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.
Tie your Kangaroo down sport, there's a thief about
By John Williams
Some memories are stronger than others. Some are so strong that they leave scars. I will never forget New Year's Eve 1962. I was in Newcastle New South Wales, having my face stitched. In a bizarre sense my injuries were indirectly attributable to Santa Claus.
My journey to the accident and emergency unit began on the day after Boxing day when, in the company of a fellow crew member. I was playing darts in the Newcastle Arms. My opponent was that rarity, a softly spoken Australian, who not only threw a mean arrow but accepted his overwhelming victory with quiet good grace.
He offered both of us a lift back to the ship and so we found ourselves seated in the back of a Holden heading across the seemingly endless railway tracks that surrounded the docks like steel hoops on a barrel.
My fellow traveller, Mullet, was an aggressively inclined Cornishman from St Austell, pronounced Sinorstel, who had earlier knocked a drunk unconscious. The drunk was an irritating man, and all of seventy years old. Anyway, as we sat ensconced in the back seat I noticed that Mullet was purloining Christmas presents from a bag that was on the floor behind the driver's seat.
Appalled at his curmudgeonly antics I kicked the Cornishman's ankle but he was intent on betraying both his host and his country. As we left the car I felt a deep sense of shame as the Australian wished us a happy new year. The Cornishman simply grunted and turned his body to hide his booty. New Year's Eve arrived and I was with a large party of crew members but at one point found myself walking in the street several yards behind the Autolycus of St Austell who had just staggered out of the Newcastle Arms. In a scene vaguely reminiscent of a Western the batwing doors of the pub swung open behind him and a group of Aussies walked out onto the sidewalk. One of them pointed at Mullet and yelled,
"That's the bastard!" and ran toward us.
Mullet turned back, saw me and and shouted,Reluctantly I ran, like a demented Custer into the group of Australians, where I found myself surrounded and alone, because I had mistaken the thief's shout of 'this way' as a battle cry, when in fact he was half way back to the ship.
The Australian driver, who must have divined who was really guilty didn't try to hurt me but instead tried to restrain my drunken and ineffective flailing, with the consequence that I fell heavily against a barber's shop window. The window shivered violently before descending like the blade of a guillotine and crashing onto the concrete sidewalk. I felt a burning sensation as a three inch sliver of glass narrowly missed my right eye and penetrated my cheek. Aghast, the good Samaritan held me still while his cobbers called an ambulance. Thus it was that I found myself at the start of 1963 making an appearance at a magistrate's court where I was found guilty of criminal damage.
I have often wondered since about the concept of justice, especially as after eleven months at sea, earning £16 a month, the Captain deducted from my pay-off the forty pound fine imposed by the Australian court. Thank you Captain Mallet, the nine pounds you paid me kept me in luxury for hours! It was then I learned just what the expression 'a board of trade acquaintance' really meant because my closest crew mate for the previous five months, the cook, Brian Kelly, never even waited for me as I stayed aboard the ship to make my futile protest by signing off 'in red ink'.
The phrase was quite apt, as it not only described my sense of injustice at having someone else undertake to pay a fine that the magistrate had opted to leave to my discretion, but it matched my blushes when, after less than a few days home I had to ask my dad for a 'dropsy', which he gave willingly and so I had some cash to jingle and was able to 'buy' him a drink when we got to the pub to celebrate the return of the sailor with his big pay-off.