I negotiate my way round the warren of twisting
side-roads that lead to Hal's secluded close
and park up in the small public area behind
his home. I walk up the concrete path between
the neat lawns and pretty garden. I knock
on the door. Hal is in the doorway wearing
his old honest grin. He wears a powder blue
tracksuit and white trainers. His pure white,
slightly protruding but not unattractive
teeth, are set in a still handsome face,
his spiky hair black, though grey at the
temples. The epicanthic folds of his smallish
eyes are crinkled in welcome.
|
'Hi Jud! You managed to find it all right
then?
' Hal laughs, 'Well if you hadn't managed to find it you
wouldn't be here standing on the front-door step
now I suppose.' |
He leads me into the carpeted lounge, and
bids me sit on the large comfortable couch.
Hal surveys me critically. 'You're looking good you old bastard.' He punches me lightly in my chest. 'No wonder you could pull such a young wife.'
'You look no more than fifty at the
most.
How do you manage it you swine?' He sniggers. 'And three young kids too! Nowadays,
It takes me all night to do what I
used to
do all night!' We both laugh.
'Must be all the oats I eat,' I smile, 'I read somewhere that...'
He wiggles his finger in his ear. Want a cup of tea? He says, interrupting me. 'Go on…sorry - I'm listening to you.
I nod and say: 'I read somewhere… it was in some newspaper…
that vegetarians live twenty per cent
longer
than carnivores.' I follow Hal as he walks into his spacious
kitchen. 'Go on,' he says, as he fills the kettle.
'Yes,' I continue, 'some insurance company is offering reduced
rates for lifelong vegetarians.'
Hal plugs the kettle in the socket
and turns
to face me. 'And how the hell do you prove that you've
been a lifelong veggie?' He nods for me to take a seat round the
small kitchen table. 'Orrrr,' he draws the word out to give himself time
to think, 'or more importantly, how does the insurance
company know that you're telling them
the
truth?' We both sit down laughing.
'It's great to see you again Hal.' I say. 'I've brought a bottle of nice plonk to go
with the meal and a bottle of Irish
for after.'
Hal takes the bottle and examines the
label
with mock expertise. 'Hmmm,' he grunts, 'a cheeky little wine, rather presumptuous
but worthy of a trial.'
We laugh in unison.
'Bit different to the old days Judder.' He grimaces and replaces the bottle on the
table. 'I'll get a corkscrew.' He returns and removes the cork with a satisfying
plunkt
'Mind you,' he says, 'Looking back now I think that possibly you
had it worse than me?'
I nod. Then memories come flooding back.
Hal suffers similar deprivation to me in
his childhood, although he has a loving hardworking
father, and a competent devoted mother.
It's delightful to see him again. He retains
that cheeky boyish grin, the sharp pragmatic
intelligence and genuine warmth that endears
me to him in my youth as it does today.
Hal smiles as he fills my glass.
|
OK, now I'll take you back to those scary
slum courts, and the black shawls the women
wore.
' he says, 'I know you will remember looking down off
the top deck of the 22 or 19
tram and seeing
the Mary Helens with the big
bundles of washing
carried on their heads to the
wash-house?' |
I nod in agreement and I sip my wine.
Hal
mentions the men lolling on the pub
corners
in canvass pants which only the very
poor
wore (they were looked down on even
by us)
and of course the jugs of ale that
the women
took home to their hubbies. If
they
got enough ale down them it made the
surrounding
a bit more bearable.
Hal frowns. 'How they ever mated and had lots of kids
beats me, everyone stunk, but as the
saying
goes if you constantly smell the SAME
smell,
you cease to smell it. It is
a good
exercise to imagine getting in a time
machine
and going back in time WITH your family,
and trying to live as they did...it
certainly
makes you cherish what we have now.'
I nod and hold the glass up and look
at the
ceiling light through its roseate glow
'In a way we grew up on the cusp of a great
cultural change didn't we?' I say, 'We are blessed with insights into ways and
values that no longer exist. We are
able
to apply them in our attitudes to the
way
the consumer society is now. Mostly
our experience
makes us grateful for the facilities
and
appreciate the better standards of
living
that we now enjoy.
Sometimes however we feel occasional
frustrations
when we look at aspects of contemporary
society
where the young seems ungrateful for
what
they get, and we are saddened at the
lack
of neighbourliness, compassion and
working-class
togetherness that was the norm in the
immediate
post war years.
Hal pours himself another glass of
wine and
fills mine up to the brim:
Just thinking what fortune it was that
you
had a camera...... I don't recall anyone
else having one. Where
did you
get it? It seems to me that they
were
a lot of money?
I smile and shake my head,
|
 Actually it was an old Brownie Box camera
No 2C Model A made in 1917 of leatherette-covered
cardboard that used to belong to my Mam's
brother Ernie in the thirties.
Apparently, when he left Eton Street in about
1931 to get married he gave it
to my mother.
But it was not new even then,
my mum said
that their elder brother Arthur
gave it to
Ernie at the end of World War
One when he
came back from France.
I can still remember the large
rolls of Kodak
film it took, and the trick of
loading in
the thick, black rollers inside
and taking
it to the chemist on County Road
to get developed.
It was a very crude technology
- but it worked.
The photos leave a lot to be
desired - to
say the least - but the images
of our early
lives become increasingly precious
the older
we get. When I went in the army
I took it
with me and all the photos I
shot in Egypt
were taken with it. I last used
it around
about 1958 - so it gave incredible
good service.
These days one can't go wrong
with digital
cameras - you just aim it and
shoot. But
the Brownie (which was actually
black) had
no automatic adjustment for light
and distance.
The lens was really no more than
a glass
hole where the light went in
and was a fixed-focus
one with a rotary shutter and
was single-speed
only. I sometimes spot one in
a car boot
sale and marvel at the fact that
so many
early family and street photos
would not
exist but for that humble Brownie
Box camera
which must have been at least
sixty years
old when it last saw service.
|
Hal eases himself back into his comfortable
chair, kicks off his shoes and miles
to himself
obviously enjoying some incident
recollected
from his prodigious memory.
|
As kids,
Hal says, fixing me with his serious grey
eyes, we looked forward to the many celebrations
that marked a typical year. Christmas was
an exciting time for us - the decorations,
the presents that our mams struggled to buy
us. There were school holidays of course,
especially the long hot days of summer. Stanley
Park, with its wishing well (none of mine
came true) football, cricket, the boating
lake. Ducks Island was a bit scary,
because a big swan lived there who had a
bad temper( it was said that it had broken
a dogs back with his wing, and could easily
kill a boy.) We used to hire a rowing boat for sixpence and
row out to ducks island, and peer through
the undergrowth. That swan never hurt
us, but we did end up with blisters
on our hands which we would prick with a
pin. Hot water would spurt out and
then we would bite the loose slippery skin
off and suffer the rawness for a few days. |
I listen to him with delight. As he speaks
I can hear again the squeak of the rowlocks
and the splashing water, the cold drips of
water down our necks as we transfer an oar
from port to starboard. The cries of
Look out! ring out again in my memory as an
oar slipped out of its holder attached to
the gunwale and slides in the grey water
and floats away. Once more we ship our oars
inboard and slide silently through the arches
underneath the bridge, pushing our way through
using our hands for purchase in the crumbling
cement between the red sandstone blocks.
We do so in order to avoid the drops
of spittle deliberately spat down upon us
by the boys on the bridge. Some (ominously
coloured green) rain down upon us like multi-colourled
bird-droppings.
Finally, when we were all soaked through
and the whistle blew and the voice shouted
'Come in number seven!' there would be the
final thump of wet wood against wet wood
as we cast the oars into the bottom of the
wooden deck at the end of our time and jumped
onto the small wooden jetty.
|
When we were younger, continued Hal, we used
to look forward to "The May Procession"
on the first of May, or thereabouts. We would
all meet in someone's backyard usually Betty
Hengler's. All our mother's old curtains
would come out, all the make-up would be
applied to us and themselves by the girls.
Lipstick powder and rouge. A "Queen"
would be picked and the girls would dress
her up, apply the cosmetics. Two ladies-in-waiting
would be dressed up in old curtains and made
lavishly beautiful with make up. High heel
shoes were borrowed. The boys had no say
in who they were going to be dressed up as
- but it was as a usually a pirate, a tramp,
or an old man. I was dressed as an old man
once wearing my dad's cap, big docker's boots
and an old overcoat. Soot (out of the chimney)
was applied liberally. We usually submitted
to being bossed about by the girls who always
seemed to know exactly what to do and were
quite single-minded about the traditional
way that everything must be done.
All this time the grown up brothers
and sisters
of Betty, Billy, Frank, or perhaps
Dolly,
or Peggy used to come and look
at us before
we started off on the procession.
They tried
hard not to laugh, but we could
hear them
when they went inside.
Soon it was time to go and we
were ordered
to take our positions by bossy
girls who
kept ordering us around - moving
us from
one position in the group to
another. We
eventually set off shaking our
collecting
tins and shouting: Help the Queen.
We used to shout at every grown up we encountered
on our way. We always headed straight for
the pubs knowing that after a few bevvies
a man or woman would always be more generous
and willing to drop a few pennies into the
tin - specially if they had kids
of their own. Soon our
tins became heavier and
rattled with the pennies and threepenny bits
and threepenny 'Joeyies.' Up one street
down another - he Queen looking so royal
in all her coloured robes. It was all
fine until we could see another competitive
procession coming onto our territory. As
we passed each other we hurled abuse at the
other Queen. We passed a few rival processions,
some dressed up better than ours and much
bigger.
I hurled abuse at all the other
tramps, old
men and pirates, except for one
boy who was
a hard knock from around the
area, then I
just pulled my cap down and buried
my head
in the big coat. After what seemed
a long
time, we would head back to the
backyard.
Once there we counted out the
money we had
collected. That done we rushed
to the shop and
bought biscuits, cakes sweets,
lemonade and
proceeded to eat and drink as
much as we
could without being sick. Soon
after
playing a few games and with
more than a
feeling of sadness, all was over
- our begging
was over until next year.
|
Hal stopped speaking and glanced at
the TV
perhaps wishing that these childhood
scenes
had been captured on video - but the
telly
was not switched on and them memories
were
lost other than in the minds of us
participants
- now grown old.
|
You are right about the young now,
said Hal, they are so ungrateful for what they have,
but they'll get a shock when they get a family
of their own and they find they have not
got the stomach for sacrifice, the FAMILY
ETHIC is about all done in. Kids with different
dads etc. I will not even mention the drug
culture. Peer pressure is the number one
influence, regardless of education, and common
sense. been there, got the tee shirt, and
the bad lungs.' |
'I still feel privileged that I can get a
shower whenever I wish,' I laugh, 'Nowadays I can sit in a nice warm toilet
instead of dashing down the yard to
sit on
a freezing cold seat with the wind
whistling
under the door and the nooks and crannies
crawling with spiders. The absolute
delight
of flicking on a light switch and getting
a burst of bright light which illuminates
the whole room is still with me. The
yellow
depressing gloom of the wheezing gas-mantle,
and the shadowy periphery of the kitchen
where we lived out our childhood is
a constant
reminder of how lucky we are now in
our retirement.
Our love for our hard-working parents,
your
Dad working on the docks in all weathers
and my Mam slaving away at a machine
will
always be with us. They deserved so
much
better, and they did the best they
could
for us.'
I stretch out my legs comfortably and
kick
off my shoes. I am much attached to
Hal as
a young lad. Having no brothers of
my own,
he fills a much-needed gap in my life.
When,
as a young lad of sixteen, Hal goes
off to
a shore-based training school
for seamen in the Merchant Marine -
I am
heartbroken. It's called T.S Vindicatrix (or the ‘Vindy' as they called it). I lose my companion and
friend.
Hal demonstrates his remarkable memory,
and entertains me with his memoirs
of Eton
Street days. He talks about Cathy,
his wife
with pride, and obviously, he loves
her a
lot. He brings out photos of his family,
some of which are in California. They
all
look like lovely people, and are all
very
good looking.
It seems somehow incredible that half
a
century has slipped by – our sense
of humour
doesn't seem to have changed at all!
We talk
of the times in the street, and the
characters
that shared those childhood years.
Here we
are, two sixty-three year survivors.
We giggle
and snort with laughter at mutually
remembered
incidents from half a century ago.
Hal mentions a boy called Jimmy G - - - .[1]
'You remember him don't you Jud?'
I laugh audibly. 'I certainly do!' I add.
I'm standing beside Hal in the kitchen
as
he prepares our meal.
|
Jimmy goes to our school and is a notorious
street fighter.
' my friend continues, 'He's continually sagging off school and often
attacks the teachers without any fear whatsoever.
The lad has a strange manner of looking at
an imaginary spot in the centre of your forehead
when he's talking to you. His eyes are red
and narrowed. The lips are thin and curling.
Once an article about Jimmy appears in the
Liverpool Echo. D'yuh remember Jud? We read
how he has broken into a confectioner’s shop
on Walton road. When the police catch him,
he's half way through eating a wedding cake.' |
'The food is now ready. I've already prepared
the table and opened the wine in readiness.Hal
lays a nutritious meal of pasta, mixed vegetables
and beans topped with a hot Cajun sauce before
us. We chat about the cost of living and
other matters. I'm pleasantly surprised and
impressed to discover how knowledgeable Hal
is about diet. He teaches me some complicated
principles for working out the various caloric
and fat contents of common foodstuffs. He
lays down his knife and fork and jots down
a formula for me on a piece of paper. My
friend tells me that recently, he travelled
to a suburb in the south of Liverpool to
collect an article he has bought.
From the car in which he's travelling, he
spots a man working in a garden. He recognises
him immediately. It's Jimmy G- - - -
. Hal requests the driver, who is actually
the vendor of the article that he's buying,
to stop the car. Nervously the guy pulls
up and Hal strolls over towards the labouring
figure. He stands above the bent form. When
the man straightens up, Hal sees the narrow
red eyes of Jimmy G - - - – yes, it's he
indeed. The eyes flicker round quickly, assessing
the situation, then find their natural resting-place
in the centre of Hal's forehead. The tongue
flicks nervously at the thin, dry lips. After
Hal introduces himself, Jimmy’s response
is very warm. He insists that the two men
go inside and have a drink.
They stay together for perhaps fifteen
minutes
before Hal excuses himself. Once they
reach
the car, the other man heaves a sigh
of relief.
'Wait until I tell my family and friends
that I had a drink in Jimmy G - - - - ’s
house!' He says. 'Don't y'know that he's the head
of the biggest criminal gang in the
area?'
he jokes
Hal swears that the man looks at him
with
increased respect from that moment
on.
Relaxed in our good fellowship we chew
in
silence.
I'm reminded of his aptitude for lateral
thinking. Hal is always the one to
come up
with fresh ideas when we're kids. If
we're
struggling with a problem, Hal offers
a different,
fresh, perspective. Hal's intelligence
and
pragmatism work well for him, for he
ends
up a foreman in a local factory. Later
I'm
to discover how well liked and respected
he's in the local community.
'Do you remember going to Jack Millington's
Dancing Academy?' says Hal between mouthfuls.
'It was facing the Morton Hotel. Up the road was Connie Millingtons Dance Academy ( Jack and Connie were divorced and the ex-wife
and ex-husband had schools of dance
right
next door to each other - Jack's place
catered
for males and Connie's for females.
One summer evening we were queued-up
waiting to go in perhaps around
7 o'clock and a drunken man was hammering
on the door of THE MERTON HOTEL.
Hal smiles and looked down at his glass.
I think he had been chucked out
of the main
front entrance door which was
flanked with
large pillars. He was attempting
to
gain entry by the side door.
As we watched
his trousers slowly started
edging down
until he was finally still hammering
on the
door with all his bare arse exposed.
It was a warm summer's night
and everybody
could see him. Jack Millington
arrived and
opened the academy door, so we
never saw
the finale. The 'Academy' was
a large terraced
house really and the instructional
action
took place in the parlour. It
was only
boys that went to Jack's.
As we progressed Jack used to
take the part
of "the woman" and
he backstepped
us around the floor in the female
role. I
never liked embracing him.
He was a
bit portly and his belly used
to press up.
I always went very red and got
pins and needles
in the head.' |
I remember the incident well and we both
laugh heartily at the recollection.
We finish the meal and remain at the
table
for perhaps an hour deep in animated
conversation
on subjects past and present.
Our meal over, we return to the lounge
and
settle back into the cushions of the
comfortable
armchairs. Hal gets the drinks. We
have a
couple of beers. We change to whisky.
With
a bit of prompting, he agrees to recount
some recollections from his childhood.
Hal
recharges my glass then lights a cigarette
and inhales deeply.
|
'I'm sitting on our step.'
He recalls. 'Don't know how old I'm. Very young I suppose.
I get up and go back into the house. I'm
very cold. I suddenly feel my body going
rigid – more rigid. Something is happening
inside my head. Next minute I'm going into
a fit. I Don't know whether y'know I suffered
from fits? |
'No,' I reply, 'I don't remember that Hal.'
He sips his drink and eases himself
into
the cushions.
'I had at least three to my knowledge.'
Go on then!' I urge.
'I know nothing about it until I come to
– and then the house is full of neighbours
– everyone is anxiously bending over
me.
I remember crying and feeling nauseous
and
being informed that I'd had a fit.
I'm feeling
very frightened.’
‘We had it rough in those days,’ I say. ‘Your Dad was a docker wasn't he? What do
you remember of him.’
Hal lifts his glass against the glow
of
the table-lamp and scrutinises the
amber
liquid.
|
‘Sitting on the step again,’
he continues ‘Looking down the street, waiting for my Dad
to come home. I seem to be waiting for hours.
Peering down to the bottom of our street
where I know he will come round the corner
by the Red Brick.[2]. After a long time waiting
and looking, suddenly I see him. Jumping
up from the step I run down what appears
to be a long street – the street seems short
now that grown up. My Dad meets me with a
smile. Suddenly I'm flying up in the air
in his arms. He puts me onto his shoulders
and I feel wonderful. I've been waiting for
hours but it's worth it. His rough hands
hold me. He stinks of cowhides. His clothes
are wet from handling the rain-soaked skins
down on the docks. I always remember my Dad
now when I get a whiff of cowhides on a passing
lorry. When I smell that smell, I'm up there
on his shoulders again – on top of the world. |
I am astounded at Hal's wonderful way
with
words. Always economical and
to the
point, but spun out in a simple, direct
manner
that is dripping with feeling without
being
too obvious. His command of words, his perception and eye for detail
would make him a great writer
if
he ever decided to put pen to paper
seriously.
I confess that what he had just said
brought
a lump to my throat, for having no
father
of my own at home during my childhood
had
left a great emotional vacuum
in my
life from which I never totally recovered.
But Hal has more to say on the matter...
He carries me all the way up the street to
our house. I'm triumphant and hope
that the
other kids can see me. When we get
back in
the house he puts his hand into his
pocket
and brings out an old paper bag which
contains
a sandwich that he hasn't eaten during
the
day. I look forward to it. He opens
the bag
and gives me the sandwich and I gobble
it
down as fast as I can. I'm happy that
he's
home and the family are here together.
After we've had our tea and the darkness
has come, the family settles down.
If we're
lucky, we get to sit on Mamas lap in
front
of the fire. Our knees burn in front
of the
fire, but we're so comfortable, we
Don't
want to move. The potato-peelings whistle
on the coals. In the flames, we can
see pink
and blue pictures. It's a lovely relaxing
feeling as you put your head on your
Mam’s
breast and fall asleep. Next minute
you feel
yourself being lifted and carried upstairs
and placed in bed. You lie very content.
The sleeping arrangements are: Mam
and Dad
in the middle room, Billie, me and
Georgie
in one bed in the front room and Bob
and
Walter in the other bed in the same
room.
The girls, Elsie, Agnes and Jenny sleep
in
the small back room right facing the
stairs.
You can see that it is crowded.’
Apparently unaware of his descriptive tour de force of the warm togetherness of working-class
family life that any writer would
die
for, Hal laughs and drains his glass.
‘At least you and your Mam have plenty
of
room. There is only the two of you.'
I nod
wistfully.
'Strangely enough,’ he went on, ‘storage is no problem. There is always plenty of room in the house
for clothes, because we have none.
The wardrobes
and cupboards are nearly empty. We
boys have
maybe one shirt to wear. It used to
be getting
washed when it could. If it couldn't
get
washed it just stayed dirty. *[3] A
little
bit of dirt never hurt anyone and we
were
quite used to it.
We often heard the noise of mice scuttling
around the bedrooms. We got used to
that.
It didn't frighten us. When we woke
up in
the morning, weed look at the bedroom
walls.
The walls were full of bed bugs that
were
swollen from their overnight feed on
us.
weed put our hands up and smear them
down
the wall in red streaks. Mam used to
go mad
when we did that. I read the scientific
name
for bed bugs is. Cimex lectuarius and
I've
remembered it. The bed bug, compared
with
the Iouse, has a very different form
of parasitic
association with man. It lives in cracks
in walls or furniture, or in the seams
of
mattresses, where it also lays its
eggs.
It can feed on other warm-blooded animals
as well as scruffy scousers.'
Hal has obviously studied the subject.
'It also has a much longer lifespan
and
is able to survive as an adult for
as long
as a year and a half, so that a single
bug
can be an irritating pest over a long
period.
Coming as they do in the dead of night
to
steal their drops of blood from a sleeper's
throat or face like diminutive vampires,
bugs are held in a very special dread.
If
a house is infested no amount of slaughter
will stop others from creeping up the
moment
sleep sets in, and it's almost as bad
to
have a single crafty bug which waits
with
predatory intent for the moment when
exhaustion
causes sleep to take over from nervous
watchfulness.'
'We grew up with the bugs'. I say. 'They were comfortable. We were used to them.
we'd be horrified now!'
'What! You must be joking, splutters Hal, 'there'd be a bloody murder if people found
a bed bug in this day and age.'
He sniffs, then continues.
'Later in the day, when we look at our bodies,
there'd be tiny irritating spots, where
we
scratched - where the bed bugs have
been
feasting on us. If you lift the lino,
you
see literally thousands of them asleep
in
the hemp backing. If it's later in
the day
that you look, they're very small and
dark
black, but if you look at them in the
morning,
they'd be a silvery light black and
all puffed
out. You only have to touch them with
your
finger and they burst – they were so
tense
with the feeding.’
Hal looks at me slyly to see my reaction,
his mouth is half open and tiny crinkles
radiate from the corners of his eyes.
He's
no desire to shock me with these revelations.
He's simply telling the truth. I sense
that
he's enjoying unburdening himself.
I tell
him that we also had an infestation
of bed
bugs, but I Don't think he really hears
me.
I had discovered them in the wooden frame
of my bed in the middle room where
I sleep.
Sinister flat black creatures the size
of
a baby's fingernail. They do not attempt
to escape. My Mam gets on to the council
and they come with the fumigation van.
The
men seal up all the doors and windows
with
sticky-tape and newspaper. They put
a hose
through the letterbox and pump in poison
gas. After they have gone, we have
to leave
all the doors and windows open for
hours
afterwards. Mam and I huddle together
with
my dog Blackie in front of the fire,
while
the freezing winter wind blows through
the
house. Next day Mam paints the bed-frame
with creosote.
Hal gets up and draws the heavy velvet
curtains.
The memories of those sunlit days come
flooding
back.
What about catching daddy long-legs
in the
brickwork of the bay windows?’ I say. What about looking at the dancing ladies? .[4] ‘
We made tar-babies from the softened tarmac
on hot summer days. It is a terrible
job
for Mam to get our hands clean.’
Hal smiles and nods his head.
| ’I still remember popping the tar bubbles.
They're like black shiny chewing-gum bubbles
they are. Soft as silk, aren't they? When
they burst, the tar splatters all over your
kecks.[5]. |
A car revs up noisily outside. Hal
gets up,
closes the window, then sits down,
and carries
on with his reverie.
|
‘Friday night is when Elsie, Agnes and Jenny
do all the things to make themselves
beautiful.
They wash their hair. They put
the curling
tongs in the flames of the gas
cooker, curl
their locks up, and squeeze their
blackheads.
They put cream on their faces
and paint their
toenails red. They make themselves
beautiful.
The chores the girls have to do are often
a cause of disagreements, which often leads
to slanging-matches and hair pulling. We
boys perch up on the table and enjoy it thoroughly
– especially if it gets heated and leads
to blows. When the jobs are done, they get
the old wax 78-rpm records out and put them
on the wind-up gramophone. We wind it up
and then have a singsong. When the girls
feel like dancing, there's only us little
ones to dance with, so they lift us off the
table and waltz us out into the back-kitchen,
singing songs which we all enjoy. |
Hal's eyes have misted up and he turns
to
pour another drink. I guess it's a
ploy so
I won't spot his wet eyes.
‘Yuh!’ he exclaims. ‘That’s the way it is.’
|
‘Saturday night comes and there's a great
deal of excitement in the household.
Saturday
is special. Mam and Dad go down
to the Red
Brick for a drink late on. Remember
that
the pubs closed at 10pm in those
days. They
are all happy before they go
out. Their faces
are shining. They’re talking
more than usual.
They get themselves dolled-up
best they can,
and off they go to the pub. We
are left on
our own and sometimes we get
up to mischief
– sometimes we Don't.
When they come back, things are
a bit different.
Fuelled with alcohol – things
aren't as nice
as before they went out. Their
inhibitions
have been suspended. We are frightened
when
my Dad calls my Mam a Catholic
bitch, a Catholic
get
[6] or a Papist swine.
She calls him King Billy,[7] which doesn’t sound half so bad.
I Don't know if y'know that my mother was
a Catholic Jud? Although they live a long
married life together and have eight of us
kids, their religious bigotry is so strong
that whenever they need to find something
to argue about, they've a ready-made subject.
I'm terrified and worry like hell about it
when I go to go to bed. Our Billie puts his
arm around me and says, 'don't worry, if
Dad makes Mam go away – I’ll look after you.
Go to sleep!'
I sob and say - 'We're were not going to
see her any more…!'
Billie answers solemnly, 'This is the way
grown-ups are. I used to worry like you,
but I Don't any more. Everything will be
OK tomorrow.'
'Billie's right. Things are quiet on Sunday
morning when we wake up. There's salt-fish
with maybe a bit of bacon on it - we really
enjoy that and Sunday is special.’ |
I excuse myself and go upstairs to
the toilet.
Hal is not the only kid who has bickering
parents. Mine fight like cat and dog
and
then finally separate. At least Hal
doesn’t
have to suffer that. Most kid’s parents
experience
drama and loss. Many experience illicit
romantic
affairs that far outstrip the pretended
passions
of the silver screen. Some however,
are happily
married. Most are satisfied to live
vicariously
through the imaginary lives of their
heroes
and heroines whom they worship weekly
with
their one and fourpence.
My Father John meets my mother Annie
on the
bridge in Stanley Park, Walton. She's a machinist working in The Dunlop Rubber Company in Rice Lane, Walton. At that time, she
lives with her mother and Father in
the family
home at 54 Eton Street, Walton. According
to my Father, he's a virgin at that
time.
He's twenty seven years of age. My
mother
is two years older at twenty-nine.
She's much worldlier my Father tells me later.
Soon she's pregnant but unfortunately miscarries.
My mother's brothers, Arthur and Ernie insist
that my Father do the right thing and marry
their sister. According to Auntie Nellie,
they almost frog-march my Father down to
Brougham Terrace Registry Office, where they are married on Saturday 5 November
1932. They set up home in Eton Street
with
my mother's parents. My brother Frank
is
born on the Thursday 28th of
December
1933, and I follow on Monday 4th of
February
1935.
I think of my Dad and the humiliation
he
faced on the Liverpool docks. My Father
told
me that on the docks men were herded
into
a pen like animals. They stand in a
mass
hoping to be selected for a job unloading
the ships. It's said that if you buy
the
foreman a drink in the crowded Dock
Road
pub, you stand a chance of being taken
on
and taking bread home for the family.
The
proud ones or the non-drinkers are
not taken
on.
The bitterness poisons the labour relations
on the Liverpool Docks for fifty years.
Fathers
pass the stories of their humiliation
on
to their docker sons. The cries of
'Scab!' echo down through the decades, right up
to the lockout dispute, which has only
just
ended now as I write in 1999 sixty
years
later.
 Like many unemployed working- class men,
my Father moves politically to the
left.
He toys with the idea of joining The
Communist
Party, and sets off to walk to London
to
join the International Brigade to fight
in
The Spanish Civil War against General Franco and his Fascists.
Luckily for him, the war is reaching
its
final deadly conclusion and the Recruitment
Office is closed.
Hal tops up my glass while I'm away
and
when I retake my seat, he continues
with
his tale.
|
‘Sunday is a special day. It’s hard to describe
in what way. It 's quieter and
yet there
are more kids out in the street.
The posh
kids are dressed well on a Sunday.
We seem
to have the same clothes on.
Sometimes we're
a bit ashamed to go out. The
kids who belong
to families with only one or
two children
seem to do OK. They have better
clothes.
Kids like Roy Lello, Brian Blackler, Jimmy Knowles
or Val Snape.’
Mmmm! Jimmy Knowles – Yes, I was a pal of Jimmy.
I remember his sister Sheila’s
mam and dad,
very well, a lady and a gentleman.
Mr Knowles
was always neat and wore a tie.
I think the
brothers were Jack, and Les.
Mr Knowles had
a little car at one time, which
was unusual
for working-class folk in those
days.
Mr Fletcher (Tim) who lived next door to
you Jud - in number 52, was
the man who fixed our electrics when we had
them installed in the late fifties. When
we first blew a fuse my parents like most
of the others in the street) were terrified
of this newfangled thing (electric light.)
Sheila is a little younger than us and I
will always remember her running through
the opening which was half-way up Eton Street
to Mrs Duncan’s little shop in Neston Street.
Jimmy was forever cleaning his glasses ,
and I think it was Les Knowles who played
the same song over, and over again on the
piano they had in the parlour, the song was
"Near you"...he was a gifted player.
|
NOTES
[1] Name withheld for obvious reasons.
[2] The Red Brick. A Public house at the bottom of Eton street.
Real name: The Prince Albert.
[3] This phrase is exactly as it was
spoken
by Hal and suggests an Irish influence.
[4] Dancing Ladies. Rain-splats hitting the hard street surface.
[5] Kecks - pants or trousers. As in *Dees pur a kecks uh too tight. (These trousers are too tight.) Note
the scouse tendency to sibilate (emit
a sharp hissing sound) the terminal
*t* at the end of some words,
so that
*tight.* or *right* often comes out as *tice* or
*rice.*
I have read that 'kicks' is eighteenth century thieves' slang for
trousers, but some believe that the word is of Irish
origin.
[6] Get. I once checked the Scandinavian etymology
of this word and found it originates
in the
seemingly innocuous Goat.
[7] King Billy. King William of Orange.
|
Evans Experientialism 
