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.
Let the buyer beware - In my Liverpool home
By John Williams
I've never been much good at selling things. I don't know what the reason is but I have given items away by the shed-load rather than try and sell them. Perhaps I am part of an old Liverpool tradition wherein Alan Williams gave away the Beatles to Brian Epstein, and the latter bestowed an estimated one billion dollars of Beatles related merchandising to stunned American business men who could hardly believe their luck as they stamped the royalty free Beatles' image on everything from gum to gumboots.
It is only in the last ten years or so that I have caught on to the idea of haggling for a better price for some of my purchases. For most of my life I simply accepted the selling price. I eventually cottoned on to the notion of beating down prices when I became enamoured of street markets and flea markets and observed other punters force the price down by affecting to be almost disinterested in the items for sale.
I realise now that the kind of mind that can pretend to to be indifferent about whether or not they buy something is similar to the mind of those men and women who during the early stage of courtship play hard to get. I've never played hard to get in my life. If a woman showed the slightest interest in me a 'sold' sign would instantly appear on the top of my head, an event guaranteed to cool the lady's desire. Nobody it appears wants things that are too easily obtained. I say nobody, but I myself have never refused anything placed in my path.
I remember one occasion though, long ago, when it was my wife's eagerness that let her down. We hadn't been together very long and we were looking for nick-nacks and so we went to a flea market near the junction of West Derby Road and Belmont Road. We had been separated, as often happens when one party is interested in one thing and the other person is looking at something else. Suddenly I saw my wife waving to me. She was holding something aloft and as I drew closer she excitedly exclaimed,
"John, a green glass butter dish!"
Then, turning to the stall-holder, she asked him how much it cost. He would have made a lousy poker player because he could barely contain a smirk as he replied,
"Fifty pence love."
Which was about three times its worth.
I finally came of age in the world of commerce after our first child was born. We needed to move to a larger house and not just because we wanted a garden, the urbanite's last link with nature, but also because I had been plagued for years by a neighbour who had never so much as had a real conversation with me but who had nonetheless developed an irrational dislike of me.
Her dislike of me took various forms, all of them unpleasant. For instance, she used to push my motorbike off its stand, and whenever I encountered her anywhere she would glower at me and mutter incantations. I never understood her attitude. I mean, it was hardly my fault that she had been jilted by John Merrick. Anyway, we had to sell our house, and that is when I became an initiate in the world wide sect of snake oil salesmen.
When we tried to find buyers we encountered problems of my own making. You see, in the seventies, when I was living the bachelor life, large grants were available to modernise properties in the Kensington area, but, other than having the roof fixed, I had never taken advantage of them. You could say, correctly, that I was lazy and without ambition, because that was me in those halcyon days of crushed velvet trousers, Cuban heels and cheesecloth shirts riddled with tiny burns.
I had bought the house in the days before legislation demanded surveys and damp courses etc and so it fell into the category of those dwellings that were 'In need of improvement'. I should bloody say so! For instance, the walls were so old that the stripes of the 'regency' style living room wallpaper were perfectly straight, until about half way down the wall, whereupon they broke into something resembling a racing chicane. The difficulty for us was that it was a first time buyers type of house and they simply didn't have the money required to face the cost of renovating it. In short, we were snookered.
One Saturday afternoon a young man of about eighteen called and asked if he could view the house. I agreed, more from curiosity as he didn't look like he could afford a two man tent much less a desirable Pied a Terre in Low Hill. He told me he was a student and that he would have a word with his father about buying the house. I nodded gloomily, and went back to watching a video, ironically entitled 'Ripping Yarns'.
About a week later, just as we were beginning to realise that our house move would have to be postponed until we had sorted out the problems revealed by the survey, the young student called again. He told us that his father wanted to view the house and that he would be traveling from Lowestoft to give the house the once over. Our hopes of moving had been given a boost that even Nostradamus couldn't have foreseen.
Now, when I had first moved to Hall lane there were large 'Scotch Houses' on the other side of the road, but one day I woke up and saw that the older houses were being demolished, and there was nothing planned to take their place, with the consequence that I suddenly had an unrestricted view of Liverpool city centre, The Wirral and beyond that North Wales.
Unfortunately, while the view was spectacular, especially at sunset, the traffic was abominable. Hall Lane was almost an extension of the M62 and so there was nearly always a constant stream of vehicles moving in both directions. I never did get used to the noise or the incipient danger but suddenly it looked as if I would never have to fret about my son's safety or health anymore.
On the day of the proposed inspection of our house by the young man's father the sun was shining and the traffic was unusually light, about a vehicle every thirty seconds. I acted on the Woman's Own tip regarding house sales, which was to ensure that the smell of fresh coffee pervaded the house. Just as I'd finished my first cup the doorbell rang.
The student and his father, who was about fifty, accepted my offer of a cup of coffee and then began the process of delivering me from my albatross. It transpired that the man was a builder who had re-married and wanted his son out of his hair, and reasoned that buying the youth a house of his own would do the trick. He informed me that he didn't want a survey done as he was quite capable of evaluating the premises himself. When he said that it was all I could do refrain from doing a jig and singing 'Happy talk'.
All he wanted to inspect was inspect the attic and thereby the roof. Thank God I'd roused my self from my dream state long enough to have the damned thing renewed! I followed him into the loft space and was suddenly embarrassed when I saw him staring bemusedly at several window boxes that were filled with soil and arranged beneath an ultra violet light. All I could think of to say by way of excuse was that the yard wasn't big enough for a green-house. He just nodded, as he had seen the yard already and there wasn't enough room for a Wendy House much less a green-house!
We returned to the living room where the younger man was admiring the pretty Victorian tiled fireplace that my one and only nice neighbour had thrown out and which I had fitted in my house in place of the horrible fifties style tiled monstrosity I had inherited from the previous owner. He asked me if I would be leaving it behind. I was flummoxed as the question of ripping it out had never occurred to me.
However, for once in my life I was up for the game and theatrically pondered his question before replying, with seeming reluctance, that I would include it in the price of the house. I know now that there are people who take everything, and I mean everything from light bulbs to bloody door handles, but I was so eager to leave my small house and nuisance neighbour that, if he'd so desired, I would have left my mum in the house as a char lady! The fact is I scored a brownie point.
The older man was staring out of the window at the steady stream of traffic and, turning to me, ventured that there was a lot of traffic about. I thought to myself, 'Christ you should see it at peak hour mate!" but instead of sharing my thoughts I shamelessly replied,
"Yes, it is unusually heavy today."
His face cleared and he made me an offer for house that I could not, would not refuse. His son explained joyfully that the house would be paid for by his fellow students who would lodge there, so any guilt I felt about my white lie was instantly assuaged as I realised that within three years he would be as far away from the traffic, and the mad woman, as myself.