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My name is Constance Diggle, of Bolton, and this is my story.

This is a true story, but I wish it wasn’t, as I could change the ending as often as I liked.

It is the story of two small boys.

The first small boy was born a good few years ago in the early 1920’s. His father was a stripper and grinder who worked in the cotton mills of Lancashire, for 5 ½ days, every week of the year, except only one.

That particular week was known as ‘Wakes’ week, when everyone who could afford it, went away on holiday, which was always to the seaside.

This small boys mother was a good manager, and she had joined the Didlum club.

The night before the holidays, father would clean all the shoes, and mother would pack the suitcases with spotless clean clothes. You always had to have clean underclothes in-case you had an accident. - and then she make the sandwiches, which would be stored in the big white bread bin that was kept on the table top of the turned down squeezers, in the kitchen.

Next morning everyone was up early to catch the tram, leaving the suitcases at the back with the conductor. There was no fear of them being pinched in those days.

At the railway station, father would buy the tickets, and then the children would play hide-and-seek with their friends, whilst waiting for the train. For everyone went to the same place, either Blackpool, Morecambe, or Fleetwood.

Suddenly there would be a shrill whistle, and puffs of smoke, as the train pulled alongside the crowded platform.

This small boy decided then and there that he would be a train driver when he grew up.
Sure enough, when he was 14 and left school, he went to work for the railway. He became a fireman on the platform, keeping the fire topped up with coal, for the steam required to power the train.

Next step up would have been train driver.
Unfortunately, the Second World War was declared before this happened. He duly joined up and went to fight for King and country, in the SAS.

Sadly, he lost his life at Arnham, never to be a train driver, or go to Blackpool, Morecambe, or Fleetwood again.

The second small boy, was born many years later. His father didn’t work in the mill, but in an office. By then, workers got two weeks holiday every year. This small boy went to France, Switzerland, Norway, and Finland, and later flew to Spain and Portugal.

The first small boy, who was my cousin, had given his life so that the second small boy, who was my son, could cross the channel in peace and freedom on holiday.

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