Liverpool Stories
The stories on this site are not included in my book.
The tales are snapshots of my life in Liverpool, the home of the Beatles, and the echo chamber of the Mersey Sound that in the sixties resonated around the planet like an acoustic Tsunami. The stories cover a period of 50 odd years and so they touch on every aspect of my life from the rites of passage to the passing of youth. I hope you enjoy them.
Bless this house - Don't look back!
By
John Williams
I was looking for a comfortable Bed and Breakfast in Oxford for Friday the 17th and I found a nice looking place on the net and phoned the owner. She was a jolly sounding lady and asked me what time I would arrive. I replied that 2.00 pm would be best for me and she said that she would be out at lunch but she would leave the key under the plant-pot by the door. What a rare display of trust!
I arrived at about three o'clock and was greeted by a smiling lady who warmly invited me in and offered me tea and biscuits. How unlike most places I thought where the owners are brisk and business like. I was taking my first sip when, apropos of nothing, she made a remark about Islam. Thinking that she was raising a philosophical point about female emancipation I entered into the conversation. That was my first mistake. Within minutes I was staring open mouthed as my landlady produced a bible and launched into a spirited attack on every religion under the sun, except Christianity.
My stunned silence went unheeded, probably because throughout her ranting the evangelical landlady stared fixedly at the ceiling. I myself was praying that I could get a signal on my mobile phone so that I could phone my student son and get him to effect my rescue by pretending he needed me. That in itself is a measure of my desperation because he hasn't needed me since he got his first adult teeth. A knock on the door halted her tirade as she took possession of a dozen bottles of wine.
I took possession of my coat and fled upstairs to phone my son. His phone was off. Desperate not to become a martyr to my landlady's proselytising zeal I made my excuse and left. The cold of downtown Oxford was preferable to the hellfire of the little house of horrors.
An hour later I was ensconced in the Café Zouk, an Indian restaurant where I had a lamb Rogan Josh that contained enough garlic to deter a regiment of vampires. I wondered idly if it worked on landladies.
My son tore himself away from his favourite pastime, I forget her name, long enough to share a pint with me and then I was alone again; stranded in a near empty pub on Saint Patrick's night where the only sign of festivity was the ludicrous leprechaun Guinness hat perched precariously on the bored barman's head; but it felt like heaven as there wasn't a bible in sight.
When I reluctantly returned to the suburban convent the abbess had miraculously retired to bed. I awoke early and made myself some coffee, reflecting that while she was a bit overwhelming my landlady did indeed try to live like a Christian because she trusted me to roam her house alone.
She was as breezy as ever when she got up and offered to make my breakfast. I opted for eggs, mushrooms and bacon. She joined me at the table, where, within a minute, she began to expound on her theory that Lady Diana had been murdered by some people involved in something called the 'Solar Temple'. I just stared at the sunny yolks of my eggs and planned my escape. I was halfway through my second beautifully fried egg when she switched tack and began to relate a story concerning the time she had refused to let a room to a man because he wanted to bring his male partner with him.
"I won't have homosexuals in my house!" she rasped, clasping her hands together as if in prayer.
I was choking in my haste to finish my meal, as I had a strong feeling that the bible was about to get another airing, while frantically wondering just what privileged elite I belonged to that had granted me access to the palais du virtu.
She explained that the twin towers had been prophesied in 1945, [decades before they were built] and then she rounded off her morning meditations with a reference to the time she refused to admit two young African musicians, `in case they had drugs'.
I clapped my hand to my forehead , claiming I had a headache and needed some air. I did need some, about five miles of the damn stuff between myself and the dingbat who harboured more prejudices than a general meeting of the Ku Klux Klan and more conspiracy theories than there have been assassinations. I fled to my car and on to the nearest cafe.
I can't help thinking that her advertisement for the B&B ought to contain the phrase...
'Might contain traces of nuts!'