Mother's Day in Liverpool

I spent Mother’s Day in Liverpool with one of my sons, who had travelled up by train for the day. Sunday is not a good day for rail travel! After regular updates on his progress from 8am onwards – his first train was delayed, he would miss his connection, he would be two hours late – my husband and I eventually met him at Lime Street Station, only one hour after his expected arrival. This meant we were still in good time for lunch at The Italian Club in Bold Street before Dad had to leave us for the all important LFC game.

The Italian Club was buzzing, it seemed busier than on the same day last year, when again Liverpool had been playing at home and two of my sons had been able to make it ‘up north’. The tables were attractive, with vases packed with daffodils and pink balloons floating above our heads; and the food and service, as always, was excellent.

After lunch, we left my husband browsing in his favourite art shop, a few doors down from the restaurant, and wandered down to the Pier Head. Church Street was crowded with people enjoying the warm weather and a group of talented street musicians added to the holiday atmosphere. I love hearing music as I stroll around the city; it reminds me of pleasant holidays spent on the Continent.

At the Pier Head, we were both ready for another coffee and as Matou had been recommended by a friend, decided to try it for the first time. What a perfect location! Inside, the restaurant was busy with diners, but outside, the terrace was virtually empty and we could enjoy our coffee, chocolate, and conversation, with an uninterrupted view of the city’s magnificent ‘Three Graces’. All too soon it was time to make our way back to Lime Street Station, with just half-an-hour spare to spend in the Walker Art Gallery, always a favourite when any of the family are visiting.

When time is short, we always spend it in front of just two or three of our favourite paintings in the 19th century rooms rather than dashing around seeing more, but remembering little. William Frederick Yeames’s And When Did You Last See Your Father? is one of those favourites I never tire of looking at; the gallery’s website tells ‘The story behind the painting’. Another family favourite is Frederick Cotman’s One of the Family. I have looked at this painting countless times, a print hung on my mother-in-law’s wall for many years, yet it was only on this visit that I noticed the knitting on the window-sill – and my son noticed the steam coming from the horse’s nostrils!

We stood for some time in front of Hubert von Herkomer’s Eventide: A scene in the Westminster Union. Among the faces of the old women in the workhouse, one in particular stands out – it may have been painted in the 19th century, but I see in her face a resemblance to my own elderly, long-gone relatives. Eventide was painted as a companion piece to the Last Muster, which hangs in the Lady Lever Gallery, and this is represented by a print on the wall of the workhouse depicting the dead pensioner and his companion. The lives of the women in this painting are in strong contrast to the old woman in One of the Family. She sits at the table, cutting bread, a valued member of what is depicted as a happy, loving family.

As my son caught his train, my mind flashed back over fifty years to when I used to wave my then young husband off from this same station after his 48 hours leave from National Service in the Royal Navy. Because of LFC’s 4pm kick-off, I had an hour left to wander around the city before the match ended and he drove back into the city to pick me up. Couldn’t catch the train home – they don’t stop at our station on a Sunday. High Speed 2 – huh!

My hour wasn’t wasted. The shops were closed, the streets were emptying, and I found myself looking more carefully at the buildings instead of in shop windows. Liverpool One is attractively set out, but I’m more interested in the old, original buildings of Church Street, etc. Yes, some of the in-fill building is ugly and soul-less, but I marvel at buildings such as the one inhabited by Marks & Spencer. I would recommend anyone to stand on the opposite side of the street – at a quiet time of the day, if possible – and let your eyes sweep across the whole façade of this architectural gem. You won’t be disappointed.

And Liverpool won 4-0 – so ended a perfect day!

A writing day with Pam Weaver

On Saturday, March 22nd, I spent a very interesting and informative day on a writing course run by Pam Weaver, whose family sagas include There’s Always Tomorrow, and Better Days Will Come, published by the Avon division of HarperCollins.

The venue for the day was The Roundstone Room at Haskins Garden Centre near Worthing, where we were very well catered for; coffee, tea and cold drinks to hand all day and their excellent ‘Regal Lily’ buffet at lunchtime.

The day began at 10am when fourteen keen writers – including just one brave gentleman – introduced ourselves to the group, with a brief explanation of our experience and aspirations. I love attending this type of day course, it’s a step into the unknown to find oneself in a room full of strangers with whom you have only one thing in common – the desire to write. Some want to write down the bedtime stories they tell to their children or grandchildren; some are keen to write a memoir, not necessarily with the goal of publication but for family members; some have already had magazine articles and/or short stories published. But if your dream is to be a successful, best-selling author then who better to advise and guide you through potential pitfalls, than someone who has already travelled that road and reached her goal?

Pam had created a ‘Plan for the Day’ which, briefly, involved advice on creating good characters (with a ten point check list); plot, pace, theme, point of view – and the all-important ‘hook’.

We were given advice on what agents and publishers really want, and crucially, what they don’t want! This included useful guidelines on how to write a synopsis of your novel to accompany your submission.

A fun part of the day for me was the class exercise. Pam asked us to take a wander around Haskins during our lunch break and pick out an interesting character, observe them discreetly (she didn’t want any of us to get arrested!) then return to the meeting room to write a paragraph about them. As well as writing about what we had actually observed, we were to use our imagination and include something about them which we couldn’t know just by looking at them. I found myself weaving and dodging around the various gift, household and clothing displays following a couple on their search for a Mother’s Day present. At least that’s what I surmised they were doing; and it looks as though someone’s mother will be getting scented candles!

All in all, it was a very enjoyable day. The programme Pam had put together and the way she worked through it was both useful and encouraging – thank you, Pam – and it’s also good to spend time with other writers – they’re such friendly people!

Pam Weaver’s latest book, For Better For Worse, will be published by Avon in July this year.
  

Sanctuary from the Trenches

During the First World War, not enough hospitals were available to treat the vast numbers of injured soldiers who were returning from the trenches and Dunham Massey Hall was one of the 3,244 auxiliary hospitals created within large houses, schools and other buildings. Lady Stamford, its owner, offered the Hall to the Red Cross in 1917 and by February 1919, 282 soldiers had been cared for within its tranquil surroundings, Lady Stamford acting as commandant and her daughter, Lady Jane Grey, training as a nurse. To mark the centenary of the outbreak of war, parts of the Hall have once more been transformed into the Stamford Military Hospital and if you are in this beautiful part of Cheshire it is well worth a visit.

Although the visitor facilities, the gardens and the deer park are open every day, the Hall itself is closed on Thursdays and Fridays. We visited early on a Tuesday morning in beautiful spring sunshine, collected our timed tickets and joined the queue to enter the Hall. I was surprised just how many visitors there were on a weekday morning – the recreated hospital has only been open since the beginning of March and will, no doubt, get even busier at weekends and during school holidays. Groups enter at ten-minute intervals, which is essential in order to give visitors time to read all the information and view the exhibits before the next group follow on your heels. Patience is needed when there are two or three people standing between you and what you want to read!
After passing through an ante room which contains the background information about the hospital, you enter the saloon, temporarily stripped of its valuable furniture and paintings and recreated as the main ward. A case note is tied to the foot of each iron bedstead, giving the soldier’s name, his injury and a brief account of the treatment being given. These are actual details taken from the hospital records and the injuries include gassing, trench foot, shrapnel wounds and shell shock. Some of these men would have been sent back to the front as soon as they had recovered. These personal, horrific, details relating to real men – photographs of some of them are displayed in another room – make passing through this ward a very moving experience. One of the beds was occupied, a young man in hospital uniform sitting up reading a newspaper. A tobacco tin and a small plate with a slice of bread and jam lay on the locker beside his bed. Later we saw him at the piano in the rest room exchanging banter with a young nurse.

The recreation of the operating theatre is very oddly situated underneath the main staircase; necessary because of the proximity to the toilet in the nearby billiard room.

I don’t want to spoil any potential visitor’s experience by giving too much detail here about the stories of the individual soldiers; you can follow their fate as you make your way through the Hall. This auxiliary hospital has been faithfully recreated from letters, artefacts, and photographs, along with entries from Lady Jane’s scrapbook, and I would thoroughly recommend a visit to anyone who is in the area over the coming months. It brings the horrors of war to life by small, personal details, and also shows the remarkable spirit of selflessness of Lady Stamford, Lady Jane Grey, the doctors, nurses and other staff who helped make Stamford Military Hospital a ‘soldiers’ sanctuary’.  

A day out in Liverpool

Weather-wise, Saturday, 8th February was a horrible day, but LFC were kicking off at midday so it was the perfect opportunity for me to be dropped off ‘somewhere along the East Lancs’ and catch a bus into town. I love that bus journey on a day when Liverpool are playing at home, love people-watching as the bus slowly makes its way through the throngs of supporters, young and old, male and female, most sporting their club colours. It amazes me just how far the fans will walk to reach the stadium on foot; maybe the car parking charges have a lot to do with it, but the sense of camaraderie is also evident – and walking has the advantage of being able to enjoy a pint before the game, as well as one or two afterwards! I know from my husband that many fans also have their ‘lucky’ route – after parking the car a mile and a half from the ground he always crosses the road in a certain spot and enters the stadium through the same gate each time. I don’t know how this works when the team loses, but then that hasn’t happened much this season!

Meanwhile, there was plenty to occupy me in the city centre on a wet, blustery afternoon. I began with a little shopping in Liverpool One, and in Waterstone’s picked up a copy of the 18thC gothic novel The Monk by Matthew Lewis that I need for my reading group. From there, I decided it would be worthwhile battling against the head wind to make one of my regular visits to St George’s Hall. I love having my afternoon coffee in Bread & More, easily accessible from the side entrance to the Hall. Not only are the coffees, teas and snacks excellent but it’s good to know that Bread & More is run by The City of Liverpool College, which helps young people gain employment in the hospitality sector through apprenticeships. I chose a seat where I could watch the comings and goings through the side entrance and enjoyed seeing several wedding parties arriving; such a pity about the weather as adults and children had to brave the wind and rain, shivering in their finery. I wish all of the couples a long and happy marriage.

A real treat on this visit to the Hall, was spending some time looking at The Liverpool Tapestry – People, Places and Passions – which hangs in a room near Bread & More. Conceived and funded by Home Bargains and created by the Merseyside Embroiderers’ Guild to celebrate Liverpool’s Capital of Culture year in 2008, it was completed in 2012 and originally hung in the Liverpool Life Museum at the Pier Head. It is now on permanent display in St George’s Hall and the statistics relating to its creation are truly amazing. The wall hanging consists of 338 individual six inch squares depicting every aspect of Merseyside life; its iconic buildings, sport, music, Super Lamb Bananas – far too many subjects to mention individually. One hundred and three miles of wool were used, 5 million stitches crafted by 152 embroiderers, and once the squares were completed a professional conservator took nine months to hand-stitch them onto a canvas 7 feet high by 23 long. As someone who struggles to sew a button on, I was in awe of the embroiderers’ obvious skill and love for the task in hand. I congratulate you all.

It was when I was picking up some leaflets at the information desk I heard that LFC were by that time 4-0 up against Arsenal!

Time to visit the Central library which, as usual, was a hive of activity, I made my way to the Local History section, found a comfy seat and settled with a couple of books of photos of old Liverpool. I love leafing through these books and have many at home; certain photos bring back memories of my childhood and my early working life in the city.

A quick dash through the rain to rendezvous with a jubilant husband and the news that Liverpool had won 5-1 – the excitement of the FA cup clash beckons!

My first job - Sweeting Street

I left Grammar School in 1954, aged 15 and with no qualifications. It wasn’t that I was stupid, I was in the A form, but family circumstances dictated that I should leave school early – there was no possibility of my being able to stay on in the Sixth Form, so I might as well have that extra year’s wages.

I left school on July 25th and a couple of weeks later I was interviewed for a job as a typist in a Law Stationers’ office in the heart of Liverpool, about 15 miles from my home. (I was born in Toxteth, but the family moved out ‘to the sticks’ at the beginning of World War II when I was just a couple of months old.) I’d gone to the interview armed with a letter of recommendation from a neighbour, who just happened to have some distant family connection to the owners of the firm. The letter did the trick – although I prefer to think that I got the job because I was a presentable, obviously intelligent, 15 year-old!

I began my job with two distinct disadvantages. Not only was I completely baffled by the term ‘Law Stationers’, but I had never even seen a typewriter, let alone used one. However, like Barkis, I was ‘willing’.

The firm was owned and run by a father and son whom the staff called ‘Mr Charles’ and ‘Mr James’. Mr Charles was an elderly, distinguished-looking gentleman with silver hair and a refined voice; he occupied an inner sanctum from which he rarely emerged. Mr James, on the other hand, was a short, portly man with a strong Liverpool accent, a rough and ready boss with a knack for getting an enormous amount of high quality work from his typists. On my first day he sat me between two older girls at one of the long wooden benches that filled the ‘typing room’. In front of me was a black, shiny monster of a machine, round keys with metal rims steeply banked (you soon learned to keep your nails short) and a carriage that was at least two feet long. Mr James’s first instruction to me was, ‘Sit there and teach yourself to type’! As a puny, six and a half stone 15 year-old I soon learned to tame that beast – in fact I grew to love it.

Watching all the other girls, I marvelled at their speed and accuracy, although most, if not all, of them typed with only the first two fingers of each hand. Eager to learn, even more eager to please, that September I enrolled at my local night school for typing lessons. Determined to prove that this could be something I was good at, at the end of the first year I had gained a distinction in both the RSA I and RSA II exams and was rewarded by a special mention from the local Mayor at prize giving!

I was soon enlightened as to what Law Stationers actually did. We typed documents for local solicitors – one of whom is still a household name – wills, house conveyances, legal briefs, even divorces, although there weren’t many of those in the 1950s. I can only assume that it was more cost effective for the solicitors to out-source this work than to employ their own typists. Two skills were essential in order to keep your job – speed and accuracy. Speed because we were always working to deadlines, accuracy because legal documents back then were a world away from the present day versions which can be spell-checked, copied and pasted, then spat out from computers and scanners in minutes.

We typed on parchment, blue for wills, sepia for house conveyances, and erasing or tipex-ing a mistake was not an option. Any alteration to the document and it was no longer legal. Each double sheet of a conveyance document was hand ruled in red ink and the first page began with an illuminated letter, drawn in coloured inks by a very elderly clerk. He sat on a tall stool, hunched over an ancient desk and looked exactly like a character from Dickens. Working inches away from the parchment, his eyes were always red and rheumy and he had a permanent dewdrop suspended from the end of his nose, no matter what the weather. To my knowledge this never actually dropped! You can imagine my trepidation at first being handed these pages on which I then had to type the final version of the solicitor’s draft. The parchment was thick; feeding it into the machine, getting it perfectly lined up with that first letter, and knowing you must not hit a wrong key throughout the whole document was a stomach-churning experience at first. Of course, the odd mistake was made, but very few; not just because of the telling off from the boss for wasting time and expensive stationery, but because we felt real guilt at increasing the workload – and eyestrain – of the clerk. Sadly, after all this time I can’t recall his name, yet I still remember what he looked like.

Once you had completed a job you would sit next to Mr James at his desk, reading out from the draft while he checked every word of the conveyance before hand-stitching the pages together with narrow red tape. There was a real sense of satisfaction in a job well done when it was finally delivered to the solicitor’s office.

At this point, I should say something about my physical surroundings at work. The office was situated in a very narrow, cobbled dog’s leg of an alleyway which ran between two main thoroughfares in the city – Castle Street and Dale Street. Although ‘ran’ is not the best description, this was a street that wasn’t going anywhere; unless you worked in one of its offices there would be no reason to enter. Most people bought a newspaper from the stand at its entrance and passed on by.

And the office itself? I can remember the noise created by a room full of typewriters, bells ringing with each carriage return; a voice reading aloud to Mr James, trying to make itself heard above the clatter. I remember general untidiness, dust and the lack of fresh air. A telephone which must have been a museum piece even then, was situated in an outer office on a wooden surround attached to the wall; you spoke into the mouthpiece and unhooked the trumpet-like earpiece to listen. A trip to the phone brought its own dangers. The bare wooden floors throughout the building were uneven and worn, with many loose boards, but in the outer office they were particularly bad. Light as I was, I still managed to put my foot through the floor on one occasion, no Accident Book then; no compensation for laddered stockings, which you could get repaired at the drycleaners for sixpence per ladder!

I stayed in that job for four years and enjoyed every moment of it, although the tedious bus journey and the 45 hour week were tiring. In fine weather, a group of us would take our packed lunches and sit in the gardens of St Nicholas’s Church, or on the grassy area at the Pier Head fronting the Liver Buildings. When it opened in 1957, The Cavern became a favourite lunchtime haunt, pre-Beatles of course! But by the end of 1958 I was engaged, saving up to get married, and found a job nearer home that paid better wage. I returned to the city a couple of years later to work in an insurance office in Water Street. One of the offices in the same building was, I believe, a Cotton Brokers, and we used to see Paul McCartney’s father arriving for work.

Fast forward 20 years. On a visit to Liverpool with two of my young sons, I decided to take ‘a trip down memory lane’.

‘While we’re here, I’ll show you where I worked in my very first job when I was just 15.’

We walked up Castle Street and turned left into the alleyway.

‘Down here, towards the end, on the right hand side.’

We got closer. My feeling of nostalgia turned to one of shocked surprise as I quickly shepherded two bewildered boys back to the main street.

‘Come on boys, let’s go. I must have made a mistake. I don’t think this is the street after all.’

My fondly remembered Dickensian office building had blacked-out windows and discreet posters advertised the fact that it was now A SEX SHOP!  

[I checked again recently, once more it looks like a respectable office building which I can now point out to my granddaughters on their next visit!]

Many thanks to Seven Streets for permission to reproduce their photo of Sweeting Street.

At last I feel ‘Christmassy’!

When Christmas cards appeared in my favourite card shop at the end of August my reaction was ‘Bah Humbug’! Close family members have birthdays in December and unless I buy their cards months early, choice becomes limited. 

When they started playing the same old tired Christmas songs in every shop at the beginning of November, I silently screamed ‘No! Please, not again!’ Shelves in food stores have been piled high for weeks with mince pies, Christmas cakes, chocolate goodies and all the usual temptations. Not a good idea to ‘stock up’ for Christmas so early – if I buy them now I’ll eat them now then have to buy more. Of course! That’s their cunning plan!

So why do I suddenly feel Christmassy? Because I spent the afternoon in Liverpool city centre, that’s why. First, it was coffee and cake followed by a glass of wine with friends at www.theitalianclubliverpool.co.uk  to celebrate the safe arrival of my third beautiful granddaughter. By the time we left, it was going dusk. Christmas lights twinkled. The Christmas market was buzzing, tempting my purse and my palate. And those two, huge reindeer in Liverpool 1 – an amazing sight. Not enough time to see everything so I’ll be back in a couple of days.  www.visitliverpool.com  Now I’m in the mood for Christmas. Tomorrow I’m off to the shops to buy mince pies, Christmas cake and anything else that takes my fancy – and yes, I’ll probably eat them long before December 25th. Then I’m going to start writing my cards and wrapping presents. ‘So here it is, Merry Christmas’ – bring it on!

Cirque du Soleil – Alegría

Translated from the Spanish, Alegría means ‘happiness, joy and jubilation’ and these were all in evidence at the Echo Arena on Sunday, 3rd November. The performance space, half its normal size, had been transformed into a dark, autumnal, fairytale setting and for two hours on a cold, blustery Sunday afternoon, the audience were transported into a magical world of colour, music and movement.

We were still settling in our seats, children dipping into bags of sweets, adults of all ages checking mobile phones (have we lost the knack of concentrating on the present moment?), and it took a moment or two to register that a clown had shambled into the arena. A word of warning to all potential audience members – if you don’t want to find yourself taking part in a performance, then don’t sit near the stage! The laughter that followed settled everyone down and we sat back to enjoy the show. I was relieved when the audience were given a stern warning not to use mobile devices or cameras during the show, even without flash, as these could prove dangerous to the performers, but this didn’t deter someone sitting a couple of rows in front of us from videoing part of the show on his phone. Fortunately, vigilant arena staff were on the spot in seconds, and the device was swiftly switched off!

The show consisted of 55 performers and musicians of twenty nationalities. The set was designed by Michel Crete, costumes by Dominique Lemieux with the soundtrack by Rene Dupré. But these are mere facts, what these people created for us was a stunning visual and aural spectacle that set the nerves tingling and the pulses throbbing.

I have to admit that I’ve never been fond of clowns, their slapstick comedy routines usually leave me cold, but this show certainly changed my opinion – I never knew you could have so much fun with paper planes! The routines involving unsuspecting members of the audience were so hilarious I did wonder if they were ‘plants’ – if they weren’t then congratulations are in order. And the ‘pantomime’ horse may be a cliché, but it still made me hoarse with laughter (pun intended!). I did find one of the characters appearing between acts rather grotesque; not being able to follow the intended theme of the show (should have bought a programme) I wasn’t sure what he represented. Dressed in black and red, short, with impossibly bent legs, a huge belly that wobbled and an enormous hump on his back, he was the stuff of nightmares – did he represent ‘chaos’? Every time I saw his painfully twisted body strut around the stage I worried that his act would leave him permanently injured.

We needed the clowns’ routines to give us some light relief between the breathtaking acts otherwise the excitement might have been too much for some of us older members of the audience! The mesmerising Fire Knife Dancers, twirling their batons of fire, should have come with a warning, ‘Children, do not attempt this at home’. Seeing them set a section of the stage alight was another reason I was glad not to be sitting at the front, even though I knew it was quite safe.

Acrobats performed incredible feats on The Russian Bars, somersaulting high in the air and landing on narrow planks supported on the shoulders of their catchers. While watching the performers you also have to appreciate the phenomenal body strength and perfect timing of these catchers. The audience were spellbound by The Mongolian Body Twisters; by performers on metal spinning rings; and especially by a contortionist – there were times when I couldn’t make out the individual parts of her body as she twisted it into shapes that seemed physically impossible. I found myself wondering how she gets out of bed in the morning. Feet first? Head first? Stomach first? Not slowly, with creaking joints like me, that’s for sure.

The female vocalist and the excellent musicians linked and accompanied all the acts perfectly. Sometimes, there was so much going on, so many people on stage, so much colour, noise and movement it was almost hypnotic.

It seemed all too soon before it was time for the Finale. And what a Finale it was! We watched, holding our collective breath, as the acrobats, two at a time, climbed swaying ladders until they stood on a platform 40 feet above the arena. What followed was an awe-inspiring spectacle of high-wire acrobatics. With two catchers suspended on swings below the platform there was an ever-changing movement of bodies flying through the air, swinging, catching, being caught, at death-defying, incredible speed. It was like watching a kaleidoscope, the pattern changing constantly. I marvelled at the complete trust members of the troupe must have in one another. And the fact that for the Finale a net had been suspended beneath the performers in no way detracted from their skill and bravery as they each jumped 40 feet into the net at the end of the act.

Performance over, it was a shock to emerge, blinking, into the bleak daylight of a late autumn day, our eyes still filled with colour and movement, our ears ringing with music, bodies still vibrating with the thrumming of drums. A truly wonderful show, spectacular in the true sense of the word; a show to recall and wonder at in the dull days of winter.

Thank you Alegría, and thank you Echo Arena, for a memorable afternoon. We’re now looking forward to André Rieu’s concert in December.