By Iris Weir
An autumn afternoon in 1963, sunny and breezy : I'm on the deck of my namesake ship, the Royal Iris, standing a little apart from my Mum and Dad, and resting my arms and chin on the salt-pocked rail. In front of me, the stupendous Liverpool waterfront comes ever closer into focus, as the ferry makes its return trip to the Pier Head.
I wonder if any other city has buildings so dizzyingly high, so ornate and fanciful, with towers a pale shimmer against the backdrop of sky. The pelican-like Liver birds, permanently posed for flight, add an exotic touch to the scene. Somehow it doesn't feel like England at all, as though all those trade links with faraway shores have rubbed off on the place.
I have felt the mystical pull of Liverpool since I was a small child: the city plays an important part in the tales our family tells about itself. My parents enjoy walking by the quayside and remembering Dad's Irish ancestors, who stepped off the boat to start a new life almost a century ago. Just lately, though, Liverpool has acquired a fresh allure for me: it's got nothing to do with the old stories, and everything to do with four young men, whose raw harmonies give me a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. The Beatles, of course.
As I maintain my studied pose on the deck, a newly fledged teenager watching herself in her own film, I imagine that John Lennon has taken a stroll on the quay. He turns his aquiline profile towards the wind just as the ferry docks, and catches sight of me. Our eyes meet, he steps forward, and… 'Fancy some chips?' says Dad's voice in my ear.
'I'd rather go down Mathew Street, past the Cavern Club,' I mutter, and my parents roll their eyes in exasperation. I look at them: Dad wearing grey flannels and a tweed sports coat, Mum in her full skirt swirling with riotous poppies and cornflowers. What do they know about anything, those ancient squares of at least thirty-six?
We're here on a day trip, Mum, Dad and I: a short journey by train from our little Lancashire cotton-weaving town. The thirty miles we have travelled make all the difference, though: Liverpool feels separate from the rest of Lancashire, independent, pulsating with its own restless energy which the Beatles have distilled into their music.
At thirteen, I am already a fully certified Beatlemaniac. A schoolmate has got hold of John Lennon's address by that mysterious grapevine involving a friend-of-a friend. Although I have read about John's wife Cynthia and baby Julian in the paper, I blank out their existence as they have no part in the fantasy. The fact that John has left Liverpool has no relevance either: for me he haunts every stone and alleyway of the city. Week after week, I bombard 'Auntie Mimi' in Woolton with letters, home made cards and drawings: 'Dear Mrs Smith, please pass these on to John….' The back of every envelope carries a desperate plea:
Listening to Beatles music, I experience all the jumpy energy of youth and the pangs of unrequited love in the space of a two-minute song. I'm left both drained and wanting more. There's an ache I can't rub; an itch I can't scratch. I realise, too, that I am jealous of the Beatles: I don't just love them, I want to be them, to create my own music instead of being sentenced to the tedium of piano practice and grade exams with their prescribed pieces. My friends Tess and Maud and I, have bedroom sessions where we mime along to the 'Please Please Me' album with tennis racquet guitars and knitting needle drumsticks. Although we can't have out own group, we do the next best thing and invent an imaginary band, 'The Blues Sisters'. We produce our own pop magazine, 'Fandemonium', complete with song lyrics, fashion hints and a lonely-hearts column. It gains quite a following, especially when one edition ends up at a pub in Edenfield: reports finally get back to us that the adults have been passing it round, howling with laughter. We are most offended; 'Fandemonium' was meant to be taken seriously.
Growing up with the media, I drift through a world of dream figures and unattainable longings. My parents are perplexed, and in a way I can understand why. Only last year I was their rosy-cheeked outdoor girl in tartan trews and baggy jumper, trundling off to tend the animals at a neighbour's smallholding. This preoccupied, moody creature, the new selfish breed of 'teenager', is something outside their previous experience. That must be why my parents are always reminding me that, in the harsh times when they grew up, nothing could ever be taken for granted.
Bridging this brand new generation gap must be difficult, but to their eternal credit, on this Liverpool Saturday afternoon, my parents do try. 'Come on,' says Mum. She and Dad link my stiff arms on either side as we walk down the gangplank. I catch them exchanging a wink over my head, although they think I can't see it. 'We'll go and have fish and chips in Lewis' cafeteria. Then we'll take a walk down Mathew Street - you never know who you might bump into !'
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I wonder if any other city has buildings so dizzyingly high, so ornate and fanciful, with towers a pale shimmer against the backdrop of sky. The pelican-like Liver birds, permanently posed for flight, add an exotic touch to the scene. Somehow it doesn't feel like England at all, as though all those trade links with faraway shores have rubbed off on the place.
I have felt the mystical pull of Liverpool since I was a small child: the city plays an important part in the tales our family tells about itself. My parents enjoy walking by the quayside and remembering Dad's Irish ancestors, who stepped off the boat to start a new life almost a century ago. Just lately, though, Liverpool has acquired a fresh allure for me: it's got nothing to do with the old stories, and everything to do with four young men, whose raw harmonies give me a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. The Beatles, of course.
As I maintain my studied pose on the deck, a newly fledged teenager watching herself in her own film, I imagine that John Lennon has taken a stroll on the quay. He turns his aquiline profile towards the wind just as the ferry docks, and catches sight of me. Our eyes meet, he steps forward, and… 'Fancy some chips?' says Dad's voice in my ear.
'I'd rather go down Mathew Street, past the Cavern Club,' I mutter, and my parents roll their eyes in exasperation. I look at them: Dad wearing grey flannels and a tweed sports coat, Mum in her full skirt swirling with riotous poppies and cornflowers. What do they know about anything, those ancient squares of at least thirty-six?
We're here on a day trip, Mum, Dad and I: a short journey by train from our little Lancashire cotton-weaving town. The thirty miles we have travelled make all the difference, though: Liverpool feels separate from the rest of Lancashire, independent, pulsating with its own restless energy which the Beatles have distilled into their music.
At thirteen, I am already a fully certified Beatlemaniac. A schoolmate has got hold of John Lennon's address by that mysterious grapevine involving a friend-of-a friend. Although I have read about John's wife Cynthia and baby Julian in the paper, I blank out their existence as they have no part in the fantasy. The fact that John has left Liverpool has no relevance either: for me he haunts every stone and alleyway of the city. Week after week, I bombard 'Auntie Mimi' in Woolton with letters, home made cards and drawings: 'Dear Mrs Smith, please pass these on to John….' The back of every envelope carries a desperate plea:
Postman, postman, don't be slow Be like the Beatles and go, man, go!I have already got into trouble with parents and teachers for scoring the names of John, Paul, George and Ringo into the soft wood of my new pencil case. My attempts to create a bouffant mop-top are thwarted by stern commands to 'brush that hair out of your eyes'. I am tired of my flat way of speaking, and the distinctive bumpkin-ish 'r' sound which identifies me as a 'Gobbin' from Oswaldtwistle: a far cry from Liverpool's cosmopolitan edginess. How I envy my heroes their Scouse accent. It seems to contain all the elements which make Liverpool unique: the sing-song influence of mingled cultures, the wit and irony which comes from having to think fast on your feet, and a melancholic hint of foghorns on the Mersey.
Listening to Beatles music, I experience all the jumpy energy of youth and the pangs of unrequited love in the space of a two-minute song. I'm left both drained and wanting more. There's an ache I can't rub; an itch I can't scratch. I realise, too, that I am jealous of the Beatles: I don't just love them, I want to be them, to create my own music instead of being sentenced to the tedium of piano practice and grade exams with their prescribed pieces. My friends Tess and Maud and I, have bedroom sessions where we mime along to the 'Please Please Me' album with tennis racquet guitars and knitting needle drumsticks. Although we can't have out own group, we do the next best thing and invent an imaginary band, 'The Blues Sisters'. We produce our own pop magazine, 'Fandemonium', complete with song lyrics, fashion hints and a lonely-hearts column. It gains quite a following, especially when one edition ends up at a pub in Edenfield: reports finally get back to us that the adults have been passing it round, howling with laughter. We are most offended; 'Fandemonium' was meant to be taken seriously.
Growing up with the media, I drift through a world of dream figures and unattainable longings. My parents are perplexed, and in a way I can understand why. Only last year I was their rosy-cheeked outdoor girl in tartan trews and baggy jumper, trundling off to tend the animals at a neighbour's smallholding. This preoccupied, moody creature, the new selfish breed of 'teenager', is something outside their previous experience. That must be why my parents are always reminding me that, in the harsh times when they grew up, nothing could ever be taken for granted.
Bridging this brand new generation gap must be difficult, but to their eternal credit, on this Liverpool Saturday afternoon, my parents do try. 'Come on,' says Mum. She and Dad link my stiff arms on either side as we walk down the gangplank. I catch them exchanging a wink over my head, although they think I can't see it. 'We'll go and have fish and chips in Lewis' cafeteria. Then we'll take a walk down Mathew Street - you never know who you might bump into !'