Wigan Album

This is a different backyard from most of the other backyard portraits for the photo was taken in Rathen Avenue, in Ince, and heralds the bittersweet end of the terraced period of our childhood. Suddenly, we had central heating and a bathroom. We found a spare toilet just inside the front door and a spare garden just outside it, although we’d little or no idea of what to do with this panoply of modern conveniences. Once the central heating timer had been worked out mi Mam switched it off ‘til winter. The walls were warm and dry, anyway. They had ears, the walls, for walls are born with ears, but they hadn’t learned to talk yet. The house was new and bright, clean and comfortable…… and sterile. I don’t mean that in a bad way. The walls had no stories to tell because the stories had yet to happen.

The back garden nestled tightly into the Whelley loop railway embankment and thence was loomed over by the slag heap. It was perfect for nipping over the fence for a few hours fishing on the cut, or a traipse about with the air rifle. The picture features the local urchin whose previous adventures in these pages have found him climbing up something or other in search of danger. Unusually, here, whilst not exactly on the ground, we can be thankful that he is reasonably close to it although I have little doubt that the more sensitive reader will have already begun to worry and fret over just exactly when, how fast, and towards which particular precipice would this sleek racing trolley inevitably be propelled. Let it be of some comfort, albeit straw-like, to these motherly-fatherly, heart-in-the-mouths, caring readers that the pilot is prepared in the usual, fully-faded yet toughly protective, denim battledress. Further peace of mind may be found by noting that we are not dealing with a rookie. Despite the boy's obvious tender age and slender build, there is a subtle clue that testifies to hard-won skills and experience: there are clinging fragments of knee material where skin and scars would normally be found. ( I shall forbear to use the word 'blood' at this juncture even though it would flow as freely into the narrative as it would flow as freely into a cinder track, for example, for the same reasons of sensitivity as those given above. I fear that to mention 'blood' would be to open the lock gates and allow the, perhaps by now, somewhat nervous and concerned reader to gush to a premature conclusion.)

Before we start proper on the trolley, there’s something needs a touch of clarification. It is a trolley in our parlance. It isn’t a bogie, however you want to spell it – even though |I like the railway connotation - and, it surely isn’t a soap-box cartie after Dennis the Menace. It’s a trolley. I’m going to stick with trolley as a nomenclature.

Probably, it would prove possible to chart the evolution and development of perambulators through the fifties, sixties and seventies by direct comparison with backyard trolley design of the same period - with an offset of some several years. Prams were handed down and around and back again sometimes as well. They lasted for ages, and had umpteen babies before becoming available. The trolleys of my own era would often be found with a spoked and rubber-rimmed wheel-set taking direct provenance from a sprung Silver Cross: the bigger pair of wheels being mounted at the rear - dragster style. It was commonplace to find the spoils of a donated pram having to be shared out and two trolleys would result, with big back wheels and little hybrid front ones which didn’t match. One thing’s for sure: we never found a dumped, old pram o’er fields that still had its wheels on. I think I can remember that there was a lady in the next row to us whose pram had a waiting list drawn up on it. The list comprised, in equal measure, of a mix of needy, pregnant nieces and hopeful little lads.

One of the hardest things to get hold of was a big nut and bolt for the steering block. Thin fasteners had a tendency to dig in, wear in and lock up with little warning, a skinning spill and a trapped foot. I have no idea where these bolts came from. Maybe it was someone’s Dad or big brother who’d turn up with one. They just seemed to appear by magic. If your luck was really in you’d get a washer or two to go with it. If your luck was out, then you’d have to trade something. No money changed hands. A good nut and bolt would have cost you a catty at the very least. If your luck was really out the nut would come loose, fall off and be lost in the long grass. That was misery on a par with having to have two spoonfuls of cod liver oil.

Whilst the steering was done mostly with your feet, you still had to have a good rope to drag the trolley about. The best ropes came from casement windows, yielding a virtually indestructible waxed rope that tied under, with some worthwhile difficulty, into a knot that never came undone. These were rare as well. Washing lines would suffice, mostly. In our old big backyard, all the lines were taken in out of the way when not being used and coiled up and hung on the wall spike in the little backyard. Them Mothers didn’t half get nowty on a Monday morning when the washing line was three foot short of the post.

Looking at the wheels in the picture, this trolley is decisively of the tansad vintage and can thus be reliably dated to about 1979. By the time this lad got his own trolley, the big, smooth-running wheels of earlier days may still have been around but they were definitely a rarity and highly prized. As always, it’s the lot of the trolley builder of lowly means that he’d to take what he could get and make the best of it. It was his lot, and his mark. For speed, though, it was all in the wheels. This tansad derivative was nothing to brag about and it wouldn't have won many races but a good bit of work has gone into it with the introduction of a backrest. Actually, this would have been more of a pushing board than a backrest. Members of the gang would take it in turns to ride and then to run and push behind.

These ‘gangs’ and ‘gang members’, mind, they weren’t like today. These words have acquired far too malevolent an undertone. Maybe, you’d get four or five little lads on a street corner about six or seven year olds. That was a gang. One would have sandals on and they’d all be in short pants. Two would have wellies on but not necessarily paired in the same shade, or even the same size, or even properly left and right. Most would have wet socks, wellies or no, and they’d all have a runny nose and a glistening sleeve. That was a gang. The worst thing that could happen to a little lad would be to get caught in the crossfire of a washing up liquid bottle water fight and have to go home before he was shouted. They’d be friends forever. It was a gang from the halcyon days of gangs. It was like Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven but without the cake, the lemonade and the hut, though, you might have a den in a bush o’er fields ‘til it got pogged. That was a gang.

What wouldn’t you give now to stand on that same street corner and mess about with the same mates? You’d have your pension in your pocket instead of three marbles and a smooth, white pebble, but your values might be the same: the value of the contents of your pocket might be the same, thinking about it. You’d be leaning on your walking stick instead of fencing with a bamboo cane, and you’d have to have your long pants on or else you really would look daft, but you could share your toffees out. You might still owe a toffee, here and there, and pay your debts off. With your good shoes on you could jump in a puddle and not get wet feet. That’s if you can still jump. And if you can run, well, you could chase the girls off and tell ‘em to go take their skipping ropes and their zimmers somewhere else. What wouldn’t you give for the taste of such an innocent midget gem?

The big trolley trial, the important one, was to get from Top Lock all the way down the cut to Rose Bridge with just one push. The push was limited to one lock’s length, or until the pusher lost contact, fell over and started to cry; whichever came first. To my knowledge this hasn’t ever been achieved without some element of cheating and anyone preparing to lay such claim will have to provide corroborative evidence in the form of signed witness statements preferably from a practising JP. For those unfamiliar with the terrain, the run represents a downhill stretch of a mile with a drop of one hundred and thirty feet brought about in the series of quantum leaps for which the locks were originally devised; the short steep slopes where the lock gates are and the level pool sections. After the one push and the racing down the first slope, you hoped to have enough momentum to coast through the straight and reach the next sloping surge of speed and so on like a helter-skelter. A piece of cake!

The run might well be a piece of cake today. There is a splendid surface of regimental block paving that is pretty near perfect for the job. If only there were any trolleys left. If only there weren’t any five-bar gates. Not that many years ago, the bank was hardcore and gravel with puddle and hole obstacles and, before that, in our days, it was just grey slutch. Just like the grey hills, it was pit spoil; thick, clogging, gluey, grey slutch. There was a bit of cinder or clinker here and there and massive holes and deep rigguts carved out by the rain nearly everywhere. You could drown in a puddle and what a glorious mess you could get yourself into. Beltin’! (Being the operative word when you dared to go home.)

And so, the day of the trial dawned. Apart from a few quick runs in the street, it was to be the launch and maiden voyage of this trolley. Now, I am aware of the stress-filled, angst-ridden, modern life. The papers tell me so. I feel that I cannot add to the emotional turmoil from which, it would appear, we all share and suffer. I have laid a few clues earlier as to the outcome of this adventure but I cannot take the risk that my, by now, one, remaining reader will have an anxiety attack. So, let it be known: the trolley survives intact; the boy swims like a fish. I can only hope that the use of words like ‘launch’ and ‘voyage’ haven’t given away the ending.

The sun shone when the day of the trial dawned. A stiff but mild westerly blew in, making it a good drying day for those whose washing lines still reached. It was a welcome change in the weather from the days preceding the event. Four solid days of Billinge rain had left Mothers’ tempers frayed and little lads’ batteries fully charged. By nine o’clock, all the local urchins had eaten their jelly jam on toast and been kicked out the front door and told to ‘keep clean and don’t come back ‘til teatime’. The gang had assembled by telepathy over a fifteen minute period. Two were mounted on bikes, two foot soldiers and the pilot and trolley made up the complement. A stolen smear of Stork margarine had been applied to the wheels of the trolley and worked in with a lolly stick. The sweet stain of jam that the lubricant contained went unnoticed, but by the one who sucked his finger clean. All was set. All were ready. None were prepared.

It was a long drag to Top Lock. First across the tarmac square at the end of Rathen, and up the clinkered embankment, with two dragging and one pushing, and then sharp left along the old line towards the cut. One was chewing a Bazooka Joe and bit it into almost halves before passing the sweet, sticky, smaller fragment to the one that was a closer mate than the others. The two outriders then pedalled and chewed their way ahead to the iron bridge, leaving the other three to bring up the rear, and the trolley. There was no iron bridge, but the Whelley lot always came down the line to where it used to be, and there’d been battles lately. All was clear. It wouldn’t do to get the trolley pinched before it had been tried out. The little gang crossed the cut on the footbridge at the end of the rabbit rocks and paused for thought. The chewing hadn’t gone unnoticed, and one of the infantry was known to be carrying; half a roll of fruit polos. No amount of arguing made any difference. The polos stayed in his pocket. It could be a long day. The bikers weren’t bothered. They had loads of juice left.

History does not record the reasons, not the whys, not the wherefores, that the gang did not turn left at this point for a dummy run. It was most usual to do a couple of locks at this, the fastest point of the descent. The three slopes of the Rabbs lock, the Iron Bridge lock and the Sandy Bottoms lock were the steepest, best bits of it all and the prospect was usually overwhelming. Had they succumbed to the temptation, one of them might have noticed the deep riggut on the Sandy Bottoms slope that had been pouring discolouring, grey rainwater into the cut for last four days. In a slow, dangerous curve water wards, from the top to the bottom of the slope, as silent as a snake, it lay in wait of the unwary. The boys turned right and uphill. They took the road less travelled. Such is fate.

There was still a way to go and it was all uphill. The troop strung out in a line and the bikers walked and wheeled. Matters needed deciding upon. The first run, at least, wasn’t in debate. That honour belonged to the trolley maker. Who would push? There wasn’t a leader. All things were sorted by agreement and by turns, and it was usually fair. The fastest runner would make the first push, then, he’d get the second run. At this, they had reached the stone bridge with the black pipe at Kirkless. Things happen at bridges, on bridges and under bridges: it is in their nature.

The pipe walk wasn’t that tricky and had been done plenty of times before. All five of them had completed a forward passage and three of them had done it walking backwards. And so, it was decided. Each in their turn did a forward and backward crossing. The first three skipped there and back, laughing, and the fourth one took it steady backwards to a cheer. The last one teetered a bit here and wavered a bit there, and paused, but he made it when he was told that he was mard if he gave up, and then more cheers. After the ceremony, they each took it in turns to pee up the concrete square at the bottom of the pipe and, at last, the fruit polos came out.

It was never a good thing to spend too much time in one place so far up the cut. This was Top Lockers territory and sooner or later they’d pick up a blip on the radar screen and then you’d be for it. A skirmish with the Whelley lot was all well and good, but the Top Lockers? That was different. Nervousness began to set in. Another decision was taken. They’d run from here. The bit of the towpath that was further up, towards the Commercial Pub, was no good anyway and too slow. Before the crunching noises of a dwindled toffee supply had died away, it was time for action stations, and in a blur of denim, seated and poised, the pilot was ready.

The push was a good one. Thanks to the backrest, the pusher didn’t have to get so low down that he couldn’t fit his legs in and run properly, and, at full pelt, he released his grip at the end of the Stoney Bridge straight and didn’t tumble. The trolley was away and it appeared to be in safe hands as the first two slopes of the locks whizzed by.

The towpath was dry and firm and no big puddles appeared before the fastest part was reached. This was the only tricky bit. Descending the Rabbit Rocks lock there was a cindered area used by the Lockie for materials storage. You had to ride it out. Pick a line into it and stay firm. It was useless to try and change direction as the cinders would just soak up the speed and you’d grind to a halt and your turn would be over. Made it! He was flying along now, down the steepest, fastest slope of the Iron Bridge lock and almost home free. One more, good spurt from the Sandy Bottoms was all that was needed and it would be plain sailing all the way to Rose Bridge. The chasers cheered him on. The bikers kept pace and the footmen jogged up not so far behind. The wind blew and the sun still shone brightly and Fate waited.

The canal-side, front wheel entered the riggut at the top of the Sandy Bottoms slope. As decreed, the rear canal-side wheel followed it a moment afterwards and from that point it was sealed. The trolley may just as well as been a tram for what steering remained.

It is said that the slapping sound of the resulting belly flop could be heard in Hemfield Road. A trolley is not a boat, nor even, is it functionally close to a raft, but for the briefest of moments it sat there, suddenly devoid of forward momentum, with the surprised driver still in an erect, seated position, and seemingly, in perfect equilibrium with his surroundings.

Whether it was the howls of laughter from the towpath, or whether it was the weight of sudden realisation of the predicament, or whether it was a nudge from a gudgeon’s nose, we shall never know. Such was the fineness of the balance. Without further ado, or a single cry, over he went.

Three pairs of hands reached down over the edge and grabbed his jacket and his arms and dragged him out. Then, realising that the trolley had drifted off and was heading for the bywash, he slipped back and rescued it. By the time they’d dragged him out for the second time, they were all a bit wet. The other pair of hands pulled the trolley out by the rope. It’s alright denim. But, it does hold water. No amount of standing by a fire over the back of the Rabbs will dry it out after a proper soaking like this. After two hours, they had to give it up as a bad job and go and face the music.

It is of great credit to the camaraderie of this little gang that they all reported together at the back door as one. At least they had managed to stop laughing by this time, and the four pulled off the effect of standing, head-bowed with shame to listen to the stripping off, the telling off and the slap around the ear’ole. And, besides, after a bath and dry clothes, there was still a good half a day of daylight not to be wasted.