A Pocketful of Holes and Dreams (7 page)

7. Tears and Torment

I remember the day I started at junior school, aged seven. Mum thought Barry’s school was too rough and that the boys there would pick on me, especially as I still couldn’t write my own name, so she chose Sefton Park secondary school, a little further away.

I was very nervous that first day. It was a big school, with about a hundred boys to every year, split into three bands. Band A was for the bright sparks, B for the average Joes and Band C for ‘the thickies’. Although I was a confident young lad in many ways, I was always apprehensive about school, and my first two days were made even more horrible because we had to sit exams so they could decide which band we’d be in.

Exams were pure torture. I’d find myself staring at a piece of paper, my eyes darting all over it as I tried to pick out words that were familiar to me. The tick of the clock was deafening, and as I got more tense and more panicky, even those words would seem to vanish from the page. I’d glance at the boys on either side, as if for reassurance that I was not alone.

By copying their actions and flicking through pages, or resting my head on my hand while I pretended to study the question before me, I created an image of being in control, while in reality I felt I was drowning. If only there’d been a calming voice or a helping hand to lead me through, to take the edge off my tension, it might have been different. As it was, I was alone in my misery, feeling like the only stupid person in the whole world. The excitement of a new school and new friends to meet was overshadowed by the horror of those first two days, and I cried myself to sleep both nights. Only Mum knew what I was going through.

I was placed in Band C, with thirty-three other boys. We were a bunch of misfits – no-hopers. Some were from what we called in those days ‘broken homes’, and had no father and no discipline in their lives at all; for others, English was their second language. But rather than being singled out for assistance, we were shunted to one side. We weren’t worth the time or trouble.

Although small, I was quite popular in my class, as I had a lot of confidence and could think on my feet. After a while, I enjoyed my time at Sefton Park Juniors, if only because I became a member of the football and swimming teams. The reading and writing didn’t get any easier though. Some teachers did try to help, but they quickly gave up, unable to understand how it was that somebody who could talk so well and seemed so bright just couldn’t get the simplest words when they were written down. One or two got angry with me and said I was lazy and showed no interest. They would stand me in the corner of the classroom facing the wall with a tall dunce’s hat on my head. It didn’t encourage me to try harder, it just made me feel worse.

One teacher in particular really had it in for me and said if I didn’t try to improve I would be sent to a special school for backward children. I had seen groups of mentally handicapped children waiting for the bus to collect them in the mornings, and the thought frightened the life out of me.

There wasn’t much research into dyslexia back then, and a lot of schools didn’t know anything about it. Some people thought it was a form of mental illness while others believed it was just an excuse for laziness. It wasn’t until the mid-1960s that it was recognized as a difficulty resulting from a reduced ability to associate visual symbols with verbal sounds. Up till then it was referred to as ‘word blindness’, and confined to the domain of medical specialists. Although it’s a lifelong condition, with the right help it can be overcome and dyslexics can learn to adapt to their limitations, but in my case, and that of thousands of other children at the time, that help was just not available.

At school, I did put my other talents to use, however. I certainly wasn’t Mr Goodie-Two-Shoes. The playground was perfect for developing my entrepreneurial skills, and I’d sell single cigarettes and marbles, and set up bets on games of conkers.

Marbles were the best business for me. I played well, so my pockets were always full of them. A bag from the sweetshop cost tuppence, whereas I cannily charged half the price, ensuring a good turnover. The ironic thing was that many a boy who lost his marbles to me during a game ended up buying them back the following day.

Mum was constantly tired, and it worried me. She was becoming more irritable, snapping at everybody and shouting at me for the slightest thing I did wrong. It just wasn’t like her.

I’d lie in bed at night listening to Mum and Dad yelling at each other downstairs. It went on for weeks, then one afternoon I found out what the problem was. I was coming downstairs and overheard Lesley and Sheila talking in their bedroom. Mum was having a baby.

Hurtling down the rest of the stairs, I ran into the kitchen, straight over to Mum. ‘Is it true, Mum?’ I asked. ‘Are you going to have another baby?’ She stopped what she was doing and bent down to give me a big hug.

‘Yes, Jeff, it’s true.’ We stayed there for a few minutes, our arms around each other. ‘The baby is due in November. Just think, you’ll have a little brother or sister to play with this Christmas. Santa is coming early.’

All the shouting I had overheard over the past few weeks was Mum reading Dad the riot act, which must have paid off, because he was around much more, and although he still smelled of alcohol in the mornings, he was nowhere near as drunk as before. This lasted for several months, which made for a much happier atmosphere at home.

Months passed, and all the kids on our street and around were parading their guys around to raise money for fireworks on Bonfire Night. It was 4 November, and I was out collecting firewood for the next night when I heard Barry shouting for me. When I got in the house, Lesley told us that Mum had been rushed to hospital. ‘She’s going to be all right,’ she said, ‘but you all have to be good, as I’m in charge while Mum is away.’

Lesley allowed Sheila and me to join all our friends at our street bonfire at 6.30 that evening. We stood in a circle watching the flames licking their way up towards the guy on the top. By the time he started to burn, the bonfire was taller than the houses, the sparks shooting out in all directions, crackling and spitting. Fireworks were popping and cascading beautiful colours into the night sky – it was perfect! Keeping our promise to Lesley, the two of us were home by nine, happy, tired and smelling of woodsmoke. And once our heads hit our pillows, we quickly fell asleep.

In the early hours of the following morning, Mum gave birth to a perfect little baby girl, June Karen Pearce. When she came home a few days later, bringing our little sister with her, Mum told us that it was the sound of the fireworks that had woken little June up, which is why she was born when she was!

8. On the Never-Never

Despite the financial difficulties of winter, Mum always made Christmas the most magical time of year – she would pay for it later. Debt after the festive season was part of the tradition – a custom, almost like Christmas trees and chocolate Santas. With no savings or extra money to spend, there was one option available, and that was to apply for credit from companies who specialized in ‘helping out’. The Provident was one of the best.

In the weeks before Christmas, a rep from the Provi would be out knocking on doors asking if you needed any help over the festive season. The answer was always yes. A sum would be agreed – anywhere between £20 and £40 – and then the interest, always high, was added and the total weekly repayment worked out. Within a week the salesman would come by again, bringing you your ‘Provi cheque’. It was the difference between Christmas feast and Christmas famine, but it was so hard to pay back. Mum would spend most of it on new school uniforms for each of us and, most importantly, new shoes. She’d also make sure that we all had one good Christmas present each.

Another form of credit was available from a most obliging Jewish gentleman called Harry Shapiro. Harry didn’t offer cheques but called at doors laden with items no housewife could do without: warm blankets in the middle of winter, or a beautiful tablecloth, just as the final touches were being put to the Christmas decorations.

‘You can have them, Mrs Pearce,’ he would say, ‘for ten shillings, and you can pay me only a shilling a week until you are clear.’ It was a good deal. Within two weeks, he would be back with something else, and another deal would be struck. And so it went on, like a form of rolling credit, and you didn’t pay off what was owed for many, many years.

Harry Shapiro would call every Friday without fail to collect his money. Sometimes, Mum didn’t have it for him so she’d tell me, ‘When he comes, don’t open the door. Just say, “Me mum’s not in.” Do you understand?’ Rolling my eyes with exasperation, I’d tell her I understood.

One Friday the knock came and I shouted down the hall in what I thought was a grown-up voice, ‘Me Mum says to tell you she’s not in.’

After a few moments the letterbox flap was raised, and Harry Shapiro’s eyes peered at me. Then he moved his head so that his mouth was framed by the letterbox and said, ‘Go and tell your mother she
is
in and I want my shilling.’

I went down the hallway to the kitchen and relayed the message to Mum. ‘All right,’ she replied. ‘Tell him I’ll give him his bloody shillings next week. I promise.’

Traipsing down the hall once again, I repeated Mum’s message under my breath several times so I wouldn’t forget it. I leaned towards the letterbox flap, and as if by magic it lifted and I found myself looking Harry Shapiro straight in the eye. ‘Me Mum says you’ll get your shillings next week. Oh and she bloody promises.’ He looked at me for a moment before dropping the flap, then I heard his footsteps walking away, no doubt going to the next house to go through the ritual all over again!

The Co-Op man would call once a week, too, for a penny payment towards funeral insurance, and the ‘Pools man’ would come to collect the weekly coupon for the Littlewoods Football Pools. Mum used to say that winning it would get us out of this mess one day. The streets were a buzz of activity on Friday afternoon and early evening, as all the different debt collectors were out knocking on doors trying to collect their money. Even some local shops offered credit: our favourite was Mary’s.

Mary was a middle-aged woman who ran a small shop just around the corner from our house. The shelves reached to the ceiling and were stacked with dry provisions such as tea and sugar and tinned goods, and she also sold milk, butter and bread. But best of all were the jars full of sweets – lemon sherbets, Drumsticks and Refreshers, wine gums and Everton mints – prominently displayed so that children of all ages and heights could see them. Some were sold by weight, tuppence a quarter, but you could also get a penny mix.

Mum would send us there for groceries, telling us to ask Mary to put it in the book. There were quite a few occasions, however, when she would refuse, telling me to go back and tell Mum that we couldn’t have anything else until our ‘account’ had been settled. We then had to steer clear of Mary’s for a while, until Mum had enough money to pay the bill.

Mum was good at teaching me how to trade, but it was Dad who showed me the art of selling.

Christmas was only six weeks away, and this year it was going to be different. Mum had come up with another of her clever business ideas. With a little financial assistance from Aunty Joyce and Mac, her gentleman friend, Mum put her plan into action: Dad and Mac were going into business selling stockings on Saturdays outside T. J. Hughes, a large department store in the heart of Liverpool. Mum organized everything, from where to buy the stock to how it should be sold and for how much. Then she wrapped the stockings in cellophane and packed them into an old suitcase.

That first Saturday morning, I, aged eight, was sitting on the stairs listening to my parents discuss what they were planning to do. It sounded so exciting, and after a while I built up enough courage to say, ‘Dad, can I come with you?’

‘It would be very good for him, you know, Les,’ said Mum. ‘A son should spend time with his father, and he’d be an asset to you. I’ve taught him lots on the markets, and he learns very fast.’

Dad shook his head from side to side, a clear ‘no’ in any language, but then he stopped and smiled. ‘Of course you can, Jeff. Go and get your coat. And I might even buy you a pint on the way home.’

Mum’s response to this last comment was very clear: ‘Don’t you even think about it!’

That Saturday morning, the street was busy even when we arrived, with barrow boys setting up their carts. The barrow boys were ‘legal’ and had street-trading licences, usually passed down from generation to generation. These were like gold dust. We were ‘illegal’ traders or fly-pitchers. If we were caught by the police, it would mean instant arrest, confiscation of property and a court appearance, with a fine anywhere between £10 and £20, so the stakes were high.

Dad and Mac discussed the best position and the getaway strategy should the ‘bizzies’ (police) show up. There was a free spot just inside the corner entrance of T. J. Hughes, so while Mac acted as lookout on the opposite corner, where he could see up and down the road, Dad took up position. Dressed in his camel-hair Crombie, with his signature starched collar and wearing a bright-yellow tie, he looked as if he owned the department store. And not only did he have the looks, he had bags of charm, too, a way of talking to people that made them feel important. Listening to his words was like collecting pearls of wisdom. And he could twist people around his little finger.

So there we were on a cold winter’s morning, Pearce, Son & Associates, ready to do battle with the elements, the authorities and potential customers. Now it started: ‘Here we are, ladies, here we are.’ Dad’s patter rolled off his tongue. ‘Nineteen-denier stockings, two pair for half a crown … All perfect, just like me!’ Women of all ages soon gathered around to have a look.

‘Me old man’s on nights,’ said one. ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of company, if you know what I mean.’

‘Hey, handsome, I’ll take four pair off yer, if you’ll put them on for me,’ called out a very large lady in a loud voice. Everyone laughed at this, which got the day off to a fine start.