On Saturday 8 July 1939, the day was bright and sunny and Billy had been up since the crack of dawn, as this was to be a big day - a proverbial red-letter day. Not only was it his eleventh birthday, but it was also the day of Capper’s annual pub outing to Blackpool. What was more, the icing on the cake was that Mr and Mrs Sykes, along with Henry, had agreed to make up a little Honeypot Street party on the trip to the coast.
At eight o’clock the two families, wearing their specially bought summer outfits, met outside the pub along with the other day-trippers to await the arrival of the ‘chara’. Suddenly from around the corner it came, a motorised magic carpet that was to transport them to the wonderland of Blackpool.
‘It’s here! It’s here!’ shouted the two boys, hardly able to contain themselves.
‘Look at the size of it, Henery! It’s massive!’
The golden Fingland coach pulled up outside the pub and the Queen’s Arms regulars, along with a motley collection of relatives who had been kept hidden in various cupboards for most of the year, boarded the single-decker bus - all laughing and chattering in holiday mood. John
Capper, the landlord, ever anxious to slake the thirst of his patrons, loaded on his gift of three crates of ale and countless bottles of stout. Finally the white-coated driver in his peaked hat climbed aboard, turned the ignition key, and the great diesel engine roared into life.
Along Chapel Street they sped, leaving the murky factories and the grey streets of Salford behind. Billy sat with Henry, who had ‘bagsed’ the window seat. Behind them sat Mrs Sykes and Mam, whilst Mr Sykes and Billy’s dad were in front.
As the coach ate up the miles, Henry and Billy were mesmerised by the ever-changing scenery, and places with foreign, strange-sounding names like Irlams o’Th’Height, Blackrod and Whittle-le-Woods. The two mothers behind them, however, were less interested in the ever-receding parade of houses, shops, pubs, fields and cows, and more concerned with matters medical. What Dad referred to as an organ recital.
‘How have you been lately, Jessie?’ Mam asked.
‘Oh, not so bad, Kate. I’ve been under the doctor for the last three month. And he’s told me if I don’t pull meself together, I’ll never get on top of it.’
‘Why, what’s been the trouble?’
‘Me legs again. It’s with having kids.’
‘Ooh, I am sorry to hear about that. What’s been wrong with your legs?’
‘First,’ she said, ‘I had inflation of the veins which turned into bellicose ulcers. But, thanks be t’God, they’re non-malicious.’
‘Phlebitis?’
‘Oh no, there’s no fleas in our house. I’ve scrubbed it from top to bottom, I have. You could eat off my floor.’
‘I weren’t implying anything, Jessie. Not for a minute.
Billy Hopkins
But you’ve been having a lot o’ trouble with Harry there, and all, haven’t you?’
‘Oh, aye. He were in hospital for a bit. He was having terrible abominable pains. And they had to give him all sorts o’ tests. They fed him one o’ them there barium meals.’
‘They’re funniosities, these men. I’ll bet if you’d given him that for his tea at home, he wouldn’t have touched it.’
Billy caught these snippets of clinical conversation, but as most of them were lost on him, he turned his attention to the two dads sitting in front.
‘I never thought Portsmouth would beat Wolves in the FA Cup, Tommy,’ said Harry Sykes.
‘They more than beat ’em, Harry,’ said Dad. ‘Four- one was more like a massacre, eh?’
‘Aye, I reckon you’re right there. Tommy. Talkin’ of massacres, who do you fancy for the big fight on Monday?’
‘I think it’ll go to Len Harvey, Harry. He’s got a better punch than Jock McAvoy. Len’s one of our lads, y’know. Manchester born and bred.’
‘Well, would you believe it?’
There was a temporary pause as the two men studied the fleeting Lancashire countryside. Then Dad said:
‘That was a terrible thing what happened the other day to them sailors trapped in that submarine in Liverpool Bay, eh, Harry?’
‘The Thetis ? Terrible, Tommy. There was nowt anyone could do to get ’em out in time.’
‘Poor buggers! They tapped messages in Morse code on the sides. Only eight got out alive. But seventy-one dead!’
‘Horrible, Tommy. Just horrible! But you know there’ll be a lot more than that killed if there’s another war.’
‘War! I tell you, Harry, I’m more worried about the
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bloody IRA at the moment. Bombs in London and bombs in bloody letter boxes. It’s not safe to post a bloody letter no more. Thank God they caught five o’ the buggers last week.’
'Aye. They gave each of ’em twenty years in Strange- ways for their trouble.’
'Twenty years! I’d have hanged the bastards if I’d had my way. Bombing us when we’re facing those two bloody dictators in Germany and Italy.’
‘You think there’s gonna be a war then?’
‘I don’t think, Harry. I’m bloody sure. The signs are all round us. We’ve doubled the Territorial Army, we’re digging shelters everywhere, we’re turning out hundreds of planes every month, and we’ve even got plans for evacuating all the kids. There’ll be a war all right, make no mistake.’
‘But the new Pope, Pius XII, has called for all the leaders to meet him at the Vatican.’
‘He might as well save his breath, Harry. Eh, did you see that they’ve banned throwing darts in Glasgow pubs. Too dangerous, they said. Either the Scotch gets are too pissed to see straight or they’re throwing ’em at one another.’
‘The best way to beat these German bastards,’ said Harry Sykes, ‘is to send in the Black Watch with a set o’ darts each. And watch the Jerries run.’
‘Or better still - send in the Beefeaters.’
Dad looked out of the window.
‘There it is, everybody,’ he called. ‘The Tower! Over there on the horizon!’
Everyone turned their eyes to the distant view of Blackpool’s famous landmark.
‘Eh, do you know what that reminds me of, Kate?’ called Dad.
‘Never you mind what it reminds you of,’ replied Mam. ‘Keep that sort of thing to yourself.’
‘I was goin’ to say a salt cellar or a vinegar bottle in a chip shop,’ said Dad. ‘There’s nowt wrong with that.’
‘Aye, I know you too well,’ replied Mam.
The Tower was the cue for the communal singing to start.
'Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside ,’ they all sang. 'Oh, I do like to be beside the sea .’
Twenty minutes later the bus pulled into Bloomfield Road parking lot behind the football ground.
‘This is it, folks - Blackpool!’ announced the driver. ‘And it’s turned out proper nice for you. But I’d like y’all back here by seven o’clock as the traffic will be heavy on the way back. Now off you go and I hope y’all have a reet champion day.’
The laughing, carefree passengers disembarked and went their separate ways. The little Honeypot Street party strolled blissfully down Lytham Road, heading - as if guided by some primeval instinct - for the sea.
‘Eh, Henery, just look at the tower now,’ said Billy. ‘Not so long ago it was just a tiny thing in the distance. Now it looks like something built from a giant’s Meccano set.’
By the Manchester Hotel they turned the corner, and there it was! The sea, and miles and miles of Blackpool’s legendary golden beaches.
‘First thing we do,’ said Mr Sykes, ‘is get these two lads buckets and spades.’
They crossed the road and over the track, and nearly jumped out of their skins when a passing tram suddenly gave a loud, piercing shriek. They reached the promenade safely and Billy’s mam said:
‘Right, you two lads, stand there, breathe out and get rid of all that Manchester muck from your lungs. Now get
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snuffing up this good seaside air. That’s what we’ve brought you for. Go on, snuff up!’
Billy and Henry stood there holding on with both hands to the promenade rail and taking deep breaths. When Mam judged that they had completed the lung-clearing exercise, then and only then did the party go down on to the sands.
‘Last in the sea is daft,’ called Dad, now in boyish mood as he took off his boots, peeled off his socks and rolled up his trouser legs. There was a mad, childish scramble not to be last, and five minutes later the six of them were paddling in the Irish Sea.
‘That sun’s very hot,’ said Mam. ‘You men had better cover up your heads or you’ll get burnt. Especially you, Tommy.’
The four males tied knotted handkerchiefs around their heads, and the picture and their joy were complete.
‘Doesn’t the sand feel lovely under your feet - so soft and soothing, like,’ said Mrs Sykes.
‘And this salt water’ll do your bunions a power o’ good,’ said Mam.
They returned to the spot where they had left their shoes and clothes. Whilst the adults just lay back, snoozed and generally enjoyed relaxing and doing nothing, Billy and Henry got down to the serious business of building a medieval citadel in sand.
After about half an hour Dad said:
‘I wouldn’t mind wetting me whistle over there in the Manchester.’
‘Trust you to be thinking of booze,’ said Mam.
‘I think it’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,’ said Mr Sykes.
‘Go on then,’ said Mrs Sykes. ‘After all, Kate, we are on holiday.’
‘Right then, you two lads,’ said Mr Sykes. ‘Here’s a coupla bob. Get yourself some ice-cream and we’ll be back in two shakes.’
After their parents had gone, Billy bought two giant cones from Pablo’s van and Henry and he settled down to licking them into extinction. Like two consultant engineers, they continued constructing a castle complete with bailey, barbican, keep, gatehouse and, most important of all, elaborate moat.
As they added more details, a shifty-looking middle- aged man approached them.
‘That’s a great castle you’ve built there, lads. It’s got everything. If you’re interested in castles, there’s one on exhibition in the Tower. Have you seen it?’
‘No, we haven’t,’ said Henry.
‘Come on then,’ the man said. ‘I’ll take you to look at it.’
‘But our mams and dads will be back in a minute - they’ve just gone for a drink over there,’ said Billy.
‘Oh, you’ll not be gone long,’ said the stranger. ‘We’ll be back in no time. I’ve got my car parked up there.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Billy. ‘Besides, that’s me dad just coming across the sands.’
The man darted a quick look in the direction Billy had indicated and hurried off.
‘Who was that man?’ Dad asked when he got near.
‘Some bloke who wanted to take us in his car and show us a castle in the Tower.’
‘Listen,’ Dad said. ‘Never, never talk to strangers. Now let that be a warning to you. There’s some right funny people in this world. Anyroad, the tide’s almost in and it’s dinner-time. What do you say to fish and chips in Woolworth’s cafe.’
‘Smashing, Dad,’ said Billy. ‘But first we want to see the tide go over our castle.’
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The two boys watched their artistic handiwork, their city in sand, slowly but surely being enveloped and destroyed by the incoming tide.
‘I can understand how old King Canute felt,’ said Henry.
After a magnificent repast of fish, chips, bread and butter and a pot of tea, served up as only Blackpool could, the little group decided to spend the afternoon strolling along the Golden Mile.
‘Have you seen the sign over that cafe?’ asked Billy. ‘It says “Jugs of tea for the sands”. Seems like a waste of tea pouring it into the sand like that.’
‘Stop talking daft, our Billy,’ said Mam.
At a stall on the front, Mr Sykes bought hats for everyone - pirate hats for the boys, cowboy hats for the men and ‘Kiss-me-Quick’ sailor hats for the ladies. Dad bought a dozen sticks of rock and a bright-red carrier bag to take them home in.
‘Isn’t it marvellous how they get the name to go right through the rock?’ said Mam. ‘How do they do it, Tommy?’
‘It’s very complicated, Kate. You wouldn’t understand it.’
‘Oh, aye,’ she said.
The first stop on the Mile was to have their photos taken for the family albums at the cut-outs of fat women with big bosoms.
‘If you two go to Damian, I only hope the head doesn’t see them photos,’ said Mrs Sykes. ‘Or he’ll throw you out on the first day.’
The next stall was Gypsy Rose Lee, the fortune-teller.
‘Go on, it’s only a bit o’ fun,’ said Mam. ‘Let’s have a go.’
Mr Sykes went in first. After five minutes he came out*
shaking his head and chuckling to himself.
‘Hey up, Jessie,’ he said. ‘You’d better watch out. She says I’m going to get married again, to a younger woman.’
‘Over my dead body,’ replied Mrs Sykes. ‘Anyroad, who’d have you? You’re just a rag-and-bone man.’
Mam and Dad went in together, and when they emerged she said:
‘Good news for me, anyroad. I’m goin’ to live to ninety- two, God help me!’
‘A lot o’ bloody rubbish,’ said Dad. ‘She said we’re going to flit in the next two years. We’ve no intention of moving from Honeypot Street.’
Mrs Sykes reported next:
‘She says me health is going to get better and I’ll get over me asthma. But when I asked how long I was going to live, she said she didn’t give predictions like that. Waste of half a crown, if y’ask me.’
‘It’s only a giggle,’ said Mam. ‘Let the two lads have a turn. Here’s half a crown, our Billy, ask her to do the two for half-price.’
The two boys went into the dimly lit tent and could just make out the figure of the old gypsy in the gloom.
‘Cross me palm with silver,’ she said.
‘Can you do the two of us for half a crown?’ asked Billy. ‘We’re only young.’
‘Very well. You pay half the price and I give you half of your future. You,’ she said, pointing to Henry, ‘will lead an exciting life in the next two years, but after that I see only clouds.’
‘P’raps you’re goin’ to join the RAF and be a pilot, Henry,’ said Billy.
‘Or work in the CWS Tobacco Factory,’ replied Henry.
‘What about me, Gypsy Rose Lee?’ asked Billy.
‘You’re a poet and don’t know it,’ said Henry.
‘For you, I see a strange life, 5 said the gypsy. ‘Many children and you live in Africa. That is all you get for half a crown.’
When they came out of the tent, Billy said:
‘Daylight robbery! She says I’m going to have a lot o’ kids and be a missioner in Africa. The Pope would never allow it, ’cos missioners can’t get married.’
At the next stall, there was a man labelled ‘The Memory Man’ who could remember the past and tell the future for the price of a tanner a question. He offered a prize of a shilling if he couldn’t answer.
Mr Sykes paid over his sixpence and asked:
‘Who won the FA Cup in 1909?’
‘Too easy,’ answered the blindfolded oracle. ‘Manchester United beat Bristol City one goal to nil.’
‘What was the name of the woman who tried to stop the King’s horse in the 1913 Derby?’ asked Dad.
‘The woman’s name was Miss Emily Davison, aged forty, and she died four days after; the King’s horse was named Anmer.’
‘Bloody amazing,’ said Dad. ‘Go on then, for another tanner: will there be a war?’
‘The war will start this year and it will last five years.’
‘Righto,’ said Billy’s mam. ‘I may as well have a tanner’s worth. When will the world end?’ s
‘The world will come to an end on the seventh of August 1945 in the biggest fireball the world has ever seen.’
‘You’re wrong there, for a start,’ said Kate. ‘ ’Cos Gypsy Rose Lee has just told me I’m goin’ to live till I’m ninety- two! So there! I want the shilling prize money.’
‘You’ll have to come back on the eighth of August 1945 for that,’ said the voice.
‘Bloody twister!’ said Mam.
They spent the rest of the afternoon exploring all the different stalls and listening to the various spiels, each one extolling the virtues of the product in question and claiming it as the greatest discovery of the twentieth century. Tommy and Harry Sykes, however, seemed to get caught up at the newsagent’s shop, which displayed hundreds of saucy postcards.
‘Hey up, Tommy. Have you seen this one? She’s saying, “You Union Men are all the same - sticking out until you get what you want!” ’
‘There’s one here where the wife is saying to her husband, “Fancy being jealous of the milkman - he’s in and out in five minutes!” ’
‘Are you two going to spend all day reading dirty postcards or what?’ asked Mam.
‘Right, Kate,’ said Dad. ‘I think we just about read ’em all now. All hundred of ’em. What we doing next?’
‘Me and Jessie thought we might have a tram ride up to Cleveleys and have a look round up there and a bit o’ tea whilst we’re there.’
The rest of the visit was spent at Cleveleys. At six o’clock they took the tram back to Blackpool for the coach home. Too soon, their day trip had come to an end.
On the journey back, the weary holiday-makers were strangely quiet and subdued after such an exhausting, fun-filled day. The only sound to be heard was the gentle snoring of a few passengers who had dozed off, and the comforting throb of the coach engine. At Adlington, the chara made a last stop at an old coaching inn to allow passengers to empty and re-fill their bladders and to exchange stories of the day’s events. Dad came out of the pub after five minutes.
‘Here y’are lads, a bottle o’ lemonade each and a packet
o’ Smith’s Crisps. Mind you don’t eat the blue paper inside - that’s the salt!’
When they set off again, the short stop seemed to have galvanised the passengers into action and given them a new lease of life, for they began a fresh round of community singing - working their way through their repertoire of‘The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo’, ‘Cleaning Windows’ and ‘Leaning on a Lamppost’, and finishing most appropriately with ‘My Little Stick of Blackpool Rock’. The hat was passed round for the driver, and as Mr Sykes handed him his money, the trippers gave him a chorus of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’. An hour later, the bus came to a halt outside the Queen’s Arms.
‘Harry and me’ll just go in Capper’s and have one for the road,’ said Dad.
‘Which road?’ asked Mam. ‘You’ve just finished with the road. It’s the road to hell you’re drinking for, if you ask me.’
‘Don’t spoil a nice day, Kate. We’ll be home in ’alf an hour.’
Billy’s red-letter day had almost come to an end. But not quite.
When they got back into the house, there, leaning up against the tea-caddy on the mantelpiece, was an officiallooking letter. Mam didn’t like receiving typewritten letters, and it was with a worried frown that she sat down in her rocking chair to read it. She hadn’t got very far when she burst into tears.
‘It’s about Damian College,’ she said.
‘I’ve failed me scholarship,’ Billy said. ‘I just knew it.’
‘But you haven’t,’ she said. ‘That’s just it. You start at the college on Monday the fourth of September!’
‘Oh Mam,’ exclaimed Billy. ‘I can’t believe it. Me at
Damian College! But what will Dad say when he finds out? He won’t like it.’
‘You leave your father to me,’ said Mam. ‘I know how to keep him quiet.’
‘I must run and tell Henery!’ said Billy. ‘It’s only half past nine; they’ll still be up.’
‘Henery, I’ve passed! I’ve passed!’ he called excitedly when Henry opened his front door. ‘What about you?’
But one look at Henry’s face gave him his answer. A bit like Miss Eager’s when Stan White had answered in religious inspection.
‘I didn’t make it, Billy,’ he said simply. ‘We’ve had a letter and all. So it’s St Chad’s for me and Damian for you.’
‘It’s all right, Henery. Just ’cos we go to different schools doesn’t mean we can’t still knock around together.’
‘Dead right,’ Henry replied.
But somehow they didn’t believe each other.