Stories
Eric Sturmey
JOE’S MAGIC BADGE
Joe lay in bed staring at the ceiling and fingering his ‘I AM, JOE’
badge he’d pinned to his pyjama top. He was not happy definitely not
happy. Today was not going to be one of his favourite memories, and the
reason was the Local History lesson his class would be doing in the
afternoon. ‘No problem’, he told his teacher. In fact he’d told everyone
who’d listen. ‘The history of Stockport. No probs. Now he wasn’t so
sure. He’d been shopping with his mother in the Market, he’d been on a
train, he knew County were in the Second Division, but was this history.
He rubbed the badge! He couldn’t run away to sea — he’d be seasick — rub
— the army don’t take seven year olds — rub — useless pretending to be
ill, his mother would send I or the doctor — rub — no good hiding in the
school toilets. They’d find him — rub — voooom there was a flash of
light — a bang and a voice said: ‘Your wish is my command oh master.’
‘Mum we’ve got a burglar,’ cried Joe.
‘No I’m not’, the voice intoned. ‘I’m the genie of the badge and I’ve
come to grant your wishes.’
‘Fat chance,’ replied Joe, ‘I’ve seen the panto with my mum. Genies live
in lamps.’
‘Ha’, said the voice, which was beginning to materialize. ‘I used to
live in a in a lamp belonging to Aladdin but it was recycled and now I
live in your badge. Anyway, I prefer genii as the plural of genie not
genies.’
‘I’ll give you a test’, decided Joe, who was not going to be criticised
by any old genie or genii or genies.
‘Whatever’, shrugged the genie, ‘hit me with your best shot.’
‘Can you fill the room with ice—cream, but first why are you talking
like that?’
‘Easyville, what flavour’, declared the genie, ‘and I’m talking like
this because it isn’t the first time I’ve been recycled.’
‘Hold on a minute’, Joe pondered. Perhaps the ice—cream wasn’t a good
idea. If the genie was telling the truth his mum would be furious about
a room full of ice—cream, whatever the flavour. There was, however,
another test he could try.
‘Do you know anything about the history of Stockport’ asked Joe? ‘Is the
Pope a Catholic’, replied the genie. ‘I’ll do better than telling you
about it. I’ll take you back through time. Where do you want to start?’
‘At the beginning,’ suggested Joe, ‘and what were you before you were my
badge?’
‘I was the Fonz’s belt buckle in Happy Days’, chuckled the genie. ‘Are
you ready?’
‘Yes,’ Joe said nervously, and away they went.
Joe looked around him. He seemed to be standing on a large plateau.
Below him was a river and in the distance, hills. There was lots of
trees.
‘Where are we,’ Joe wanted to know? It didn’t seem anything like
anywhere he knew.
‘This is Stockport. We’re standing in the Market Place’, answered the
genie. ‘Well! It will be Stockport in a few hundred years time.’
Joe gazed down towards the river and to his right. The land was wet and
swampy.
‘That will be Portwood’, the genie informed him. ‘In the late glacial
times the Mersey couldn’t escape to the sea because ice blocked what is
now the outlet and the water was diverted across Cheshire to the Dee. A
lot of the low lying land was swampy.’
‘Do any Romans live here,’ asked Joe?
‘They come later’, returned the genie.
‘Does anyone live here,’ Joe wanted to know?
‘Gadzooks — yes! Nomads.’
‘What are nomads, and the Fonz never said gadzooks.’ Joe might not know
a lot about Stockport but he liked old television programmes.
‘Nomads are people who wander about. They often follow where their
cattle take them. In Cheshire they belong to a tribe called the Cornavii.
Their lands are between the Mersey and the Dee, but they make inroads
south as far as Leicestershire. Across the river live another tribe
called the Brigantes. Their area is Lancashire and Yorkshire. So
Stockport’s on the border and land disputes are frequent. Incidentally,
I picked up Gadzooks when I was the nib in William Shakespeare’s pen,
not from the Fonz.’
‘Pull the other one’, Joe was not to be fooled. ‘Shakespeare wrote with
a quill’
‘Just testing’, returned the genie. ‘Let’s travel!’
Nothing seemed to have changed. Same hills, same trees, same river. They
were still in the Market Place. Then Joe noticed the fort. It reminded
him of the forts in western films. The ones usually attacked by indians.
‘Remember asking if any Romans lived here’, commented the genie. ‘Well!
They built that fort.’
‘Doesn’t seem very big’, returned Joe. ‘There can’t be many of them.’
‘About 120. It’s an outlying fort protecting the approach to Manchester.
The Romans have a Governor of Britain named Agricola and he’s stationed
a legion at Deva. You’d call it Chester. This fort is important because
it protects the ford over the Mersey.’
‘Is Agricola any relation to Pepsi and Coca Cola,’ mused Joe?
‘I’ll do the jokes’, snorted the genie.
‘OK!’ Joe was not a bit abashed. He enjoyed telling jokes. ‘Don’t the
Cornavii and the Brigantes ever fight the Romans? I would if I was
them.’
‘Sometimes they do. That’s why the Romans need the fort. Agricola was
clever though, he recruited local youths into the legions. This weakened
the tribes and strengthened Rome.’
‘That wouldn’t work’, commented Joe. ‘Their loyalty would be to their
own people.’
‘The Romans stationed them in other parts of their empire to avoid
this’, explained the genie.
‘That is clever’, admitted Joe, ‘but you said they only fought
sometimes.’
‘That’s right! The Romans built lots of roads around England and several
met at Stockport. That shows the importance of the ford. The next place
to cross the river was Warrington. They stayed in Britain several
hundred years and developed trade and agriculture.’
‘The tribes must have traded before the Romans came’, protested Joe.
‘True’, said the genie, ‘but under Roman rule there wasn’t the inter
tribal warfare and this brought more prosperity.’
‘I’d rather have stayed as I was, with no Roman government’, stated Joe.
‘Et tu Brute’, sighed the genie.
‘What does that mean’, asked Joe.
‘It’s Latin for You Too Brutus. I was quoting Shakespeare,’ explained
the genie.
‘I don’t believe this. You’re trying to con me with the Shakespeare’s
bit again.’
‘Course not,’ commented the genie. ‘I was once the tap on Lawrence
Olivier’s bath. He was an actor, and that was where he used to rehearse
and read his parts.’
‘So I’m not the only one who’s usually in hot water,’ quipped Joe.
‘Remember what I told you about the jokes,’ said the genie.
‘Just testing’, returned Joe, getting his own back.
PENALTY!! The crowd were going wild. The excitement was electric.
‘Where are we now’, asked Joe, but it seemed familiar.
‘Take a guess. I should think you’ve been here before.’
The genie was right. He had been here before and Joe knew where he was
even though the ground had changed.
‘This is County’s ground’, he decided.
‘Got it in one. We’re at Edgeley Park, it’s February 1950 and it’s the
F.A. Cup 5th Round, County are playing Liverpool. Alec Herd’s just been
brought down in the penalty area.’
‘Do County score from the penalty’, Joe wanted to know.
‘The referee doesn’t give one and Liverpool win 2-1. It was a bit
embarrassing at the time because I’d been recycled again and I was
living in the referee’s whistle. It was one of the worst times of my
life. I kept getting a ringing in my ears.’
‘Serves you right’, Joe was indignant. ‘County could have won the cup.’
‘Unlikely! They did get their biggest ever crowd for the match, however,
a gate of 27,833. See the children sitting round the touch line. The
older fans lifted them over the barrier. It was one of the most
memorable matches in County’s history. They’ve got themselves into the
record books several times. They beat Halifax 13—0 in 1934 and they
played Doncaster Rovers in the longest game. In ‘65 they played
Liverpool again in the F.A. Cup. It was at Anfield.’
'Did County win’, Joe wanted to know.
‘A draw 1—1. Gordon Mime scored for Liverpool and Len White for County.
They lost the replay at Edgeley 2—0. Roger Hunt scored both goals. He
played for England when they won the World Cup the following year. In
fact nearly everyone on Liverpool’s team was an international.’
‘When did County Start?’
‘As an amateur team in 1883. They were Heaton Norris Rovers then and
they played on Green Lane behind a pub called the Nursery. They joined
the football combination in the 1891/92 season as Stockport County.’
‘Was Danny Begara manager then’, Joe asked?
‘Hardly’, replied the genie, ‘he hadn’t been born.’
‘Did any internationals play for County?’
‘Only one was capped while playing with County. Harry Hardy, he
was a goalkeeper, but they had players like Alec Herd, Len
Allchurch, Neil Franklin and Alex Young. They’d all won
international caps before they signed for County. George Best, too, he’s
worn a County shirt. Then there was Alec Herd’s son, David, he played
for County before being capped for Scotland. Ron Staniforth was a great
full back. He won an England cap after moving to Huddersfield. Talking
of moving should we be off?’
‘OK!’ said Joe, ‘but first do you have a name? I just can’t say:
Hey you! or something like that when I want to talk to you.’ ‘See no
reason why not,’ the genie mused. ‘I like it. Short, two letters, A—U.
easy to spell. I’ve been called worse things.’ Joe groaned. Of all the
genies in the world, he had to be lumbered with a dyslexic one.
‘Do you need help with spelling too,’ offered the genie? ‘Ta! but no’,
replied Joe, with his fingers crossed. ‘I’m pretty good at spelling.’
So A-U it became.
.‘We’re back in the Market Place’, Joe noted.
‘As ever!’ agreed A-U, ‘but the Normans rule hereabouts now.’ There was
no castle. At least not the type Joe considered to be a Norman castle,
like the ones he’d seen in Robin Hood. Stronger looking wooden walls and
earthworks, but not greatly different from when the Romans had been
here.
‘Where’s the castle’, Joe wanted to know? ‘I thought they would have
massive stone walls with places where archers could fire their arrows.’
‘The Normans will build in stone here about 1200 but for the moment the
wooden palisades and the earthworks have to suffice. The Earl of Chester
rules this area for the King. His name’s Hugo D’Avranches and he’s King
Williams’s nephew. People call him Hugh Lupus, which means Hugh the
Wolf.’
‘He sounds pretty tough’, commented Joe.
‘He is and he needs to be. Not only are there rebellions in his own
district but also raids from over the Welsh border. Incidentally you
won’t find Stockport mentioned in the Domesday Book but that doesn’t
mean it didn’t exist before then.’ ‘What’s the Domesday Book,’ asked
Joe?
‘A survey of the country. The Norman armies laid a lot of the area to
waste as they swept north. Some local names are mentioned. Bredbury and
Offerton. Bramhall was worth 32 shillings in King Edward’s time, the
survey lists it as worth 5 shillings and a waste. Five shillings is 25p
to you.’
‘If I offered the Council 25p, say 30p to give them a profit, for
Bramhall, do you think they’d sell?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ returned A-U, ‘not with inflation.’ ‘Grief
thought Joe. ‘This is the character who wanted to do all the jokes. He
wouldn’t see a joke if he fell over it. Wonder if I can swop him for a
model with a sense of humour.’
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ A-U interrupted his muse. ‘The answer’s
no. Anyway I’m considered pretty frivolous as far as genii go. How about
a quiz on the Normans?’
‘OK’, agreed Joe, who was a bit embarrassed.
‘Right then! Here’s the first question. Who was Hugh Lupus?’ ‘Easy,’
said Joe. ‘He was the Earl of Chester. Ask me another.’ ‘Was Stockport
in the Domesday Book?’
‘No, but Bredbury and Offerton were. ‘Hang on a minute’, Joe had thought
of something. ‘They’re in Stockport.’
‘Not then’, answered A-U. ‘At that time Stockport was the area around
the ford and the Market Place. Next question. What is a hide?’
Joe pondered. ‘It’s a place near Stockport.’
‘No! That’s Hyde with a Y. I meant H-I-D-E and it’s an area of land
that’s large enough to support a freeholder’s family. It varies in size
depending on the quality of the soil. From about 100 to 180 acres.’
‘That’s not fair. You never told me that.’ Joe was indignant. ‘I think
you’ve only started this quiz to prove you were once the pen of some TV
quiz master like Bob Monkhouse or Jim Bowen.’ ‘Pretty shrewd guess,’
admitted A-U, ‘but it wasn’t a TV quiz master it was the captain of a
pub team in Manchester and I wasn’t his pen. I was the clip on the end
of his braces.’
‘He must have spent most of his time with his hands in his pockets if
those questions were anything to go by,’ quipped Joe. ‘Very witty. Do
you fancy a trip to the bridge?’
'What bridge?’
‘You’ll see. Come on.’
The river flowed swiftly and the people crossing it seemed relieved when
they reached the other side of the bridge. It didn’t look the same River
Mersey that Joe knew. He told A-U this.
‘This doesn’t look like the Mersey at all’, he said. ‘When I’ve seen the
Mersey there’s never enough water in it to boil an egg. This is some
river.’
‘Yes!’ admitted A-U. ‘It does look different. For centuries the river
was noted for its sudden floods. It was a dangerous crossing at the
ford.’
‘Is the ford still there,’ Joe wanted to know?
‘Of course, but now the bridge has been built. See the building at the
end? Well! This is 1374 and that is the hermitage of a chaplain named
Thomas. He has an oratory there and travellers give him gifts to show
thanks for a safe passage over the river.’ ‘Sounds like a con trick to
me. Does he get arrested?’
Joe was immediately interested.
‘Who was it’, he wanted to know?
‘No! He’s got a licence from the Bishop of Lichfield. It’s all
official.’
‘It still sounds like a con trick.’ Joe was not convinced. ‘What’s an
oratory anyway?’
‘An oratory is a room set aside for private pray. It isn’t a con trick
he’s deeply religious.’
‘Do people still use the ford’ asked Joe, changing the subject? If there
was one thing he knew less about than the history of Stockport it was
religion.
‘Sometimes they have to. As I said there are lots of floods and over the
centuries the bridge will be swept away and need replacing. Then there
was the time it was blown up by the Liverpool Blues.’
Joe was amazed. ‘I’m gobsmacked,’ he said. ‘Why should Everton want to
blow up a bridge in Stockport? Was it something to do with crowd
control?’
‘Nothing to do with football at all. We’ll come back to it and have a
look. In the meantime though the bridge was often in need of repair. For
instance it was repaired in 1657 and again in
1666.
‘The first lot must have been a load of cowboys,’ Joe proclaimed.
‘That’s only nine years later.’
‘So maths is your subject’, observed A-U.
‘No, I’m really into computers. When I leave school I’m going to be a
Computer Wizzkid. Whatever that is.’
‘I became computer literate when I was recycled once and spent some time
at the US Space Exploration Base at Cape Kennedy.’ Joe was impressed.
‘Fantastic! Were you part of a moon landing... or even a probe into deep
space?’
‘Well not exactly! I was part of the coffee vending machine in the
operations room, but I did keep my eyes and ears open.’ A-U sensed Joe’s
disappointment and tried to make amends. ‘How do you fancy a trip to the
theatre Joe?’
‘Alright,’ was the reply, ‘but the drinks are on you.’
What’s the play’, asked Joe?
They were sitting at the back of a theatre, in the cheap seats. ‘It’s
called Sherlock Holmes and the Strange Case of Miss Faulkner. See the
youngster playing the pageboy? That’s Charlie Chaplin and this is 1902.’
‘I’ve seen him in old films on TV with a walking stick. He plays a
tramp.’
‘That’s right. He also appeared at the Grand Theatre, just down the
road. The Grand became the Hippodrome and was finally a cinema called
the Aster. It burned down in 1960.’
‘What’s the name of this theatre?’
‘It’s the Theatre Royal and it’s on St. Peter’s Square. There’s been a
theatre here since 1869. That was the People’s Opera House. It was
opened by a Mr Revill. The building had previously been the People’s
Temperance Hall. It was burned down in 1887 and a new theatre was built
on the same site.’
‘I prefer comedies, anyway’, Joe informed A-U. ‘You get some good ones
on BBC and ITV.’
‘In April 1956 one of the stars of Coronation Street topped the bill.’
'Who was that?'
'Betty Driver’, replied A-U.
‘Never heard of her’, said Joe. ‘She can’t have been in it long.’
‘She plays Betty Turpin, the barmaid at the Rover’s Return. She’s been
in it for years. I should know. I was once part of the pump on the bar.’
‘Pull the other one.’ Joe was trying to hide the fact that although he
watched the programme he didn’t know the names of the actors, only those
of the characters. ‘Was the Theatre Royal the first theatre in
Stockport?’
‘No! The first was called Theatre and it was on Park Street just off the
Market Place. It opened in 1800 and the company was run by Mr Stanton.
It consisted of 5 men and 5 women. Some were married and their children
also had parts.’
‘I could do that’, asserted Joe. ‘I could act, I could be a star.’
‘You couldn’t remember the tramlines, let alone your own lines’, said
A-U.
‘Yes I could’, claimed Joe.
‘OK! What are the tramlines?’
‘I don’t know’, admitted Joe. ‘I can’t remember them.’
‘‘56, the year Betty Driver starred at the Theatre Royal, was also the
year the Century Theatre came to Hollywood Park.’ ‘Where did they build
it, on the Rec?’ Joe was puzzled. There was no sign of a building there
now.
‘There wasn’t a building. The thing about the Century was that it was a
travelling theatre and in November ‘56 they were touring towns in
Cheshire and Lancashire.’
‘Did they have a big tent like the circus,’ asked Joe? ‘Did they have
clowns and trapeze artistes, and people like that?’
‘No they performed plays, but the Century was something new. It
consisted of four large trailers and these were joined together to form
the theatre. It was electrically heated and ventilated, and it seated
225.’
‘Did they do a comedy at Hollywood?’
‘Yes! It was a French Farce: A Trip Abroad!’
‘How did people understand it if it was in French?’ Joe was, getting
confused.
‘This was an English translation. They also performed a mystery play and
a drama, too, while they were at Hollywood.’
‘How did the actors make themselves heard?’
‘In a small theatre like that they’d use voice projection but in a
larger one they could use a standing mike.’
‘What’s a standing and my name’s Joe?’
‘When I say a standing mike, Joe, I don’t mean a standing Mike I mean a
standing mike, Joe.’
‘So they used a standing Mike Joe.’
‘No Joe! They didn’t use a standing Mike Joe they used a standing mike,
Joe.’
‘Right! If there’s no standing Mike Joe what’s a standing Mike Joe?’
‘Watts are what went through the standing mike, Joe, and you’re right
there’s no standing Mike Joe.’
‘I give up,’ said Joe, who was utterly bewildered.
‘A standing mike is a microphone on a stand,’ relented A-U. ‘I was just
involving you in the type of crosstalk act that two comedians named
Abbott and Costello used in the 1940s.’
‘They don’t seem very funny. ‘ Joe was not amused.
‘They weren’t very funny then,’ admitted A-U, ‘but speaking of the ‘40,s
we’ll visit them shall we. You’ll have to remember — There’s a war on!’
Joe crouched low. If the bullets were flying his pyjamas were not going
to be much protection. His caution seemed to be causing A-U some
amusement.
‘There’s no fighting hereabouts at the moment,’ he smiled, ‘you can
stand up.’
Sheepishly Joe rose and glanced about him. He was in his own garden.
‘This is our garden,’ he told A-U.
‘What amazing powers of observation you’ve got,’ muttered the genie
sarcastically. Try using them to see if there’s anything different.'
‘Well the windows have bits of tape stuck on them.’
‘That’s to prevent flying glass if there’s bombing. Try something in the
garden.’
The only major difference Joe could see was a large mound of earth that
seemed to be covering a metal shed.
‘There’s a big lump of earth near the garden wall,’ he commented. ‘It’s
that I’ve brought you here to see,’ his friend replied. ‘That’s an
Anderson Shelter. They are made of corrugated metal and families went
into them during air raids.’
‘If we hang around we might see my mum.’
This amused the genie even more. ‘We’ll have to hang around a long time.
She hasn’t been born yet.’
Joe was desperately trying to think of something to say that A-U
wouldn’t find silly. ‘Do all families have their own shelter,’ he asked?
‘Not all, Several types of shelter were used. Brick ones were built with
concrete roofs, but Stockport was lucky they had a system of caves. They
enlarged them just before the war started. Some are under the banks at
Brinksway.’
‘I know them,’ said Joe. ‘They’re closed off now.’
‘During the Second World War lots of people used them. They’re very
extensive. Stockport had the largest system of air raid shelters outside
London.’
‘Did London have caves too?’
‘No they used the Underground Railway.’
‘Is the cave system the same one that our class went round? The air raid
shelters at Chestergate.’
‘The very same,’ replied A-U. ‘Did you enjoy the trip?’
‘Yes! It was OK, but everywhere seemed gloomy. I’m glad I didn’t have to
sleep in them.’
‘You’d have got used to them. Although the atmosphere was blamed for
several deaths. In October 1940 the Mayor of Stockport told the council
he didn’t think working-class people should be allowed to use the
tunnels. He claimed they were leaving them in a dirty state, and the
working-class should stay at home and risk being bombed. His timing
couldn’t have been worse. That night Stockport had its first air raid
and several people were killed in Portwood.’
‘Do you think there’ll be bombing tonight?
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure of the exact date.’ A-U was treating the
whole thing lightly. ‘Anyway, I’ll have to leave you for the moment.
I’ve got a conference to attend.’
If there had been a roof Joe would have hit it. He could feel the panic
building. ‘You can’t just leave me here,’ he gasped, I’ll never get
back.’
‘Get back where,’ reasoned A-U. ‘This is you own garden.’ ‘It might be
my garden, but I’m not due to be born for about fifty years.’
‘No need to worry, as long as you have the badge no one can see you and
I’ll be back soon. The reason I have to attend this conference is I’m a
candidate for chairman of the Guild of Genii. If successful I’ll hold
office for a thousand years. There’s a rival candidate and he’s bound to
win if I’m not at the conference.’
Joe was not convinced and started to protest, but it was useless. A-U
had vanished.
The familiar surroundings didn’t make Joe any less nervous, but he took
comfort from A-U’s remark about being invisible whilst he was wearing
the badge.
‘Put your hands up or I’ll shoot.’
Joe glanced about the garden. He was alone, but, surely, he couldn’t be
seen.
He fingered the badge for reassurance. It wasn’t there. He was the one
who was going to be shot, Slowly turning to face the voice, he raised
his hands. A boy was looking over the wall and pointing a toy gun at
Joe. It looked like a water pistol. ‘Are you a German spy,’ demanded the
boy?
‘No, I’m Joe.’ He needed to think rapidly. The boy seemed convinced he
wasn’t a spy, relieved even, but there were lots of traps he could fall
into. Joe realised he didn’t even know the date and his knowledge of
World War Two wouldn’t exactly fill a data bank.
‘What are you doing in next doors back yard in your pyjamas,’ the boy
now wanted to know.
Improvising, Joe said. ‘I was going to spend the night in a friend’s air
raid shelter but I’ve got lost.’
'Never mind.’ The boy climbed over the wall to join him, putting his toy
gun in a pocket. ‘You can spend the night in ours. I’m Eric.’ He
stretched out his hand to shake.
‘Thanks!’ Joe was unsure but the alternative was wandering around in his
pyjamas and he’d meet people who might be less friendly. Certainly less
gullible.
‘Get back over here Our Kid, or I’ll clip your ear.’ A blonde haired
girl was now looking over the wall, She was older than Eric but clearly
his sister.
‘Hiya, Our Kid,’ returned Eric. ‘This is Joe. He’s my friend. He’s not a
German spy.’
‘I didn’t think he was a German spy and I’m talking to you.’ Eric
started to climb back into his own garden and Joe quickly followed him.
He’d have to remember to call it a back yard though. The girl seemed
brighter but Joe couldn’t think of a better alternative. He had to stay
close to where A-U had left him or find the badge. A thought struck him.
What if he’d dropped the badge in the Theatre Royal in 1902! What if
Charlie Chaplin had found it! What if A-U couldn’t find him! What if he
couldn’t get back! Why did they call each other Our Kid! Should he call
them Our Kid! Better not until he was sure of its meaning. What a mess!
He’d kill A-U next time he saw him. No he wouldn’t he needed him.
‘Joe’s going to spend the night in our shelter,’ Eric was telling his
sister. ‘He intended to stay with a friend but he’s lost.’
‘Better come in then, said the girl. ‘By the way, I’m Beryl.’ She opened
the shelter door and they went inside. Joe was surprised how roomy it
was. The shelter had been sunk into the ground. It was larger than it
appeared from the outside. Beryl had lit a lamp and Joe could see the
interior. In the middle was a stove and down each side were bunks for
sleeping.
‘Nice shelter you’ve got here.’ A bit of buttering up seemed in order.
‘Do you sleep here every night?’
‘Since the Germans started blitzing Manchester,’ replied Beryl. ‘I’d
have thought you would too if you live locally.’
She seemed to be getting suspicious and Joe was glad when Eric
interrupted. ‘We had a doodle-bug the other week.’
What were blitzes and doodle-bugs? Joe wished the school library had a
slang dictionary as well as the usual sort. That might have helped him.
Now was the time to change the subject.
‘Our Mam, and Grandma and Grandad will be here soon,’ interjected Beryl
before he could speak.
Mam, Grandma and Grandad must mean Mum, Nana and Grandfather. He was in
a cultural time warp again. Whatever you called them they were adults.
He’d have to be careful.
‘Will your father be coming too,’ asked Joe.
‘Dad’s in the army. He’s in Africa,’ Eric told him. ‘General Montgomery
always consults him.’
‘Take no notice of Our Kid,’ Beryl told Joe. ‘Dad’s a nursing orderly in
the RAMC. All Our Kid’s friends are just the same. They all claim their
dads are really important in the army.’ ‘Who’s General Montgomery and
what’s the RAMC?’ Joe could have cut his tongue out. Any 1940s kid would
have known. ‘Montgomery’s head of the 8th Army and RAMC means Royal Army
Medical Corps.’ At least Eric didn’t seem to have noticed anything
strange.
‘Is your Dad in the army?’
This was tricky. Joe realised he didn’t know much about World War II,
and he’d made too many mistakes already.
‘It’s secret. I’m not allowed to say,’ claimed Joe. ‘There’s a war on
you know,’ he added, quoting A-U.
Eric was impressed. Hinting at the need for secrecy was brilliant. One
boy at school claimed his father was a Field Marshall. No one believed
him. Secrecy couldn’t be challenged. He was beginning to like Joe.
‘You can join our gang if you like, We hunt out enemy spies and
paratroopers.’
‘Take no notice of Our Kid, said Beryl again. ‘There’s four of them and
they have water pistols. If they saw a paratrooper they’d run a mile. He
made a wooden sword last week and he lost it next day.’
Joe, who was feeling pretty inadequate in the lost property department
himself, accepted the invitation. ‘Thanks for asking me,’ he said.
‘There’s a secret initiation ceremony,’ was Eric’s spur of the moment
invention. He had decided secrecy was the thing from now on. You could
do things with secrecy.
What if the spies we capture turn out to be our spies,’ asked Joe.
Eric was horrified. ‘We don’t have spies, they have spies. We do have
agents,’ he admitted, ‘but that’s different.’
‘Shut up Kid,’ interrupted his sister. ‘Would you like to see my
shrapnel collection Joe?’
Joe had no idea what a shrapnel collection was but he agreed to look.
Beryl took a box from under a bunk and opened it. Shrapnel turned out to
be pieces of metal. It was never going to replace stamps.
‘Best shrapnel collection I’ve ever seen,’ Joe told her, tongue in
cheek. It was true. It was the only collection he’d seen. ‘It’s not that
good,’ Beryl was not to be flattered. ‘We don’t get that much shrapnel
in Stockport.’
‘Right.’ said Joe.
‘Are you a Yank,’ she wanted to know.
‘Of course not. I was born in Stockport. What makes you think I’m a
Yank?’
‘It’s the things you don’t know and the way you use words like right.’
‘Oh! I heard that in an Abbott and Costello film.’ He hoped some of them
had been shown in Stockport.
‘They’re rubbish,’ cut in Eric.
‘I like them’, disagreed his sister. ‘Isn’t it about time you went to
bed, Mam will be in soon.’ Beryl seemed to be the one in charge.
‘OK then,’ Eric accepted the voice of authority. ‘Here Joe. I found this
big button with your name on it in next door’s yard. I’d like one of
those.’
‘It’d be no use to him,’ quipped his sister. ‘He can only spell words of
up to three letters.’
‘I can spell Bossy Boots,’ muttered Eric, handing over the badge. ‘Where
have you been,’ demanded A-U appearing at Joe’s side? ‘Where have I
been? What about you?’
‘I thought you’d never ask. I won!’
‘Just what are you talking about?’ Joe had felt less bewildered talking
to Beryl and Eric. Cricky! He’d forgotten his new friends.
‘Don’t worry, they’re asleep.’ A-U told him. ‘They won’t remember
anything. In answer to your kind enquiry you are now talking to the
Chairman of the Guild of Genii.’ ‘Congratulations! I was worried though,
the badge came undone and I thought you’d never find me.’
A-U was sympathetic. ‘I would have found you eventually, but now I
suppose you’d like to go somewhere else.’
‘First what’s shrapnel,’ Joe wanted to know?
‘It’s jagged fragments from bombs and shells,’ A-U informed him, ‘and
before you ask they both survive the war. Anywhere special you’d like to
go?’
‘Just as long as it’s in the open air.’ Joe had had enough of air raid
shelters.
This seemed better. The air raid shelter had been very stuffy in
comparison. It was really fresh. Joe was savouring the moment. Being in
the open air was much preferable. Suddenly he realised IN was the
operative word. He was floating.
‘When I said in the open air, A-U, I didn’t mean IN the open air, I
meant in the open air.’
‘Good! Another crosstalk act,’ the genie replied.
‘Crosstalk nothing. The only cross talk you’ll be getting is because I’m
well cross with you. It may have escaped your attention but we’re not on
the ground, and we’re getting higher by the second.’
‘Of course! It’s a balloon ascent. This is a little part of local
history in the making. The first balloon flight from Stockport. Look
over the side you’ll get a great view of the Market.’
Joe gripped the edge of the balloon’s car and hung on. Air raid shelters
were beginning to look good.
‘It’s June 18, 1827, we’re celebrating the anniversary of the Battle of
Waterloo,’ prattled A-U. ‘The balloonist’s name is Mr Green.’
Joe peered through half open eyes. Still gripping the sides. There were
two men in the car. ‘Who’s the other one,’ he whispered. ‘I hope he’s
not on a crazy suicide mission for some whacko flat earth society.’
‘There’s no need to be frightened we’re perfectly safe. His name’s Gee
and he’s been invited along as a passenger. He lives in Edgeley.’
‘I live in Edgeley too,’ Joe was beginning to overcome his nervousness
and was feeling more relaxed. He looked about him. A-U was right the
view was fab.
‘Where’s the Indoor Market,’ Joe wanted to know. Now his initial panic
was over he’d decided to enjoy himself.
‘It won’t be built until 1861. At first it wasn’t completely enclosed
and people called it the glass umbrella on stilts. One of the early
traders there was Ephraim Marks.’
‘Never heard of him,’ confessed Joe. ‘Who was he?’
‘He was one of the founders of Marks and Spencer. I suppose you’ve heard
of them.’
Joe had. ‘I’ve been shopping there with my Mum,’ he said, looking around
below him. ‘There’s no Hen Market either,’ he noticed.
'Wasn't built until 1851. The Market’s not always looked the way you
know it.’
To Joe this was obvious but he didn’t want to interrupt the genie in
full flow.
‘It all started in the year 1260,’ continued A-U. ‘If you want the exact
date, September 6th. Edward the First, although he didn’t become that
until later, he was Prince Edward at the time, granted Robert de
Stokeport, who was lord of the manor, the right to hold a weekly market
and an annual fair. The Market’s been in existence now for over 700
years.’
‘Where’s the castle then? You said the Normans built in stone
eventually.’
‘Some of the town walls are still there, but hidden behind the
buildings. On Castle Hill, where you saw the earthworks, it became
ruins. These were razed in the 1700s and a round tower, which looked
like a castle but was actually a muslin mill, was built. It’s no longer
a mill, in fact part of it is the Castle Inn and that’s where we took
off from.’
‘I’ve never flown before,’ admitted Joe. ‘Not even in an aeroplane.
Certainly not in a balloon.’
‘I, of course, have considerable flying experience.’ A-U was trying to
appear modest and failing.
‘Did you fly in World War Two? Were you a Spitfire?’ ‘During World War
Two! I was a Doodlebug!’ A-U told him. ‘You couldn’t have been. We
didn’t have them. They had them.’ He couldn’t have misunderstood Eric
that much.
‘Well!’ explained A-U, attempting to let Joe down gently. ‘We had them,
but you didn’t have them.’
‘That means you were on their side,’ accused Joe. ‘You were one of the
Bad Guys.’
‘Wars don’t have Good Guys and Bad Guys. There’s just guys on opposing
sides but it’s difficult to see that at the time.’ ‘Well I just hope you
didn’t land on Stockport,’ sniffed Joe. ‘I just hope you didn’t kill
anyone.’
‘Those primitive rockets just landed where they landed. It was very hit
and miss,’ admitted A-U.
‘Well! Where did you land?’ Joe was afraid to ask, but felt compelled.
‘Er! In a cess pit,’ mumbled A-U.
‘Serves you right,’ said Joe. He felt that justice had triumphed.
‘Forget war. Look at the view.’ A-U was clearly embarrassed by his
misfortune. However, the view was no longer there. They had moved into
cloud.
Joe crossed to the other side of the car, brushing against the anchor as
he passed. Then it happened. He started to see double.
‘I’m getting light headed,’ he complained to A-U. ‘I’m seeing two of
you.’
‘Nothing to worry about. You’ve just released him from the anchor. This
is my best pal. We’ve been friends for centuries. He was runner up to me
in the Chairmanship vote.’
‘A-U,’ said the second genie, ‘get off of my cloud.’
‘I hate a poor loser,’ muttered A-U, and Joe found himself standing
outside the Parish Church.
‘I hate a poor loser,’ repeated the genie.
‘That was a joke,’ explained Joe ‘Hey You Get Off of My Cloud is a
record by the Rolling Stones. My Mum’s got it. It was a play on words!’
‘Joke! Joke! The last time he told a joke three Wise Men came out of the
East,’ grumbled A-U.
‘Was that before or after City won the league?’ enquired Joe innocently.
Pretending not to have noticed the Biblical implication.
‘You need more religious tutoring,’ said A-U, turning into St. Mary’s.
It felt colder in the church and Joe shivered. The roof was lofty with
massive stone pillar supports.
‘There’s been a church here since 1190,’ explained A-U. ‘The priest at
the time was named Matthew or Matteus rather.’
‘Same name as the saint.’ Joe was trying to redeem himself by showing he
wasn’t completely ignorant where the Bible was concerned. ‘It doesn’t
look that old,’ he added.
'It isn’t. Some of the vestry is very old, but for the most part the
church was rebuilt in the early 19th century. It replaced one built in
1310. Between 1810 and 1813 the tower had to be pulled down. It was in a
state of collapse due to the lengthy period of bell ringing after
Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar.’
‘When was that?’ Joe already knew but wanted to impress A-U by asking
questions that seemed relevant.
‘I think it was 1807,’ A-U told him.
‘No!’ corrected Joe, falling into the trap. ‘It was 1805.’
‘Don’t ask questions you know the answers to,’ he was reproved. ‘There’s
lots of other things to notice.’
Joe was embarrassed and for a while just walked around not noticing
anything.
A-U took pity on him. ‘John Bradshaw was baptised here in 1602,’ he
said. Now here was someone Joe had never heard of and his query Was
genuine.
‘Who’s he?’
‘He presided over the court which tried Charles I and his signature
heads the death warrant, someone has written traitor against his name in
the church records. John Wainwright’s buried here. He wrote the music to
the Christmas Carol, Christians Awake! He was organist here for a while.
There was also an unknown soldier buried here in 1644, when Prince
Rupert captured Stockport from the Cromwellians.
Joe was beginning to take interest. ‘I like the pulpits,’ he told A-U.
‘Yes there are two. One is 19th century and the other 16th. There’s some
great carving on the older one, don’t you agree?’
Joe had moved on and was looking at a crucifixion.
‘I wonder if it was really like that,’ he mused. Christ looked weary.
There seemed no nobility of purpose, no serenity. Just pain. A-U glanced
to where Joe was looking.
‘Yes! It was really like that. He suffered. When the Bible says he
suffered for our sakes, he really suffered.’
‘Were you there? Did you see it? Had you been recycled?’ Joe was agog.
‘Yes I was there.’
‘What were you? A centurions helmet.’
‘I was a nail.’
Joe gulped. ‘Not one of THE nails.’
‘Yes!’
Now it was A-U’s turn to show embarrassment and Joe wished he hadn’t
asked the question. ‘I’m sorry. Try to forget. It wasn’t your fault.’
‘I was forgiven,’ A-U told him, ‘and I forgive you. Come on let’s go
back to the Market.’
The clouds had cleared and the two walked out into a sunny September
afternoon. The Market seemed larger than Joe remembered from his
shopping trips with his Mum. ‘It looks different without the Market
Hall,’ he told A-U.
‘That’s right it does — larger. There was a need to make the market
bigger after centuries of trading and they knocked down three streets of
houses in front of the church. That was three years ago, in 1824. It
won’t be enough!
Eight years from now, the Court Leet will try to open a new market at
Hillgate for the sale of potatoes but the charter didn’t cover this. The
sign where it would have been is still on the wall.’
‘What’s the Court Leek,’ asked Joe? ‘Do they control the sale of
vegetables?’
‘Court Leet L-E--E-T. They govern the affairs of the town and have done
for hundreds of years. The lord of the manor appoints the steward who
acts as president and the members are burgesses of the town. They are
also market overlookers, tax assessors and toll collectors. They deal
out punishment to wrongdoers too. The dungeon was at the top of the
Mealhouse Brow.’
‘What sort of punishments?’
‘Well! There’s the whipping post. Only five years ago a man named Brown
was whipped for stealing an apron. Also the stocks and pillory. I’ve
some very unfound memories of the Stockport pillory.’
‘Were you a criminal?’
‘No I was the irons that fastened the prisoner to the pillory, which was
a wooden framework. If you was in the pillory or the stocks you had
rotten fruit and veg thrown at you. Most of it seemed to hit me. Eggs
too!’
‘I see,’ quipped Joe, ‘the yoke was on you.’
‘Very funny! Most of the time I was like a salad that’s past its sell by
date. The market traders wanted the whipping post and stocks moved from
the centre of the Market. It caused too much disturbance and distracted
people who were shopping.’
‘It sounds as though they relied on it for entertainment. Like an early
form of TV or video.’
‘That’s a good description. People did find it entertaining. I’d have
preferred it if they hadn’t. No one throws rotten eggs at TV.’
‘Have you ever seen the Des O’Connor Show,’ asked Joe? ‘They might start
throwing some at him.’
‘I like him,’ protested A-U. ‘I think his humour is really up to date.’
‘It would have been in 1827,’ replied Joe. ‘Mealhouse Brow looks
narrower.’ he noted.
‘It is. It was widened but not until after the tragedy in 1860.’ ‘What
happened then.’
‘Well — Vernon Park had opened two years previously and celebrations
were held in the Market. The buildings were illuminated, there were
marches, a balloon ascent and a firework display. When the fireworks
finished people left the Market by way of the Brows. A woman carrying a
child fell on Mealhouse and people pushing forward from the back created
havoc. Many were injured and six died. The youngest was not even one
year old. His name was George Worthington. A week later one of the
injured, a girl of 15 named Letitia Wilson, her friends called her
Lettuce, died in hospital.’
Joe was shocked. ‘It couldn’t happen now,’ he claimed.
‘It still does at football matches or any place where crowds panic.’
This talk of death depressed Joe and the mention of football reminded
him of the promise A-U had made that they would return to Lancashire
Bridge to look at the Liverpool Blues. Whoever they were. The genie
agreed to go but knew something Joe didn’t - Stockport, like the rest of
the country, would be part of a rebellion and more blood would be shed.
Joe and A-U stood beside Lancashire Bridge. Or they would have stood
beside Lancashire Bridge if Lancashire Bridge had been there. It wasn’t.
‘We’ve missed them,’ admitted A-U.
‘Missed them! How can we have missed them, and who were they anyway?’
‘It’s not easy to move instantly over a hundred years. Backwards!
There’s just been a slight hiccup. The Liverpool Blues were a Militia
regiment recruited to combat Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Rebels. Five
hundred of them came to Stockport and blew up the bridge to slow down
the rebel’s advance. This is 1745.’
‘Forget the rebels,’ Joe was piqued. ‘If you can slip up moving us how
are we going to get back on the right day?’ Joe was concerned. Not about
the Local History lesson, which he now felt more confident about, but
the fish and chips he would be having for his tea.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll get back OK. As it is we’re in luck.’
‘I see nothing lucky about arriving at the wrong time. What if we’d
landed on the bridge and got blown up with it? That would have been bad
luck too I suppose. They could have named it Joe’s Last Farewell, on the
Bridge of Sighs or something. My Mum wouldn’t have been pleased - I’ll
tell you that.’
‘Stop rabbiting on,’ interrupted A-U. ‘We’re lucky because it’s December
the seventh.
‘How do you know that? A moment ago you admitted we hadn’t arrived in
time to see the non—footballing Evertonians blow up the bridge. Now
you’ve got the date fixed to the exact day.’ A-U was being patient, but
with difficulty. ‘They’re the Liverpool Blues. See the four men riding
for the ford? Their names are Deacon, Bradshaw, Holker and Syddall.
They’re officers in the Manchester Regiment.’
‘What is the Manchester Regiment,’ asked Joe?
‘The rebels recruited them as they advanced through Lancashire. $o
they’re on the retreat. Bonnie Prince Charlie only got as far as Derby.
Just watch! The people of Stockport will fire on them.’
Sure enough! As the men approached the ford there was a rattle of musket
fire and one of the horses fell, throwing its rider. The fallen man was
picked up and the four won through to the ford and safety.
‘They’ve made it.’ Joe was getting excited now. ‘That was lucky!’
‘Not for the horse it wasn’t,’ commented A-U, ‘and they won’t live till
a ripe old age.’
‘Do they get shot on the retreat?’
‘Well they’ve got longer than that. What’s happened is - the Manchester
Regiment sent them back to raise more men. The regiment were outraged
when they discovered how the four officers had been treated and took
some prominent citizens, including the constable, to Manchester with
alters round their necks.’
‘Were they hanged?’ Joe was agog.
‘No! They were let off, but they got a bad fright.’
‘Serves them right!’ Joe was beginning to take side ‘What happened to
the four?’
‘The Manchester Regiment retreated as far as Carlisle. There they were
left as a garrison. They couldn’t hold out long and eventually
surrendered. Most were taken to London to await trial. Take Thomas
Syddall for instance. He’d been a barber in Manchester before he joined
the Stuart cause. He was in his thirties and had a wife and children. At
his trial he was found guilty. He was hung, drawn and quartered.
‘What does that mean,’ asked Joe? It didn’t sound pleasant. It wasn’t.
‘The condemned is hanged, but taken down before he’s dead. Then his
heart is ripped out and thrown into a fire. Finally he’s Cut into pieces
which maybe exhibited by putting them on spikes.’
‘That’s barbaric,’ Joe protested.
‘It gets worse,’ A-U admitted. ‘Syddall’s head was sent back to
Manchester and placed in such a position his widow could see it from her
bedroom window.’
‘Disgusting!’ Joe felt sick.
‘They’re you’re ancestors not mine,’ A-U reminded him. ‘Syddall’s father
was hung, drawn and quartered too. He supported the Stuarts in 1715.’
A-U tried to lighten the melancholy atmosphere that had developed.
‘Sometimes it could be funny. Do you want me to tell you about when I
was recycled as the Chevelier Johnstone’s shoe buckle and we were being
chased across Scotland by the Redcoats?’
‘No thanks,’ said Joe, who didn’t feel like laughing. ‘Let’s move on to
the next century. There’ll be more to laugh at then. Let’s meet some
children.’
‘How naive can you get, thought A-U, shaking his head.
They stood on the Hillgate. It was dark and cold. The stars were out. A
group of children were walking down towards them.
‘What are they doing out at this time of night’ Joe wanted to know
‘Their mothers will go mad when they get home. They’ll be too tired to
go to school.’
‘This isn’t night it’s morning. They’re going to work. There’s no school
for them during the week. A few lucky ones have schooling on Sundays at
Stockport Sunday School. The Ragged School will start in the 1840s for
children who are destitute.’
‘They can’t be going to work.’ Joe was indignant. ‘Some of them look
younger than me.’
‘Some of them are. Children as young as four have been known to be
working in the factories.’
‘You suggested we travelled to this time to see children and hear some
laughter,’ protested Joe.
‘No Joe.’ You did,’ the genie reminded him. ‘This is the 1830s and
children have to work long hours in the mills and factories. Not a lot
to laugh about really.’
‘Didn’t the government have laws to protect them?’
‘The law says young children can’t work more than 12 hours, but it’s
often ignored.’
Joe was outraged. ‘Twelve hours a week is far too long. The factory
owners should be brought to court.’
‘That’s twelve hours a DAY! and there are prosecutions. They can fail
though. The magistrates are often millowners themselves. One way round
the law is to have a child in one mill for say seven hours, then send
the same child to another mill for another seven hours.’
‘Would that be legal?’
‘No! But it would be difficult to spot. See the two girls at the back of
the group chatting? Their names are Elizabeth Brooks and Sarah Goulding,
and they work at Jesse Howard’s mill. Their employer will be prosecuted
by Charles Trimmer, who’s the Superintendent of Factories, for working
children longer than the Law allows. They begin work at 6 in the morning
and finish at 8 at night.’
‘Is he hung, drawn and quartered like Thomas Syddall?’ Joe was taking
sides and his previous revulsion for the punishment seemed to have
vanished.
‘In this instance the case will be dismissed,’ A-U informed him, ‘but
some prosecutions are successful. Later this year Thomas Hunt will be
summoned for the same thing and fined.’
‘Children didn’t seem to have much fun in the 1830s.’
‘You can never stop children enjoying themselves, but times were hard
with not much leisure. However, some people admire the factory system,
believing it brings wealth and discipline. They don’t have to do the
work, of course.’
‘I see,’ said Joe. ‘I’m beginning to cotton on now. I suppose they’d
tell each other stories. Spin the odd yarn, maybe with a twist at the
end. It would be too early to watch County though.’ ‘Yes, there was that
to be thankful for,’ replied A-U. ‘Living conditions were bad too with
not much sanitation and a great deal of overcrowding. See the little
girl in the doorway, Joe?’
Joe noticed a rather plump little girl who had been sheltering. She had
pressed back against the cold.
‘Is she on her way to work too,’ he enquired?
‘Her name’s Mary Stafford and she’s been abandoned by her parents,
who’ve left the area. She’s living rough on the streets.’
This horrified Joe. Things were getting worse and worse. ‘Will She
freeze to death,’ he wanted to know?
‘After a couple of months Sergeant Hough, of the Stockport Police, will
find her and she’ll be placed in the workhouse.’
‘What’s the workhouse,’ Joe asked?
‘It’s where the destitute can be housed. At the moment it’s at Daw Bank,
but a new one will be opened in 1841 at Shaw Heath. Whole families are
sent there sometimes, but kept separate. Husbands and wives in different
dormitories.’
‘At least Mary Stafford won’t freeze and it sounds no worse than having
to work.’
‘Of course she’ll have to work, Why do you think they call it a
workhouse. You’re right though. She won’t freeze. She’ll be housed and
fed. She’ll have clothing and given a certain amount of schooling, but
some people liken it to being in prison and there’s a social stigma
attached to it that won’t fade for a hundred years.’
‘I’ll never criticise school again,’ exclaimed Joe, who was feeling glad
that he’d not been a child then.
‘Bet this week’s spends on that?’ A-U was quick to take advantage of any
hastily made promise.
‘No!’ Joe back peddled, ‘but I quite like school anyway. I don’t mind
going.’
‘Right you are,’ said A-U.
The large room seemed familiar to Joe, but the rows of beds against the
walls made recognition slow in coming. Then he knew. He was in school.
‘When I said I didn’t mind going to school I never thought you’d take me
literally,’ he complained. ‘The pupils must get plenty of rest with all
these beds in the classroom.’
‘It’s 1916 and Britain’s at war with Germany. Your school is being used
as a hospital.’
‘Will I meet Beryl and Eric again,’ asked Joe?
‘That was World War Two. This is World War One or The Great War. People
called it The War to End All Wars, but they were wrong. The casualties
were enormous and schools became hospitals. Not all of the patients had
been injured fighting though. Some have caught diseases such as flu.’
‘Was ours the only school in Stockport used as a hospital?’ Joe felt
rather proud of his school now.
‘Several were used. Your school had only been built a couple of years
when war began so everything here is new.’
‘Did Stockport have its own regiment? Say the Stockport Light Infantry,’
asked Joe.
‘No,’ replied A-U. ‘Before the war started the local territorial unit
was the 6th Battalion of the Cheshire Regiment. Their colonel was Lt.
Colonel Sykes of Sykes Bleach Works in Edgeley, but he was 46 years old
and failed the medical inspection for service abroad. Many local men
have been killed and their names will be recorded in the War Memorial
Art Gallery at Greek Street.’
‘Wars are terrible aren’t they,’ said Joe. The rows of beds were a sad
reminder of just how terrible they were. Joe leaned on the end of a bed
a looked down the classroom, or was it a ward ‘I’ve been waiting for you
to turn up since 1827,’ said A-Us friend, materialising from the
bedstead. ‘Since you released me from the anchor I’ve been recycled
several times but never been able to find you. Where’ve you been?’
‘Here and there, back and forth,’ A-U told him. He didn’t seem overjoyed
at meeting his friend again.
‘Why have you been looking for us anyway,’ asked Joe?
‘You released me from the anchor and I have to obey you,’ the second
genie replied.
Joe groaned. He didn’t mind having two genies, but if they Were going to
quarrel he could do without the aggro.
‘You ought to have come with us from the balloon,’ A-U told his friend.
‘That would have been the sensible thing to do.’
‘I didn’t get change to, did I,’ his pal complained. ‘You took the hump,
made the jump, you great lump. I hope you landed really heavily.’
‘Don’t you mean with a bump,’ interrupted Joe.
‘Now you’re being a chump,’ both genies said together. They seemed to
have overcome their animosity. Rhymes and crosstalk must be their type
of humour. ‘I’ll have to remember that before I fall for another one of
their tricks,’ thought Joe. He turned to the second genie. ‘How would I
have carried an anchor around anyway,’ he asked?
‘Carrying a bed isn’t exactly going to be easy either.’ smirked A-U.
That was something no one had considered up to now.
‘I’ll try and hang around here for another 80 years until you start
school,’ Joe was told. ‘I’ll aim to get recycled as something else.
They’ll consider building a swimming pool here in 1964, perhaps I can be
part of that.’
‘There’s no swimming pool at our school,’ observed Joe.
‘Perhaps they never took the plunge,’ slipped in A-U, glad to prove his
sense of humour was equal to his friend’s.
‘Don’t worry Joe,’ the other genie said. ‘Just keep walking round the
school touching metal and I’ll find you.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a soft touch either,’ interrupted A-U, ‘pretty
tiring in fact.’
‘I’m tired now,’ admitted Joe. ‘I wouldn’t mind a rest on one of these
beds.’
Joe opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. It had changed. He was
no longer in the classroom. He was in his own bed. His mother was
already moving about the house. It had all been a dream. The local
history lesson was still to be tackled and his knowledge was still
zilch. The army still wouldn’t take him nor could he run away to sea.
That was a no option option that hadn’t changed. It was’nt Easyville.
Where had he heard that expression? Of course, A-U had picked it up when
he’d been the Fonz’s belt buckle. That was last night before he’d heard
of Agricola and Thomas Syddall. But wait! Yesterday he’d thought
Agricola was another name for farming, and of Thomas Syddall he’d known
nothing. Perhaps it hadn’t been a dream. Joe carefully transferred his
badge to his shirt. He collected his thoughts. The Brigantes lived in
Lancashire; County had beaten Halifax 13—0 in 1934; Bramhall was worth
25p in 1087 — couldn’t be worth much more now — must remember to make
the council an offer; Abbott and Costello weren’t all that funny; the
Liverpool Blues had nothing to do with Everton, and A-U couldn’t spell
for toffee.
Things were looking up — maybe it hadn’t been a dream after all. His
badge looked shiny as though it had been rubbed. He was going to enjoy
the lessons. Also he had another genie to find, and to name. Joe started
to whistle. One thing he was sure of — he was going to enjoy the fish
and chips he’d be having for his tea.
Joes Magic Badge by Eric
Sturmey