I Came Out Sideways , livre ebook

Title Page
I CAME OUT SIDEWAYS
From Liverpool to Another Place
by
George Porter



Publisher Information
First published in 2014 by
Chaplin Books
1 Eliza Place
Gosport PO12 4UN
www.chaplinbooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2014 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © George Porter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder for which application should be addressed in the first instance to the publishers. No liability shall be attached to the author, the copyright holder or the publishers for loss or damage of any nature suffered as a result of the reliance on the reproduction of any of the contents of this publication or any errors or omissions in the contents.



Quote
There is a time in every childhood when a door opens and the future is revealed
Graham Greene
The Power and the Glory



Chapter 1
The Fault Line
I came out sideways. Neither head nor bottom first, but sideways.
This unusual and distressing exit from the warmth, comfort and security of the womb was conducted by the composer himself - The Fuhrer. There must be a grain of truth about my admission to the world, for my sideways entry seemed to permeate my being and give me a distorted understanding of everything that surrounded me.
Not that I recall any of Hitler’s atrocious melodies played on the day of my birth, though in my early childhood, I could see the evidence of them. In my fresh and unsullied eyes, the blasted skeletons of buildings and the wastelands of demolition that went with them were not scenes of devastation, ruin and shambles, but were playgrounds as common and as exciting as any country garden would have been to a child of a noble. I didn’t know that I was deprived. I didn’t know I was sickly. Pneumonia was something I ‘got’. Coats doubled as blankets, and newspaper doubled as toilet paper. A jam butty was ambrosia, and scouse was cuisine of the most superior kind. Tripe was the pits. Nothing to me was more sumptuously satisfying than a large viscous splodge of Fussell’s condensed milk spread on a wedge of fresh bread. I was, in the eyes of my childhood contemporaries, normal. And it was, until the age of about eleven, a pleasant existence.
In reality we were neither poor nor deprived in the conventional sense. We lived on the cusp; a fault-line between material wellbeing on one side and grating poverty on the other, and, undoubtedly because of my father’s proclivity for backing losing horses, we had a foot in both camps. For some of our neighbours, Waterloo was just a step away from the terrors of the Liverpool slums and the wastelands of the blitzkrieg, but for most of us, including me, it was a very agreeable place to live.
It is set on a bank of the River Mersey about three miles from the famous Gladstone dock. Before a marina was built in the 1970s for the few locals who owned yachts, it had an endless beach of fine sand and dunes, stretching as far as you could see past Formby Point and on to the northern Mecca of Blackpool Tower, a jagged black speck in the far distance. Across the river once stood a less celebrated, but even taller, tower at 577 feet, that of New Brighton, and if the eye travelled further the lower slopes of the mountains of North Wales became evident. Great ocean liners and merchant ships from around the globe sauntered up and down the River Mersey, displaying their shipping lines by the coloured stripes and stars on their funnels. Old sea dogs would sit up against the beach wall with their binoculars continuously trained out to sea, muttering to each other in a nasal Liverpool patois about which was what ship and who had sailed on her and where she had come from and where she was going and what she carried and, and, and ...
On Sundays in the summer, families from the shattered remnants of Scotland Road and Bootle day-tripped the four stops to Waterloo by rail on the Liverpool-to-Southport line and walked en masse past the Victorian and Edwardian parade of shops in South Road to the shore, bellicose and bawdy, displaying their rough but sometimes gentle self-effacing humour which is the worldwide trademark perpetually boasted of by the Scouser to the Scouser. They’d stop at the Golden Goose and Mr de Roose’s corner shop to buy ice-cream, candy floss, buckets-and-spades, and little plastic windmills on sticks, taking a day off from the harsh hand dealt them by a war they had been told they had won. Then it was off down the slope onto the beach or into the sand dunes for games of hide-and-seek or more adult activities. Sometimes an enormous box kite could be seen flying high in the sky, dwarfing the smaller diamond-shaped ones pulled along by whooping small boys. Trenches were dug in the damp sand alongside the concrete dragons’ teeth tank-traps intended to hamper the German tanks which never arrived, and into those trenches jumped dirty-faced imaginary soldiers in their ragged underpants, some with pop guns, most with plastic pistols.
Who would have believed that in half a century these tank-traps would be replaced by the poignant statues deposited at random by Anthony Gormley, all gazing out to sea towards another place? Little girls scraped hopscotch frames in the very sand where one day the metal feet of those figures would be planted.
The girls spent their time jumping from one square to another, or doing handstands with their dresses firmly secured in the legs of their knickers. Other children undertook the laborious task of trying to dig through to Australia, and some even risked disease or getting stuck in the mud by paddling in the Mersey. I was warned about getting a disease, but never got one, although I did get stuck once when the tide was out. A tall man, up to his knees in the mud, pulled me out - yowling - with a plop. The shore was heaven on earth for a day for people worn down but not out, existing in the darkness cloaking the half-truth of England’s green and pleasant land, known of but never seen by most of those children whose fathers had fought for it. Many of those fathers never came home and many who did, returned to a devastated wasteland of mangled masonry and craters where houses once stood. Bootle had only 15 percent of its houses left undamaged after the war, and that is how we finished up living in Waterloo.
The room into which I was shoehorned by Dr Novak, who oversaw my cumbersome arrival and attended to later sicknesses with gentle concern, was the bedroom of a decaying Victorian flat above a builder’s office. I can still recall an image of the doctor warming the business end of his stethoscope against his arm before applying it to my wheezing chest. We all shared one bedroom, my older brother and my parents, and when my cot became too small for me, a second single bed was acquired and strapped on top of another to form a rickety and precarious nest for my brother on the upper level, with a roomy little house for me below. In fact the structure was roomier than the rest of the floor-space available to us all. The windows rattled, the rain ran down the walls inside, and the oilcloth lifted off the floor whenever a gust of wind blew in. Slates were missing from the roof and bowls and pots were strategically placed to catch the downpours from the ceiling. On a cold, wet and windy day I would awaken not to the clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk clatter of the shunting goods trains in the sidings opposite our home, but to rattling windows and the slushy hypnotic swish of the waves of the River Mersey gliding onto the beach some two hundred yards away, accompanied by the squawks of seagulls bickering over scraps.
Next to the bedroom was a slightly larger room which we called the kitchen. This caused confusion in my mind as I grew up, for similar - although more luxurious - rooms in the more conventional houses of the children I later became acquainted with were known as ‘living’ or ‘sitting’ rooms. Our cooking was done in the ‘back kitchen’, which did make some sense, for indeed it was situated at the back. This kitchen was shared with my maternal grandmother, Martha, a cross between Old Mother Riley and Queen Mary, who occupied the greater part of two floors of the precarious rotting structure of number four, Church Road. In one corner of the ‘back kitchen’ was a big old Edwardian coal-fired range which was her divine right and was only used for the cooking of tripe, and in the other corner an ancient gas cooker on which my scouse, porridge, and eggs were cooked by my mother.
My grandmother, the only grandparent I knew, was - and is still - an enigma to me. I have only a few vivid memories of any communication I had with her. One was when she told my friend Albert that he couldn’t come into our house with a dirty face - he ran away crying. Another was scaring me witless by telling me, as she dragged me into the butcher’s shop on South Road for her weekly portion of tripe, that the butcher would chop off my fingers and make them into sausages. This terrifying threat was given even greater credence by the butcher himself, who aided Martha in the subterfuge by frowning at me through his bushy eyebrows while honing his big knife.
I recollect her making me stand on a chair in her room next door to ours, which was usually off limits, and conduct while she sang We’re Soldiers of the Queen, My Boys . At Church Rod, she had a large room to herself where she would lie in silent stately repose on an ancient threadbare chaise longue. She would boil her soot-blackened kettle on a moving iron griddle over the mean little fire she assembled for