Editors Note: 1st pass,thanks for your submission, Although we were really thinking of real life articles, showing what people of Prestwich get up to on a regular basis, rather than fiction, but it so happens we are considering a readers fiction section in the near future. I made some minor comments as I read through, see notes below, on how we can add to your story for publication.]

Tale 1 - Working title: A Normal Day.

Things started going awry on a quite normal day. I was late, which, as I say, is quite normal. I had lost some time after taking the dog for a walk. The walk was then followed by the hosing down of the dog, a compulsory act at this time of year. Thinking I could break the laws of physics in some way, I cut through the ancient woodland of Prestwich Clough to try and regain my lost time. Although I’ve definitely seen a BBC documentary that told me that time doesn’t work like that.

It was a normal, slightly damp Tuesday, well, normal for the Northwest of England in Autumn, unless the frost comes to bite at your toes and fingertips. But this day was mild. I was on my way to help out with the volunteers of the St Mary's Churchyard Action group. There's about 7 of us in the group, but as we all have lives to live, and ailments to attend to, such as work, we manage to get a handful or so to turn out every week. A normal Tuesday to-do list for the volunteers involves litter picking, tending to overgrown graves, flowerbeds and hedges, and sometimes we search for a long lost family grave of a relative that someone has asked us to locate.

The path through the clough links the church with a hill called Butterstile. The name of the hill is thought to be derived from the old township’s archery field - a target in archery is called a butt, and a fancy Victorian Mansion called Butt Hill once stood on the Manchester side of the hill. Combine that, with a stile that took travellers off on their business towards Manchester or Salford, leaves us with butt-hill-stile.

Before the old Roman road between Mamucium (Manchester) and Bremetennacum (Ribchester) was re-claimed in 1826, as Bury New Road, the travellers and traders would have taken the higher, and drier route of the present-day Bury Old Road (Rooden Lane) past Heaton Park. Perhaps if they had something more valuable or maybe a little contraband, they would pass through the clough to reach Manchester, and keep their cargo away from prying eyes, and the highwaymen that lay in wait along the main routes.

But, let me return to the intended path of my tale. The path I was taking comes directly across the Clough, a small valley containing a narrow babbling stream, but a stream that can roar in the aftermath of a sharp deluge. One such deluge had led to the demise of the old bridge I used to cross as a child on my way to school. I imagine that it was wooden, but those memories are faded and far away now. The present day bridge is constructed of square metal tubes and is painted bright blue, and on this day, due to lack of a decent shower in the preceding days, the stream underneath it was limited to a puny trickle.

As I crossed the bridge a glint of sun shone through the branches above, and I paused on the bridge to take a photo. The clough had lost its lushness at this time of year, but what it loses in greenery it gains with more sunlight, more so than during the Summer months, which you’d think is kind of contrary.

I framed my shot, trying to avoid a beer can in the stream bed that had been discarded by a passerby in a moment of lightheadedness, or disrespect. With the photo safely stored on the memory card of my phone, I made a mental note to clear my old photos down when I got home, before I get the dreaded “low on memory” warning, which is a regular complaint that my phone raises with me.

As I slid the phone into the breast pocket of my coat, I noticed a man climbing the steps up towards the church of St Mary. He must have passed behind me on the bridge as I took the snap, but I hadn’t noticed him. In fact by all rights he must have appeared in my photo. Oh well, I thought, I’ll have to delete that photo as well, but my phone will enjoy the extra free memory, and maybe stop complaining to me, just for one day.

[Editors note: I’m not sure if I see anything in the photo, but there may be something there on the steps. I’ll get our Image Processing Team to take a proper look before we publish.]

Usually people round here are always free to spare a minute for a chat, or just drop a quick “morning” as they head on their way. The man seemed to be in a hurry, which I suppose would explain the lack of greeting as he passed, but thinking back now, he was maybe even like a blur to me, though my eyes are getting no younger. I could still make out that he was notably dressed quite smartly for a normal Tuesday, in a khaki-green jacket and khaki trousers, quite wide at his thighs, was that his constitution, or just my failing vision? He seemed to have tall boots on too, or perhaps tall socks. I wondered what demanded such smartness and such a rush, maybe there was a wedding, or funeral on at the Church today. The man was soon out of sight, heading up in the direction of the cobbled path. I reckoned I would see the man again at the Church, and maybe have some fun pointing him out to the churchyard volunteers.

Continuing the normality of the day, I headed up the steps myself, heading up the cobbled path towards the churchyard. The man must have made some quick progress as he was nowhere to be seen on the steep pathway ahead of me. The cobbled pathway, often slippy on days such as this, had been adopted along the hedgeline of the farmers fields that once lay on the hillside, and had been cobbled around the start of the 20th century. There’s a photo doing the rounds of the iron fences that once protected the farmers crops from passers-by on the footpaths, the railings later serving to contain the grave stones which became the field’s more permanent crop from the 1920’s onwards.

Normally the volunteers split up, some clearing graves, some pruning, and today, as I have already pointed out was a normal day, so was no exception. One volunteer, George, as is his want, had headed off to pick litter and empty the graveyard bin that gets full of old flowers & plastic wrapping, the usual output from an active graveyard. This graveyard however gets a little more litter than others, as it also has several footpaths leading towards it. The steepest of which, I was slowly working my way up. The bin, which was the focus of George’s attentions, stands just on the right at the top of the cobbled path and as I approached the top, slightly out of breath, George greeted me with a pleasant: “Hi Jon, Alan’s been looking for you”.

“Hi matey, nowt new there, then.” I replied.

“He said he needs your help locating a grave for someone, he’s had difficulty because of all the brambles” he explained. “He’s down in the lower section in front of the tower” said George.

“Yes, he’s after a grave down near Percival” I said.

Percival, or William Percival, to give him his full name, was a Waterloo Veteran, and as such, a special grave that we try and give regular attention to. The Percival family were a longstanding and noteable family, who lived in the Hope Park area of Prestwich, over the generations they had been Inn keepers, botanists, oh, and war heroes.

“No rest for the wicked” I responded back to George, and having gained some of my breath back, I took a left turn and headed along in front of the tall stone wall that marks a previous limit of the burial ground, after the graveyard had been extended and enclosed in 18 66. The extension was made to compensate for the large number of graves being used by the local Prestwich Asylum which had undergone expansion in the 18 50’s.

I turned back and shouted back to George, “Hey, did you just see that smart fella in a green jacket come up the hill? Is there a wedding on today or something? Or a funeral?” I asked. My brain was exhibiting its tendency to ask more than one question at a time, a trait I’ve got used to myself, having to live with my brain everyday, but I’m sure other people find my brain quite annoying.

“Nope, not seen anyone, Bill is over by the hearse house, he might know if there’s any new residents moving in today”, George responded. His brain answering all my questions in one reply, an efficiency that my brain, will have enjoyed.

“OK, see you for a brew later!”

“Nah, I’m off to walk my dog, but she’s going to get muddy” he replied.

I should have known that he always breaks off to take his dog, another annoying trait of my brain, forgetting things, one that leads to me and my brain having a love-hate relationship. Hah, I thought, you’ll never get that time back, I should know, I’ve tried, and time just doesn't work like that. I headed along the wall and, thankfully, down a slight slope.

Passing some lovely art-deco headstones on my left, scattered in the 19 25 extension, and some family memorials to the sacrifices made in World War 2. I passed by two such memorials, that of Silas Bridge & Douglas Marsden both of the RAF and both died 19 42 within a month of each other. I always spot them as the stones lie beside each other too, two Prestwich lads through and through, with a shared destiny. I made a mental note that we’ll have to get those tidy for the remembrance Sunday coming up. A small flight of steps through the stone wall on the right took me up and into the lower churchyard, passing through what we call the ‘Greek Section’, so named because it contains several Greek millionaire merchants, or should I say ex-millionaires. You can’t take it with you, after all! The Greeks were nowhere in sight today though as the bracken, up to head height, was in full control of this section, another thing for the to do list. As I looked around for Alan, I thought I caught some movement through the bracken. Though the bracken was still, it must have just been a trick of that brain that I mentioned earlier.

[Editors Note: I think I see a figure in the undergrowth, I’ll get the IPT department to enlarge this one too - do you have a higher resolution image you can email over?]

I walked further along the path and performed a more detailed scan for Alan, his white hair is usually easily spotted from 100 yards, and before I knew it, I had a bearing on his position, and as expected he was not far from the grave of William Percival.

I shouted up, “Hi mate! Have you found him yet?”.

Alan had his head down, obviously trying to locate the grave he was after, and he looked up in response to my holler. It was at that moment that I noticed a person stood behind Alan. It was the suited man again, stood close behind Alan, in his Khaki jacket, this time his legs were no where to be seen in all the brambles, and just then the man put his arm on Alan’s shoulder and Alan turned to look over his shoulder. “Oh, you got some help today?” Alan seemed to give a short wave with his left arm, but no sooner had he waved, then his other arm also waved up in the air and Alan promptly disappeared, falling backwards into the undergrowth with a yelp. I broke into a trott and soon made it to where Alan had been stood, and there he still was, but flat on his back with a big grin on his face in the middle of a tangle of brambles.

“What have I told you about doing this on your own Alan !” I exclaimed.

“Oh I know, but I wasn’t sure you were turning out today and it’s been bugging me that I can’t find this ruddy Wiggins”, said Alan, “ any chance of a lift up by the way, it’s a bit soggy down here?” he asked.

“Here you go” I said as I grabbed his hand, helping Alan up to his feet.

“I could have sworn you had someone with you just before you took the dive”.

“Someone with me? No, I left Bill up at the hearse house, so I could locate this grave once and for all, I did have a bit of a start before I fell though, thought I heard Bill call my name right behind me”.

“That was me” I claimed.

“No, it came from over my shoulder, no sooner had I turned round to see where the voice came from, then I was staring up at the clouds!” Alan explained.



“Alan, what was the name you were looking for?” I asked.

“Wiggins, Leonard Wiggins, he was in the RAF.” replied Alan.

“Wasn’t it the RFC in those days?” I suggested.

“Nah, they adopted RAF in early 19 18, and switched from the green/khaki uniforms to the normal blue uniforms later that year.” explained Alan, he loves to show off his knowledge. Just ask him about one of the graves in St Mary’s and he turns into a fountain of fascinating facts. You’ll lose time that you will never get back, but in a nice way - not in a muddy dog way.

“Khaki? That’s funny, I just saw a bloke-”, I started to say, but at that moment something caught my eye down between the tangle of brambles, and my brain decided to say something about that instead. It does that. “Hang on, what’s that right there?” I said pointing towards the stone Alan had been laid down on just 30 seconds earlier. Reaching into my pocket for my cutters, I cleared some brambles back, it wasn’t obvious to the casual passer by, as the slab belonged to the Ramsbottom family, but there, engraved on the flat, and ever so slippery slab, were the following words :

“Leonard Wiggins,

RAF son in law of Alma

and Sarah Emma Ramsbottom,

died on service January 16th 1918.”

“Crikey! That’s the fella I’m after!” Alan exclaimed.

“I think we need a brew” I said, “I have a story to tell you...”

[Editors Note: I’ll get the Records Department to do a lookup on the census to see if we can expand on this family before publication] [Editors Note: I’ve included an image of the RFC/RAF uniform of WW1. The Record Dept ran a quick check for me as I was sure the RAF wore Blue Uniforms, but they found this, is this the kind of clothes the man you saw was wearing? Let’s firm this up before we publish. 2nd Pass: Now I read this again, I’m confused, I thought you had submitted a piece of fiction, but a woman in the record department said she knows Alan from St Mary’s. She says he was giving guided tours of the churchyard at the last heritage weekend, and he mentioned falling over in the brambles while looking for a grave. Are you saying this actually happened? Can we get Alan’s side of the story? Please ring me at the soonest opportunity.]

[Authors Note: The record department found no reference to Leonard in the "Prestwich Roll of Honour" by David Galloway. Further research has found his service number was 240483, St Mary's grave ref SS. 14. 874.He served as an Air Mechanic 1st Class, RAF(Redcar). Leonard had spent some time in Red Barnes A.M. Hospital, Coatham prior to his death. The threat of U-boats off the North East coast saw the arrival of four Handley Page O/100 bombers on detachment from RNAS Coudekerque to Redcar in September 1917. By the time the detachment had concluded in October, 42 sorties had been flown resulting in 11 U-boats being sighted. For some reason the Commonwealth War Grave Comission record his death as 1919, but his stone states 1918. As Leonard died in England his body was returned to his next of kin and he now lies in St Mary's.]

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