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Reflection

Thomas Marshall heaved himself out from the marital bed. Stretched and yawned quietly so as not to disturb Cowan his long-suffering wife. He would let her lie in for a few more minutes as he dragged his trousers over his warm long johns and flicked his braces taught and tight over his freshly white pressed shirt. His thick fingers fumbled with the button on his starched detachable collar.

Down the steep stairs he went and out into the icy back yard to relieve himself in the outside lavatory and after boiling the water in his whistling kettle, he stoked the fire so his wife would be warm before he set off for work in his second-hand car, his pride and joy.

Luckily, he had remembered to put his sheet music and saxophone case in the boot the evening before, as tonight was going to be a good one down at the dance hall in Manchester. He had regular practice sessions with the boys and they were ready to bring the house down. Especially as they had recruited a young female singer whose voice was like silk. Their specialities were Jazz, Jitterbug, and the Lindy.

He was particularly looking forward to this evening, as Alice was heading the gig tonight. The Ritz ballroom in Whitworth Street Manchester was a great venue. The dancers liked the way the sprung dance floor could give you sea legs if you stayed on it for too long. As the floor moved in time to the rhythm, the guys and GI’s would lead their eager partners onto the floor. ‘…It would take more than a war to vacate The Ritz…’ the motto on the tickets would say.

Thomas had a distinguished air about him and he became immersed in the role he had created for himself within and outside of the band. He was middle aged and handsome; he also had the gift of the gab most would say he certainly knew how to charm the ladies. A generous man who had many friends, as during these difficult times, he certainly knew how to flash the cash.

This was his life outside his modest home in the suburbs. Cowan was well looked after and did not need to bother herself with his outside hobbies. None of her concern, as what she did not know would not hurt her, besides none of those sort of things interested her. An odd monthly visit to the cinema was sufficient. She adored Rhett Butler and he thought that she fantasied she was Scarlet O’Hara. He chuckled to himself. The last time he had taken her to the pictures was to see ‘Gone with the wind’ and that he concluded was where his wife’s fantasy was born.

His wife spent her days looking after the home, sewing, baking, and reading, and spending time down at the library. Often bringing home a collection of various books, her love, and her pastime. She was very well read and could recite poetry too.

When Thomas was not playing his provocative swing music, he had another vocation. As a business man, he had been encouraged when he was younger to join the Freemasons, and had worked his way up. becoming the worshipful master within his lodge. He had worked hard impressing his fellow brothers and business men within the temple and was proud of his achievements.

A fine respected man of the Brotherhood. He was more than grateful to be one of the elder members of the temple as he had not been called up to defend his King and Country. When in the company of his colleagues he would brag how he wished he could be on the front line and sort the enemy out once and for all. However, that thought would never happen so he had to be content to enlist as a home guard, this was his way of helping to do his duty, while staying at home.

There was not much family time with Cowan in the evenings as Thomas had much going on. He often arrived home late to find his wife tucked up in her bed fast asleep and he would do his very best not to disturb her. Not once did she ask him about his nocturnal activities, grateful for that he thought. The ration books for food and essentials were quite meagre for the families, but with Thomas’s contacts Cowan never went short of anything she liked. His wife was grateful of that he thought proudly of himself. Cowan was a term of endearment for her and he rarely used her birth name Lily.

Alice Hall

Alice had grown up the youngest of four children. She loved to dance and she also loved to sing and when her parents were at the pub at weekends, she was often called in from the cold to stand on one of the tables and perform for the punters of the establishment. The smell of the hops reached her nostrils and she wondered why anyone would want to drink to the extent of giggling, brawling, and falling around. The men in the pub, after consuming a few halves of pale ale would request songs of the time. Alice was a good mimic and usually performed well and to her delight a reward would be pressed into her young hand. usually, a farthing or a ha’penny, if she was lucky.

Quite regularly she helped her mam to prop her Pop up, as he bounced his drunken body off the walls and up the back entry and along the cobbles of the crowded terrace streets. Saturday afternoon, once her father was in a happy tipsy mood, would take his wife to the butcher and with his small earnings from working in the foundry, would tell his wife to buy something nice that she would like to cook and divide up between the family. Most of the money went down to the pub and the children often felt rumblings in their small tummies, before being sent off to school.

Other times when her parents became intoxicated, her mam would become jealous of other women in the pub and would shout at her Pop all the way home. All Pop wanted to do Alice thought, was to sleep it off but her mother would not be able to help herself. Other than to nag, nag and peck his head, until halfway up the wooden stairs, he would turn and clatter back down them in his clogs and stumbling over to the fireplace, would take the poker used to stoke the fire and chase her down the street cussing and cursing her. He swore he would blind her if he got hold of her. Her mam would usually outwit him and get away. Sometimes Alice thought her family was entertainment for the neighbours, who often stood gossiping on the stone doorsteps in the their pinnies and cotton turbans.

Usually when Pop sobered up, he would have forgotten what all the commotion was about. Perplexed as to why his wife was slamming the pots and pans around while he nursed his sore head. Occasionally, her mam received a black eye. The kids knew that it was in their best interest to keep out of both of their parents’ way, especially when they both had a drink inside them, as they would usually be in the firing line. A punch bag if they were anywhere within reach.

The Manchester Christmas Blitz, 1940 screamed as the wail of the air raid sirens and the search lights started to circle the sky looking for enemy targets. A sound that Alice would never forget. Her frightened mother, would grab Alice and her older sister and brothers and tumble them into the Anderson shelter in the back yard, leaving Pop alone in his bed. Alice was not sure her Mam would have cared one inch, if the vermin infested house was flattened by the Gerry’s with her husband left inside. There was no love lost there she thought.

They had both been salvationists, her father was a musician in the Salvation army until he was thirty and then for some reason had been driven to or drove them both voluntarily to the demon drink. Never during the week for some reason, only Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and then he would certainly drink a skin full. Often to be found blacked out in the entry by one of the neighbours. His wife would have left him there to rot if her conscience had not kicked in, she would begrudgingly ask Alice to help her. Alice had a generous, good kind heart and would always help anyone who needed it.

Alice joined the Sunday school choir and her voice blossomed. Mr Dwyer the choir master would give her special music and singing lessons. She really liked Mr Dwyer, he was kind and saw something in Alice, and wanted her to get on in life. It was Sunday school that encouraged her to be part of the concerts until she was thirteen. It was a warm Sunday afternoon, that kind Mr Dwyer had asked her to stay behind for extra lessons and she eagerly agreed.

Alice was developing into a beautiful young lady and Mr Dwyer, a bachelor had well and truly taken her under his wing, to help her and to bring her on in leaps and bounds. He had a belief in her, he had also not failed to noticed the changes in Alice over the last few months. Her breasts had started to bud and proIt was a particularly hot summer and Mr Dwyer asked would Alice like to accompany him for a walk in the meadow so they could practice the words to a hymn outside in the sunshine.

Alice eagerly agreed and off they went to sit in the long grass. Mr Dwyer looked at Alice with a longing and a smile and Alice thought something in his manner was slightly different. He had picked a piece of long grass from the ground and put in his mouth to chew, it was then as she lifted her eyes under her long lashes to look at him, he took it out of his lips and traced the top of Alices arm with it.

The feeling of it sent a tickle and a feeling of fear and excitement through her. He was attractive for his age Mr Dwyer but he was around the same age as her dad she thought to herself. He asked her did she like it and she nodded. He then traced his fingers around her face and neck, she had a feeling within her that she had not felt before and that is when he placed his lips on hers. She was not sure what she should do but her teacher told her not to worry and he would show her.

That was Alice’s first kiss. A kiss, welcomed by her. Alice loved being in his company and had romantic thoughts about him for ages after that. Their secret that would be kept between them both.

Not long after her deflowering, Mr Dwyer was suddenly sent to another church in another county. Alice had arrived at their place of rendezvous to be stranded alone. Crushed and heartbroken as she ran back to the church to find out her teacher and lover had been sent away. No one would tell her why he had gone; she was not stupid. She would not tell a soul as she knew it could get Mr Dwyer into a lot of trouble. Their secret was always going to be safe with her.

Aged sixteen Alice had seen an advert in a local newsagents for a singer for a jazz band. She decided to audition. The Church had coached her voice and she was confident that she had a chance. Catching the tram into Manchester she made her way to the Ritz ballroom on Whitworth Street and that is where she met Thomas Marshall and his jazz band.

Alice was in awe of the venue; she had only ever been to the local pub before and never ventured into town especially in the evening. Alice liked Thomas’s friendly persona and very quickly got into her role as jazz singer mimicking the greats such as Billy Holiday’s ‘That ole Devil called Love’. The band played some other hits and using her skills that she had been taught at Sunday School and also the pub, she very soon adapted her style; and the band were blown away.

Alice was given the job as the singer and the relationship between them developed. That very same week Alice had been offered a job as a secretary in a local firm. It was all coming together for her. She could move out of her parent’s house and with the wage she was earning, she would look for digs in the local area, and there she would have freedom, and one day who knows Alice thought, she fancied herself performing on the big screen.

Well, Thomas had mentioned to her that he could see ‘Alice Hall’s’  name in lights, His big band backing her of course, he winked.

What a dream? Thomas had told her that he was a Worshipful Master in a Freemason Lodge in Manchester. He had many contacts and if she played her cards right, he would take her to the ladies’ nights, where there, Alice could speak to those in the know herself, he teased.                                     

Leaving his car at the factory he caught a 211 bus into town. As he was setting up his equipment, tuning and retuning noisily in the venue. His saxophone went quiet now as his eyes gazed on their attractive lead singer, her long blonde hair set in the fashion of the time. Eyebrows pencil thin and her voluptuous lips accentuated with crimson lipstick. Her hourglass figure with a wasped waist hugged tight within her pencil skirt.

His eyes eased her body from her bottom to her ankles and up again. Straining to see the top of her thigh, trying to work out if that was a tiny button on a suspender belt hidden and slightly bulging as Alice readjusted her skirt.

Her voice was like glass and all the while Thomas could not keep his eyes off her. Distracted and with a deep feeling of excitement he had already made his mind up. Thirty years or so her senior would not stop him setting out a plan to seduce Alice Hall.

The yanks had been impressing the ladies with silk stockings and cigarettes, often used as bartering tools, to attract, sneak a kiss and more than likely a fumble with many a young lass. The girls were flattered that the handsome American soldiers would take an interest in them and ask them to dance.

Most of the girls came from underprivileged backgrounds and would often use gravy browning to colour their legs, drawing a line up the back with eyebrow pencil, they could not believe their luck when presented with a pair of exquisite silk stockings and would be only too happy to please a young solider at the back of the Ritz.

Thomas likened himself to the GI’s, as with his contacts he could also get luxury items when he wanted and as the sirens started to go off, he quickly took no hesitation in ushering Alice outside into the cold winter air. As he draped his trench coat around her shoulders and guided her to shelter, his hand nestled into the small of her back. He was a gentleman after all.

Alice entered the opening to the shelter and very quickly settled in. The comeradery of people brought together as a community, tried to hide their fear as the rumble of the enemy aircraft shook, and boomed, and shrieked as the air strikes took place around Manchester and Salford. Within no time at all, people started to sing to uplift the mood and spirit while under the shadow of the German artillery.

Thomas truly mesmerised, as Alice, doing what came natural to her, broke into the popular song of the day, and as many knew the tune, began to join in and sing along. A couple of the young men came up to her asking was she was a professional singer and urged her to sign any piece of paper they could find. Gazing at her as if she was a pinup girl much to Thomas’s irritation. He was glad when the air raid was over and feeling safer, they made their way up the stone steps and on into the chilly night air.

Thomas was adept at finding his way around the city with a knowing of all the short cuts, he guided Alice to a quiet, secluded place. No lights were allowed during the black out so it was quite easy to become invisible to any passers-by.

Thomas kissed her with a hunger he had forgotten existed and Alice responded, flattered that he would feel that way about her and using the temptress and female power inside her took him on a sensual journey that only she could.

This was to be the start of their regular liaisons. Which would carry on for years to come. Thomas promised her that one day he would leave his wife, mostly when he thought Alice was being needy. Freely, she gave herself away to this married man in exchange for the lavish lifestyle of new clothes, fancy restaurants, and weekends away. The intimacy was amazing especially when he would sneak that odd hour or two to be with her.

Thomas was aware that Alice’s body clock was ticking by, he did not want to spoil what he had with either of his girls though. Cowan his faithful and dutiful wife, who made his life most comfortable and stable. Never asking why the Masons took up his evenings and a few weekends away from home. His wife was elegant in her day, she still had a beauty about her even with the grey hair showing and dressed in her pinny, she made the house cosy for when he came home. Never making demands on him in the bedroom which suited them both.

On the other hand, he would show Alice around some luxury properties in the city, but just as he promised to put a deposit down on one, something would always happen and the deal would once again fall through. Eventually he managed to secure a lease on one that belonged to a fellow at the Lodge and Alice believed he had bought it for them both, she was so overjoyed that now he would leave his wife for good.

It was the nights when he felt guilty, when he had promised to meet Alice but something came up at home and he would have to cancel her with very short notice. Alice always smiled and said everything was ok and it did not matter. He was relieved but conscious that it did matter to her. Alice was sacrificing her happiness for Thomas. Never complaining.

The war was coming to an end and goods had started to become more available. So, to make up for it he would treat her to more little luxuries then once again Alice would fall back into his arms once more with no demands. Everyone was happy Thomas concluded.

That was until one evening as they made love and lay romantically together, that Alice dropped the bombshell. Her belly was full with child. Panic set in, he tried not to show the fear he felt. So, he whispered all the sweet nothings that he knew she wanted to hear while he thought, and pondered and thought once more and bided his time until she fell into a gentle sleep.

He had friends in the know, people within the Lodge who would know what to do. One of the brothers was a doctor, a surgeon who had fallen on bad times. He owed a favour to Thomas and maybe he would be able to get the man to perform some sort of surgery on her. The man had been struck off for something minor but he had been a doctor for years and certainly would know what to do. So with some trepidation he left a note for Alice.

It read:

My darling Alice,

I hope you will not be too disappointed but I cannot go through with this. I have more than loved our liaisons and you are truly a gorgeous and sensual woman.

However, it would not be right to leave my Cowan. I am sure you will understand.

There is some money in this envelope. I know a good doctor who is very discreet and reliable with these matters.

Here is his business card.

I am sure you will agree that its best if we do not see each other for a while, at least until this unfortunate incident is dealt with.

M X

When Alice awoke all her dreams and hopes were shattered. Frantically she tried to call him, but every time M’s secretary would answer that he was unavailable or out of office.

Alice had even come close to calling round to her former lover’s house, but once again she put his needs above hers. After weeks of no contact and feeling frightened as her battle-axe of a landlady would certainly throw her out of her digs if she ever found out she was with child. Fearfully and reluctantly, she did as Thomas Marshall asked and made her way to the doctor, the back street abortionist. For him to take her and Thomas’s love child away.

Thomas had been avoiding Alice for weeks, he had been living on pins as he expected a knock on his family door at any moment in time. He had worked out what he would say in defence of his behaviour to Cowan, firstly, he would deny it and then if there was any evidence of proof that the baby was his he would say he was tricked and seduced by that harlot of a woman.

Worse still he thought, what if she did not go through with it, the last thing he wanted or needed was a future child rapping on his front door, at the end of the day he was no young man, he was now the mature age of 67.

He sighed and picked up his local Manchester Evening News. As he turned the page, he was confounded and shocked to find a photograph of Alice Hall on the third page.

The article read:

Doctor struck off after performing a fatal, illegal abortion

Doctor Harold Barret who was formerly struck off the register for neglect in 1951, performed a back street abortion in his office in St Annes Square Manchester.

Alice Hall had visited this abortionist in desperation as her married lover had arranged a back hander of money to be given to the man, in exchange that he would carry out an induced miscarriage.

On sending the young woman home. Alice Hall aged 37 haemorrhaged at the bedsit she was renting and as the landlady Mrs Gulliver had not received the rent for that week, and had tried to enter the room with a skeleton key. She was shaken and traumatised to find to Alice’s lifeless body slumped over a mop bucket with her aborted foetus in her arms.

The doctor in question will appear at Manchester Magistrate Court on the 12th March for sentencing.

Apprehension, dread, and despair clutched his inner core as he desperately tried to save his soul. As his gaze wandered to the large oak dresser that shouldered the large mirror in the breakfast room.

A mirror that had once given an illusion of space suddenly immersed him into a state of claustrophobia and panic. With an intense feeling of confinement, there within the glass, was a figure hazy and fading; there she was; eyebrows pencil thin, volumptious crimson lips. an hourglass figure with wasped waist hugged tightly within a pencil skirt.

A beacon beckoning him into the glass; a deathly path into the spirit world.

A gateway into the unkown.

Cowan in her pristine pinny, much to his despair, started fussing around the breakfast table, straightening the cloth, and dusting up the breakfast crumbs.

Just as a startling sound of an official pounding banged upon his front door.

Julie Modla

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Murder Lane

‘The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is the fear of the unknown.’ H.P. Lovecraft

I always looked forward to my annual visit with my good friend James. Apart from his warmth and hospitality, he entertained his guests with an impeccable taste for fine foods and the very best of wines.

After dinner we would settle in the parlour with a large brandy and there, he had a superb way of spinning a yarn. Often leaving the listener in complete wonderment and with difficulty of comprehension as to whether the tales were true or not.

The one I found quite disturbing is the one I am about to relay to you. I will leave it up to you to decide…

It was a cut through, a path that the locals had named Murder lane. A winding footpath that led from Manby Road, Gorton. Gore brook, a shallow stream meandered to the left, while brambles and an extremley high wall of red brick towered to the right. A wall that had been constructed and built by a local firm many years earlier. It was a fair walk through this trail, which would lead you eventually to Pink Bank Lane, Longsight.

I will return to the why and wherefore the title Murder Lane had been given to this walkway.

It was on May 13th 1909 when a labourer Mark Shawcross was last seen stepping out and through this path with Emily Ramsbottom, of Ellesmere Street. This woman had been married previously and separated from her husband, she had started a relationship with Mark Shawcross, cohabiting with him for the last four years or so.

Early in the morning, a couple of young ladies were on their way to work. A local tarpaulin company off Pink Bank Lane. When they stumbled and came across Emily’s strangled and lifeless body somewhere along this path.

The police were called and Mark Shawcross was arrested. His story was that he had left her not far from there the night before. He and her estranged husband were the prime suspects, however, Mark Shawcross later wrote his confession and admitted to strangling Emily Ramsbottom with his neckerchief. He was later convicted and sentenced to his execution at Strangeways prison, Manchester on 3rd September 1909.

James Chisnall my good friend for many years had been a much younger man in those days, albeit this was a good few years after that event had taken place. He and three of his chums had been drinking and playing card games for most of the night. Tipsy and merry James left his friend’s house a little after midnight and a little worse for wear. He had decided to take a short cut home.

He needed to get to Stockport Road and had not ridden his bicycle that night, so this was going to be a bit of a treck back home. He had two choices; he could walk the long way round but this would take him a good hour to get to his destination or he could go along the track that would take him around fifteen minutes if he walked quickly. The later appealed to him more as he was drunk and just wanted to get himself home for the night. Plus, the brisk, cool air would do him good he thought.

Pulling his overcoat collar up around his scarf and pulling down his cap, he ventured into the cold, autumn evening. Someone had swept and brushed the brown wet leaves into piles around the entrance to the short cut. Ready for clearing tomorrow he thought.

There was no gate, nor a sign to warn anyone to ‘keep out’ just an entrance to the ginnel. The warmth of the brandy and the Dutch courage it gave him spurred James on to venture into the darkness and dense quiet silence of the black path.

Becoming accustomed to the gloom, his eyes strained towards the unlit high brick wall to the right of him. He could make out the brambles climbing randomly, spikily, and erratically to the top which must have been 15 feet high if not more.

As darkness beckoned, the sound of the brook rippled over the shallow stones. Water that during the day would help the allotment keepers to feed their plants. In the evening nocturnal animals would happily play there, with no humans to bother or to hurt them.

The lightless grey of the floor increased his feeling of unease as the warmth of the Cognac had quickly began to wear off. Reality started to kick in as now, halfway into the unknown blackness of the pathway, he now wondered if this was such a good idea after all. Unnerving as he wondered if he would meet anyone or anything as he dubiously carried on.

He was even more reluctant to look behind himself. Not wanting to see. A feeling of panic rose in his throat as he knew he was in limbo, nearly half way through no man’s land. How he wished he had brought a torch at least. Even more, how he wished he was tucked up warm and safe in his bed.

‘It’s the living you should be afraid of son, not the dead…’ His fathers voice boomed in his ear. That is exactly what he was afraid of he answered silently in his mind. Murder Lane. What a stupid idea to think this would be a good plan.

With immense strength and the thought of poor Emily’s body lying lifeless somewhere along here a good few years before. His feet started to feel like lead as he moved himself further along the path. No going back now.

His eyes carrying on, straining into the dark and his breathing becoming more rapid as he tried to reassure himself that these feelings were irrational. Soberness and fear had started to take over him.

Uneasy, his gut feeling was very strong that he was being watched remotely, this was not pleasant at all. Dread as he realised, he was quite helpless in this totally remote and deadly place.

Again, he pushed the thought of the labourer Shawcross, strangling the life from his poor lover Emily.

Eyes that were watching him made his hairs on his neck stand on end.

I ask you have you ever been in a situation where you felt that something terrible was about to happen? Have you ever walked home at night and wished you had not chosen that route? I am sure we all have at some point.

James knew he had to get out of this place rapidly. With a deep breath and a brave stance, flee he must. Who was hiding safe within the shelter of the darkness? As James did not have that luxury.

His fists clenched outside of his pockets, just in case he had to use them, not that he was a fighter but he would certainly have a good go if needs be. As his fist clenched even tighter and his boots crunched forward quickly on the gravelly path, just behind him, a twig snapped, not too far behind in the distance.

Faster he went, scarcely daring to breath, he called on his faith and prayed to the Almighty to please get him safely and quickly to the exit and away from this godforsaken place.

The watchers’ eyes, bored into the back of his head and on hearing another sharp snap, adrenaline kicked in and that is when he started to run.

Shallow panting and rapid breathing he urged forward, his pulse pounding in his head he could barely see six feet in front of himself. He stumbled and his hand reached out to steady himself as the sharp pain from the blackberry bushes shot through his hand and arm. The ground was damp as he climbed to his feet. His instinct, urging him forward with the fear that someone or something at any moment would put a hand on his shoulder, or much worse.

Finally with a gasp, he spotted the metal turnstile at the exit and towards the lane. He squeezed his way desperately through the gap, not once lingering nor looking for a second, for what he felt was pursuing him. Not before time. At least he was out in the open now.

The chill of the wind made his damp clothes even more icy on his back as James fists were still clenched, and his knuckles were pure white. James hurried on quickly up the deserted Pink Bank Lane. Past the high walls of the factories, all locked up and closed for the night. Safer but not yet out of the woods as there was not a soul in sight…apart from a torch flickering and casting a light beyond the heavy, large, locked, iron gates.

Safe to say James arrived home in one piece to tell the tale.

As if that was not disturbing enough, the eery adventure the narrator had experienced that night. Even more was the shock when James Chisnall, bought his local paper on his way to work a few weeks later. He was horrified to discover that the body of a young man named Gareth O’Neil aged 23. A local factory worker, who had been missing for a couple of weeks, had been found face down in the chilling water of Gore brook. The body must have been there in the very same place when James had cut through, that night on Murder Lane.

The autopsy report had stated his corpse had been in the brook for at least ten days. The cause of death was strangulation. The hunt was on for Gareth’s killer and anyone with any information should contact Lancashire Police.

Had the watcher gone back to the scene of the crime? Had James really had such a very lucky escape? Only the watcher could relay that part of the tale to you…

As James came to the end of his story and much to his audience’s dismay. He folded his hands together and looked at his timepiece.

A message to his guests that the evening had now come to an end. 

He bid each one of them farewell and urged them to take the utmost care on their journey back home.

Julie Modla

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Special delivery in the post

This is the narrative behind the immortal portrait of William Roache MBE, otherwise known as Ken Barlow on Coronation Street for their 60th anniversary.

Just like in the long running drama, we all love a good homemade story. This is a real life tale, where a dream came true.

Towards the end of 2019 actor Carl Reid, the regular postman on the cobbles had heard that ITV were planning this historic anniversary. Carl approached his friend Michael Koropisz, fine artist and portrait painter. He had seen the detail and precision of his work.

This gave Carl the idea for William Roache to have a portrait commisssioned, which would not only celebrate the 60th anniversary, but would also be a tribute to the man himself.

He delivered his idea to Angie Ryan at ITV and from there on, the dream team at ITV were on board and as they say, the rest is history.

William Roache is now listed in the Guinness World Records as the longest television star in a continuous role.

The anniversary arrived and this amazing life sized portrait had its big reveal by Phillip Schofield and Holly Willoughby on This Morning.

Every aspect of the filming had to be meticulously assessed following the World Health Organisation and NHS guidelines, allowing this broadcast to be aired worldwide.

Who would have guessed that one year from then something wonderful would happen. Carl, the long standing postman not only delivered the mail that day, but he had a very special delivery for an exceptional man. The certificate of authenticity that validated this work of art.

Carl Reid presenting William with his certificate after filming the new Christmas episodes.

This real life story. A dream, a hope and in the end a determination to get this magnificent project off the ground despite the the biggest pandemic the world has ever seen.

Signed Sealed Delivered

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To Dance with a Devil

The journey that unravelled was quite unique... we can have the best ideas and the best content in the world, but if we do not grab our readers attention in the first chapter then nobody is going to read it.

Harsh but true. People have ever shrinking attention spans, so we have to hook the reader in from the start. It’s great to paint a picture of scenes, however, how many of them do you skim read those, with more than lenghty descriptions.

The simple truth of the matter is that we come up with an idea for a plot, our content is great, we have worked on it, finished it. Time to edit it. To be honest when I decided to embark on my trilogy of A Fool’s Journey, I wanted to write about truisms of human nature, so thats where I started.

With each book, I wanted to tweak my readers curiosity to explore themselves. So by the time I decided to write my second book I conjured up my vision of Edmund. As a business person myself for the last twenty years or so, I could get into the character of him, feel his drive and his desire to do anything that would make his dream come true. The beauty in writing and creating characters is drama. Making mistakes and just as it cant get any worse, throw another obstacle in their path. The reader loves the excitment.

To be successful in business takes a strong determination. I had decided that Edmund would fall on some bad times and to save face would do anything to keep his head above water. A pillar of society in the industrial city of Manchester in 1925.

He was an outstanding artist and was extremely respected within the circles of the art world. He was driven with great resolve. The best within his field. I felt pleased that he had channelled his story with me through the pen.

Edmund had become a fine figure within society. Sadly, he trusted too easily and suddenly, he had become swept up into an underworld that he had no idea about. A dangerous world, one that he was not prepared for. Not a place for the faint hearted.

After editing and polishing my short story I was priviledged that Patience Tomlinson agreed to narrate my book. Patience has narrated 200 audio books, including Charles Dickens and PD James. She featured on woman’s hour narrating The Letter’s of Queen Victoria. BBC Radio 4 and countless broadcasts of plays and short stories.

https://www.audible.co.uk/pd/To-Dance-with-a-Devil-Audiobook/B08WB291M

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/55314406-to-dance-with-a-devil

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dance-Devil-Fools-Journey/dp/B08FP1SVKF

Julie Modla

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Peak House

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Peak House Buxton Road

This Gothic Victorian house was built in 1891, just a few years before the construction of the Edwardian builds on Kennerley Road, formerly Kennerley Grave Road for some unexplained reason.

Anyway, Peak house was built beautiful proud and elevated overlooking the busy link between Manchester and Buxton with land at the rear which lent itself to an orchard.

At some point and presumably the initial purchaser of the house recorded in the 1911 census was a man named James C Arnold formerly of Hollingworth in the Peak district. A pharmaceutical chemist named his new purchase a fine property, Peak House.

Mary Elizabeth Arnold was his wife. He was so proud to have such a beauty and she loved him desperately and finally, after longing for a child for so long gave birth to a fine son. Harold Arnold, named as far as we know after his grandfather.

James was thriving in his business and had now expanded and taken lease of a pharmacy on Hillgate, Stockport, and so the story goes his apothecary became very popular within the town.

As his business expanded he became a pillar of society and he spent more time away from Peak house. As he was a member of a local masonic lodge and there, he was promoted to worshipful master. Some might say these secret societies were working with dark energies. We can’t say for sure.

As sure as his status as a fine chemist became known in the area, he was able to employ Edith Morris a maid for his wife, but even with all his knowledge, his wife’s health he could not seem to help. As her disposition was becoming weaker since the birth of her beautiful boy Harold.

Eager to keep her happy and with James’ affluence within the Davenport area, enabled him to employ a nurse to help his wife look after the child.

He suggested and medicated his wife with alcohol-based medicines to help her shattered nerves.

The nurse herself was childless and became devoted to the little boy, she cherished him and as her employers wife became more addicted to the medication her husband had recommended for her, the nurse became more protective over the boy and so the story was she had illusions of grandeur and treated Peak House as if it were her own.

So, the house wasn’t a particularly happy house for Mary. Her husband was a fine figure in the community and she was left feeling inadequate, her mental health deteriorating. One might say it may have been post-natal depression.

He was indifferent to her. A commodity, caring not if she was happy. He was pleased he could look after her and calm her nerves with the potions he had concocted. His son Harold lovingly looked after by the loyal nurse. His wife dependent upon his medication.

No one really knows what really happened and why the house stood empty from 1931 but there are rumours that Mary became mentally unstable and jealous of the nurse and tried to harm them both. I would be speculating if I claimed this to be the truth.

Peak house had fallen into serious disrepair as quite a few properties of this stature did after the second world war.

Ukrainians were brought over to the United Kingdom around the 1940’s and they formed their own community and Stockport became a hub for social activity and these families put their well earned savings into a pot and bought their very own club, the first being as far as I know at Turncroft lane, I imagine this would have been around the 1950’s.

It was 1968 the end of the swinging sixties and the Ukrainian community thought it would be a great idea to buy a bigger place, Peak House, a building that could be restored to its previous grandeur.

Ukrainians were from hard working backgrounds, money did not coming easy to them, smart and excellent barterers purchased Peak House. They were clever thinkers as many developed new trades. Plasterers, builders, electricians, painters and decorators, plumbers and roofers and so the hard work began.

Months later a decrepit Peak House was restored to its former glory and was put to good use as a social club.

A place the young men and women could gather, teach their young the language, the history, the traditions and the dancing, all helping them to keep the memories of their homeland alive.

Move forward to 2019, there had always been rumours that the top of the building the fourth floor was haunted. The builders and decorators had passed various stories down through the generations, it was said to be the nurse protecting the little boy but I wasn’t sure about all that kind of nonsense.

I organised a group meditation evening at the club, the members had been really accommodating and had suggested the room on the second floor, I call it the green room, a green carpet, a calm shade of green no other reason to call it by that adjective. I had rented this place for a reasonable price and I was delighted to start my new course there.

It was a late autumn evening; the sun had gone down and there was quite a chill in the air as I approached this grand Victorian building.

I arranged the chairs in a circle and switched on the small heater to keep the room warm for my guests.

The group arrived in dribs and drabs some later than others, through an entrance where traditional black and white tiles welcomed them in.

Climbing up the beautiful staircase there was a room to the left, now a youth area full of games wher the youngsters could gather. Up and around the banister to the second door on the left.

A room plush and filled with nostalgia, books, paintings and artefacts, a museum of Ukrainian ancestors. An atmosphere quite comfortable to that of the empty corridor.

Granted, when the club was filled with guests throwing parties or having Friday night drinks at the bar. Or concerts where the dancers could show off their talents or where singers filled the great hall with their voices, was an atmosphere quite pleasant and full of fun, However, in the quietness alone in the evening it was quite a different story.

I could not in my wildest dreams have foreseen the events that would unfold to me once the group had left.

I escorted my guests calm and spiritually enhanced down the large oak staircase back across the tiled floor and out through the heavy double doors.

I was to wait for the keyholder to arrive to secure the building and now quite alone I made my way to the warmth and comfort of the green room. The bar, the kitchen and the games room already locked up for the night.

This seemed a reasonable place to wait rather than sit on the stairway.

There was another level to this building as previously mentioned, the fourth floor. This was home to the beautiful vibrant costumes, bright red boots and elegant ribboned headdresses.

I sat back in the room and started going through my notes planning if there was anything I would change for next week’s group session.

I had no notion of what was about to unfold. A voice, female, barely a whisper sounded through the wall from the stairway. I could barely make it out. Now I know that the mind can sometimes play tricks on you, but it was female for sure, and I heard it again. Something quite chilling but I brushed it off with the thought that it was probably the cleaner as she also had a key.

With some trepidation I placed my ear against the door, I waited tensely for a few minutes to collect myself and with a sudden surge of courage, I dubiously opened the heavy door and cautiously ventured onto the landing.

I heard it again, this time louder now, a haunting voice, it was singing quietly, I could make out the words.

‘ …when she saw what she had done… this is a place with no one there.’

‘…no one there, no one there…this is a place with no one there…’

Repeating, haunting, singing in a flat monotone voice.

I should have turned and ran there and then. Strange how curiosity can get the better of you. Cautiously I made my way to the other stairwell, it had to be the cleaner, there was someone there for sure. Why I didn’t call out I can’t tell you. No one was visible from where the voice was coming from and despite a shiver shooting up my spine; as if in some kind of trance, I edged further on to the staircase and that’s when I saw it.

First, a dark shadow quickly moved from the top of the stairs, silence, the voice quiet now. To say it startled me is an understatement. My feet were glued to the spot, mesmerised and horrified as something resembling human form, hair draping around its face unnaturally crawled around on all fours and moved itself to sit on the top stair.

Such a look of despair and dread shrouded it. An intense fear took hold of me as that figure started kneeling, creeping and crouching around. A face thin and drawn an open mouth with a dark arid throat stared right back at me.

Death was looking me in the face and just as if the grim reaper himself was glaring down on my being. Spasms of fear ran through me.

A man’s voice bellowed from the ground floor. The key holder had arrived and as I glanced back, unpleasant to do so; a dark shadow quickly disappeared away from the top banister.

I hurried down the stairs with the fear of god in me, away from that unnatural and unnerving spectre.

A house with too many stories to tell. A house late at night, a house with no one there.

Julie Modla

https://www.audible.co.uk/search?searchAuthor=Julie+Modla

Fiction

No Job for a lass

Actress, author and screenplay writer

The crisis of 2020, tested the resilience and the complex challenges, that the performing arts had ever had to face.

This is why Kezia Davis took pen to paper and despite the pandemic, cultivated and found a niche in the market, while the whole country was in lockdown.

More and more people were at home watching TV. Movies were being paralysed by lockdowns but TV broadcasting was favoured and Kezia was developing innovative ideas to create her new material.

After an encounter at a local networking event, Carl Reid, actor and friend invited her to. They were blown away by this whole industry who had got together on that cold December evening to warm the embers as: artists, actors, musicians, authors and business owners socialised, shared their ideas and talents and while they celebrated. The old year faded out, as the New Years delights burst in.

2020 was a special year for Kezia Davis and Carl Reid, as after many years of working and learning from the Corrie masters, both had the pleasure to be part of such a great team.

This year embraced the longest running TV drama on record. Coronation Street celebrated its 60th birthday!

1960, until the present day, whole generations of families sat down together, to watch the box.

Weekly stories with familiar topics and friendly faces leapt on to our screens.

Families facing everyday traumas and situations, could take comfort in the knowing, that they were not on there own. That weekly drama shows challenges of working class people of our time.

Kezia’s creative juices were flowing as she realised during lockdown that new material was in demand, so her concentration was directed into her new novel, which depicts a young girl set in the 1940’s, qualified as a vet, as the landowners and farmers, are very suspicious of this female veterinary surgeon.

‘Amanda had trained to become a vet and found herself having a pretty difficult time trying, to break into a profession considered around, that time, to be ‘No job for a lass’


This modern woman was determined to prove them wrong, she is just as good as her male counterparts, if not better.


A story of how she wins over the cantankerous elderly Jeremiah. Adored by Polly and Annabelle, and finds romance with the handsome soldier who returns home.


She is passionate and becomes involved with the campaigns for animal welfare. It just goes to prove that being a vet is; ‘A job for a lass.’

Living dreams and revelations

I’m looking at this year with awe! I leapt into 2020 on a very high note. I had finished my book, ‘To Dance with a Devil’, published it on Amazon, and was very, excited to take Divine, my business on to the next level.

Not for one minute, could I comprehend, that our industry, hospitality, salons, the arts and retail, were about to be thrown into a car crash. Worst still, people were losing their lives and hospital staff, were, and are, worked off their feet.

After being in business since 2000, the most important lesson for me, is, do not take anything for granted.

The best thing that happened to me, was to appreciate the calmer things in life. I realised, how little I actually need to make me happy.

My favourite moments, were, my birthday in May. My love of plants and nature. I received the gift of a greenhouse from my husband. This kept me happy, nurturing the seeds. My daughter, back from Italy, created a wonderful, cocktail and tapas afternoon.

My evaluation is, I love my job, it has been so good to me. I’m so thankful for my staff, friends, my family and our clients. We laugh, we share, All the support they have given to us, especially when we were allowed to reopen. Long may our friendships and businesses continue. 🙏

As 2020 is coming to an end, let’s bring on 2021, and hope it’s an awesome one for everyone.

https://www.audible.co.uk/search?searchAuthor=Julie+Modla

https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/51068001

From the sublime to the Divine

The story behind the immortal portrait, of William Roache. Icon of Coronation Street for the 60th Anniversary.

Just like in the soaps, we all love a good homemade story. This is a real life story where a dream came true.

In late 2019, Actor Carl Reid, who is the regular postman on the cobbles, had heard that ITV was planning a 60th anniversary.

After attending a local celebrity networking event at Divine Hair & Beauty in Davenport. Carl approached his friend Michael Koropisz, fine artist and portrait painter with bags of talent. Carl had seen the fine quality and detail of Michaels work close up, and thought it would be a wonderful idea for William Roache to receive a portrait. After that chance meeting Carl asked Michael if he would he paint William’s portrait, and they discussed the time frame and the details.

After that chance meeting he delivered the idea to Angie Ryan at ITV. From there on the dream team at ITV were all on board, and as they say, the rest is history.

The 60th anniversary arrived and this amazing life sized portrait had its big reveal. unveiled on live TV on This Morning.

This real life story had a dream, a hope and in the end, a determination to get a magnificent idea off the ground.

Who would have guessed one year ago from now, something wonderful would come from a meeting of two good friends. Carl Reid and Michael Koropisz.

    Ghost Light

    It is said, that in every theatre there are ghosts and shadows from the past. Performers, dancers, musicians and entertainers. Happy times, where the lights go out and the curtain rises.

    Eric Cartwright had served his time in the Royal Navy for his King and country as an engineer, a young man with dedication, who could turn his hand to anything.

    For the last thirty years or so, he had taken employment as the caretaker and maintenance man, for a local Davenport Theatre.

    He could certainly entertain many a young or old sceptic, with his tales of shadowy presences and his encounters, on a lonely shift at night.

    When the dancers and actors had left through the heavy stone steps to meet their fans at the stage door. Eric’s job was to check the building, to make sure all was secure. He never quite got used to descending into the bowels of the dark dingy passageways into the nocturnal pit under the stage. The dank air chilled him to the bone every time, as the knocking old pipes clanked within the dusk.

    He would methodically check, that everywhere was safe and secure. Without looking behind him, or casting a glance over his shoulder, he would make his way to the open theatre.

    Rows and rows of empty seats, some within the light of the stage, the rest encased in the blackness. Never straining his eyes into the dark as he didn’t pursue what his eyes didn’t see.

    He worked well on his own. Proud to be the one the production team and the theatre goers relied on. A very proud cog within the large clock. Oiling the mechanism, as the musicians, scriptwriters, opera singers and conductors could count on him for their premiers.

    He neither acknowledged nor dismissed what his senses spoke to him, at times, as his skin would crawl and his hairs would stand on end. Especially when a door, would suddenly close shut unexpectedly.

    Thoughts of those spirits around him never left his brain.

    Whether you believe, or whether you do not, does not concern me. I’m just conveying to you his story. He would tell you that there is nothing more unsettling, than the chill, that rises up within your spine, when working in a place that should be so full of life.

    Performers, playing out to an audience. Tragedies, actors, memorising and channelling the scripts of Shakespeare, Romans and the Greeks. Plays, over 2000 years old. Brought to life. A connection, a medium between the there, and the now.

    Stills and skills of a bygone age, memories, like photographs, captured in time.

    Glimpses of nocturnal shadows, hiding behind veils. Returning, while those who sleep, relive their glory, on the stage.

    The tradition of the ghost light, steeped in its history, back to the time of gas lit venues. Dim lights were left on during the night, to relieve pressure on the gas valves.

    Moving forward in time to Eric Cartwright’s employment there, the lights were still very important, but now a floor light, left on to shine on the stage, whilst the theatre slept, and the doors were closed until morning.

    It is said that this was to enable the navigator of the stage, to search for the lighting control console, without the misfortune of stumbling over props, or worse still, falling into the orchestral pit.

    Some spoke of the ghost lights as being left on for some nocturnal thespians. As dusk fell, ghostly beings would return to the stage, and re enact their final performances.

    Balconies were permanently left open, for ghostly guests to view these nightly performances.

    As a naval apprentice, the rule of thumb was never to whistle whilst on ship. The same applied to the stage, neither on, nor off. As this would bring bad luck. Eric respected this superstition and applied it. Never to upset those who were there, or not, performing their roles.

    His heavy key ring jangled. His eyes lowered as he locked up for the night. Not one to look at the lamp, nor the surrounding areas of the stage. Not one to stare, his eyes not wanting to graze the empty chairs. Respect for the nocturnal visitors. They too, avoiding his gaze, a mutual admiration for the key holder.

    No need. As usual the chill followed, as Eric’s ears detected the faint sound of a bow grazing the strings, as the haunting melody of a Cello akin to that of the human voice, moved sorrowfully and beautifully through the auditorium.

    The door closed on these theatrics as Eric walked the grey, wet flags to his lonely empty house.

    Proud to keep these souls safe, within his theatre of dreams.

    Julie Modla

    https://www.audible.co.uk/search?searchAuthor=Julie+Modla

    https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19445198.Julie_Modla

    A Fool’s Journey

    Hello and welcome to my corner in the readers world. I was super excited when I embarked upon this writers journey. I had been pondering on an idea for quite a while and hadn’t quite established how I would start. I then had a eureka moment and it all seemed to fall into place.

    I had been looking for inspiration to write a book, and had come across a Victorian Romantic deck of cards. As I studied the Major arcana within the deck, I decided to see what would spring out and and I was so delighted as the characters within my book appeared. That is how it all began.

    The first card was always going to be the protagonist. This was the fool. A young innocent boy starting as everyone does on life’s journey, with no idea of the problems he may need to solve, the challenges he would need to resolve and so I developed the plot around this youth.

    I chose the antagonist to be female, a she Devil who was going to put temptation in the fool’s way and try to lead him off his chosen path. Someone to test his strengths.

    The Magician his friend and his teacher. This character was magical with strange thought transference, skills he uses as part of the fools education. A good friend to the boy, who he doesn’t realise the old man is aging, dying and has had a spell released after successfully sharing his knowledge with the young man.

    The High Priestess, I discovered to my interest she was a metaphor for the fool’s gut feeling. Every time she appeared on the page, the advice she was passing on to him was to go inside and listen for what felt was right.

    The story developed. It talked to the reader about themselves. Everyone’s experience of life. It spoke of happiness, lies, temptations, battles and depression. I wanted to creatively weave it within a fantasy and fairy tale and lace it so that everyone could relate to it.

    An audio version of the book was created, Howard Ellison is perfect. Ellisonhttps://www.youtube.com/c/HowardEllisonUKVoice. His voice is just wonderful, exactly who I was searching for, and he agreed to narrate the book. Howard during his career was BBC trained and had worked on adverts such as The Mask, Britain on Film, BBC America amongst many including https://www.mastercard.us

    So that, my fellow readers, was how I got started with The Fool’s Journey.

    ​’Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.‘ Albert Einstein.

    Salon recovery plan

    Hair and beauty salons were forced to close the doors on the 24th March when Boris Johnson addressed the nation and put the whole of the UK in lockdown.

    Within the rest of Europe the restrictions are being slowly lifted bit by bit over the next month or so.

    Germany reopened some shops including hair salons, as did Denmark.

    Switzerland and Norway are due to allow the reopening of salons on the 27th of April. We need to look at how these other countries are managing this recovery.

    When will salons open in the UK? Only when we can eliminate the risks to staff and clients.

    All staff would wear masks and visors. Plastic disposable aprons to be worn at all times. All clients to wear masks and gloves and antibacterial gel on all workstations and also on entry to the salon. Clients should be staggered and depending on the size of the building only two clients to be allowed at all times.

    Of course it has been necessary for salon and barber shop closure so for the moment they are in lockdown limbo.

    The value that salons provide can’t be overlooked. Many take a trip to the salon not only to hide the grey or for chopping off the split ends but as a counselling session. There is a social aspect that the stylist or therapist plays as a mentor too. As clients share their lifestyles with them. Hence, they are knowledgeable in many social aspects, such as; illness, marriage guidance, relationships, death, the list goes on.

    Scientist believe it’s impossible for salons to open without the risk of spreading the virus. However, with careful strategic planning in place this could be done. We just have to look at how other countries are managing and learn from them.

    ‘When it rains, look for rainbows. When it’s dark, look for stars.’ Oscar Wilde.

    By Julie Modla

    Savills

    aerial view of cityscape
    Photo by Tom Fisk on Pexels.com

    International property experts Savills announced their plan today for designing chameleon style multi use buildings.

    A spokesman for Savills explained how the innovative building designs have considerable environmental and economic benefits. He went on to say that no single use of a building is necessarily required twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.

    The way forward he explained is a flexible working space for the future. A place designed for multi purpose.

    In these unstable economic times, supply and demand can change drastically so the idea is to maintain financially viable structures that will be profitable way into the future.

    Savills strategic planning and forward thinking would give flexibility, for example a café could convert into wine bar during the evening just as a beauty salon could hold Pilates during the evenings and Sundays.

    This potential future of mixed spaces seems incredibly popular with business owners. The sharing of spaces could reduce the costs to the business and the feedback suggests,  with the unpredictability of Brexit and how this could affect interest rates seems a sure way that both business and urban development can continue to make progress and be successful.

    Savills has been one of the worlds leaders in property developing since they established their first business in 1855 as Savills and Son, continuing to flourish through two world wars, strengthening and becoming Savills plc in 1988 continuing to be the leading property agents around the globe. Claiming wide specialist knowledge with 600 offices worldwide.

    By Julie Modla

    A special gift

    Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

    In a world where everyone is sending messages by messenger, WhatsApp and email. How nice would it be to receive a handwritten letter or a card by someone you love.

    There is something about letters that speaks so powerfully to us. A seductiveness. Letters have a way of revealing as much about the subject as the author.

    A special gift from the person who took the time to sit down and write it to you.

    The sender can send their thoughts, unique to you, in the way they speak. A handwritten letter is like giving the receiver a small piece of the writers thoughts.

    Instead of picking up your phone to send that text, put pen to paper and send a note to a loved one.

    Happiness is receiving a hand written letter

    Julie Modla

    Paper wisdom

    Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

    I have to honour my mum who at the age of three asked to join the public library. She was told no, she had to be five. ‘..but I can read..’ she answered.

    The librarian asked her to go and choose a book, and if she could read the first page to her, she would issue her with a membership. Mum did as she was asked and at the age of three became a member of the public library.

    My mum inspired me, I was then consumed and fascinated by books. I was taught to sight read from many children’s books starting at the ladybird collection, such as Jane and Peter progressing to Enid Blyton’s famous five right through to the classics such as Charles Dickens, Jane Austin and the Bronte sisters.

    I tried everything, some mammoth and not to my liking, some too wordy for my taste. Some so spiritually inspiring such as Paulo Coelho.

    I love the art of pen on paper, shaping and carving out the written word.

    I would not have grown and developed as a reader had I not taken on this catalogue of writers within this free public service.

    1970’s Penguin books were now introduced into my school. A book club for a few pence a week. I could now buy and collect these treasures. the classics alongside modern literature in paperback. I now had the chance to own the books that mattered to me.

    A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. G. R. Martin.

    Julie Modla

    The Quiet Man

    The Quiet Man

    King of Wands what wishes you so?
    to fight for country, your men do go.
    Wish not a man, decked in armour.
    To depart from comfort, great their honour.

    Left to battle on the ground
    With hope, to return, safe and sound.
    A sin, as swords do pierce and clash.
    He doth retch, as guts do splash.

    That he pray, old age to see.
    One day with those he loves, will be.
    When proud he is to show his scar
    a tortured mind, shades of horror, not far.

    Remember him. His only reward.
    A fight he fought, to die by the sword.

    By Julie Modla