by Carl Leckey
As she describes him in such a way I feel it again that touch of jealousy or whatever it is. I am learning another side to my Mother. After another drink we arrange to meet for a nine o’clock breakfast, we then retire to our separate rooms for the night. It has been a busy and rewarding day with the exceptional input of wine and spirits I am asleep as soon my head hits the pillow.
CHAPTER FIVE
Armistice day and beyond
The car I ordered is already waiting when we leave the hotel. A quick familiarisation lesson accompanied by the delivery driver and I have an excellent car for a week at least.
I introduce Mother to Norman when we meet as we park the car. Together we stroll towards the already packed Hamilton Square.
A military band is playing a medley of wartime Songs. Gradually we work our way close to the Town Hall steps until we have an unhindered view of the dignitaries assembled there. Norman points out to us the roped off area where it is proposed to erect the cenotaph. This will be inscribed with names of the fallen. Although there is no memorial actually built to commemorate the lads that died in the Great War one is planned for the near future but no certain date has yet been set. Norman explains that a model of the monument is on show in the Town Hall.
Members of the public and local businesses are contributing to the cost of erecting the memorial. He excuses himself and heads to the area he has arranged to meet his family leaving Mother and I alone amongst the throng.
All around me it is possible to witness the results of the war. Men on crutches, legless men in bath chairs, blind men led by family members all gathered together to celebrate this most unique moment in our time. Ten thirty a hush descends over the assembled people. Speeches are made by the Mayor the local Member of Parliament, Lord Leverhulme and senior members of the armed forces.
Eleven o’clock strikes on the Town Hall clock. Mother reaches out and grasps my hand. An uncanny silence engulfs the square. A lone bugler on a balcony high up on the building plays the last post.
The fluttering flag perched high above is lowered to half mast.
Mother and I are moved unashamedly to tears, joined by most of the public present.
Tears of relief that the insanity of the past four years has ended.
Tears of joy that we have survived the madness.
This has to be the most emotional day of my short life, an experience I shall never forget.
I have personally witnessed the end of the war to end all wars in the company of my Mother.
After the ceremony a spontaneous cheer erupts from the crowd, the band strikes up Land of Hope and Glory. As the song draws to a close there is a burst of thunder and the heavens open cascading a torrent of cold rain onto the assembled mass of people.
Quickly they disperse from the square, Mother and I head back to our parked car which is open to the elements. We are giggling like a couple of school kids as we climb in and sink onto the soaking wet upholstery. I race back to the hotel through blinding rain having a few near misses on the way. On arrival at the Hotel Victoria our first stop is in the lounge in front of the huge log fire to thaw out and sip a welcome glass of brandy. After arranging to meet for lunch we depart to our separate rooms to change out of our dripping apparel. The rain appears to be in for the day and there’s no way I fancy driving an open car in this weather. Mother decides to retire to her room to write some letters. I wander into the bar and play a few games of billiards with the elderly chap that danced with Mother on the previous evening. His name is Joseph Stead and as we swap stories he explains he was a war correspondent and had witnessed action in the Middle East, France, and Turkey and South Africa. We mutually agree not to talk war and enjoy the afternoon together. He is a fund of amusing stories on all kinds of subjects. I am so taken with Joseph I invite him to join us for dinner that evening.
Stating he is surprised that my companion is my Mother and he would like to meet her again.
Unfortunately he has made prior arrangements and won’t be dining at the hotel this evening. As we play billiards although we had previously agreed not to talk war the subject came around to myths and legends, particularly the Angels of Mons. Joseph informs me he had been following the story when he had the opportunity and was considering writing an article about the sightings. He asks me had I had any experience regarding the matter. I reply.
“Joseph, I wish someone would prove or disprove the affair I have heard so many conflicting stories from good and honest men I don’t know what to believe. All I do know is this. I believe a guardian Angel saw me through the war. I am not religious in fact I would consider myself the contrary. Why I was chosen out of the millions of others to come through virtually unscathed I will never know but something or someone looked after me, I am convinced of that.”
As I finished talking a telegraph boy enters the room he recognises Joseph the boy hurries over and hands him an envelope. He rips it open reads the contents apologises to me grabs his coat off the hanger and disappears through the door at speed.
Well it seems my billiard session has been abruptly terminated. I have one more drink in the company of the barman and head up to my room to write another long letter to Denise.
Mother and I dine alone that evening and retire early to our rooms ready to face the journey tomorrow. Before retiring I write another long letter to Denise relating today’s events finishing it with a passionate expression of my undying love for her.
After studying a map and planning a route, at nine o’clock we set off to meet my old army mate Sandy, and the finest officer I have ever had the privilege to meet and serve, the Colonel. The temperature has certainly dropped since yesterday the sky is black and heavy with clouds.
I have never been any further than New Ferry by road so I am on unfamiliar territory as I head towards Chester. About lunch time I feel the cold creeping through my body. Despite my experience driving open army trucks during the war I have not remembered to pile on extra clothing. My feet are freezing as I make a decision to look for an inn or hotel to dine and warm ourselves. My Mother doesn’t complain but I have a feeling she is suffering in silence. I glance her way but she sits as if at ease and smiles back. If she is as stubborn as me she won’t admit being uncomfortable in the open car after scorning my warnings of an arduous journey. A pub sign appears through a scattering of sleet. The Yacht Inn is located miles from anywhere but nevertheless welcomes us with a huge open fire and the aroma of roasting food.
The Landlord attends to our needs personally as we are the only patrons in the comfortable lounge. He has evidently observed us arriving in the open car and advises me to drive the vehicle under the cover of an open barn. I comply with his advice immediately. As I park the vehicle under cover a flutter of snow spirals down out of the leaden sky.
While we eat lunch he informs us the sleet has turned to snow. By the time we have finished our excellent meal a blizzard rages outside.
We are standing by the window having a last drink prior to leaving the inn when the door bursts open. A figure muffled to the eyeballs staggers in collapses on a chair in front of the fire.
After a minute or so he begins peeling off his clothes the Landlord hovers close by. The man orders a brandy, when he notices us he explains. “Ran off the road, my cars into a ditch about a mile away I couldn’t see a thing. I’m lucky to make it to this place didn’t know it existed. What a blessing.” Pointing to the ceiling he utters a strange remark. “Someone up there looked after me today I can tell you. I’m a stranger to these parts you see? I nearly froze to death out there.”
“Where have you come from?” I enquire. He gulps down the drink before replying.
“Up Chester way been visiting shops there. My home is in Whitchurch. Do you know the town?”
“Sorry. No we are strangers in these parts ourselves. We were on our way to a place called Acton Bridge do you know it?”
He replies. “Strangely enough I do, it’s close to Northwich. I have customers there. You have n
o chance of getting there today at least. The road must be well blocked by now. I am trying to get to Liverpool via the Woodside ferry myself. Looks like I won’t make it today either.
Do you have any rooms Landlord?”
The Landlord replies. “No I’m sorry there is no call for a hotel on this road Chester is so close you see?” Again the door opens two more snow covered figures enter and head for the warmth of the fire.
“Are you alright Tom?” The Landlord enquires as he recognises the men. One of them replies.
“I’ve stuck the wagon under the barn George. I’ll warm up then I’ll unharness the horses and put em in the stable if that’s alright? We’ll sort the beer out when it eases off. We ain’t going any further today. Looks like you are stuck with us until this lot clears.”
The Landlord smiles and explains. “It won’t be the first time.”
He addresses us. “These lads are draymen and have brought my delivery. It looks like you folks are my guests as well, unless you want to risk it?” I reply thoughtfully. “If you have no rooms we will have to try and make it to somewhere with accommodation.” He offers. “We have the lounge sir; you and your good Lady are welcome to stay here. We have plenty of blankets and comfortable arm chairs. You may use our facilities up stairs. To be honest my Wife and kids will be glad of female company I assure you it won’t be putting us out.” He adds. “This often happens in the winter. Two years ago in that bad snow storm we had ten people sleeping here for three nights.” I look out of the window and reply. “Thanks for the offer er George I’ll take you up on that incidentally the good Lady is my Mother.”
Landing in the pub leads to one of the best days I have had since leaving France. What a day we have. The draymen are a fund of good stories and the other chap a travelling salesman for Ladies corsets keeps us entertained with his memories. We learn to play bar skittles, crib and shove half penny. Angelique is a great hit with the men the Landlord his Wife and two kids. The youngest child Gloria really takes to my Mother and stands close to her as she plays the piano looking at her with adoring eyes. In the evening I invite the stranded visitors to be my guests for dinner. After an excellent meal in good company Angelique plays the piano and we have a great sing-along. One of the kids gives up her bed for Angelique she retires upstairs at eleven o’clock.
It is almost midnight when we settle down in the armchairs wrapped in blankets.
I sleep like a log until I am awakened by the sound of a steam whistle around eight o’clock. There’s no sign of my companions. After performing my ablutions I am looking out of the window when Angelique appears as immaculate as ever, greeting me with a kiss on the cheek she stands next to me.
I enquire “Did you sleep well Mother. She smiles and replies. “I did as a matter of fact, I had a little visitor. Young Gloria crept in with me during the early hours. It was her bed I was sleeping in. Fancy that, giving her bed up to a perfect stranger, they are lovely people Adam?”
She remains quite for a moment then adds. “You know Adam I really enjoyed having her snuggling up to me.” Angelique takes my hand looks me straight in the eyes and says.
“I missed all that you know? They never gave me the opportunity to be a proper Mother.”
I detect tears in her eyes as she speaks. I squeeze her hand slightly embarrassed by her revelation but at the same time I feel anger. I look out of the window again. “You have not told me yet why you abandoned me as a baby. This is the first time you have given me a clue as to why. When are you going to tell me the whole story Mother I am entitled to know?”
She explains, “Not yet my dear Son. I promise you I will tell you the whole sorry story but not now. This is not the time or the place. Trust me.”
As I observe the scene outside I see the snow has long ceased and appears to be thawing in the morning sun. The Leyland steam wagon with the name Birkenhead Brewery emblazoned on the side stands in the yard hissing and snorting like some prehistoric monster. They have evidently recovered the Salesman car he is alongside the vehicle the bonnet is raised and he is tinkering with the engine. The two draymen are clearing snow from the cellar flap to enabling them to replenish the beer stock. The Landlord’s Wife Julie appears, begins folding the scattered blankets and asks us what we would like for breakfast. After ordering I make a decision. “I am not going on Mother. The weather is too unpredictable, if the steam wagon is heading back to Birkenhead and the car is alright I intend following him. I shall take the train to Acton Bridge and Malvern to see my friends. I am not going to risk another road journey not at this time of the year. I was foolish to consider it in the first place.” She replies. “Whatever you decide my dear.”
We take our seats for breakfast. The dray men appear accompanied by two other strangers and the sales man. They take seats at the long table and begin chatting as they consume huge breakfasts. In answer to my enquiry the steam wagon driver informs me. “Yes mate I am heading back to the brewery in Grange Road East Birkenhead and our friend here is hoping to follow me if he can get his motor running.” He indicates the salesman and adds. “You are welcome to come along. I have to get Tom and Jack back to the brewery.”
Angelique enquires. “Are you taking the poor horses out in this cold weather on those slippery roads, surely that is courting fate?”
The drayman reassures her. “No Ma’am. We are leaving the horses and wagon here. We will off load the wagon onto the steamer. George and his kids will look after them he has a nice cosy stable block. My horses will think they are on holiday here.” His mate explains. “This was originally a coach inn and belongs to our brewery. We have the only horse drawn dray wagon left in the company. It’s kept more for advertising than anything. In the summer we attend all the fairs and country shows. Our chairman is very sentimental and likes the old ways. When I started work for them about thirty years ago we had twenty or more horse drawn dray carts. Then when our present chairman took over he introduced steam wagons. Funny thing is his Dad didn’t like them at all. Now we reckon when his Son takes over the brewery he will get rid of the horses and the steam wagons as well, he will bring in petrol trucks to replace them. Very modern minded is his Son.”
The salesman asks. “You have been a long time with the brewery then?” The drayman replies. “Yes thirty years man and boy except for my stint in the Army during the big un.”
I enquire. “What mob were you with?”
“The Royal Horse Artillery.” He replies proudly.
Before anymore conversation takes place the salesman Harry intercedes with a question directed to me. “Did you drain your engine off when you parked up yesterday? I’m glad I did before I left my car. I ruined an engine last winter that way?” His words remind me of my negligence. Bloody hell after all my training during my army service I have committed a cardinal sin. My half eaten breakfast abandoned I rush out to the barn and examine the hire car. The cooling system is frozen solid, I reckon given time I could thaw it out but the block might be cracked or some other fault could appear. I make my way back to the dining room. “It’s frozen solid.” I explain. “What do you reckon on doing now?” The drayman asked. I reply thoughtfully.
“Well it’s not my car I hired it from the hotel I was staying at in New Brighton. I don’t suppose they have a telephone here or close by?” My companions shake their heads. The drayman offers. “You are welcome to come with us. That’s if you don’t mind sharing the cab. There is plenty of room and it’s nice and warm for the Lady. We can drop you off at a station on the way? You can contact the car hire company or hotel and tell them where the car is, let them worry about it.”
Breakfast over the salesman has his engine running the thaw continues. We pack our gear and I settle up with the Landlord. He refuses payment for the overnight stay but I insist on leaving a sum of money to repay their hospitality. “Look George you helped us out in hour of need. If you won’t take anything for the hospitality I want you to use this cash to buy Christmas presents for the children from u
s.” Eventually he reluctantly agrees and sees us to the steamer we take up seats in the snug cab and set off followed by the salesman’s car. A small diversion puts us at Woodside where the roads appear to have been cleared. We pick up a cab to take us back to the Hotel Victoria New Brighton. The manager is surprised to see us back so soon until I explain what has occurred. He informs me not to worry about the car he will arrange for it to be recovered and allocates us the same rooms we previously occupied.
Over dinner with Mother I discuss my need to visit my old army mates. She agrees it would be better if I travel alone. She evidently trusts me to return unlike a few days ago when she insisted on accompanying me
The next day incredibly the snow has completely cleared except for some slurry in the gutters and the gardens of the nearby houses. In fact it is as warm as a spring day. I walk alone to New Brighton Station and catch a train to Lime Street Liverpool. From there after a ten minute wait I board a Crew train. I know the next station to Runcorn is the one I want and prepare to leave my seat as the train is passing over a viaduct. I look out of the window in time to see a ship heading towards a set of locks. Recalling what the Captain of the Portia told me about his visits to the Weaver I can’t help wondering if it is his vessel heading towards Northwich or Winsford to pick up a cargo. The ticket inspector informs me that the Locks I have observed the ship approaching are named Dutton Locks. They are located about a mile downstream from Acton Bridge.
We pass over the river in a flash and pull into Acton Bridge station where I alight.The Railway Inn is located close by, very handy for me. As I book in I make enquiries about Sandy.
The Landlord doesn’t know Sandy personally as he is new to the pub. He does recall seeing a one armed man picking parcels up at the nearby station. When I return to the bar after putting my bag in the upstairs room a young Lady is serving behind the bar. She is a local girl and more knowledgeable than the Landlord she confides when I ask about Sandy. “I think you are talking about Mister Meadows. He lodges with the widow Johnson in the house by the orchards just over the railway bridge towards Crowton.” I enquire. “Is this his local pub? I would like to surprise him if I can?” Shocked by the suggestion she replies. “You won’t see the Gentleman in here. The widow Johnson is a strict Methodist and don’t favour strong drink. I reckon he is as well. No he never comes in here or the Maypole pub just along the road. I know because my Sister serves behind the bar there. I reckon between us we know everyone in the village that likes a drink or two, and your Mister Meadows is definitely not one of them. I do know this though that might help you. Your friend preaches at the chapel on the corner of Cliff road, it’s about a mile from here. He is usually there almost every day looking after the place. I pass there myself on my way to work he is always painting and tidying around the place. I am amazed how he manages with just one arm he even climbs ladders and cleans the windows. I shouted for him to be careful only the other day” When I am able to interrupt her flow of information I enquire. “Where is this chapel you are on about then?” She explains in detail.