When I were young and in me prime,

as lazy as can be,

I stepped on board a Mersey Flatter number 23.

Bamalam Productions proudly presents Scuttled,

Episode 5 in association with the Museum of London

Archaeology and the Arts and Humanities Research

Council.

Directed by James Steventon.

Written by Ian Winterton.

With Neil Bell,

Isabel Haig,

Janine Lannick,

Katie Moore and Paul Rigby.

Produced by Kelly Griffiths,

James Steventon and Ian Winterton.

It started raining begum,

it went dark with cloud.

I catched me foot in stern rail and went slurring

right on deck and I went and said first down

Scuttle all on a nailing.

That day,

fighting the soldiers,

my back was the end of me on Foxglove.

Not quite,

it wasn't.

Clocks were ticking from then on though.

And,

not long after,

old Queen Vic popped her clogs in 1901.

You,

my lovely,

my brickie girl,

you followed her.

Taken by another bastard winter.

I died happy.

And my own lungs,

my bloody back,

my grief for thee.

I'd have died if I'd have stayed on Foxglove.

I was content with that,

truth be told.

But our Paul,

of course,

he wouldn't have that.

What son could?

Aye,

he did right by me,

much as I complained about it.

And so,

that second year of the 20th century,

I found myself living in a bloody house.

Small place in a row near the basin in Rochdale.

Eh,

not too bad,

being near the canal.

Bad enough,

though.

Rent paid for by the family.

No charity off the church needed for us,

no.

It's alright.

I suppose.

But I miss the boats,

the canal,

the work.

And I miss you most of all.

I'm with you.

I know,

love,

I know.

I spend most of my time in the garden,

tending to me vegetable patch,

nattering away to thee in me head.

And not always in your head.

Who knew you had green fingers?

And it's good to still be providing regular veg

for the family on the boat.

First few years,

I take it down.

Down to the basin.

But then,

without me noticing,

it's the family what comes to me.

My legs,

my back.

I'm ready for the knacker's yard.

Not yet,

Ewen.

And one time,

they come all jabbering,

excited.

And our Paul,

he has a paper in his hand.

A newspaper.

That's the first I tell you.

And I know,

before our Paul says it out loud,

we're at- War,

Dad.

We're Germany.

Who else it be?

I keep up with events,

you know.

I can't be doing with a noise.

And I'm all excited.

Blessed fools.

So,

I lift me sen up from me armchair,

going away to outside.

And that's when John comes over.

He's 27 by then.

But,

to me,

still a gentle little lad who loved his horse.

And that's how the world sees him and all.

Girls especially,

they like him.

But never like that.

Lads can be too gentle.

Don't talk soft.

Hey,

Grandad.

Let me help you.

Summer,

wasn't it?

Beautiful day.

Breeze has cleared out the smog.

And the sky overhead is brilliant blue.

I don't want to listen to the talk.

All our Germany's going to wish they'd never

started it.

And now the boys will send them packing.

And I concentrate on pulling up carrots.

Shaking the soil free.

Placing them in the basket.

John helping.

He doesn't want to think about the war,

neither.

They won't send you,

you know.

I ain't married.

Got no children.

And I ain't that old.

What I mean is,

they won't send you because you work the canals.

There won't be no war without you doing your job.

I'm going to join up.

Thinking about it.

Any road.

Doing my duty for the country,

like.

Your duty is here.

Coal,

guns,

ammunition,

supplies,

all sorts.

I'm going to join up.

Canals will be vital,

just as now.

Railways can't do everything quite yet.

I suppose.

Just like they'll still need men to mine the coal,

so they'll still need likes of you to get the

coal where it needs to be.

You mark my words,

lad.

You're staying where you belong.

On the boats.

You'd have been right and all if the government

had any sense.

If,

like.

If.

Over by Christmas?

My arse.

And even with most of the young lads volunteering,

it wasn't enough for that war.

So,

January 1916,

conscription for all healthy single men aged between

18 and 41.

There were exceptions.

Mining,

railways,

dockers,

all sorts.

Made them reserved occupations.

Essentials to the war effort.

But canals,

as ever,

overlooked.

And soon after,

along with most of the men on the canals,

our John got his papers.

Like a lot round our way,

it was a loyal Northland.

The North Lancashire Regiment for him.

He was a brave lad.

Chests swelling with pride as we saw him off at

the station.

But he was built for boats,

not war.

And I knew,

if he made it back,

he wouldn't be the same.

And the canals?

Men left,

like our poor.

Were worked to exhaustion.

To keep it going.

But it were too much.

And,

wouldn't you know it,

government suddenly copped on that they did need

canals shifting,

building coal,

and all the rest.

So they sent us men to work the warehouses.

And the boats and all.

Men and boys who'd never set foot on a boat in

their lives.

It went about as well as you'd expect.

One time,

not far from the end of the war,

I went down the wharfside and saw the lad,

Stephen,

who'd been assigned to El Par Paul on Primrose.

Stephen was sixteen,

seventeen,

and he'd been working the boat six months by that

point.

Still didn't have the first clue,

about anything.

I get there just as the horse is stepping off,

Stephen leading it by the head collar.

I see right away what's up.

Whoa,

hold that!

Whoa,

whoa,

whoa,

hold that,

hold!

But I'm too far away,

and El Paul,

his hand on the tiller,

don't hear me in time.

Stephen's attached the horse to the boat,

but without hooking it round the blocking up first.

So poor bloody Nag starts off pulling the entire

weight of the boat from a standing start.

With cargo that's the best part of sixty tons.

Hold the horse!

Grab its head collar!

But by the time Paul had realised what was wrong,

poor bloody horse was dripping with sweat,

its heart near to bursting.

You flaming idiot!

How many times have I told you?

I'm sorry,

Mr.

Ashworth,

I'm sorry.

And then I saw the rope go slack,

and the horse,

that proud bloody horse,

it sank slowly to its knees.

War finished off a lot of things.

Canals were one of them.

Running to the ground,

half the men gone,

a good portion never coming back.

Like Charlie Jackson,

the shover,

killed at Passchendaele.

By the time the armistice came in 1918,

I was ready to give up.

Ready to come join you,

my love.

Life I'd known,

life my father and mother had known,

was all coming to an end.

Didn't see no reason to carry on.

But giving up,

that were never you,

Thomas Ashworth.

You had your garden,

the family.

The grandchildren,

the great-grandchildren.

Aye.

And John.

And John.

He made it through the war.

He started off in India,

then saw time in East Africa.

Strange places for war,

to our minds.

And though he saw fighting and death,

he was spared the horrors of the Western Front,

until 1918.

The Hundred Days Offensive,

it came to be called,

the final push,

after how many other final pushes,

to get Germany to finally surrender.

And it worked.

But not before our John,

that sweet boy who loved horses,

lost half his face to shrapnel at the Second

Battle of the Somme.

He didn't die.

Spent the last few weeks of the war at a field

hospital,

then got shipped home,

half his face still bandaged,

to live with me.

His old grandad.

Didn't see me at the time,

but it was a blessing.

For both of you.

He didn't talk about it.

I wouldn't expect him to.

But I heard him most nights,

cry out in his sleep.

Or lie,

quietly sobbing,

rocking himself like a baby.

I wanted to go to him,

to hold him,

to make it all better.

Like I had a hundred times before,

when he'd been a lad.

This wasn't no scraped knee though.

Or burn off the ropes.

Or thumb he'd hit with a hammer.

This was his face.

And deeper than that,

his soul.

It was like Uncle Harry after the fire,

only far worse.

Because it came with years of horror and all.

John was in hell.

And there wasn't nothing I could do to help.

And one night I woke,

my flaming bladder.

And I sat there on me bed,

about to push myself up,

when I noticed it.

The quiet.

The silence.

And somehow,

I knew.

I lit the paraffin lamp by me bed,

and hurried,

as much as I could hurry by now,

down the stairs.

There was a letter on the table in the sitting

room.

Even with the lamp turned up full,

with my old eyes,

I couldn't read the words.

But I didn't need to.

I pulled on my clogs and went out into the night,

shouting his name.

Praying to God he'd hear me and come back.

John!

John!

One gas street lamp on the corner.

Now they've used my ornament.

It's weak glow showed up the cobblestones,

but blocked out the rest of the moonlit night.

I had to get past it,

down to the dark,

so I could have a proper look.

Free of the gaslight,

with the stars and half the moon above,

I could see properly at last.

And there he was.

John.

Down by the basin.

Standing on the edge of the wharf.

Head bowed.

I went to shout.

Thought better of it.

Startling him might have made him jump.

And if he jumped,

went into the drink,

me,

state me old body were in.

I couldn't see.

Saved him.

So I walked down.

Slowly.

Calmly.

Like I was just out for a night time stroll.

And as I get close,

I see he has a rope around his waist.

And tied to the other end,

held in both his hands,

a ruddy great ramshorn hook that had once been on

one of the cranes and now was a block of rusty

iron.

If John went in the water,

he'd go straight to the bottom.

It took everything I had not to rush at him,

grab him,

drag him back.

Knew that if I tried that,

I might as well just push him in.

No.

All I had was one thing.

You were his grandad.

John!

What's all this,

eh?

Just leave me be.

Please.

As if I can do that.

Sorry,

Grandad.

Sorry.

Sorry.

Oh,

my sweet lad.

My sweet lad.

Can I?

Can I come over?

Put my arm round you?

No.

You'll not stop me.

This is what I want.

To drown.

Down there.

In the black.

That's all I've thought of for so long.

Before,

even.

When I came back home.

When I stood.

Over there.

Aye.

I'd sit there.

In the trench.

Day or night.

And I'd tell her to crump,

crump,

crump in the distance.

And all I'd see.

Over and over.

Is me.

Doing this.

Tying this rope around my waist.

Weighing it down.

And then stepping off into the cut.

The bliss,

Grandad.

The bliss that'll come.

The peace.

It's calling me.

So powerful.

It's like love.

But it ain't love,

John.

It ain’t.

Love?

That’s your mam.

Your dad.

Me.

And your nan Eliza.

Nan Eliza.

Miss her?

We all do.

Think of her,

John.

Picture her.

Can you see her face?

Aye.

Is she smiling?

She is.

Right at me.

You’re walking Bella.

Pulling foxglove along.

It’s sunny.

There’s bees buzzing round some wild flowers.

And nan Eliza’s on the boat.

Smiling at me.

She didn’t do that for just anyone,

you know.

No.

Leading your horse along.

Your Bella.

My young Billy.

That,

John.

That's what you come from.

That's your soul.

That's you.

Not that place they sent you.

And not this neither.

I walked up to him.

Slowly.

Laid my hand on his shoulder.

Then wrapped my other arm around him.

And,

gentle like,

I pulled him back from the edge.

Put the hook down,

John.

Untie the rope.

He placed the hook down.

He untied the rope.

Come to your Grandad.

And he came to me.

And I held him tight.

Oh,

Grandad.

Grandad.

There it is,

if you need one.

A reason for the Lord to have spared you.

It was for our John.

Grandad.

Oi,

Grandad.

John.

John,

me lad.

How goes it?

No complaints.

Considering.

Sad day.

Aye.

Our John.

Alive because of you.

Half his face still a mess.

Aye.

But those as know him.

Love him.

Don't pay it no mind.

His family.

His kids.

Hey,

who's this then?

Come to your Dad.

Come here,

you.

Timmy.

Say hello to your great Grandad Thomas.

Hello.

Hello,

young Timmy.

Not seen you since you were a baby in arms.

Can still pinch them cheeks,

mind.

Alright,

son.

Dad.

Alright,

Dad.

Son.

They're ready for us.

For you,

Dad.

The boats.

And there she is.

Foxglove.

Boat of my birth.

Of me Dad's birth.

Of me brother,

Harry.

And so many others in her little clan.

Moored up beside her sister,

Primrose.

I could weep at the state of them.

And I forced myself to think back.

To see them as they were.

Brightly painted.

Objects not just of work.

But of joy.

Of family.

It helps.

A little.

To cope with what comes next.

Here you go,

Dad.

Paul hands me a pickaxe.

I hold it in my hands.

Feel the weight of it.

Would have been now,

not so long ago.

But now.

Takes all my strength just to hold it.

You don't have to do this,

Dad.

I'm damned if I'm gonna leave this to anyone else.

Over on other jetty.

Are John's standing by Primrose.

Pickaxe in his hand and all.

After three,

eh?

Grandad?

Aye.

One.

Foxglove.

Walking its boards.

My earliest memories.

Two.

Laughing with Mam.

With Dad.

But now.

Three.

We go at the hulls.

Smash them boats apart at the waterline.

Don't take much.

Rotten as the woods got.

Decades since it last had a slather of fresh tar

off Betty.

I stop.

See the brackish water start flooding into the

wound in the side of that proud old boat.

And we stand there and watch as they scuttle boats

sink.

Water rising up to claim it.

All the kids watch with us and all.

Quiet now.

Like they know what's passing from this world.

Maybe the kids sense that their lives will be

different,

they won't be bad.

But they'll be different to what came before.

Houses.

Schools.

Factories.

They'll never know what it's like to live and play

and work on a boat.

To live amongst the countryside.

To call these knitted waterways home.

They'll never be taught by their daddy to lead a

horse.

And they'll never know how it feels to be age

seven and already know.

You're exactly where you're supposed to be.

I stepped on board a Mersey Platter number 23.

As we set sail from Salmon Ridge.

We get lost in a terrible fog.

And the only mate aboard that quack will do.

You have been listening to Scuttled.

Episode 5.

Directed by James Stevenson.

Starring Christopher Eccleston,

Joyce Branagh,

Becky Kershaw,

Kimberley Cochrane,

Jonathan Carley,

Adam Grayson,

Stephen Hillman,

Annie Connell Welsh,

and James Steventon.

Featuring Isabella Arrowsmith,

Bailey Cockcroft,

Katie Rowan.

Elliot Winterton,

and the little voices of St Edward's Primary

School,

Rochdale.

Title music by Jennifer Reid.

With archaeological consultants.

A new consultancy from Kelly Griffiths.

Based on archaeological excavations in Rochdale,

England.

I wish I'd never gone boating.

For me,

living was too sick.

Soon after that,

with an awful shock.

He met another ship.

And that worked on Rotary.

We were on a school trip.

He shouted out.

Out in the cloud.

I forgot to net it out.

I'll be next day.

Up in the middle of a cup of gum.

And he had to clout.

We had a deal.

We had a bull in the bull shop.

And a crew went to Walton jail.

The only survivor.

Who'd mean to tell the tale.

I've had some happy memories.

From Badlands to Agbar.

But I'll never forget.

When our work was made.

On board a California bar.

Yay!

Yay!

Yay!

Yay!

Yay!

Yay!

Yay!

Yay!

Yeah.

Good.

One on the back!

And a political dirty .

acre.

acre.

in a bull and bull shop,

and a crew went to Walton jail.

Wooo!

Police and hire,

who's meant to tell the tale?

I've had some happy memories,

from Badlands to White Bar.

But I'll never forget when our work was made,

on board a Calibar.

Wooo!