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.
Turkish delight - A fine way to start the day in Liverpool
By
John Williams
My step father recently broke his shoulder, which was no doubt seriously weakened by a lifetime of hefting sides of beef, some of which weighed in at two hundred and eighty pounds. His orthapaedic surgeon decided to insert an engineered steel plate into my old man's shoulder. Now I don't know exactly how much that cost the NHS, but I reckon he's about $5,999,000 short of being Liverpool's answer to Lee Majors as the six million dollar man. I entertain visions of him racing across Sainsbury's car park in slow motion as he intervenes to save someone from being mown down by a runaway shopping trolley.
Having recently learned to drive, and being in possession of an old Rover, I have been able to nip up and down to the Royal Liverpool Teaching Hospital, as well as visiting my mother who is housebound, except for one day a week, when she gets a cab to the White House pub in Old Swan.
It's such a boon having a car at this time, as previously I had to make the nine mile journey to Liverpool by bus. It used to take so long that I would refuse to go shopping in Liverpool until I had a sufficient amount of intended purchases to make the trip worthwhile.
I often felt as if I were starring in an an old Western movie where the homesteader makes a list of his purchases, with the aid of a stubby pencil and much head scratching. You know the routine,
" Ah need ter gate some balin' wire, black powder, lead and some Calico fer the cat basket...and for you, mah honeybunch, a peek in the Sear's catalogue ."
Today I was up very very early. The reason for this can be laid at the door of the England Football team, because yesterday, while they were beating Argentina in the World Cup qualifying rounds, I was getting quietly sozzled. I hadn't really had a drink since I got the car and the combination of Carlsberg export lager, whiskey, schnapps and the adrenalin rush was such that I retired to bed just after the final whistle at 2.10 p.m. GMT, never to surface again until 11.30 in the evening. Feeling awful I had gone back to bed at midnight.
Thus it was I found myself awake before the larks. I decided to visit my old man and take him something hot to eat. I don't mean a cooked meal, but I thought a bacon sandwich might provide him with a welcome change from the cold tack being served up to him on the ward.
I had to park in a pay and display enterprise behind the Old Fort public house on Prescot Road. I was very nervous about that because only last week, in the same place, and in spite of my having parked miles from any other car, some swine launched my fender into orbit but didn't hang about to sign autographs. I only got home courtesy of AA's breakdown service. Fortunately, today, I was the only car there, so I was able to relax and amble down London Road in search of a cafe.
My gastronomic radar was calibrated to seek out steamed up windows, encrusted sauce bottles and floors so slippy that they could have been graced by Torville and Dean, but I was pleasantly surprised to find a recently opened cafe called Bee Bee's just facing T.J. Hughes.
The owner had just that minute arrived so I walked in right behind him and asked how long it would take before he could make me a bacon sandwich. Assuring me that it would be no trouble at all to have one prepared within ten minutes he invited me to sit at a table. As I took in the pleasingly bright decor I decided to have a coffee.
While the proprietor busied himself with my coffee, which turned out to be the finest espresso I've ever had, I asked him which country he was from. In perfect English he told me that he was from Izmir in Turkey, and sadly agreed with me that his home town was bound to be sunny and in complete contrast to the drizzle we were experiencing. My sympathy was tempered somewhat by my memory of the Cretan cauldron I had been roasted in last summer. A drop of rain might dampen the spirits but it won't leave you looking like a jumbo prawn kebab.
As if the clean and pleasant surroundings weren't enough the proprietor, Volkan, was of a friendly and open disposition, told me how he worked evenings at a restaurant in order to be able to take his wife and son on a holiday to Ismir.
I couldn't help reflect that we English are supposed to foster a Protestant work ethic, but I just don't know anybody who would work Volkan's hours.
The bacon curled and sizzled on its hot-plate as a market worker, no doubt drawn by the tantalizing aroma, came in to order his breakfast, and I began to peruse the hand-painted menu. My eyes were arrested by the the word 'Scouce' and pointed out that there was a misspelling. Almost blushing, Volkan explained that an art student had painted the menu and of course was a virtual stranger to Liverpool. I thought it ironic that the said student could probably spell with ease names such as Botticelli, Topolsky and Van Gogh, but had been put in a stew over the spelling of Scouse, our local dish.
As he applied the brown sauce I noticed the neat way Volkan coated the beautifully cooked bacon with an intricate lattice pattern, which struck me as being so different from the usual randomly aimed blob from a crushed and gunge encrusted plastic bottle. When the sandwich was ready it was first wrapped in greaseproof paper and then placed in a bag. The whole ensemble was as far removed from the grease-stained brown paper bag school of packaging as Volkan was from Ismir.
My father was highly appreciative of his unexpected breakfast, especially as my arrival had coincided with the delivery of his morning cuppa and I was quite buouyant as I left him and entered the lift to go down to the ground floor. I cheerfully asked the other occupant of the lift whether she was starting work or just finishing. She turned to me and her eyes were filled with tears as she explained that the medical team attending her fifty two year old husband had telephoned her at six a.m. that morning to inform her that her husband was at death's door. I shook hands with her and wished her well before making my way to my car.
The Rover hadn't strayed and so I went to my mother's and made her a bacon sandwich, sans brown sauce. As I drove home I couldn't help but ponder on the question I had asked the lady in the lift. Put another way, was her life just starting, or finishing?