Open Writing

In the November of 1906, my father, Billy, then aged three, unexpectedly found himself the one in the middle of three, between sisters May Naomi, six, and a very recent arrival, Elizabeth, who was but a few days old.

His mother, Mary Jane, who was 31, on rising from her confinement, had collapsed and died, suffering from "white leg'' - postnatal thrombosis.

As the years went by, Aunt May Naomi was always prepared for a rainy day, as if troubled by the early loss of her mother, compounded by the further loss of a soldier sweetheart who was now in the arms of Flanders clay. As another war loomed her attitude morphed into a full-blown siege mentality.

Not long after Neville Chamberlain promised peace in our time as he alighted from an aircraft after his Munich meeting with Hitler, it came as little surprise to find that my aunt was stockpiling trencherbone cobs, the best Wigan coal, in her backyard. This well-guarded fuel pile slowly took on the appearance of a defensive wall, perhaps her redoubt for a last stand against the Boche. It was screened from prying eyes by a large tarpaulin. At the outbreak of hostilites in 1939 coal was rationed and in short supply, the target of thieves.

For as long as I could remember a lonesome sit-up-and-beg bicycle of unspoken years, draped by a venerable raincoat, had graced her backyard. This bike had been there long before the arrival of the trencherbone. On visits to my aunt's I noted its deflated tyres and the absence of a full complement of spokes in the wheels. The rest of the machine reminded me for some reason of spent sparklers.

Christmas morning, 1941. I clicked on the living room light, and there, supported by the fireplace, was a bicycle. Wooden blocks were attached to the pedals to enable me to reach them. How thoughtful of Father Christmas.

I could not wait to sample my access to freedom. I had a yen to explore life's byways and see what lay on the other side of the hill. I had just turned nine, but already I harboured a secret wish to escape the rain and live under a more merciful sky.

Never mind that the bike's black Japlac paint was still tacky, That my fingerprints were already on the frame, and the wheels and handlebars were painted silver rather than chromed. No matter that there was no maker's badge to tell of it's pedigree. I proudly rode up the incline of the cinder track at the back of our house, under the watchful eye of Dad.

Down I came with a rush, applying the rod and caliper brakes. A rusty cloud of dust rose up. Silver paint lifted from the front wheel. The bike came to a stop as its brake-blocks bit into and through the gossamer-thin wheel rims.

Dad pulled the brake-blocks free as I dusted myself down. "Just use the back brake son,'' he said.

In the early weeks of the new year, with our outside coal store so empty of fuel that we could have eaten off its floor, Dad volunteered me to go and ask Aunt May Naomi if we could "borrow'' a cob of her trencherbone. He suggested that if I took my bike I could place the cob in its leatherette saddlebag.

The cob was indeed placed in that saddlebag, but even after being secured with an old washing line, the bag swung wildly about. Because of the cob's weight the machine was too unstable to be ridden. So off I went into the late afternoon, pushing my bike.

After a short distance the bike became harder and harder to push. The rear wheel was finding it increasingly difficult to pass between the brake-blocks.

I watched, in dismay as the wheel slowly became an ovoid. Soon my less-than-faithful steed gave up its ghost.

As I dragged my load home it suddenly dawned on me that there was now an empty place where the old bike had stood in Aunt May Naomi's yard.

There are many different ways for children to discover the truth about Father Christmas.