We all attend Gwladys Street School, which lies on the other side of the Everton Football Club.

Gwladys Street Infants School

The original infant schoolhouse, where we first go to school at the age of four, is a typical Victorian shiny-red brick build structure, with sliding wooden partitions to divide off the rooms. It has tiny low toilets and washbasins. The cloakroom hooks have pictures of animals to help us tiny tots identify our hats and coats and toothbrushes.

The gate leads directly on to the main Liverpool to Manchester road. One day my little cousin David runs straight out under the wheels of a heavy lorry and is crushed. It was an accident waiting to happen. They erect a protective barrier after that. He's only six years old.

The junior section of the school is housed in two barrack-like extensions. The two huts are built from corrugated tin with a brick skirt. They have thundering wooden floors and loose brass doorknobs that rattle when somebody walks past the classroom. The high narrow windows are hinged in the centre. They need a long pole with a hook to open or close them.

A window-monitor is appointed from among the children for this purpose. We also have a milk-monitor who hands out the free government sponsored milk every day. We each get a half-pint bottle in the morning and another one in the afternoon. There's also an ink-monitor who is responsible for filling the inkwells in which we dip our steel-nibbed pens. It's there that I succeed in winning the only raffle prize in my life. It's a tin of connie-onnie.[1] It's Nestlé's sweetened milk, and provides a welcome treat – Hal and I eat it with a spoon!

Gwladys Street School was hit by a bomb on the 20th September 1940. The old corrogated galvanised steel  iron building in the foreground is the classroom where Hal and I were taught.  Click photo for an enlargement.

       While the other kids play rough games, Hal and I lean on the low sandstone wall that forms the perimeter of the playground. We laboriously rub a plum stone on the rough wall to wear it down into the shape of a small boat. We have cinnamon sticks, liquorice, and sherbet in the absence of sweets. Bananas and ice cream are unknown to us in that immediate post-war period.


I ask Hal for his memories of Gwladys Street School and query whether he remembers his first day in the nursery.

‘Yes,’ answers Hal, ‘I remember my first day as if it were yesterday. Strange though Jud, I don't remember you being there, although you must have started on the same day.

       He walks to the drink cabinet and throws some ice in a glass.

' I remember being taken to the Infants Department  by my Mam even before we started at school...

Hal yawns, more as a form of puntuation than a sign of tiredness.

'... just to have a look around. Mam leaves me in the big hall and goes off to look for the lady. In the room is a big doll's house. I look through the window and I'm fascinated. I squeeze through the little doorway and gaze around in wonderment at the miniature furniture and tiny teapot and tin cups. Suddenly I hear my Mam returning with some female administrator. Not seeing me in the hall, they're scuffing round searching me out. I'm peeping out of one of the windows but they don't spot me. I'm too scared to shout out and own up where I'm. Eventually, after calling out my name a lot, they go outside, out of sight to look for me. ‘NOW's my chance!’ I think. I'm half way out of the tiny doorway when suddenly I am stuck. As I'm trying to struggle free, my Mam and the lady return.

The administrator is very annoyed. She tells me off in front of my mother. She tells me to stand there and behave myself. So you see, I am in trouble even before I start school. Blotted my copybook before I even start! As I stand there I'm fetched a hard crack across the earhole by my Mam, then she grabs me by my collar and marches me out – much to my shame.

'Wait until I get you home!' My Mam shouts. Later when my Dad comes home, she tells him about it. I'm scared, and expect the leather belt. He listens, then hides his face behind the Liverpool Echo that he's reading to hide his smiles.

'On the day that school starts,' I say, ' I'm marched along to school by my Mam. I'm very embarrassed when the other little kids waiting outside see us approach. I'm scared when my Mam leaves me alone. I feel deserted and vulnerable. We are made to introduce ourselves to each other. They are breaking us in gently. Mainly we just talk. The teacher is strange and scary.'

'Do you remember one of the kids just starting that day is Lilly Beazley? Hal growls.
'I don't know whether you remember her Jud?'

The loud noise of a television suddenly booms out from the adjoining house.

'Damn those noisy gits!' Hal croaks.'

He takes a slug of whisky and speaks again.

'It's the first time that I see her. She's a small girl with very sharp features and tin glasses – the same sort of glasses that you wore. She's very watchful, looking at me all the time, I don't know why. I can't meet her gaze, I don't know why. I think she's a Martian – she's a girl – she's different. I don't know what it is about her?'

I sit there amazed.

'How the hell do you remember all this Hal? You were only four years old for God's sake!'

Hal grins and moves his head in a sideways parabola.

'Just 'cos' I don't write like you y'know - it doesn't say I don't take everything in that goes on around me!'

I kick my shoes off and wiggle my toes.

'Go on Hal - this is marvellous.' I respond.

' Time goes on, the days pass and we're given our own desks. We are told to sit up straight and put our hands on the desktop. At a certain time in the afternoon, we're taken to another room. It isn't actually a different room. It's on the other side of a sliding partition, a partition that can be slid open or shut to divide or open up the room. Lying on the floor are rows of tiny mattresses. We are told to lie down and go to sleep. We don't think that we will sleep, but we do. When we wake up we have another play and a walk around the school, and then we sit at the desk again. Then our mothers appear at the doorway, and we all go home.


After we've been in school for a couple of weeks, I get a bit scared of Lilly Beazley. I'm sitting at my desk with my eyes to the front, and I know she's looking at me. She's always looking at me! I can never meet her gaze.'

Hal eases himself up in his seat and wrinkles his brow.

'Was I frightened of her? Was I shy? I don't know.'

He smiles and continues his story.

'Day after day I steel myself to meet her gaze, but I can never do it.

One day it's different. I feel very confident. Knowing that she's staring at the side of my head, I suddenly swivel round and return her stare. She's sitting a few desks away. Young as we are – when my eyes meet hers, I can sense something. It's as if beams of light are streaming from her eyes, which enter my body, creep down to my chest where they turn into chemicals. The chemicals do something to my chest – open a cage within my chest. A bird comes out of the coop and it flutters inside my rib-cage.

The telephone suddenly rings and Hal leaves the room to answer it.

I sit there thinking of Hal and Lilly Beazley - a young, sweet, inocent love.  Such calf-love can be as painful as a mature passion.

And so it happened to me wnen I was evacuated to Shropshire during the war.

I was lodged with the Head Gardener and his wife on the estate of Lord and Lady Whitbread who owned a Georgian mansion called Burford House.  In 1941 is was taken over by a private Birklands Girl's School from St Albans down south. One day buses and motor cars appear on the gravel in front of the wide Georgian building. The whole school has been evacuated en bloc for the duration of the war. Soon the ivy-covered walls of the old house are reverberating with the screams and high pitched giggles of the young middle class girls. Now the tennis courts are full of pretty young misses in short, white tennis skirts,  whilst others loll as spectators with white woolen pullovers tied round their necks by the arms.

There was a little girl slightly older than me who I was sweet on. Her name was Helen Grey. One day she met me and told me she was going back to London. We stood in a glade of pine conifers as she told me. Then she was gone and left me weeping. I was only six years old.  The smell of pine always evokes a memory of Helen Grey even sevently years later.

Hal's footsteps on the stair awaken me from my reverie. The door swings open.

'Sorry about that Jud!' calls Hal breezily.

'Don't worry about it mate,' I drawl, 'I know what it's like having daughters'

'She's got…y'know…a few problems. Hal interrupted. 'They're half way to being sorted out now.'

It's obvious Hal is reluctant to talk about his daughter, so I don't press him for details.

'Where's that bloody drink of mine? He asks.

'Oh yes! Come here my beauty!' He retrieves his glass from the mantleshelf and sinks down in his chair. '

Where am we up to Jud…?' Hal frowns.

'Oh yeah,' he says, smiling, 'I just remembered, sorry if it's a slight change of subject. We went to New Brighton once - I mean back in our childhood - probably in the mid to late forties. Dad asked in a cafe for hot water to make a pot of tea, with a wedge of tea sugar, and connie-onnie all mixed up to give us a day out, and a few sarnies [sandwiches] and maybe a bun for a treat. That is where I saw my first breast. The image is evergreen. I mean EVERGREEN. I have never looked back. It was not only my throat that experienced a lump.

Do you remember our Billie finding all that money in New Brighton? Mam and Dad were honest they took it to the police. The owner was found and Billie got a brand new Raleigh bike, red with shiny chrome, it was beautiful, and to my shame, I was sick with jealousy. Everyone set off for Southport , Mr Bray the bread man lent me his order bike so I could go. I only made it to Walton church I was bloody knackered [exhausted.]

Mr Bray felt so sorry for me he gave me a lump of fresh bread. I was so sore underneath, I was walking like John Wayne for some time .'

I laugh heartedly,  for I remember the incident well. I excuse myself and nip upstairs. I take my time in the toilet. I need some time to myself. The talk with Hal is wonderful. I'm enjoying every moment but it requires all my attention. It drains me emotionally. It's part cross-examination, part confession.

I'm frightened unless I forget something. I curse myself for not bringing a tape-recorder. How will I remember it all? I wash my hands and sit on the toilet seat for some moments of quietness, staring at my hands.

Hal has refilled my glass in my absence 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 old clothes on. He pauses to cough. 'Bloody fags! He complains.

'What about me….' I laugh, 'on two occasions, I am forced to wear my mother's old shoes after the heels have been ripped off. I earned the name of 'Sparky' - 'cos' as I ran along the wet pavements - the metal 'sprigs' or nails, that have secured the heels - created a plenitude of entertaining sparks!

Hal chuckles heartily. 'Yeah, plenitude - that's a new word Jud!' He frowns.

'I'd forgotten all about that Sparky thing Jud. Kids can be cruel can't they? Looking back now, I'll bet that really hurt you - didn't it?'

'I remember one rainy day a parcel arrives festooned with bright, colourful, American stamps.' I tell Hal. 'The package contains - Yes! You've guessed it! A pair of new shoes! Further investigation reveals sweets, children's clothing, food, and kid's books etc. The sender is a young American woman from El Paso in Texas, USA, and her name is Lily Chavez.[2]

'You lucky bugger! Hal says explosively.

'She's obtained of our address from some Aid Organisation I think.' I say. 'She's a lovely lady. The parcels continue to arrive for some considerable time. Lily is a practising religious Catholic, which is I suppose typical of Mexican Americans, and I've a feeling that her generosity and warmth springs from her devout feelings and Christian commitment. I am only a kid at the time but I write to her for about a year.'

'Well we're short of clothes and shoes too.' Says Hal. '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 or Val Snape.’

Christmas time is special too. The preparations for Christmas are very exciting. We buy all the crepe paper and get the white sticky-paste out. We make our own decorations. First, we cut out the crepe paper into strips then we glue them into rings to make up a chain we drape across the ceiling from corner to corner. We are busy making these and we think Christmas will never come – but all Christmases come.

When we get into the last week there are more exciting preparations. Mam borrows the bun-loaf tin off Mrs Cooper. There's only one bun-loaf tin in the whole street and half the street borrow it. You've to go on a waiting list for it – you've to wait your turn. It's then Mam works on the big table with all the currants, raisins, and nutmeg spread out around her. We kids stand round and watch her as she pushes the big wooden spoon around. The stiff, heavy mixture swirls around the bowl. When Mam isn't looking, we dip our fingers into the doughy got to to taste it. It isn't as nice as we expect, being raw and uncooked – but still we do it.'

He leans back in his chair a beatific smile on his face. Obviously, his recollections are bringing back some happy memories as well as sad ones.

'It's wonderful when Christmas Eve eventually comes. Stillness descends over the entire neighbourhood. For once, the kids are eager to go to bed, for they know what's coming the next day. We write our notes to Father Christmas. Get Mam’s stockings. Hang them up in a row in the fireplace and go to bed. We're hardly able to sleep. However, as always, we fall asleep in due time. When we wake up on Christmas morning, we rush downstairs to see our stockings all in a row. We think it's wonderful, but when I look back now, there is very little there. There's an orange and an apple each.

Then there's a little toy rather like a twisted skewer with a propeller attached. When you push up the propeller using a little metal sleeve the propeller twirls around and flies off into the air. Often boys get a small balsa glider in a flat cellophane packet. The wings are fitted on with an elastic band. A larger band is used to fire it into the air. Both elastic bands usually snap after the first five minutes and that is the end of the present. If you're lucky, you get a game of 'Snakes and Ladders' or 'Ludo.' The girls get a doll or a golliwog. Sometimes they get a nurses-outfit made from cardboard.

One boy gets a mouth organ, bought from Crease’s on Walton Road.(3) The kids puff and blow on it all day, until under your ears ache and you stop. It accumulates gallons of spit during the time it passes from mouth to mouth; it's a wonder we don't all die of contagious diseases. Half the kids in the street have a go of it – sucking and blowing. Another present boys sometime get is a tram-conductor's outfit. Everything is made out of cardboard. If it gets a little wet or is handled too roughly it falls to pieces. Nevertheless Christmas is wonderful with all the family gathered around. The drink is flowing. Visitors wander in then out again. If we're lucky, Mam and Dad allow us to have a little wine. We think we're big drinking wine, but more often than not we drink Dandelion and Burdock or Tizer or Full Swing white lemonade which has a raised emblem half way down the bottle and is made somewhere down Scotland Road. Full Swing is also sold off the back of the Aerowater cart.

I don't know if you remember the Aerowater cart do you Jud?'

Hal looks up for a moment and smooths back his unruly hair.

'Yeah, I do. I murmur.

'It's sold in a stone bottle with a round stopper held in place by a metal wire contraption. If you get your thumb under it, you can really hurt yourself.

Aye Jud, Do you remember Daddy Hope and his children, daughter May, and the son Bert, I think, who could not swear, but we all respected them for their beliefs... '

*Yes, I remember them well...,* I interrupted...' they lived at the top of Neston Street somewhere Hal. I wonder how Daddy Hope got the nick-name *Daddy?'

*,,, and do you remember the man, who rode a bike bollock naked up and down every street singing and all the mothers getting their brushes out? 'Geraway you dirty devil,' the women screamed, and all the kids running wild with excitement. 'Geraway you dirty devil' brushes getting thrust out, all trying to aim for the family jewels. 'How are you? ' he was saying, but his chopper was like a baby's arm with an apple in it. ' Oooooh fancy ', said Louie Birt. 'Oooh look at that Nellie,' said another licking her lips,' disgusting! 'Imagine his poor wife said another looking feverish.

Up and down the streets he rode until someone realised the man was ill. Someone threw a blanket over him and took him in their house. The ambulance came later, but for us kids it was sad, 'cos it was over. Brushes were the weapon of choice in those streets. 'Geraway you dirty devil.'

I'm listening to Hal closely. My eyes are closed, but he knows it's not because I'm tired or bored. He understands I'm enjoying every moment of it. He knows I want to shut out the present and luxuriate in the past.

'Sharp memories come back' said Hal grinning, his slightly protuding, but brilliantly white, attractive teeth exposed by his wide grin, 'the binman's horse - its particular smell, two dogs mating in the street, and the mothers out with there sweeping brushes "shouting *Ge-ra-way you dirty devils!,' and all us little boys thought they were playing piggy-back. The gas man going down to empty the meter of the coins, counting it out and giving our Ma's the foreign ones back, and Mam saying: ' EVERY single time "Ooh, thought that was a shilling!" The dark cellar, June Thompson taking us up the entry to teach us how to smoke, and us spewing our rings up ten minutes later. The pretty dark haired girl down the street, pregnant at fifteen and her dad cried for the rest of his life. Georgie Scott the milkman. Do you remember "dummy" who used to always want to get a game of footie. Scary one he was. Chrismas carol singing, peering under the door looking for feet. If someone threw a boot at the door we legged it. Edna Hoffman who by just walking down the street, jiggling as she walked would send my stomach lurching, hormones were kicking in.

His incredible memory was a joy to experience - how DID he manage to remember such fascinating detail. He was like a conjurer slyly bringin memories out of a hat - memories that as soon as you uttered them you knew that you hadn't forgotton them - it just need e Hal to tease them out from behind the black velvet cutain of the years.

His memories provoke so many similar images in my mind. I confess to him that in the old days I am a bit jealous because he came from a big family.

' I'd have loved to have had a father and brothers, and sisters like you Hal.' I mutter softly.

Hal can see I'm thinking. He stops speaking and goes into the kitchen to wash the plates.

'Want a hand Hal? I shout.

'No, you relax son, I'm OK.'

I let my mind go back to those far off days. I remember meeting my Dad in the Mitre Hotel, in Oxford, he's telling me this story about my Mam.

'It's about May 1941.' Dad says. 'Your mother can't stand the constant air raids any longer. She leaves Eton Street and goes to live in Gronnant, North Wales with a girl called Eddie Richards who used to live next door to her in Eton Street.'

I interrupt him. 'Why didn't she come and live with me in Tenbury Wells? I ask.

''Search me son.' My Dad bows his head and picks nervously at his wedding ring.

It's the first time I notice the ring. It suddenly hits me. It's not the ring he got from Mam. It's another ring. It 's not a wedding ring at all - because he's not married, he only lives with this woman. 'Where did you get the ring Dad? I ask.

'Off Audrey son.' He answers quietly, 'off Audrey,' he repeats. 'I write to your mother to ask her why she has gone to live in Gronnant in north Wales instead of joining you in Worcestershire son. She doesn't give me a satisfactory answer.

'When your mother returns from Gronnant, I come home on leave to see her. We find the house at Eton Street is in a dreadful state. It's been occupied and abused by friends of your mother's. Your mother has allowed them in on a temporary basis whilst she's away. We survey the devastated house.

'Who's going to clean all this up? She asks.

'Perhaps the fairies will do it!' I reply jokingly, but perhaps inappropriately.

I 'm sitting on a long white bench as I speak. Next minute your mother flings herself on me in a fury and pushes me over. I fall backwards striking my head on a chair. She then falls upon me and gouges deep cuts down both of my cheeks with her long fingernails. I flee from the house and seek shelter at Fazakerly Army Barracks with my brother George who is a sergeant there. It's the break-up of our marriage. I'm so ashamed of my face. George brings my food to my room.'

I think about my parent's separation. I think about my loneliness as a child. Tears course down my cheeks. God! I mustn't let Hal see me like this. It must be the alcohol affecting me. I see a box of paper tissues and dry my eyes.

When Hal is called in from playing in the street at night, it isn't the end of the fun for him. Hal has brothers and sisters to talk to – to play with. I just have my Mam and my little dog Blackie and an ancient wireless. The crudely made wireless has huge glass valves and is powered by a glass accumulator. It's one of my jobs to carry the heavy accumulator to a backyard shop in distant street. It needs re-charging every week. It always fades when you are listening to something interesting.

It's now nine-thirty. We decide to walk to the British Legion Club. Hal declares that being a Friday night it will probably be quiet, but neither of us is looking for a wild night. We finish our drinks and walk out into the balmy air. He deliberately leads me through some of the rougher areas of Halton Brook in order I can see the social problems.

I'm already aware of them, for during my time with Wimpey Homes, I've been the Sales Manager for Urban Renewal department , so I'm well aware of the problems all over the North West. We hurry on in the yellow sodium glare of the tall street lamps. The booming voices of rowdy young men echo around the deserted, boarded-up shopping arcades. Tin cans, propelled by the wind,  rattle to their rest down concrete slopes. Distant dogs bark. Groups of leg-swinging pimpled-faced  youths sit on low walls and hurl puerile catcalls at the passing girls.

I momentarily close my eyes and am transported back fifty years. The noises, the smells are the same as of yore – it's only my old friend and I have changed.

Up and down the concrete paths we walk, then through extensive grassy knolls and  areas of trees and shrubs. Suddenly we come to the edge of our arboreal world - nan urban abyss stretches before us. . We stand and look at the cars and lorries that plunge headlong through the concrete cicatrix that forms the ravine of the freeway below.

A thin, elegant, slightly  arched  bridge with delicate and intricate wrought-iron ornamentation beckons us forward. We launch ourselves over the thin, curving steel arc and glance down nervously at the streaming traffic. It's as if we're part of an enormous, modern willow pattern plate. We are two figures silhouetted against the moon, caught in time's drollery on the arch of a bridge. Where is the third missing figure I muse? Is it my long dead baby brother Frank? I catch up with Hal, who has got a little bit ahead.

'I wonder what my brother Frank would be like if he had lived Hal? Would he be with us tonight on this bridge?'

Hal stops and waits for me.

'Wouldn't it be great if our Billie[4] was here with us too?' Hal replies.

We continue walking in silence for a while.

‘I remember some more now,’ announces Hal.

‘We grow up a bit, our parents allow us more freedom in the street, which is very important to me. As we grow, a certain amount of sibling rivalry grows with us. This squabbling is particularly sharp between Bill, Georgie, and me, who are the ones nearest in age to each other. However, what we fight about – I don't know, but it's almost a daily thing. Our parents try to referee all this, but with kids, you can never resolve what makes them tick. It's all much ado about nothing! Then – to get away from it we find – the street! The street is the escape – somewhere we go to play.

Now we are beginning to broaden our horizons. Explore a little. Go to the top of the street. Go to the bottom of the street. Look at the other kids – see where they live. I notice Roy Lello. He's a handsome, fair-haired boy. black eyes, one of two children. His mother seems to be quite a lot older than usual. She is a fat lady with a squint in one eye. She has the unlikely name of Tina. She dotes on Roy. Roy has an older brother called Tommy, who later gets TB, but survives. Roy is always well dressed – good shoes and all the rest of it.

There's another little kid across the street – used to be a bit stand-offish. His mother calls him Jud. I think he looks kind of like a gypsy. Later I find out he's dark because he's Welsh - a Celt. He's dark, serious faced, quite sharp faced, with little tin glasses.

Even then I thought ‘What’s the matter with him – he has a chip on his shoulder – and that’s a funny name – Jud. Well, I don't see him for a bit.

But Roy with the nice clean face, the laughing black eyes, and the nice shoes – I get to know quite well. got to know another kid from the top end – an Irish family – there seems to be millions of kids coming and going – that is the Carrols. They are dirt poor Catholics who are strange to us. I'm a Protestant. Every Sunday they march off somewhere. It's a mystery where they are going. Later we find out they're going to mass at the local Catholic Church.’

Halton British Legion Club

Hal and I have reached our destination. We've arrived at a small village centre. Perhaps it's the original Halton Village before the ever-growing urban monster of Runcorn New Town swamped it. Before I've the chance to ask if this is the case, my friend stops his story telling and taking me by the elbow helps me across the busy road.

Outside the British Legion, a girl plays with a yo-yo. Hal borrows it from her and has a few trial attempts. We all laugh. It makes us both feel young again.

We enter the club and find the door is temporarily unmanned. The doorman spots us and waves us through - knowing that honest Hal will return later to the door and pay our entrance-fees - which he does. We walk right through to the bar and into the concert room.

The club is only a third full, but most people nod or smile at Hal. He's obviously well known. The majority of the customers are middle aged like us. It makes us feel at home. It's comforting to be surrounded by ones peers. There are not the same tensions in the air. There's a predictability which is satisfying and which suggests security. The people we're among have had the same heartaches as us. They've experienced the sadness of separation and loss and seen the changes in the world we've seen.

Like all a Legion clubs, the surrounding walls display the badges of the major British regiments and corps. I look for my Gloucestershire Regiment but can't see it.

In 1952, in order to escape the slums and the hopelessness, I join The Gloucestershire Regiment of the British Army. The regiment has just returned from Korea. I am seventeen and a half at the time. In the Army, I am a barman in the Officer's Mess. The regiment is posted to Egypt, and there am I serving chilled champagne to a background of palm-trees and camels for three years. It's valuable experience, in that I pick up a lot by watching how the middle-class officers behave and interact when they were off-duty and having a drink.

On leaving the Army as a sergeant in 1955, it's back to the slums.

Some men in the Legion Club wear smart black blazers with a gold wire army badge on the breast. The pianist is quite an old man, but a good player. The accompanist, a thin stooping man, scrapes absent-mindedly on a drum with a brush-stick.

Hal's a good conversationalist and initiates conversation with many of the couples on the adjacent tables. We sit and watch the dancers gyrate on the floor below. One older couple gets up to dance before anyone else and dominate the floor thereafter.

‘Go on with your reminiscences if you don't mind.’ I plead.

‘Are you sure you're not bored by it?’ he enjoins, tapping the bottom of his empty pint glass on the tabletop.

‘Sorry, ' I answer, 'I get the hint – it's my round.'

When I return to our table, Hal resumes his tale.

‘Well, gradually we get to know all the other kids in the street, whom I'm sure you will remember. There's Norman Chambers, Brian Blackler, Albert Carrol and his two younger brothers John and Frankie Carrol. There's also a big kid - Raymond Trafford is his name. There's another posh kid called Peter O’Neil. We slowly get to know them all. There are times when we can't wait to gobble our meals down, so we can get out in the street again to see them. And what about the conditions we grow up in?

I don't know we're poor, because everyone else has the same as us – virtually nothing. We play more street games and become more skilful at them. I remember one time; we're all huddled in the shelter in the playground at Gwladys Street School. There's a daylight air raid going on. It's on a sunny afternoon. The teacher's try to distract us from the frightening noise of the guns and the bombs outside. We are singing, ‘Ten green bottles hanging on the wall.’ Later when the raid stops we all go home.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, we're suddenly awakened in a kind of supercharged atmosphere. Everyone is panicking and we hear the bangs and the guns going off. We hear the evil roar of the German bombers coming over heading for the docks. Then they're over the docks and we hear the crump, crump, and crump, of explosions down in Bootle.

Mam hurries us all down the cellar with blankets into the specially re-enforced coalhole, and we lay them on the coal and huddle down. We hear the shrapnel skittering down the slate roofs. Although we aren't fully aware of what's going on, we know it's a life and death situation. We wait until we hear the whine of the ALL CLEAR and then we climb up the cellar steps again and Mam puts the kettle on.

NOTES.

[1] Connie-onnie. Condensed milk.

[2] Lily Chavez. Now called Lily Martinez. She's to visit my home 50 years later in 1997.

(3) Crease's Music Shop on Walton Road,  was owned by  the Beatles' ill-fated manager  Brian Epstein's  family

[4] Billie McDonald tragically died of kidney disease in his late thirties.