Open Writing

The Wakes Week of July, 1941, could not come soon enough for me. This would be the first holiday that my parents and I could look forward to, all thanks to Neville Chamberlain's declaration of war in 1939. This ill-wind blew the cobwebs off the idle looms of East Lancashire, now busy girding its loins for the war effort, bringing full-time employment after the barren years of the Thirties.

Clothes rationing was introduced in the June of 1941, adding to a list which already included fuel and food. There were limits to purchasing light summer clothes, even if one had the money to pay for them.

The Wakes holiday was still one week, and that without pay. Mother dreaded the Wakes for it meant she had to manage for two weeks with no money coming in. Holiday pay was still something for the future, if there was to be one.

Mother's book of hard-saved Co-operative Society Clothing Club stamps with their wheatsheaf logo now had to be juggled with the government's newly introduced clothing coupons before any purchase could be considered. Her Co-op dividend number 26221 was imprinted on my mind by the age of seven.

A seaside resort called Fleetwood was to be our destination for the week, with the promise of some new clothes and the chance to see ships which sailed to the Isle of Man - the Scaefell and Manxman.

I counted the days. Food rationing demanded that we had to take our ration books and much of our food with us to our pre-booked boarding house. One of our two large mock-leather compressed-cardboard suitcases was dusted down to carry the food, the other for clothes. It was slowly filled over months with tin upon tin of hard-saved Fray Bentos corned beef plus a medley of sundries.

As the big day drew closer the cases were closed, then bound with leather straps and hairy string. We hoped it did not rain on departure day. There were tales of wet cardboard cases discharging their contents onto railway station platforms. Dad suggested a test lifting of the cases. When it was rasied the food case took on an alarming shape, as did dad's face. It was decided that the cases should be sent on ahead by train, at additional expense. Dad carried the food case and I carried the case containing clothes. With many a pause we managed to get them to the station, which was nearly a mile away.

On the appointed Saturday, wearing our Sunday Best, hoping our cases had not prematurely discharged their contents, by favour of London, Midland and Scottish Railways, we arrived in Fleetwood.

After settling into our digs, with their homely touch of a bottle of Daddies Favourite Sauce in the dining room window, my dad said we should go and retrieve the cases. My holiday dream was already seriously dented before the prospect of carrying all that weight again. No ships could be seen through a cloying sea mist. My suspicions were confirmed that Fleetwood in the rain was just another drab town, bearing no relation to John Hassall's railway posters of jolly bathers on sunny beaches, with blue seas and bluer skies sprinked with well-scrubbed seagulls.

'Sorry, sir, your cases have not arrived as yet, try again tomorrow,' a voice said through the hole in the luggage office window. When we broke the news that we had no food our prickly landlady was not best-pleased. Mother, attempting to placate, produced from the unplumbed depths of her portmanteau of a handbag twelve ounces of boiled ham.

In my eyes this was a staggering feat of generosity, but prickly landlady quickly pointed out that the ham was fly-blown. Dad shrugged, assuring the landlady that our cases would surely arrive on the following day. His hopes, which had been unfulfilled throughout the dispiriting Thirties, yet again did not fail us. The cases did not appear on the following day, the day after that, or ever.

Wearing our best rig, we had to queue for emergency rations from the powers that be. Then we sat through days of rain in the pavilion on The Mount, watching the mechanism of the pavilion clock slowly wind to strike the hour. Sitting there in our damp and wilting Best the conversation always returned to food.

Since that time Fleetwood has never featured in my choice of holiday destination.