First Lancashire Exile 1937-39

At the end of his training Dad had hoped and expected that he would be posted to Armley Prison in Leeds because that would have meant that the family could remain in the council house in Middleton. However, he was posted to Strangeways Prison on the boundary between Manchester and Salford. Much worse than the inconvenience of moving home must have been the prospect of moving from Yorkshire to Lancashire – not a move to be undertaken lightly! As a temporary measure we first moved into a dingy rented house in the Lower Broughton district of Salford until Dad came to the top of the waiting list for a prison officers’ quarter.

I have only very vague memories of that house and I can’t now remember the street name. One memory, however, has stuck in my mind to this day and it is as clear now as it was then. I woke one sunny morning to see two strange black shadows silhouetted against the thin curtains of my ground floor bedroom. In my befuddled waking moments, they seemed like people wearing huge peaked hats that came to a sharp point at the front. They both appeared to have prominent hunched backs and I could just about hear their muffled voices. To me they were very sinister and frightening. I screamed. Mum came running in to see what was wrong just as the shadows moved away, probably alarmed by my screams. I pointed wildly to the window. Mum pulled back the curtains and flung the window wide open.

"They’re only Roman Catholic nuns," said Mum laughing and then she explained what nuns were. I had nightmares about those shadowy characters in their wimples for many years afterwards.

Some months later we were allocated a house in a small estate of prison-owned houses in Waterloo Road much closer to Strangeways. The Prison Authorities provided ‘quarters’ for their married staff, and barrack-type accommodation for single or unaccompanied officers close by all prisons. In June 1938 my sister Kathleen was born in that house and I can remember running up and down the street shouting triumphantly at the top of my voice to anyone who happened to be listening, "Our Kathleen’s come!"

Mum had a beautiful singing voice and she was always listening to the latest songs on the wireless. My favourite, which I regularly asked her to sing to me at bed time went like this:

I still remember those words almost word perfect but had to refresh a couple of lines for this book with the help of the Internet and Google.

One of my playmates was Tony Cullen, the son of another Prison Officer. Because he was smaller than I, he was always known as Little Tony and I was Big Tony. I can remember very little of our exploits together but I’m told that we were inseparable. One day we caused our respective fathers a great deal of embarrassment. We went to an empty prison house and deliberately smashed quite a few ground floor windows. We were observed! When later questioned by my disbelieving Dad I apparently said, "I only tapped them with my little hammer."

Little boys, especially the sons of Prison Officers, were not supposed to behave like that. I’ve no recollection of what my punishment was for that misdemeanour but each of my parents reminded me of the incident frequently during my early years.

Another of my Salford memories is of an incident that occurred in late-1939. One balmy, sunny day a Spitfire flew low over our house and then zoomed skywards performing a Victory Roll. I was mightily impressed with what I saw. Of course, I didn’t know it was a Spitfire or a Victory Roll but that’s what my Dad told me. I have no means of knowing where the aircraft came from – possibly Speke or Ringway, RAF stations in 1939 but now the international airports for Liverpool and Manchester. I remember shading my eyes as I watched the aircraft disappear into the wide, blue yonder and thinking that I would like to do that one day.

Shortly after that the family was on the move once more and I didn’t see Little Tony again for 15 years. That totally unexpected meeting was to be at a tiny RAF Signals Unit in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka).

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