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The room glittered with crystal and silver, pineapples, lobsters and champagne. And the smart talk - what a row! One side of the room was a semi-circle of colonnaded windows through which jewelled figures slid out to the candlelit terrace and the beating of a band. I gave up toying with my truffles and let my gaze move across the breathless midnight Mediterranean lit up with yachts and beyond, way beyond, to the lights of Africa. Max was leaning over me and looking downwards. Click-swoosh, click-swoosh, on her way to the lavatory.
He managed to stand, sway, and bow. And quite wrong about my origins. Don Pedro tapped me on the shoulder from behind. Don Pedro squeaked at the waist when he danced. But such a noble head. And we went off to Watutsi on the terrace. I gripped the table to steady myself and broke out in goose-pimples. At home Mother was holding a brown-paper parcel.
Francis Leroi – Pigalle Girl AKA Ma Mère Me Prostitue (1982) | windowsforum.info
I took it breathing heavily. Out rolled a pair of grey socks. Next, Mother brought me home to a black dockland slum called Pitt Street and christened me George. Even in those days the police patrolled it in pairs. If you moved at all it could only be up. And we did, very slightly.
When I was a couple of years old the family was rehoused on a new council estate in Norris Green on the edge of town. Since the rest of Pitt Street moved with us, along with the equally notorious Scotland Road, the atmosphere continued to be full of fists.
Families like ours stored coal in the bath to stop it being stolen.
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But we had the luxury of three bedrooms. The smallest was reserved for me alone because for the first fourteen years of my life I nervously wet the bed.
As a punishment I would be locked in there without heat or light and told there were ghosts. My parents were both Liverpudlians. Mother was born Ada Brown, a name I now use when attempting to travel incognito. She, a Protestant, married my father, Frederick Jamieson, when she was sixteen.
He was a Roman Catholic and so virtually she dropped one child a year: Apart from us there were several who died at birth. Being a middle child I never had new clothes. Just grey hand-me-downs, patched, darned, frayed, hanging off my scrawny frame. Even my clogs - then de rigueur among poor scouse kids - even these were hand-me-downs. I thought I should never see the end of those clogs coming down to me, hard wooden shells with a steel rim nailed on to the undersides.
These rims were always falling off and had to be hammered back on, so one felt like a horse. In her youth Mother was pretty and flirtatious, with fine brown hair and eyes and good teeth. This was hardly ever since she was always pregnant. There was so little between us that was physical. But she had a large heart for taking in strangers.
Big blue-eyed Roddy, who went to sea when I was very young, was constantly bringing back strays. One was called Reggie Endicott, half-Indian, always laughing, fabulous-looking, who stayed with us for a long time and shook up the house by buying a gramophone and playing Frankie Lane records until the plaster cracked.
An Australian, Bernie Cartmell, followed Roddy in through the door one day. He was skinny and floppy, all hands and feet. And there was a Mexican girl, Beautiful Phyllis. Mother had gone out to the lavatory in the morning and found Phyllis in there asleep. In her arms was a baby covered with sores. Of course Mother took them both in. There were always processions through the house. Usually they slept where they fell. Father was a cook in the Royal Navy and not often home.
When he was, he would hand out bars of chocolate white with age and while we munched he would describe exotic seaports or indulge his passion for oysters washed down with Guinness.
Father was as short as Mother, slightly built but good-looking, with strong dark eyes which I inherited and a heavenly, puckish smile. He was also a scoundrel, a heavy drinker and spent every penny on the booze.
I was mad about him. She heaved sacks of potatoes and boxes of oranges at a grocery shop and during the Second World War made bombs at the Fazakerly bomb factory. Because of the daily proximity of TNT, she lost much hair and all her teeth. They would go off together every day in their. TNT can do that to you. She and Mother were brought home in an ambulance. Mother found her dead on the toilet seat. I was a problem child. Apart from the bed-wetting, I was born with a severe calcium deficiency.
This led to frequent accidents which left me unable to walk. The fall immobilised my legs for three months. Roddy and Freddie constructed a go-cart from an orange-box and old perambulator wheels so that I could be pulled around the neighbouring streets. It was always breaking down, or smashing into walls when they raced it. People kept finding me lying in roads, which irritated them after a while. If I were out of action, Mother would have to carry me piggy-back.
She could rest on the tram, then pick me up again and carry me to the hospital. Eating was another problem. We lived on a basic diet of brown-sauce sandwiches but Mother would bribe me to eat with chip butties, which I did like.
Sometimes I stole beetroots from allotments and ate them raw, or carrots which I would clean by scraping them on a wall and share with my mongrel pointer Prince. He brought back the first bottle of Heinz Tomato Ketchup I ever saw. And the first post-war banana. It was cut into six pieces, one each. Such a bizarre taste. And when I was seven years old, he brought back Prince.
We adopted each other immediately. He would follow me to school and wait outside the gates until I reappeared. He followed me to the Saturday Morning Pictures at the Broadway Regal, running along behind the tramcar, and while I was inside enjoying my favourite series, The Perils of Pauline, he would sit patiently outside surveying the street.
As the one whom nobody wanted in their gang, I always felt safe with Prince.
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His only vice was killing cats. He murdered about twenty of them before a great tom cured him with several nasty blows in the face. Liverpool had twenty-three miles of docks, the largest dockland in the world at that time, and was bombed heavily during the war.
When the siren blew at night, everyone was supposed to run into the Anderson shelter. These were made of corrugated iron and were to be buried in the garden and covered with earth. It was stuck out the back at a lopsided angle in a few inches of soil. There were three bunks on either side full of fleas and bugs. I detested going in there even more than into the single bedroom and if Father were home he would allow me to crouch close to him under the hedge while explosions shook the house and the sky over Liverpool turned red.
But what I most remember is the smell of salt in his uniform. My schooldays - such torture. Those nuns, those priests, those hopeless teachers, those disgusting children! Although he never went to church himself, Father insisted we were brought up as strict Catholics.
It was very rough. We spent a great deal of time cleaning the floors with dusters tied to our clogs and if we were slow the nuns would rattle rulers between our knees.
On the whole my education consisted of learning how to run fast. I was the ultimate weed. It was fortunate that after school the staff would inspect all the air-raid shelters because often they would discover me inside one, tied down to a bunk.