I was born in 1921 and brought up in Liverpool.

When the 2nd World War broke out I drove an ambulance for the Civil Defence Ambulance Service. I married John who was in the Royal Air Force. I have 3 children, 8 grandchildren, 18 great grandchildren and 1 great great grandson. I moved to Skelmersdale in 1972, and am still happy here.

ME LA

M O S S

LUCKY I R S O F A L I V E GROWING UP I 1900S

R P O O L N T H E

This book is dedicated to my immediate family. My husband, John, for his time and patience. My daughter Barbara for attending to postal affairs, and my granddaughter Melanie who wanted me to write this book in the first place so that her daughter would know how her Nanny lived when she was young. Thank you also to my daughter Chris who has made countless phone calls on my behalf.

Eve Fletcher LUCKY I R S O F A L I V E GROWING UP I 1900S

ME LA

M O S S

R P O O L N T H E

Copyright Eve Fletcher The right of Eve Fletcher to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781849633277

www.austinmacauley.com First Published (2013) Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd. 25 Canada Square Canary Wharf London E14 5LB

Printed & Bound in Great Britain

Foreword
I am ninety years old and today I woke up and thought about the life I have had. It has been a good life, I have had great sorrow, but I have also had great joy. And wonderful experiences too. I was very lucky to be blessed with wonderful parents, a loving husband and three lovely children. Although we lost our only son a few years ago. This was a blow we are still trying to recover from. I dont think we ever will. But life must go on, whether we like it or not. I have eight grandchildren, eighteen great-grandchildren and one great-great-grandchild. I still have many friends with whom I worked with many years ago. We keep in touch by sending Christmas and birthday cards to each other. Most of the children have gone their separate ways, but they keep in touch, especially those who live near me. I have one great grandson who is serving in the Royal Air Force Regiment. He has been to Iraq and Afghanistan, etc., I dont where he is now, but I pray for him each night. But, as I sat this morning, I wondered. Are they all happy? Really happy as we were as children. With all the wonders of modern science, television, computers, mobile phones, such like. What is happiness? We had practically nothing, but we were happy most of the time. We made our own amusements from simple things. So I decided to try and write the story of my life, to let them know how it was then, so much is lost to the children of today. There is no way they can imagine how it was then.

Chapter One
It was in the depression of 1927, when we went to live with my Grandmother (My Dads mother). Her house was in Edge Hill in Liverpool. We were Dad, Mother, my elder sister Grace, my two brothers and me. Times were hard, jobs were scarce. A large majority of people lost their homes through nonpayment of rent, which was unavoidable. Many families ended up in the workhouse, while others more fortunate, were offered a home by relatives or friends, as in our familys case. As it is the way of Liverpudlians, those who had always shared with others, were ready to share again. We lived in Chatham Place, quite a posh area off Brownlow Hill, which was a continuation of Paddington. Grandmothers house was situated on a corner of Paddington and Hatfield Street, which was a side street, off Paddington, which was a main road. So, if you can picture it, half the house was in Paddington and half was in Hatfield Street. It was a very large house, four storied. The front door was in Hatfield Street, while the shop entrance was partly in Paddington and partly in Hatfield Street, which meant the shop took up the ground floor. We had to go up the steps in front of the house door and when we stepped inside we saw the accommodation was upstairs. There was a locked door on the left, leading into the shops store room, then into the shop itself. We could never open it, of course. On the right was a door, with steps going down into a large yard, a very large yard I may say. It was the scene of many amateur concerts and many open air parties when I was young. And the choosing of the May Queen

each year. In one corner was a shed which housed our lavatory with its white scrubbed seat and small squares of cut up newspaper hanging for our personal hygiene. Into the wall opposite which faced the street, a metal refuse bin was fitted. This was lifted out and emptied each week by the citys bin men. Two large wooden doors completed this area. At the other side of the yard next to us was a small coal yard. The owner of this was a Mrs Rothwell. She had a very large heart. Her son would deliver the large sacks of coal on his lorry to the customers But Mrs Rothwell knew that most of her regular customers at this present time could not afford to buy these big sacks because they were without jobs. She offered to sell them a bucketful at a time, which would spread out what little money they had, and keep a few fires going. As my Mother had to use her fire for cooking, this gesture was much appreciated. There was a coal fire in every room in Grandmothers house. Now to tell you about the accommodation: i.e. On the first floor was a quite roomy kitchen, with a scullery leading off it. It had a cold water tap (LUXURY) and a brown pottery sink. The drainboard was made of marble, it kept things cool. A marble drainboard and running water was really good. Indeed, my husband who lived in Robsart Street, off Netherfield Road only had a tap in the yard. There was a pipe, a rubber one, leading to the lavatory cistern, so it could be flushed. If you turned the tap on, of course. In the winter these pipes could be frozen solid. John told me that they had to heat cloths in the oven to wrap around the pipe to thaw it out. My Grandmother slept in the kitchen on the sofa. In fact she lived there and seldom ventured upstairs. On one wall there was a big range. It had a very big oven on the one side and a big cavity on the other. That was for keeping things hot when needed. The fireplace was in between. I dont think this fire ever went out. To use the oven itself, the hot coals had to be pushed into the

space beneath the oven. There was a thing called a damper, outside at the top of the oven. This was moved in and out to control the temperature. On the fire grate itself there were four bars. On the top one was a flat ring shaped piece of metal. This was on a hinge which enabled it to be swung on to the fire for cooking purposes, or boiling the kettle. When it wasnt needed for such purposes it was swung out to rest just outside the top bar. The kettle sat on it to be kept on the boil. In later years we had a gas ring which was placed on the on the table and plugged into the light socket. After we had taken the gas mantle out of course. Leading off the kitchen was a very, very big room. It had two very big windows, looking out on to Hatfield Street and two big windows looking out on to Paddington. My Auntie Dolly, (grandmothers daughter) her husband Uncle Stan, and their two boys, named Jackie and Stanley lived there. There was a huge ornamental fireplace. I suppose that in earlier days when the house, a coach house for passengers to rest overnight, this room could have been their sitting room. But Auntie Dolly and Uncle Stan managed to make three rooms out of it. Fitting the fireplace into the middle they made a sitting room. The spaces either side of it became two bedrooms, one for Auntie Dolly and Uncle Stan, the other for the boys. It was a very, nice, flat, you could say. We went up another flight of stairs to the four bedrooms above. Two with windows looking out on Hatfield Street, and two looking out onto Paddington. Mother made one of the rooms into a living and sitting room, and she and Dad had one for a bedroom. Grace and I had another. While the boys had the one that was left. If Mother cooked a roast dinner, she did it in Grandmothers kitchen. Grandmother didnt mind, always liked to help out. I often used to sit on the top step of the first flight of stairs looking into Grandmothers kitchen, where she sat in front of the brushing her hair. It was very long and thick. It was also very white. When she had finished brushing it she bundled on to the top of her head like Queen Victoria, and pushed big hair pins to hold it

firm. She had a very funny habit which being very young, I didnt understand. Every day about 1.30, after she had her dinner, (it was dinner those days, not lunch) she would wrap her shawl around her shoulders come out of the front door, and cross the road to the other side of Paddington. She would be carrying an empty pint glass. She walked up Paddington with this glass clutched tightly to her chest. When she came to the first street leading off Paddington, she went into the pub on the corner. I think it was called The King Arms. She came out a few minutes later (they must have been expecting her) and she was carrying her glass now full with beer. She walked very slowly and carefully down Paddington until she was opposite Hatfield Street then crossed the road and came back into the house. Back in the house she took off her shawl and sat and drank her beer then lay down and went to sleep. Now, Grandmother never complained when we made a noise which we did all the time, as we lived on the floor above her head. But from three oclock to five oclock Grandmother had to have her sleep after drinking her beer. So if we were off school during those hours we kept quiet or went to play outside. We loved our Grandmother. She died when she was eighty-one years old, but left us such a lot of happy memories. I knew Grandmothers house was haunted. Dad had told me it had been a coach house, where passengers got off the coach to rest before continuing their journey. Sometimes they stopped overnight. And that was why the yard was so big. It was used to stable the horses when necessary. Dad told me the house was haunted by a coachman, but I only saw him once. He was standing in the corner of the first flight of stairs by Grandmothers kitchen. He was tall, to me anyway. He wore a three cornered hat. (Black)

I dont remember what it was called, but it must have had a name. The bottom of his coat was very full, while the sleeves fell in three tiers. He wore beautiful shiny black boots, which I thought were great. They were in my eye line as I came up the stairs. He smiled at me and I smiled back at him thinking he was one of Grandmothers friends. I passed him as I went upstairs to where I and my family lived, and thought no more about it. When I was older my sister Grace told me all about him. She said she often saw him and always in the same place. Some years later Grace got married and went to live in Walton Vale in Liverpool. The housing committee had some bungalows built there (i.e. prefabs, as they were known). They were actually in Morley Street, behind the Post Office in Walton Vale. Grace was thrilled with her new home. It had a fridge, a bathroom, hot and cold running water, and a new gas cooker. She told everyone she met about it and invited them in for a cup of tea. Now, then, when I decided to write this book, I discussed it with my younger daughter, Christine, who, of course, is Graces niece. When I came to the part about Grandmothers haunted house, she nodded her head. I know thats true, she said, about the coachman. Ive seen him. I was astounded, You cant have, I told her. Just before the war started we left Hatfield Street to go to a brand new flat in Highgate Street. When the war ended we moved to a little house in Cullen Street, your brother John was born in 1947, and you were born in 1952. Your Auntie Grace, didnt leave Hatfield Street, until a few years later when the property was demolished. You cant possibly have seen him. I was adamant. Oh, yes I did, she insisted. I can describe him to you. Which she did, even to the red ribbon hanging down the back of his hat, which I had never noticed. I was quite dumbfounded, until she explained.

Do you remember when Auntie Grace first moved into Morley Street? You and I went to visit her at her new prefab. I do, I replied. Well, he was standing in the kitchen, looking at me. I think I was about five years old at the time. He didnt bother me. I just went back into the living room. You were talking to Auntie Grace in the bedroom Perhaps I didnt mention it then because when you came back in we started to talk about something else. I might have forgotten about it, well, I had until now. So you wouldnt have known if I hadnt told you. The coachman may have followed Grace to her new home, but she didnt mention it, nor did I ask her. And then recently my elder daughter Barbara told me that, although she hadnt seen him, Grace had told her all abo ut him being there. In later years, when Grace and her husband Tommy moved out of her prefab to go and live in a house in Kirby, on the outskirts of Liverpool. I wonder did he visit her there? Alas, we will never know. As I have already said, we had to make our own amusements when we were young. The boys liked to play a game called Ollies. This was played in the gutter. They knelt down and rolled a glass marble towards one belonging to another boy. If you hit another boys marble, you kept it and had anot her go at another one. If you didnt hit that one your opponent took over and tried to win. Girls were expected to play with dolls and prams, a skipping rope, play house or hide and seek. Boys could play kick the can or football and many other open air pastimes. One of these was playing on the gas lamplight in the street, with a rope given to them from Ellen Palumbella who owned the greengrocers shop on the other side of Hatfield Street, on the corner. Most of her fruit and vegetables were sent to her in long wooden boxes secured by a strong yellow rope. She gave these ropes to the boys and girls who asked for them. The girls played skipping, on their own or in a group, but as I have said the boys used theirs for swinging round the lamp post. The lamplighter went crazy when they did this because it was

his job to pull the cord to light the gas mantle in the evening and to return in the morning to pull the cord to put it out. He was furious when he had to replace the mantle some mornings when the boys had broken it. One of the games boys played was conkers. You had to swing a chestnut against your opponents until one of them split and that was a winner. Girls were allowed to play conkers, but the boys didnt like doing this because the girls were good at it and often won. Apart from the skipping ropes, Ellen Palumbella would give the boys any damaged boxes that were delivered. The boys would then chop up these boxes into small sticks to make firewood. They tied these sticks into bundles, and then walked around the streets of Paddington selling them to the householders at a cheaper price than the shops. It didnt happen very often, but when it did it was a nice little earner for the boys. And good enough the shopkeepers didnt complain when it did. As my Mother was brought up in Scotland, we attended the Presbyterian church of Scotland, in Mount Pleasant, which was off Brownlow Hill, which was a continuation of Paddington so we didnt have far to walk. As we grew older we attended the church more often. There was no end of activity there. Girl Guides, Brownies, The Boys Brigade, Scouts, Cubs, The Band of Hope, and much much more, I cant recall. On Saturdays, during the summer months the older ones would meet at the Pier Head, board the ferry to go across the River Mersey and go on a planned ramble, when we reached the other side. We saw a lot of the Wirral and Cheshire that way. Helsby Point, Frodsham, Bidston Hill, etc. We didnt worry about meals, either. Everyone took sandwiches, cake, fruit and a drink. Great pleasure was had from swapping these items at the halfway meeting place. They were a grand crowd of people. I loved all of them. And trusted them. This brings to me one of my saddest memories. Living in Edge Hill, as I have said, each night I would make my way down Paddington, across Crown Street, into Brownlow Hill, turn left into Mount Pleasant, where they had just begun to

build the Roman Catholic Cathedral and walk down to the Presbyterian Church I attended. My return journey was the same only in reverse, sometimes on my own late at night. And this is what makes it a sad memory to me. The children today are taught to fear strangers, they are warned not to speak to them. I could do that journey, or any other journey, late at night without fear. I could approach anyone, man or woman, young or old, at any time day or night. They would help me to find a lost ball, a coin I had dropped, pick me up and soothe me if I fell, or just direct me to where I wanted to go. This is why my memories of that time are so sad. I am sad for todays children, because this era has stolen trust and freedom. Trust in our fellow man, which doesn't exist anymore, and freedom to roam at will, without fear of being mugged, robbed or just attacked for no reason Were we really poor when I was young? I dont know. I had a roof over my head, food to eat, and a happy childhood within a loving family. Surely that is one of my best memories. In later years when the Presbyterian Church had to close for various reasons, we went along to Lodge Lane Methodist Church and became Methodists. We all went to church on Sunday mornings, and on Sunday afternoons we attended Sunday school, where my Mother was the teacher. My Dad did not go to that, nor did the boys when they got older. Then there was the Evening service, where Mother sang the solo evening hymn. Dad did not go to that either. That was because he was a member of the choir in Central Hall in Renshaw Street. This was an open church. Everyone of whatever creed was welcome. Sometimes in the summer holidays when we were small, Mother would take us over to New Brighton, across the River Mersey. This was a famous holiday resort. Some of the attractions were, a very long beach, a fair ground with its many amusements

and side shows, and of course there was Perch Rock Battery. There was a gun which I am not sure where it was fired from, but it was fired at noon or one oclock every day. My Dad told me that the lion statues in front of St Georges Hall in Lime Street crossed their paws and wagged their tails when this happened, and the statue of Benjamin Disraeli, which stood on the steps, folded its arms for a minute. I believed him. I always did, for many years. Why shouldnt I have done? He was my wonderful Dad. In one of my poetry books, I wrote a poem about him, in which there was a line, he coloured my world as I grew. Im sure there will be more about him before I finish this book. When we went to New Brighton for a day out, Mother would have packed a large bag with sandwiches and lemonade, homemade of course, and some pieces of fruit. She also brought our bathing costumes and a very large towel. She and one of the others would hold this up while we got changed into our costumes behind it. There were so many things to do at New Brighton, and of course we had each brought our buckets and spades to build a sandcastle. Something my brothers were very good at. They would make a really big one, with little ledges and turrets. From somewhere they would find something to make a flag, to put on the top. When we all tired of playing in the sand, we sat down to have food and a drink. This was enjoyed thoroughly because this kind of outing always gave us an appetite. After we had eaten, and had a little rest (to digest our meal) mother told us, we had a paddle in the sea because the tide was in. It was cold at first, but we soon got used to it. When the tide went out, we left Mother sitting in a hired deck chair reading a book or knitting. Making sure we had our buckets with us we set off for a walk around Perch Rock Battery. There were lots of small rock and stones in this area. The boys would turn them over to catch the frogs underneath. These crabs were put into a little water and sand at the bottom of the bucket. They would be taken home to be displayed to their mates and friends. I loved the River Mersey, with its ferry steamers taking people

to and fro across the river. They could get off at Egremont, Wallasey, New Brighton and the Wirral etc. Then travel on to North Wales and lots of other places. When Mother didnt have enough money to take us to New Brighton, we would just go to Egremont which was cheaper. But then we had to walk quite a long way to New Brighton beach. And walking back to Egremont was quite hard because we were all tired out by then. Egremont did have a beach, but it didnt have the facilities that New Brighton had. And no Perch Rock. Sometimes in the summer, when Mother couldnt afford the ferry for all of us, we stayed this side of the river in Liverpool. We still had an outing by getting the tram to Seaforth Sands. There was a beach, ice cream kiosks, a merry go round or two and a couple of donkeys, but it wasnt New Brighton. But then I loved the River Mersey. It seemed to teem with life and adventure. Big ships with their cargoes being loaded and unloaded at the docks. Liners bringing passengers from all over the world. Cruise ships, military vessels, and so, so, much more. There were also lots of small boats. Pilot boats, up and down the river, fishing boats, trawlers, etc. These little boats all went to help our armies escaping from Dunkirk, in France, by swimming across the English Channel and the North Sea, while the German bomber planes rained their ammunition down on them. My eldest brother was involved in the escape from Dunkirk. So many lost their lives there, including some of the owners of the little boats. My brother had married a girl who lived in Kent. His home was now in Kent, so when he enlisted at the beginning of the war, he joined the Royal West Kent regiment. He was very, very, lucky to escape without injury from Dunkirk, and he was still on leave at his home in Kent, when the May Blitz by the German bombers was in action. The May Blitz was horrendous. Night after night, at teatime we heard the throb of the engines, and we wondered who would be the targets tonight. Liverpool was a port so would it be the docks, the hospitals, the schools, the shopping centre in the middle of the town, or just any place where there were buildings and people. We never knew

until it happened. But it was a safe bet it would the ships in the Mersey first if there were any in there. My brother was very worried about his family here in Liverpool, and as I have said he was still on leave, so he decided to come up on his motor bike (he was a despatch rider) to check how we were coping at this dreadful time. However, as he was speeding up through the blackouts a car came round a corner in the little village of Gobowen, I think it was called, crashed into him and he lost his life. He was twenty-three years old, and I loved him so much. He was four years older than me. But that was our lives during the war. You never knew what could happen from day to day. We couldnt count on anyone or anything. My other brother served in Japan, He was repatriated in exchange for one of their prisoners, but when he came home he was never the same person. He ended up as head librarian at Deva Hospital, but he never came home. He didnt get married and he died at the age of thirty-eight. The docks were the main feature of the great Port of Liverpool. My Dad who was a cooper (a maker of barrels) lost his job when the First World War ended. So then he would walk all the way to the docks at the Pier Head very early in the morning to stand with hundreds of other unemployed men hoping to be taken on for a casual days work on the docks. But he was seldom lucky. The search for a job was, relentless, unrewarding, and heartbreaking. Dad was willing to take up any little bit of any kind of work, just to feed his family. Sometimes Mother and I would go down to the Pier Head on a hot summers day. We always had hot summers and snowy winters when I was young. Dont ask me to explain it. We would sit on a bench on the landing stage and watch the river traffic go by. It fascinated Mother and me but the boys could take it or leave it. They preferred to stay at home to play kick the can, tug of war, or just swing on the lamp post. Also during the long hot summers my brothers and I would go to Wavertree Park, where there was a pond to fish in for tadpoles (baby frogs). A small net and a jam jar was all they needed to

catch them and the jam jar they brought them home in. The tadpoles were very easy to catch. They were only a tiny head and a minute tail. The park keeper didnt mind the children doing this. Once the boys got them home they checked them every day for growth. We never tired of watching and waiting for them to grow into little frogs. When the little frogs were big enough we took them back to the pond and set them free. The boys especially loved Wavertree Park, because of the two cannons (relics from the First World War 1914 18, which were placed at the entrance to the park. We played endless games on them although I took longer than the boys to get to the top of them. Then during the summer holidays, Mother would take us blackberry picking. We would get on a tramcar, and buy a childrens ticket for one penny. We could have four tram rides for that. Mother of course had to pay the full fare. We travelled to Picton Clock in Wavertree. We had to get off there because it didnt go any further. It was the terminus. Then it turned round and went back to the Pier Head. We walked through the countryside to where the blackberries were growing wild. When I first went with them I was very small and mother or one of boys had to pull the branches down for me to pick my own. Of course when I grew bigger I could reach them myself. I loved it. It was one of the summer holidays. We would fill large jars that we had brought with us. We ate lots and lots while we were doing it, but I cant remember having stomach ache. Mother would make lots and lots of jam with the blackberries. Enough to last us all through the winter. And as a special treat, with what were left Mother would make a huge apple and blackberry pie, which we would all devour with lots and lots of creamy custard. I can still recall the taste and when I do my mouth waters at once. When I wrote about our Sunday mornings I forgot to tell you what happened before we all went off to church at eleven oclock. The Salvation Army paraded around the district, stopping on

the corner of every street. As we lived on the corner, we got the full effect and the noise. It was a brass band and I thought it was lovely. When they had played their hymns for about ten minutes, they had a rest while a few of the armys men and women in their resplendent uniforms went round all the houses knocking on the doors, holding out a little bag. No one in our street begrudged a couple of coppers to these deserving people. The Salvation Army did a good job. They provided hostels for the homeless, a free meal for anyone who couldnt afford one second hand clothing when necessary and lots of other kinds of help. Their only fault was that they sang the hymns very loud and played their instruments even louder. Anyone who wanted a lie in on a Sunday morning couldnt have one. But it was only for half an hour and everyone loved them and sang along with them. Not like the Fufu band which went round the streets on a Saturday night. Men and women and children, dressed in brightly coloured costumes and playing an instrument called a bazuka if I am right. Mothers in the street didnt like them so much, especially if they had just put their children to bed. Anyway, after the Salvation Army had gone on their way, along came the Herb Lady, as we called her. She was dressed in black. Black dress, black boots, and a black shawl, fastened across her chest with a huge safety pin. Her hair was black, piled up on her head into a bun. Perched on the top of this was a large basket filled with all kinds of herbs. She had to hold on to this with one hand and hold a bunch of her wares in the other. She would stand on the corner, yelling at the top of her voice, Sage-a-Mint-a-Parsley. Then she would run to the householders who stood at their doors beckoning her, to give them a bunch of whichever herb they preferred, for just a penny. She fascinated me. Then came the Indian Toffee Man, who rode on a tricycle, which was like a large box on three wheels. He had a bell on the handlebars, which he rang frequently. His large box was filled with little bags of very finely spun wisps of golden toffee. They cost about half a penny a bag, and I have never tasted anything as good in my life since.

This book is about memories in my life, so I should tell you the first memory I can recall. It is about my Dad and me and is something I could never forget, I was about three to four years old and as far as I was concerned. I lived in a hospital. Mother told me later that I had been there for twelve weeks suffering from meningitis. But twelve weeks is a very long time in a little girls life and it would have been hard for me to remember what had gone on before that. One morning a nurse woke me up, told me go into the bathroom and have a wash and clean my teeth. When I came back she brushed my hair and gave me my breakfast. Then a man came in and stood beside the bed where I was sitting in my little chair. The nurse said Good Morning, to him and smiled. He smiled back at her smiling also. He gave her a suitcase, saying, Will you get her ready for me please? Everything is in there except shoes. I dont think the ones she has will fit her now. Perhaps the Welfare will find a pair for her. I am sure they will, answered the nurse as she agreed with the man. The Hospital Welfare Fund was always being given items of clothing and footwear to distribute to the poorer children who needed them. The nurse and I went back to the bathroom, for me to get dressed in the dress under a coat, socks but no shoes as the man had explained. The nurse was rummaging in a cupboard trying to find a pair to fit me. She then held out a pair of black patent leather shiny shoes. Try them on, she suggested, but I think they will be too small. No, no, I said as I crushed my feet into them. I really wanted these beautiful shoes. I had never seen anything like them in my life. Well, she said, looking at me doubtfully. If you are sure. She took me back to where the man was waiting. After wishing us Good Luck she went about her duties. The man hugged me and gave me a kiss.

Im taking you home at last little one, he said Home? I thought. I lived in this place called a hospital, didnt I? Mother was the only one who could visit me in hospital as my Dad was out every day trying to find some casual work. Actually I think the hospital was attached to the workhouse, but my Dad had to queue for many hours to see if someone could find him a job when he wasnt working. Mother did explain this to me. Because he couldnt find a job and had no money to feed his family he had to apply for what was called Parish Relief. When he finally got into the interview room, my poor Dad was questioned for what seemed hours to him. Eventually he was awarded some food coupons which could only be redeemed at a grocer named Pegrams. But Dad was very grateful for that small mercy. He was a wonderful cook and could make a meal out of very little. Back to my first memory. The man and I started to walk up Brownlow Hill. We are not going home to own house yet, he told me. Theres our house across the road in Chatham Place. We are going up Paddington to Hatfield Street, where your Grandmother lives. All the family will be there with your Mother and the boys of course. They are having a party to welcome you home. I didnt understand what he was talking about. I just held his hand and kept walking along beside him. After a while though my feet started to hurt in my beautiful new shiny black shoes. I tried not to, but eventually I started to cry. Whatever is the matter? asked the man who was holding my hand. I tried to tell him but it was difficult because I was sobbing so much. Never mind, queen (that is a Liverpool expression) you are only a little one so I will try to carry you. It is not far now. He picked me up and started to sing a little song to me. This made me feel a lot better. We continued up Paddington, which was very steep, but then the man had to stop walking and he put me down. He leaned against the wall and started to cough.