CHAPTER 1

Cast your minds back in time, to an age before television and computers existed. A time when life was simple and innocent and pleasures were few. A time when a hard drive meant a trip to Clacton and nothing more.

Yes, this is  a story that began in the past. But it is rooted firmly in the present and will continue as if it is in possession of life itself.

But what of place? Every tale exists within time, but also, as importantly, has a location.

Imagine row upon row of neat, soot covered houses, in terraces, like giant caterpillars clinging to the unforgiving hills. Where dark satanic mills boom and cough out plumes of acrid smoke into the freezing morning air. Yes, it was summer, and the year was 1952 — and this was a northern town.

Children played in the cobbled rows between the houses, a cacophony of whoops and screams and half-heard songs. There were budding artists chalking on pavements, groups of girls skipping and chanting and a game of football involving jumpers for goalposts and a tightly packed bundle of rags.

At number 210 Arkwright Street, a young slip of a lad was preparing dripping sandwiches for a regular treat that was happening that very afternoon.

Brian Albert Cecil Nelson was a shy boy and seldom played out with the other children. Instead, he preferred to spend his time indoors listening to ‘The Clitheroe Kid’ on the radio and building model aircraft from discarded semolina boxes in the company of his devoted mother and father.

Today, however, was a special day. Every Tuesday during the summer holidays, Brian was taken to the local swimming baths in Bradley Hall Road by his Auntie Pearl who lived not a spit away at number 240 Arkwright Street. The young lad excitedly packed the sandwiches, a bottle of dandelion and burdock, his towel and his favourite claret and blue trunks into the duffle bag Auntie Pearl had bought him for his birthday for this specific purpose.

When the brisk rat-a-tat-tat came on the front door knocker at precisely 2.15, Brian knew it was time to grab his bag, bid farewell to his parents and open the door to his beloved and rotund Auntie Pearl. He planted a big kiss on the jolly woman’s cheek as she stooped down to greet him.

It must be mentioned at this point that the journey to Bradley Hall Baths was not to be taken on foot. For her size, Auntie Pearl was a sprightly and game old bird whose jovial manner and bohemian lifestyle belied her 75 years. No, the journey was to be made by Brian’s preferred method of transportation, in Auntie Pearl’s sidecar firmly attached to her adored BSA Bantam motorcycle which was purchased thanks to a substantial Bingo win the previous year.

These being the days before health, and indeed safety had been invented, Brian seated himself in the beige interior of the sidecar and his corpulent co-pilot straddled the body of the machine at the second attempt, not a skid-lid or a safety belt in sight. Auntie Pearl pulled down her goggles, jumped firmly on the accelerator and the recumbent beast spluttered into life. She gave Brian the thumbs-up signal, which he returned
signalling their imminent departure shrouded in a cloud of blue smoke. 

The sounds of children playing then returned to Arkwright Street as our intrepid adventurers departed in the direction of the local municipal baths.