A Pocketful of Holes and Dreams (6 page)

Gangs of young lads were always on the lookout for wheels and other bits and pieces to make steering carts, so the prams were a target. Barry had shown me how to tie them together to stop them being stolen, attaching a long rope around a cast-iron railing at one end, threading it through the front two wheels of each pram and tying the other end to another railing. On Saturday mornings, knowing the prams would be lined up on the pavement, lads would turn up in groups, some as many as six, like hyenas prowling for prey.

They would laugh at me and taunt me, shoving me from side to side. I had to keep my distance so they couldn’t actually grab me. If I fell into their trap, I’d be finished, and the prams would be nicked. So I’d dodge their lunges, moving all the time, edging closer to the main entrance. When it all got too much for me, and it often did, I would dart inside and call out for help. ‘Quick, missus, quick. They’re robbing your prams. Help, missus, I need some help.’

Like a stampeding herd of wildebeest, the nearest women would charge towards the door. Emerging into the daylight, sleeves rolled up above their elbows, they’d shout and scream at the lads outside, ‘Get your hands off those prams, you little thugs!’

It was an awesome sight: sweat dripping off red faces, their hair tucked up under white mop caps, they were definitely not women to be argued with! I stood there feeling invincible; a pint-sized general with an army behind him, watching my enemies disappearing like rats down sewers.

I looked after those prams until I was twelve and made good money week after week – threepence a pram every Saturday morning. Pockets jingling, I would then return home happy, knowing what a difference it would make to Mum.

6. Sun, Sea and Scrap

My father’s continual drinking and irresponsible behaviour were a source of constant worry to Mum. The uncertainty of the future plagued her, and she knew that as long as my father did night shifts in the taxi the problem wouldn’t go away.

Something had to change, so Mum started thinking of a new business for him. In post-war Britain, there was a high demand for scrap metal, and there was plenty of it around with all the bombed-out sites. It was a relatively simple business, requiring a wagon, a driver and some ‘sales skills’. Dad could handle the last two, so all we needed was a wagon. Mum borrowed some money from her sisters, enough to put a deposit down on a second-hand wagon with a long flat-bed and drop-down sides.

The blue Bedford had a covered cab at the front with two seats, and in between them a metal cover concealing the engine. Dad put an old blanket over it, and that is where Barry and I would sit. Dad would drive the wagon with Jack, his friend, who had experience and contacts in the scrap business and who, like Dad, could talk his way in and out of anything. Mum even had a telephone installed (the only one in our street) and some smart business cards printed: L. N. Pearce & Sons, Scrap Merchants. She was so proud of how professional they looked. We were now officially in business.

Setting off each morning, Dad and Jack would drive around Liverpool looking for scraps of abandoned metal. It could be anything: an old bicycle or pram, or debris from buildings – anything they could get their hands on. Meanwhile, Mum was contacting small companies and arranging for Dad to do pick-ups and deliveries.

Another little earner was selling wooden blocks. Mum had won a contract to remove and dispose of small oak blocks that had been used as paving on roads but were now stored in a large yard near the city centre. They’d been laid in tar, and Dad soon discovered that they burnt for ages and made great firewood! So every morning, we loaded up the wagon and went selling them. Barry and Jack would go knocking on doors calling out their sales spiel: ‘We have served the Duke of York, the King of Cork and all the Royal family. Get your burning blocks now, ten for a shilling.’ Dad would be driving the wagon slowly along the streets, beeping his horn. I would be on the back of the wagon, stacking them into piles of ten. It would take us all day to empty one wagonload but we didn’t stop until every last one was sold. It was dirty work, and we were as black as tar ourselves by the time we were finished.

Listening to Dad and Jack talking, though, we soon learnt that it was worth all the hard work. On a good day we could make as much as £5 or £7 profit, which, considering the average weekly wage back then was £4 to £5, made it very good money.

Come the end of the day, Dad would announce that he had to ‘take his medicine’. This meant driving to the nearest pub, where he would sup pint after pint. Barry and I would remain outside looking after the wagon, with a bottle of lemonade and a packet of crisps to keep us happy. ‘Taking his medicine’ could last up to three hours, and the pubs were often in the roughest parts of the city. On such occasions the two of us would be fighting for our lives, or so it seemed, against gangs of lads on the mooch looking for anything to steal.

Armed with long sticks, supposedly to intimidate them with, we must have been a bizarre sight – two small boys guarding a wagonful of goodies as if it were the Crown Jewels. Sometimes there were only three or four in the gang. We could handle that. Any more, and we’d be battling against half the gang while the others helped themselves. We couldn’t even go for help, as Dad was not to be disturbed once he got into the pub. We hated every minute of those lonely nights. If it had just been Dad’s drinking money, it wouldn’t have mattered so much, but it was Mum’s money too.

Financially, things started to improve, and Mum started to take us on more days out, one of our favourites being New Brighton on the ferry across the River Mersey. The huge open-air swimming pool there was one of my favourite places. It had a fifty-foot diving board, reaching high up into the sky. But while Lesley and Barry were brave enough to leap off the higher boards, Sheila and I would only jump off the lower ones.

On one occasion, Dad joined us on a day out at the baths and announced that he was going to dive off the top board. We all watched nervously as he climbed the steps to the top platform. Standing at the end of the diving board, he waved to us, a seemingly small figure in the distance, a hero about to take flight. He certainly seemed like a hero to me – no one ever dived off the top board. The pool was busy that day, and a hush fell over the crowd as thousands of pairs of eyes turned towards him. All that could be heard was the drone of insects in the heat of the summer sun.

Perfectly balanced at the end of the board, his arms outstretched, his toes gripping to the edge, Dad looked ready to dive. As I watched him push off and fly through the air, I was so proud – that was my dad! But when he landed in the water seconds later, the watching crowd gasped and groaned in sympathy. He had done the most perfect belly-flop from fifty feet in the air. He hit the water so hard that it splashed out of the pool, soaking all the sunbathers. His head broke the surface of the water, and he made his way to the steps at the side.

Slowly, he emerged, sheepishly pulling himself up the steps. Everyone could see his bright-red chest and belly, and the tops of his legs were crimson from the impact with the water as he hobbled towards us. He sat down beside us, and Mum looked at his chest and grinned. ‘You daft thing,’ she said. ‘I thought you said you could dive?’ We all burst out laughing, including Dad.

In the summer months, Dad and Jack would drive to North Wales. It was only fifty miles away, but with its rolling green mountains and sandy coastline it was a world away from city life. They didn’t go for leisure though. They would visit farms scouting for disused equipment, doing a deal with the farmers before loading up the wagon and taking their collection to the scrap-metal yard.

Mum decided that, as Dad was spending so much time there, the family was also going to Wales, but this time for a holiday. It would be our first family holiday. She booked a small caravan near Prestatyn for two weeks. The holiday was the most amazing experience, with wide open spaces and green fields to run in, sand dunes to climb on and beaches that seemed to go on for miles.

One afternoon, the four of us were out exploring the fields around the campsite. We were walking in single file along the top of an old dry-stone wall, arms spread out on either side like tightrope walkers. Barry and Lesley were in front, followed by Sheila, while I lagged behind. Afraid they were going too fast and would leave me behind, I started to quicken my pace, trying to catch up with them. Suddenly a loud scream broke the stillness of the summer afternoon. The others turned, but there was no sign of me anywhere. Turning to retrace their steps, Barry noticed that the tops of the stinging nettles growing on one side of the wall were moving and a muffled yelping was coming from underneath.

‘I think he’s in there!’ Sheila said, pointing at the nettles. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘I’m not getting in to pull him out,’ said Barry. ‘No way!’

Eventually, and after much coaxing from Barry and Lesley, I slowly made my way to the wall, crying out with every step. Taking my hands, Barry pulled me up. I was a big red lump, covered in so many blotches they seemed to be all joined as one. The pain was horrible. It felt like my body was on fire, and as the tears ran down my face, the saltiness of them made the rashes on my cheeks sting even more.

My mother, needless to say, was horrified when she saw me, and immediately sent the others off to find as many dock leaves as they could. She crushed them in her hands and rubbed them gently over my skin. When the initial stings had subsided, she smothered me in calamine lotion. I spent the next few days looking like a little pink shrimp.

Mum loved watching her children playing together and having a good time. She didn’t stop smiling all the time we were there, and before leaving she arranged another holiday for the following year, negotiating six weeks’ rental on a small wooden hut across the road from the campsite.

That second summer was the best holiday we ever had. We fell in love with our hut from the moment we opened the door. It was very basic, with a main room containing two sets of wooden bunks on facing walls, and a table and four chairs. In one corner, there was a small table with a gas stove sitting on top and shelves arranged above it. A sink attached to the wall beside it completed the living room-cum-kitchen. One other small room contained a double bed, ideal for Mum (and Dad when he came to stay). Toilet and washing facilities were available at the campsite across the road.

Most of our time there was spent playing and having fun, but we did occasionally resort to ways and means of earning money – some ideas more imaginative than others.

Near the beach was a shop that sold buckets and spades, ice creams, sweets and lemonade. At the end of a hot summer’s day we would walk along the beach collecting empty lemonade bottles. The lady who ran the shop would give us a halfpenny for each bottle, with which we would then buy sweets.

It didn’t take Barry and Lesley long to realize that the empty bottles were stacked in crates at the rear of the shop. If we hadn’t collected enough bottles to buy sweets that day, they’d sneak around the back and remove some of the empties from the crates to make up the numbers.

Sadly, one day, it all went wrong. We were just about to walk up the hill back to the hut, already chewing our sweets, when I noticed some full bottles of lemonade by the door of the shop, this wonderful place where, like magic, Lesley and Barry would produce sweets out of nothing. With the innocence of a six-year-old, I thought everything in this magical place was free, so picking up two bottles, one each for Barry and Lesley, I set off at a steady pace behind them.

But as they got to the top of the hill, Lesley heard somebody shouting. Looking back down the hill, they saw me, struggling to keep hold of the bottles, with an irate shop owner chasing after me, waving her fist in the air and shouting, ‘Put them down, you little thief.’ In a flash, Barry was racing down the hill towards me. He grabbed the bottles from my hands, placed them carefully on the ground, picked me up and threw me over his shoulder, turned and ran up the hill.

They made me promise not to tell Mum, cross my heart and hope to die, and to swear I would never do anything like that ever again. I had spoilt everything, as we couldn’t go back to the shop any more in case we were reported to the police.

The holiday eventually came to an end. We’d had the most fabulous six weeks; even Mum enjoyed herself. Sadly, we never holidayed again as a family – our six weeks of sunshine was only the second holiday we had ever had, and it was the last.

Once back home, life carried on as normal; a million miles away from the sea and sand and the simple happiness of our little hut by the beach.

Our scrap business was doing well, although Dad did have problems finding somewhere to park the wagon, and one morning he woke up to find all six tyres had been let down. What finally killed it, though, was when Dad slipped a disc lifting a heavy piece of scrap iron on to the wagon. He was taken to hospital he was in so much pain, and ended up spending two months in traction sleeping on a wooden board before he was allowed home.

Mum tried to keep the business going by employing a driver to work alongside Jack. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out, and as she couldn’t keep up the payments on the wagon, it was repossessed by the finance company.

The scrap business had been good to us while it lasted. We’d had two fantastic summer holidays out of it, and we’d also had a taste of family life as it could be, where money or the lack of it was not the overriding concern. Mum started to think of new business ideas and Dad returned to the taxis.

Old habits die hard, and the ritual of getting ready for a night in his cab was resumed. But this time there was a new layer to be added: he now needed a corset to provide support for his back. He had selected this garment with care, choosing a corset ‘worn by the stars’. Occasionally, we’d catch a glimpse of him putting it on. As he held it in place, Mum would be behind him, pulling the laces as tightly as she could while he emitted grunts of protest. And all the while she’d be smiling broadly, from the safety of behind his back.