A Pocketful of Holes and Dreams (3 page)

My mother was to have three more pregnancies. Ian was born in 1949 but sadly died nine days later of hydrocephalus. This was the second time my parents had had to bury a small child, and my mother once again found herself being the stronger of the two in their time of grief.

She gave birth again, to Sheila, in June 1951, and I was born some two years later, on 30 May 1953.

I always say that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Not because I was born into an aristocratic family, but because my birth coincided with the coronation of our new queen, and any child born within a week of it received a commemorative silver spoon to celebrate the official crowning of Queen Elizabeth II.

I was born James Jeffrey Pearce, and after three days in hospital Mum and I were allowed home. I couldn’t have chosen a better day: Tuesday 2 June, the day the whole country was celebrating.

My father picked us up from the hospital in his black cab, and my brother and sisters ran to greet Mum and to see me for the first time. Lesley was eight years old, Barry six and Sheila just two. They all gathered around, all the time asking, ‘Where is it, Mum? Where is it?’ Mum was puzzled.

‘Where’s what?’ she asked.

‘The present off the Queen,’ they said all together. ‘The spoon!’

Mum laughed, taking the precious silver spoon out of her handbag and passing it to Lesley. ‘Don’t let it out of your sight,’ she warned.

Lesley ran off down the street cradling the spoon gently in her hands, and within seconds she was surrounded by children, all of whom were begging for a look at the treasure. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing to the hallmarks on the back of the spoon. ‘That’s real silver that is. It was made for the Queen, and she took it out of one of her kitchen drawers to give to us as a special present for our new baby!’

I loved our house and have fantastic memories of growing up there. We had two and a half rooms upstairs and two and a half downstairs, but somehow we all managed to fit in, and even with four children to look after and all the extra jobs my mum had, she still managed to keep the house clean and tidy.

All the women on our street were houseproud, and they spent a lot of time making sure they presented the right outward appearance. Brass door knockers and letterboxes would be polished until they were spotless and reflected like gold, and the women would ache from scrubbing the front steps until they were clean enough to pass inspection from any critical eye. Many a reputation had been ruined by dirt on the doorstep:

‘Have you seen the state of her step? It’s rotten!’

‘Step? Never mind the step. Have you seen her curtains? I feel ashamed for her!’

‘It makes you think what the rest of the house is like!’

‘No bloody wonder. She’s always out gallivanting, that one.’

There was one thing, however, that couldn’t be overcome, no matter how clean you kept your home – especially on summer nights. Mum would tuck us into bed with the words ‘Good night, sleep tight, hope the bed bugs don’t bite,’ and would always pop her head in later to see if we were asleep. Sometimes, we weren’t, as we were tossing and turning, tormented by a terrible itching. Mum would respond immediately, getting us out of bed to check our bodies for bite marks. Then she’d know what type of insects to look for and where to find them. It was like gathering military intelligence for an attack on the enemy!

She’d tug back the blankets, and three or four bugs would scatter away from the light. Then, like a trained mercenary, she would strike out, grabbing a bug and squishing it between her thumbnails, making our blood squirt out. With split-second precision, she would annihilate our tormentors before they could escape, then she’d roll up the bedding, take it outside to the backyard and give it all a good shake, just in case any bugs had managed to evade her.

The final strike was to take the mattress off the bed, check it and shake bug powder on the metal frame and on the base of the legs to stop the bugs climbing up to the mattress and attacking us all over again.

It was brilliant watching Mum killing the enemy, but most of the time we were too busy scratching, trying to find some relief from the bites and dreading the moment when we had to return to bed. Mum always assured us the bed bugs wouldn’t come back, but we knew they would. Nobody on the street ever talked about it, but you knew that everyone had the same problem – no matter how gleaming the brass or spotless the net curtains!

Once a year, the council would send a special truck to fumigate the houses. The residents would have to wait outside on the pavement while some sort of chemical smoke was sprayed into each house. The house stank afterwards, and the smoke made us cough. And it didn’t even work: the bugs would return and we’d all be itching again in a matter of days.

And bug annihilation wasn’t the only night-time adventure in our house. I’ll always remember the trips to the toilet in the backyard. I could handle a wee in the potty up on the landing by myself, but if I needed to go outside, the job of taking me would fall to Lesley, as I was too small to go on my own, especially on dark winter nights.

I had to wake her up, and she’d take me downstairs to the kitchen, and wrap herself up in Dad’s old RAF coat. She’d place me on her hip, holding on to me with one arm, the other holding a lit candle, and we’d make our way to the brick shed at the end of the yard. Inside, it was very basic: a wooden box with a hole cut in it above a trench which led to the sewers. For toilet paper, Mum would cut up sheets of newspaper and hang them on a piece of string. I’d sit on the cold wooden ‘seat’, the candle next to me to stop me being scared, my eyes firmly fixed on the ground, hoping and praying that the big slugs that lived in the toilet came nowhere near me.

Lesley would be out in the cold, teeth chattering, hopping around trying to keep warm, and telling me to hurry up. We couldn’t wait to get back indoors and would bolt for the warmth of our beds. Lesley would tuck the blankets snugly around me and put Dad’s RAF coat on top of me. That jacket certainly saw some service!

3. One Thing after Another

I started attending Lawrence Road Infants School when I was five. I wasn’t looking forward to being separated from my mother: we’d been so close and had never been apart. The school was a fair distance, so Mum would strap me into a little wooden seat perched above the rear wheel of her bicycle, and I would hold on tight as the wheels bumped over the road’s cobble setts.

Mum knew I wasn’t happy there, so she’d come and see me at lunchtime, bringing me a buttie. I always knew when she was about to leave: she’d wet the corner of her handkerchief with the tip of her tongue and wipe my mouth. Then she’d kiss me through the railings and cycle away, waving her arm in the air, as she disappeared into the traffic.

I found school difficult. I was so inquisitive and really wanted to learn, but when they started teaching us to read, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t make any sense of the letters and words. They’d just jump around before my eyes and get all jumbled up. And I felt even worse because I sensed that the teachers were unhappy with my progress and thought I wasn’t trying.

As ever, Mum did her best to help. At first, thinking I couldn’t see the blackboard properly, she asked my teachers to let me sit at the front of the class, and when that didn’t work she arranged for me to have my eyes tested and I was given glasses.

I hated them! They were too big for my face, had heavy dark frames and made my ears stick out, but Mum insisted that I wore them, even though they didn’t make any difference. With or without glasses, the words just got mixed up. I’d sit for hours after school with Mum teaching me simple spellings like c-a-t, h-a-t, m-a-t and d-o-g. I’d memorize the words, but minutes later, when I saw them on paper again, I would have no idea what they were.

One of the most important words which I couldn’t spell was my first name, James. When it came to writing it down, the five different letters all became jumbled up. One day, Mum must have had enough as she decided there and then that I was going to be called Jeff. And so it’s been ever since.

Mum was always there to meet me at the school gates, but one afternoon it was Lesley who came to pick me up. As we got nearer our house I ran ahead, bursting through the kitchen door, happy to be home. Mum was sitting in an armchair in the living room, rocking backwards and forwards and holding a large white handkerchief to her mouth.

Going over to her side, I leaned forward so I could see her face better. ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’ I asked. ‘Are you feeling sick?’ Silently, she shook her head from side to side. I was getting worried. This wasn’t like Mum. I could feel a note of panic welling up in my voice and tears starting to form at the back of my eyes. ‘Please, Mum, tell me what’s wrong.’

Looking at me properly for the first time, she lowered the handkerchief from her mouth and I caught a glimpse of blood on the white cotton.

Jumping away, my voice almost hysterical, I cried, ‘Who did it, Mum? What happened?’ I looked at her mouth in horror. She’d had beautiful teeth, with a gap between the front two, just like I had. She’d always said it meant we would be wealthy one day. But now all that remained were red gums.

She was trying to answer me, but she sounded like a different person, muffled and old. It just wasn’t the Mum I knew. ‘I hate you!’ I shouted. ‘I don’t love you any more. Who’s done it? Who’s done it?’ Dashing out of the room and slamming the door behind me, I ran upstairs.

Throwing myself on my bed, I sobbed my heart out. I was frightened and confused. What had happened?

Lesley was sent upstairs to calm me down. She sat on my bed, gently stroking my head.

‘What’s wrong, Jeff?’ she asked.

My face buried in my pillow, I uttered a muffled, ‘Go away, leave me alone.’ But Lesley didn’t give up so easily. ‘I don’t love Mum no more, she hasn’t got any teeth, she can’t even talk properly!’ It all rushed out in one long sentence.

Lesley explained that a disease had made Mum’s teeth so painful the dentist had taken them all out, but that he was going to make Mum some beautiful new teeth. I understood then, but my poor mother was so upset.

Years later, she told me that me saying I didn’t love her that day had caused her more pain than the loss of her teeth.

There was a well-worn path from our house to the top of Smithdown Road. Three pairs of feet regularly headed that way: my father’s, on the way to the Boundary pub, and Mum and one of us kid’s, on the way to the doctor’s surgery.

My best friend when I was a kid was Ian Watt, who lived a few doors down from us. We always played together, often on one of the sites that had been bombed during the war. We would play at being soldiers, making dug-outs for ourselves and using stones and broken pieces of brick as ammunition and hurling them through the air with cries of
‘whoosh!’
and
‘kaboom!’
as if they were hand grenades.

I’d finished throwing my missile and was crouching down, waiting for Ian to counterattack. I seemed to be waiting forever, so being impatient, I stood up, breaking cover. His rock flew silently through the air and struck me right smack in the middle of my forehead. It was a direct hit, and I keeled over backwards, landing on a pile of rubble. Wiping my eyes free of the blood that was streaming down my face, I staggered to my feet. Ian took one look at me and ran like hell, doubtless knowing he was in big trouble.

Howling loudly, I too ran home, calling out for Mum all the way. She must have heard the racket because, as I entered the backyard, she appeared at the kitchen door. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me – her small son, dirty, bedraggled and covered in blood. She must have been thinking the worst, as my bloodied hands were clamped to my head, and the noise I was making couldn’t have left her in any doubt as to the pain I was in.

‘What …?’ She couldn’t find the words. ‘Come here. What have you done? Who did this?’ She drew me closer to her and led me inside so she could look at my head.

‘Ian Watt did it, Mum,’ I said, in between loud sniffs and whimpers of pain. ‘Ian Watt threw the grenade.’ One look at my head and she knew she’d have to take me to the hospital. As we sat on the bus going to Sefton General, I’m sure she was planning what she’d do to Ian Watt when she got her hands on him!

Six stitches later, a bandage wrapped around the top of my head like a turban, I was allowed to go home. Mum had other plans, however: after we got off the bus she marched me straight to Ian’s house and banged loudly on the door. Mrs Watt opened it.

Mum wasted no time on pleasantries. ‘Look what your son has done to him!’ she exclaimed angrily, thrusting me in front of her. ‘I’ve had to take him down the hospital. Three holes in his head to stitch up. Your son did this. Six stitches he’s had!’ She was furious.

Ian’s mother was none too happy either. ‘Ian, get yourself here now!’ she shouted. His head appeared cautiously around the edge of the door. When he saw me standing there like a half-wrapped mummy, he looked terrified. For all he knew, he’d nearly killed me and it was a miracle the doctors had been able to save my life! His mother grabbed him and cuffed him around the head, and my mother, now apparently satisfied, gave strict instructions that I was never to play with Ian again.

Of course, the next day, when I went out to play, I went straight to Ian to tell him about my adventures at the hospital. We were best mates again within minutes!

Our street was a fantastic place to play, and football was the boys’ favourite. The street was lined with glass from windows that had fallen victim to a flying football, and I managed this on numerous occasions myself, pretending that I was playing for England in the World Cup, which was all we talked about at the time.

This particular day I was Bobby Charlton, about to take a very important corner kick. I took a long run-up to the ball, kicked it as hard as I could and watched the ball leave the ground at great speed. Smash! The sound of breaking glass falling on to the pavement was the signal for all the kids to run like mad into their own houses, while I stood there frozen to the spot, waiting for the trouble to begin. Within seconds, a woman came out of the house, shouting, ‘Who the hell did that?’