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.
Come on over to my place
By
John Williams
When people ask me which part of Liverpool I am from I am reduced to mumbling,
"Er, all over."
I've lived in so many different addresses that if we had to have something like a passport to indicate which dwellings we had passed through then mine would display more stamps than a philatelist's convention. That's an exaggeration of course but, and this is in a rough chronological order, I have lived in,
Daulby Street; Wavertree; Huyton; Three times Gateacre; Kirkdale; Dovecote; Bootle Sheil Road; Sefton Park; Toxteth nee Liverpool 8; Anfield; Skelmersdale; Kensington; Fairfield;
The first two on that the list are somewhat gratuitous in that I have no memories of them as I was little more than a toddler when I lived in those areas. However, I do have one peculiar trace memory of the time spent in Wavertree. My mother had taken up residence in Cambridge Street and when she moved out it was occupied by a man with the same surname as her own. His name was George Kelly and he was later hanged for the alleged murder of the manager of a cinema.
The trial was notorious and the crime became known as the Cameo murder. Fifty odd years on it seems that there might well have been a miscarriage of justice, which is legalese for saying that George Kelly was framed. This kind of thing is rapidly becoming commonplace in Britain. Indeed, it is arguable that so many innocent people have been framed that the phrase 'rogue's gallery' has taken on an entirely new meaning, but I digress.
Several years later my mother was living in Huyton and one morning she said something that has remained with me forever. We were standing in the tiny kitchen of our council house, and I was wearing just a singlet as we both warmed ourselves in front of the open gas oven which provided a quick source of heat on cold mornings. Lighting a fire would have been both time consuming and wasteful as we were neither of us going to be present in the house for the rest of the day.
Outside, the sky was grey and oppressive and the kitchen was almost in darkness except for the blue flame of the gas. My mother, more to herself than to me, suddenly said,
"They're hanging Georgy Kelly today."
Then glancing at the stormy sky added,
"God must be angry."
For years after that I was secretly appalled at her superstitious attitude, but now, in the light of the current appeals to overturn the guilty verdict I can't help but think that she might have had an inside track to her deity. A bizarre consequence of her remark was that for years afterward I wondered if Kelly was related to me. After all he had lived in the same house and my mum was pretty upset about his execution and she had employed a familiar name for him.
Moreover, his alleged partner in the alleged crime, Charlie Connolly, later lived in Huyton after his release from prison. I eventually asked her about it and she just looked baffled at my tortuous reasoning. Sorry girl, but as Gerard Manley Hopkins put it, 'the mind has cliffs no man fathomed'.
For most of my life I have lived in a house of one sort or another but for the few years following my mother's divorce we lived in a series of rented flats with my new father. One of these was in a huge mansion of a house in Ullet Road. One day, while I was on a bus I spotted a large rope-handled wooden crate and in my innocence had thought would serve as a makeshift table.
I jumped of the bus and dragged the crate all the way from Rathbone Road to the flat. My mother, while touched by my efforts was secretly appalled and persuaded me that it was best left outside the door until we moved when it could be used as a packing case.
That night the lady from the flat above accosted my mother because she said the crate was causing her a nuisance. I say lady because she wore a fur coat, spoke in a refined tone and always wore lipstick and rouge. Anyway, at the time my mother was about six months pregnant with my brother and she was quite sensitive to criticism. The fact is, she kicked off like a good'un.
"Er, excuse me,"
she hissed as she moved closer to the woman,
"I'm having a baby and I've got a young son and all day long I'm tripping over men on the stairs. So don't you come to me with complaints!"
The colour drained form the woman's rouged cheeks, lending her face the appearance of a cheap china doll. It was some time before I realised what kind of lady she was.
The only other thing I remember about that flat was that it had a coal fire. I mention this because one Guy Fawkes night my mother allowed me to bring some school chums to the flat to roast chestnuts and drink cider.
My parents went out and we placed the chestnuts on a shovel and then put the shovel on the fire. While they were cooking we began some game or other and became quite engrossed. Suddenly there were a series of violent explosions and hot chestnuts flew across the room in all directions. Not realising what had happened we all dived for cover behind the couch and shuddered with fear until one of the missiles landed at my feet. There's a song that goes something like,
"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire...da da da da da da da'.
Bing, you can keep them!
Within weeks we had moved to a house in Tiber Street. My father had saved enough money to pay the rental deposit, or 'key money' as it was known. In those days back in 1959 that was the only way I knew wherein working class people could get a non-council dwelling. The only person I knew who owned a house outright had lived next door to us in Huyton. Her father had built it for her and it was huge, big enough in fact to house her entire collection of dolls.
So, as you can imagine, when I decided many years later, in 1967, that I had to move back to Liverpool from Skelmersdale New Town, buying a house was not even remotely on the agenda. However, one night while I was searching the 'echo' for a house to rent I came across a small ad which offered a house for sale at 1850 pounds. Now I had saved 185 pounds and even with my limited grasp of arithmetic I realised that I had a deposit.
The next day I jumped a bus to Liverpool and found myself standing at the counter of a strangely old fashioned office. I was attended by an even more old fashioned gentleman who was a letting agent, but had come into the possession of an old house in Hall lane. When I told him I had just enough to pay the deposit he kindly suggested that I consult a friend of his who was a mortgage broker. I agreed and trotted off the Albany Buildings in Old Hall Street.
As I entered the building I was struck by what I have since discovered to be a classic example of Liverpool's architectural heritage, which was an iron bridge that spanned the gap between the offices and which was supported half way across buy a spiral staircase. In a way it symbolised my crossover from being a working class lad at the mercy of landlords to a property owner.
I was ushered into the office by a secretary where I was warmly greeted by a well dressed man with dark good looks whose black hair was flattened by Brylcreem. I didn't look at the time but I wouldn't be surprised if he wore hush puppies too. He was charm personified and he quickly explained to me why I was there. He told me that it wasn't entirely necessary for me to engage his services and that I could go and make my own application if I so chose.
However, he then went on to explain the pitfalls of such an independent approach. He explained that it was quite possible, indeed highly likely that if I made an application to a building society it would be refused. Seeing my dismay he hastened to add that it wouldn't be because of any personal shortcomings on my part but it was the middle of the month and most building society managers had already loaned out their monthly allowance.
I looked at him blankly, and he went on to say that he, as a broker, made it his business to cultivate all of the managers and so he knew which one of them had any funds left to lend. Suddenly I realised where he was going. Looking straight into my eyes he said quietly,
"If I can't get you a mortgage I will not ask you for any money. If, however, I do succeed then I will ask you to pay me, seven guineas."
God I thought, that's about the price of a two decent shirts and immediately agreed.
He was as good as his word and within a week I had been offered a mortgage by the Halifax Building Society and so I went to his office to pay him his fee. At that time I was wholly ignorant of Old Boy networks, masonry and the like so I saw him as a sort of minor deity. Naturally, when he suggested we go for a drink to celebrate I was only too happy to accompany him to one of the pubs what were known as business bars which were establishments that usually closed earlier than most because their evening clientele usually consisted of office workers stopping off for a quick drink before going home.
Now I thought my tolerance of alcohol was low but his was almost non existent. Within about an hour of our being lodged in the 'Crooked Billet' I noticed that his speech was slurred and that he was becoming quite tipsy. After another drink he began to confide in me.
Now you have to understand that I had never met a real live gentleman before, certainly not one who lived in a highly desirable suburb miles to the north of Liverpool and who was also a local councillor. I assume that by now he must be in his eighties so I don't feel that I am betraying a trust. Which is more than I can say for that particular dark eyed handsome man who, with his head nodding unsteadily, revealed to me that he was having an affair.
I was stunned because he was so eminently respectable. I do remember though that he was not boasting but was in fact deeply troubled. I eventually had to help him to his train and now as I look back to the scene I can see an impeccably dressed man waiting on the platform of a railway station staring into the distance. So very reminiscent of Leslie Howard in 'Brief encounter'.
Perhaps it was because he knew he would never again encounter me in either a business or social setting that he was so indiscreet. Or perhaps he saw himself mirrored in my eyes, because, although I didn't know it then, I too would stray, but that would be several years later, after I had experienced the maelstrom of a nervous collapse which forced me to evaluate my life in no uncertain fashion.
12.02.03