Liverpool Revisited

by Michael White

  A tear formed at the corner of my eye as he stood to go. I don’t know what it was. But I felt fired up. Ready. I felt in the pit of my stomach that my sudden absence from work was about to last a whole lot longer.

  “I’ll try.” I said, and he stood above me.

  “Do better than try.” he said, and then there was fire in his voice. “Go and do it. “ He paused.

  “Be magnificent.”

  He was leaving now, and as the shadows began to settle around me I gave a little giggle; realising.

  I had not actually told him my name. Clever sod! I turned away from him to retrieve my bag and when I looked back he was gone. Now there was just me and the river left.

  The sun continued to fade. It was time to leave. From somewhere, and it’s always somewhere else, far away but near, always just out sight, the sound of guitars could be heard. I walked to the railings and took some time to stare into the darkness of the river, the cold waters flowing; moving on. Always moving on. Then I thought about Liverpool, how many people from here seemed to leave. Yet they always come back. I think that were you to ask them they would say that they were always coming back. It might be tomorrow. Maybe the next day, the next week, or year. Perhaps it was the case that they were not always actually coming to visit at all. Maybe they were just coming to visit in their hearts; in their thoughts. Perhaps just in their mind they were coming to visit their memories of the old river, the laughter, the joy, the sadness. The songs and the sound of guitars. It was true. Everyone, all across the universe was always coming back to Liverpool, because in their hearts, in their minds, or if you believe in a soul then there too, they had never left. They never would.

  Moving quickly I picked up my bag and turned to go. Heading to tomorrow. And the day after that, and the one after that too. One day at a time. As I left the sound of guitars came back once more then faded, lost on the breeze. Then there came to me the refrain of just one long single sad note drifting across the Mersey and then that slowly faded as well. Yet it was also always there too, playing in the back of your mind if you looked for it. It was the sound of pain and sorrow, but the stronger melody of it was also the sound of love and joy.

  It was the sound of Liverpool.

  Notes (Here Be Spoilers!)

  There are so many side tales and odds and ends that I unearthed during the writing of this book that it made this notes section pretty much a necessity, even if it is just to clear up a few “loose ends”. It goes without saying of course, that if you have jumped straight to this bit without reading the stories, then shame on you! Back to the beginning you go! Right now! You’ll only spoil it for yourself! Tut!

  In the foreword I mentioned that once Liverpool was set in my mind then the stories began to queue up in my head like a bunch of unruly kids, trying to get my attention. You could argue I suppose that many of these stories (there are a few obvious exceptions) could actually be written about anywhere in the country at all. Taken at face value that may be true. Yet the way that they formed in my mind would argue against that. When I think of them I can think only of them ever being set in Liverpool. Not just the places, but the ideas themselves. The important thing, I suppose what I am trying to say that to me, “Liverpool” runs right through each one of these stories like the word “Blackpool” runs through Blackpool rock.

  So let’s have a little look at some of them.

  I suppose that, “15th March 1975 – A Mantra” is my one little indulgence, for which you shall have to forgive me. My one abiding memory of the famous Liverpool waterfront is this one. Given that the event described here took place more or less thirty seven years ago now, it is strange that it sticks in my mind so. The recollection of looking at Liverpool that night even now gives me tingles up my spine when I think of it. It was like experiencing a sense of awe.

  “Bob the balloon, Al Capone and The Two Bob Bouncer” was always where the book was going to really begin. Docker’s names have always fascinated me. Given that it is taken from a period of time in an occupation that has all but now gone (containerisation saw to that), it speaks volumes about the Scouse sense of humour. I could produce lists of names that I didn’t use in the story, but I’ll settle for those I did use. All that there is to say is that some of the names are hilarious, some are perhaps a little harsh, and one or two of them made me laugh until I was nearly sick.

  The single thought that bounced this story into my head was quite simply; all Dockers were given a name. Some were cruel, some were strange, but most were fantastically funny. It was, “The Quiet Man” that gave me the clue, and the single thought was: “What if there was a docker who had a name that no other docker knew where it came from?” From there the rest of the story more or less wrote itself. The story about the bus conductor, by the way, is completely true, as are all of the names of the Dockers that I have used in the story. It was just a shame that I couldn’t fit more of them in, but then it would have been in danger of turning into a list rather than a work of fiction.

  Another story that pretty much came from nowhere was, “Nec Aspera Terrent”.

  Once I had started it however, it wrote itself. It’s quite a strange feeling, but happens frequently. As a theme though I had great difficulty in leaving this particular story behind me. Once I finish writing something my thoughts seem to automatically switch to the next thing. This one wouldn’t let me go. During the research for this tale I happened upon The Ministry of Defence website that lists all of the military fatalities month by month. Personally I think every single person in the country should be forced to read it once a week. Gratitude, respect, sadness. It’s all there.

  The other strange thing is that when I am writing a character I have several traits and quirks (if that’s the right word) in mind that “fleshes them out.” I very rarely have a definite physical appearance to them in my mind beyond what I need to tell the story. I never ever have a picture in my mind of anyone “famous” when I am doing this. With this story however, all the way through it I most definitely had the actor Christopher Eccleston in mind. Go back and read it again – it won’t take you a minute – with him pictured in your head. I think it brings a slightly different dimension to it.

  Sometimes a story will pop into my head as a question. It’s always, always a, “What if...” question, and “The Strange Case of the Toff’s Policeman and the Curious Elm” was very much one of these. If I told you that the original title of this story was, “The Tree That Sang” then you may have some idea what that “what if” question actually was. I still prefer the original title; however it does give the game away with regards to what the story is actually about, so it had to go.

  During the research of this story I had to do a fair bit of digging and all of the facts that I have put in there with regards to the park’s police are completely true. I also discovered several other facts that formed the basis of another story. More on that later.

  The three interludes that run throughout the book were always there right from the start. I’ll leave it at that as I think they speak for themselves. Just one thought: paraphrasing the words of the immortal Rolf Harris slightly, “Do you know who it is yet?”

  “The Lipstick Girls” is the one story that gave me the most trouble in the whole book. I had a set voice for her – the way she speaks, acts etc. It just wasn’t the right voice. With a little bit of persuasion from Mrs White, however, I eventually found out exactly who Sheila Teresa Roberts really is. I hope you like her. I do now.

  The “The History Detectives” was a title that I had in mind from the time I was working on the park’s police story. For this I had to consult several online forums and ask specific questions to get help. The answers I got back were universally friendly, informative, if not downright humbling. These guys knew their stuff. I really wanted to use them in a story, but I couldn’t think of a context in which to do so. It was during a visit to a garden centre (the car park is as described) that I saw the pots with their creators names carved into the
sides of them. Once I saw that it wasn’t much of a leap to another, “What if...” question, and once I had the riddles I was away.

  Oh, and by the way, the co-ordinates I use at the end of the story are real. Answers by email as to where it actually is will result in me adding you to my long mental list of “History Detectives”! (I may even mention you on my website... ready. Steady, GO!)

  In “The Last Bomb, Aloise's Café and Death by Cow” I have taken terrible liberties with dates, and names. I hold my hand up. The problem was that by this point I had several bizarre facts and snippets left over that I pretty much rolled all into one in this story. Yet truth is often stranger than fiction, and that couldn’t be truer about this story! First of all the fact that Adolf Hitler’s half-brother did indeed have a café in Dale Street in the first few decades of the 20th Century is an absolute fact. He also married a woman from Dublin called Brigid. Unfortunately, by the time the Second World War came along she had been living in America for quite some time. I am however, sad to report that the painted factory roof and the wooden cows are purely urban myth, though sadly, not of my invention. Damn!

  I think “The Order of Pan” after note pretty much says all that I have to say about this story, but again it was based on some of the facts when researching the curious elm story and Sefton Park in general, whilst “The Ghost Next Door” would be a great way to earn a living, wouldn’t it?

  “A large Sweet Tea, please” is of course, simply a very old football joke that I could not resist putting in to the book, knowing that the story that followed it was a complete change of pace. So. Now then. Pay attention. Let us discuss, “A Good Day at the Office.” I think it is very important that you realise that I’m not advocating that we should all go out and purchase a rocket launcher and set out to destroy every call centre in existence.

  Not at all.

  Just give me the ammo and I’ll do it for you.

  I don’t want anyone else to have all the fun, see? It seems to me that everyone who works in a call centre hates them. Everyone who has to also hates ringing call centres. It’s almost as if they are huge black temples of despair and rage. I am therefore not advocating that they should be demolished. Oh no. That’s far too good for them. They should be blown up. Preferably in large, flamboyant explosions.

  Have I ever worked in a call centre, I hear you ask?

  Oh yes.

  Finally, “A place in the clouds” is by far the largest story in the book, and grew in the telling just a little. Nevertheless, isn’t it just the kind of old people’s home that you would want to retire to?

  So, there we are. I hope you have enjoyed reading this as much as I had writing it. As always, enjoy!