A Pocketful of Holes and Dreams (10 page)

Although we didn’t have much to pack, everything we did have was, in Mum’s opinion, a treasured possession. And she insisted that everything was carefully wrapped up in newspaper before being packed away in the old tea chests I had collected. Dad got involved too, by borrowing a van off somebody he knew.

The day of the move finally dawned, and once the van was loaded, there were just the goodbyes left. I ran first of all to Mrs Gilbert, who gave me a half-crown and wished me luck, then to Mary from the sweetshop, who had become my friend.

My mates were all hanging around by the van when I got back, not sure how to react. Ian Watt looked particularly uncomfortable, staring silently down at the pavement. After all, we’d been best mates ever since we’d been allowed to play out in the street. And now I was leaving.

As I shook their hands and said my goodbyes, trying to be as grown-up as I could, I had a lump in my throat from fighting back my emotions and trying not to let any tears show. I promised them all I would come back and see them soon. But a part of me knew I never would. I was moving to a whole new life, and even though it was only a few miles away, I could have been travelling to the other side of the world for all the difference it made.

We all set off in convoy, Barry leading the way in his van, with June sitting on Mum’s lap, while Sheila and I followed behind with Dad in the van. It must have taken us an hour or so to get there. As we drove through the city streets, getting closer to Princess Drive, the scenery started to change dramatically. Instead of grey old buildings there were trees and open expanses of greenery. It was almost like being out in the country and reminded us of our trips to Wales.

West Derby, on the outskirts of Liverpool, had been mainly farmland before the Second World War. After the war, however, as a result of the devastation of the bombing raids, the council built housing estates there to accommodate the families made homeless. The estates also catered for the overspill of people who had lived in derelict houses in the inner-city slums.

Our new house was on a corner, with its own front and side garden. I was the first out of the van, running over to a little white wooden gate in the middle of a privet hedge, then down the path towards the red-painted front door. As Mum searched for the keys in her handbag, my excitement was hard to contain. When she finally managed to open the door we all pushed our way in.

The house was fantastic, with three bedrooms upstairs and a big room with a window looking on to the front garden and a lovely long kitchen downstairs. ‘What’s that on the wall, Mum?’ I shouted.

She smiled. ‘That’s our new gas fire, Jeff. Just think: no more making coal fires.’ And there was running hot and cold water, upstairs and down!

I loved the new house, and every room in it. But my favourite, without a doubt, had to be the bathroom. We had never had one of these before. This was amazing to me, with a long white bath that you could stretch out in and get properly warm without any bits of your body getting cold, and with instant hot water. There was also a sink just for washing your hands and face, and cleaning your teeth, and best of all, a white porcelain toilet with a spotless white plastic seat. This was unashamed luxury.

My feeling of gratitude and love for my mother was overwhelming, and I understood why it had been so important for her to move us here. There was no need for words. As I wrapped my arms around her in a big hug, I knew she understood, and we just stood there for a few moments.

Mum discovered the joys of gardening in that house. If the weather was nice, she would be outside, digging over the soil, weeding the flowerbeds and tending to her roses. For the first time in her life, a few of her dreams had come true. She was a different woman. Dad, however, once again managed to add a sour taste to it all. Mum’s plan of moving him as far away as possible from bad influences backfired.

He still met up with his cronies, staying out and drinking, carrying on as if he had no other care in the world, and no family or home to come back to. Some nights he would get back very late, sometimes in the early hours, and sometimes not at all. As I soon discovered, Mum would stay awake through the night, worrying herself sick about him and whether he had got himself into some awful trouble. Other times, I imagine she wished he hadn’t bothered coming home, he was such a disgrace and an embarrassment, staggering off the bus near our house. On these occasions, he was so drunk he couldn’t stand up and had to be helped indoors. My poor mother seemed to spend half her evenings looking out of the front window every time she heard a bus to see if he was on it. I can only suppose that the alcohol made him totally unaware of how much he was spoiling my mother’s hard-won happiness.

Princess Drive was a busy dual carriageway that ran down the middle of a very large housing estate. If you turned right out of our house and carried on for about two and half miles, you arrived in West Derby, which was regarded as well-to-do. But if you turned left, a mile down the road would bring you to Page Moss in Huyton, a council estate that had the reputation of being one of the roughest in Liverpool, if not the UK. After building the Huyton Estate, the city council had relocated the hardened criminal community from the city centre to here.

The Eagle and Child pub in Page Moss, five minutes away, and the Bow and Arrow, almost directly opposite our house, were notorious and known to be two of the most dangerous and violent pubs in Liverpool at that time. Even the police hesitated to enter them. At least Mum had succeeded in keeping my father out of
these
locals – both places would have been far too hazardous for a distinguished gentleman like him!

Oh, Mum, God love her! All she had ever wanted was to bring her children up in a safe environment. She had moved us far away from big-city squalor and crime to the benefits of a more rural setting. What a pity – she had miscalculated by only a mile in the wrong direction! We were now living deep in the heart of criminal country.

11. Wot’s-a-Gofer-Do?

Once we moved to our new home, time seemed to fly. Suddenly I was fourteen going on fifteen and was due to leave school in a matter of months, so we were all sent to see the visiting careers officer to discuss our plans for the future.

The careers officer was a rather tubby man dressed in a brown suit. His hair was greasy and his tie had a schoolboy knot instead of a man’s Windsor, like Dad always wore. He looked at me with tired, disinterested eyes. ‘Well, Mr Pearce, what job would you like to do when you leave school?’

This was the moment I’d been waiting for, the first chance I’d had to discuss my big plans for the future. ‘Well, sir, I want to have my own business. Maybe start off on the markets like I did with my Mum, selling all kinds of things. And when I have enough money, get my own shop. I want to be like Mr Marks and Mr Spencer when I’m older and have my own big store like theirs.’ I paused for breath and looked to see his reaction, to see any signs of encouragement or inspiration, but I was met with a blank stare. Perhaps he didn’t know who I was talking about.

‘Mr Marks and Mr Spencer, sir,’ I repeated. ‘The ones who own all the big department stores. You must know them – they have one of the biggest stores in Liverpool.’ There was still no response, so I sat there for a moment, not sure what to say.

The careers officer gathered his thoughts and said, ‘You can’t live off pocketfuls of dreams, young man,’ then picked up some leaflets and passed them to me. ‘Here you are, some things for you to look at and have a think about. Next,’ he shouted loudly, and I got to my feet and slowly walked out of the classroom.

I couldn’t read any of the words on the leaflets, but there were pictures of soldiers and sailors. What was this all about? I wasn’t interested in being a soldier or going to sea. I’d told him about my ambitions and what I wanted to do with my life, and he hadn’t listened to a word I’d said. I left the room feeling very let down and confused. Why hadn’t he taken me seriously? Was it because he knew I couldn’t read or write? Had my teachers told him that I didn’t even try to learn and not to bother with me?

Mum, as ever, did her best to cheer me up, saying that she would find something special for me to do, and sure enough, not long afterwards, she told me she’d found me a proper job and had arranged a meeting with the headmaster to discuss it. In his office, she explained that she’d found me a much sought after job as an apprentice TV engineer, and that the position was available immediately. She knew the school year wasn’t yet over, but with my poor academic ability, with all the competition, it would be difficult for me to find something if I left at the same time as all the other boys. Could I leave school before the official end of term so I could start work as soon as possible? The headmaster was very helpful and contacted the Local Education Authority, who after much deliberation gave their permission.

On my last day, I said goodbye to all my friends. Obviously, they were all envious of my early departure; I had all the luck! My form teacher, Mrs Jones, was less congratulatory, saying it had been a waste of time trying to teach me and no good would come from my mother’s efforts. In her professional opinion, there was no hope for me.

When I walked out of the school gates that last afternoon, I felt very scared. The thought of my new employer discovering that I couldn’t read or write made the safety of school appealing despite the harsh comments of teachers like Mrs Jones. I was fourteen years old, just a boy, about to enter the world of adults.

Mum soon vanquished all my misgivings. She told me that televisions were the thing of the future, that there would always be work installing and repairing them, so I’d always be able to earn a good living. She was so enthusiastic I couldn’t help but feel excited at the prospect of my new job – the way Mum described it made it sound very manly and adult.

The company I was joining was Johnson Brothers, where Barry worked as an apprentice sales manager. They were a privately owned TV and radio business, with six shops in and around the Liverpool area, and also sold and repaired other appliances. My job was in the service department.

My first Monday morning that summer of 1968 was memorable. I arrived on the dot of nine, trying to look as mature as possible, but walking through all the hustle and bustle to reception, I began to feel very nervous. I went up to a small square window that was framing the head and shoulders of a lady busy doing something. I had to stand up on my toes to see her, but she was looking down, typing, and didn’t see me. I didn’t want to jump up and down to get her attention, so instead I cleared my throat.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘I’m here to fix televisions,’ I blurted out.

Her eyebrows shot up as she looked at me – or at a pair of anxious eyes and a nose resting on the ledge in front of her, which was all she could see of me. ‘Sorry?’ she said. ‘What was that again?’

‘I’m here for the job.’

‘What job?’

‘The television engineer job,’ I elaborated.

She leaned forward to get a better look at me, and I found myself confronted by an overpowering cleavage that filled the window frame. ‘Well, young man,’ she said, ‘you’d best take a seat, hadn’t you?’ Then she picked up the Tannoy microphone and, her voice full of laughter, called out: ‘Would Frank Johnson please come to reception? Frank Johnson to reception, please. The world’s smallest TV engineer is waiting for you.’

Sitting there, my face red with embarrassment, I didn’t know what to think. What she was laughing about? I was here for the job.

Moments later, a door opened and a man appeared, a smile on his face. ‘You must be the new apprentice,’ he said. ‘Come on, follow me.’

I had to work hard to keep up with him, my shorter legs doing at least two strides for every one of his as we made our way through a maze of hallways and doors. As we sped along he told me that he was one of the owner brothers and was in charge of the service department. He was going to be my ‘big boss’.

We stopped at a large room full of workbenches, all covered with televisions and radios making crackling sounds. About twelve women and four men sat on tall stools, busy with repairs, many of them using soldering irons, which smoked each time they made contact. No one noticed us coming in, so Mr Johnson called for attention and introduced me.

I stood there shyly, feeling nervous and unsure of what to do. Sensing my apprehension, Mr Johnson said, ‘It’s all right, Jeff. No need to worry. They’ll look after you,’ but his words fell on deaf ears; while he was talking and once he’d left, everyone just carried on with their work.

After about ten minutes I had built up enough courage to walk over to the woman who had the kindest-looking face. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you?’ I asked in my politest voice.

‘Bloody hell,’ she said, almost jumping off her stool at the sudden interruption. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘I’m Jeff,’ I answered, ‘the new apprentice.’

‘Oh you
are
here!’ she replied. Then she called out loudly to her colleagues, ‘Our gofer’s arrived!’

‘Gofer?’ This was a new expression to me, and meant nothing at all. Seeing the look of puzzlement on my face, she smiled.

‘Go for this, go for that … Come on, I’ll show you what you have to do.’

She took me into their ‘canteen’ and explained that I was to make tea twice a day, take orders for lunch, and clear up after everyone else. Then she left me to it. I just about managed to get the tea ready for the ten o’clock break, and then it was time to take the orders for lunch. I got nervous all over again then, petrified they’d all find out that I couldn’t read or write. Luckily, there weren’t that many different orders, so I made up a code, using ‘fc’ for fish and chips, ‘skpc’ for steak and kidney pie and chips, and so on.

At the end of the week, I received my first wage packet, which contained £3. I’d also received tips from the service engineers, and that amounted to almost £1. I was so proud being able to give Mum all that money. In those days, it was the tradition in Liverpool to give all your first wage packet to your mother, but from then to pay the agreed board and lodging, keeping the balance for yourself. I, however, gave Mum my whole wage packet every week, and in return she’d give me ten shillings to cover the cost of my bus fare. I never had to buy lunch as she always made me sandwiches, and I kept my tips for myself.