning me. What I intended to do when I reached these destinations is anyone's guess. Yet the urge to sally forth was irrepressible.

I put on my socks and boots and headed off into the unknown. Before very long a police-car, probably the same one I had seen before, pulled up alongside the kerb on the opposite side of the road. The officer driving called out to me. I pretended not to hear him. He called out again. Still I ignored him. I could see out of the corner of my eye the car inching forward, keeping pace with me. This time he shouted at me. My courage left me and I responded.

"Where are you going, boyo?"

"Home," says I.

"Oh, ay', and where would that be, then?"

"Rhyl," I replied, without hesitation.

"What street?"

"Thomas Street," I said, thinking that sounded decidedly Welsh.

"Now that's very interesting," he said, menacingly.

"Why's that?"

"There's no such place - get in!"

And so my first brush with the law had taken place. They took me to the police station at Prestatyn. I was plied with questions as to my heritage and place of abode, but since I was more afraid of Dad's wrath than I was of them, I withheld this vital information.

I was promised food if I would tell them what they wanted to know, but I remained tight-lipped. For six or seven hours I held out until hunger and fear got the better of me and at last I broke. Had they been Germans I would have lasted longer, I'm sure. But the fateful deed was done. Now the full force of Dad's fury would be unleashed.

I sat for the next three or four hours in abject misery and fear waiting for him to come and get me. The police had very kindly offered to drive me all the way home, but Dad, in his pride, insisted that he come and pick me up. This decision on his part only made me feel worse. I imagined all the trouble he would have in walking the mile or so to the bus stop, then to the station, waiting for the train, the journey itself, the walk again to the police station. I could only guess what mood he would be in when he arrived.

As the hour approached when he could be expected I jumped in fear each time the front door of the police station opened. And then he came. Now the cold hand of Fate was upon me. He appeared extremely calm and very much in control - a bad sign. He was quite apologetic to the policeman at the desk. He barely looked at me and certainly never uttered a word in my direction.

With that we quitted the police station and proceeded to the train station. Once on board and headed for home he handed me an apple and an orange - how very appropriate. All the while not a word was spoken. I expected that he was holding his temper in check until he could reduce me to pulp in the comfort and privacy of our humble home.

Wonder of wonders! Nothing was said. Not one sentence, no explosion of anger. It was never referred to - ever.

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