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
by
my Mam even before we started at school,
Hal yawns, '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.
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 [exhauster.]
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 cant' 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 fucking in the street, and
the mothers
out with there sweeping brushes "shouting
*Geraway 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 tw**
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
Groaning, 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 Groaning
in north Wales instead of joining you
in
Worcestershire son. She doesn't give
me a
satisfactory answer.
'When your mother returns from Groaning,
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 play 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 a 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 Semitone 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
manager
for Urban Renewal, so I'm well aware
of the
problems. 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 rattle to their rest down concrete
slopes.
Distant dogs bark. Groups of leg-swinging
pimpled 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 areas
of trees
and shrubs. Suddenly we come to the
edge
of our arboreal world. We stand and
look
at the cars and lorries that plunge
headlong
through the concrete ravine of the
freeway
below.
A thin, elegant, 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 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.
[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.
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