by Ice! [V2. 0]
But British beer is too good to foment revolution, so we had to make do with concerts on a vintage piano and strings by equally vintage ladies (vintage vinegar). They all, with the exception of the violinist (who appeared to be still chained to the railings with the suffragettes), looked at us as if we had only just returned from chastising the dreadful Mr. Kruger and relieving Mafeking. The tunes they played as we sank our beer gave added strength to this impression—selections from Bohemian Girl and The Witch of the Wood. I could always tell the Welshmen in the audience; they would stare at this trio of Saxon dragons as if they thought it would have been better to let the bloody Germans take over after all. Even Wagner would be more musical.
The Scotsmen were mainly recognizable by the glazed look in their eyes as they dreamed of bagpipes, haggis, and the Khyber Pass; the Irishmen, by their look of transfixion as they worshiped the three Mother Machrees on stage; the Englishmen, by the way they totally ignored the whole proceedings and played billiards as if all four other phenomena in the hall did not, could not, and never would exist.
The place was run like a prison, with the exception of the smell of urine and the porridge. The guardians of Law, Order, and Discipline carried out the letter of the Queen's Rules and Admiralty Instructions, making sure that while drunkenness and cleanliness went hand in hand, the least sign of affection between two of the returned heroes was clamped down on with the utmost severity. The slightest sign of liberation of any variety was pounced upon with the same horror as a cockroach caught in the kitchen. The hall porters, who looked like veterans of the Ashanti War; the kitchen staff, who appeared still to be resisting the Siege of Cawnpore; the library attendant, whose walrus mustache made him look like the bastard son of Lord Kitchener; the night-desk clerk, an ex-Indian army sergeant major, who, rumor had it, was actually Martin Bormann in disguise; plus the Holy of Holies, the Commanding Officer—all, all, would have descended on the offending demon like a ton of bricks. We lived in the shadow of a ghostly gibbet.
But it was somewhere for us, the Legion of the Lost Ones, to sleep and eat, so that's exactly what I did, spending the rest of the day in the friendly pubs around Kensington, or going down to Greenwich to see if I could find a boat.
On Monday Kiwi arrived, half-sozzled, wearing the most God-awful grey suit. It looked like the one Trevor Howard wore in Noel Coward's film Brief Encounter. But the face above it had had no brief encounter; it had had a bloody long one. And so had mine, so we went to Piccadilly, got drunk, performed a ten-shilling "short time" with the same straggly whore, then went off on the night train to Liver- pool.
Back in those days, train journeys in England took much longer than they now do. The rail system was only just beginning to overcome the traumatic effect of six years of war and the nationalization which followed. From London to Liverpool, a distance of around two hundred miles, took eight hours. Since we were traveling second class on Admiralty warrants, our compartment was unheated, except by the fifty or so unwashed bodies crowded inside.
By dawn we were passing through the English northern midlands, the Black Country, as it is called. A hellish blight of smoke, soot, and grime in the green fields of England. Our legacy from a revolution which not only shook the world, but remade it. Among the great grey slag heaps, across swamps of stagnant brown water, long, dreary black rows of steelworkers' cottages oozed away over the exhausted hills into the sulphurous fog beyond. Above, in the molten steel sky of Staffordshire, towered black cumulus clouds.
Kiwi looked out of the window as the train pulled into Stoke-on-Trent. "Christ, they've got some smashing- looking women here," he murmured, eyeing the lasses on their way to the mills—those "dark, satanic mills" Blake raged against.
"Kiwi, you horny twit, is that all you can think of?" I said.
"All this stinking bloody smoke around, all this hopelessness, all these people with their wasted lives, exhausted from fighting a bloody war for this? Look at them—they lost one generation on the Somme in 1916, and now they've lost half another in this last bloody lot. And look what they've got to show for it—a four-roomed house you couldn't swing a cat in for two quid a week, twelve quid for forty hours in one of those grimy supershithouses, and a few pints of beer on Saturday. No bloody wonder they vote Labour. And all you've got to say, you ignorant colonial bastard, is how pretty the women are. Of course they're bloody pretty; what else have they got?"
"Air, you bloody Welsh are all the same, always stirring up political shit." He passed me a cigarette.
"Too bloody right, and wouldn't you? This is our country. Look what's been done to it!"
"Well, if you don't like it, what are you going to do about it?"
"Bioodywell fight to change it."
"Not a chance in hell, Tris."
"My way, there might just be!"
"What are you, the Lone Ranger?"
"No, and I ain't Oliver Twist either. And neither are a lot of those people out there."
"Labour'll ruin the country, bloody welfare state, nationalizing everything, chucking away the colonies—"
"Listen, mate, me and millions, not bloody thousands, millions like me never got one measly thing out of those goddamn factories, or private enterprise mines and railways, or the bleedin' Empire, but bloody starvation, misery, and flamin' war! To hell with the Empire! Give me Wales and England and Scotland for us, so we can own our own lands and make them once again what they should be!"
"Bolshevik Welsh bastard."
The train pulled into Crewe. A tall, red-faced military police monster eyed us, recognizing our Service issue suits and hating the thought we were out of his power. As we passed him Kiwi looked straight into his storm-trooper eyes.
"Thank Christ we've got a bloody navy!" he growled.
The monster, in puttees and kicking boots, glared at us.
"Go and fuck yourself," I said to his great beefy face. He staggered back in shock, then drew himself up to his full height and shouted down the platform to a policeman just emerging from the lavatory, "Constable, arrest those men!"
"On what charge, sergeant?" The bobby's voice was calm and low. "Obscene language and insulting Her Majesty's uniform," replied the dragoon.
The constable, a fair-looking chap of around thirty, turned to us. "Is the charge correct, you two?" He looked at me.
"I never used no obscene language, mate. All I did was tell him to go and fuck himself."
"What about you?" said the copper, just barely able to stop himself from grinning.
"Well, officer," said Kiwi, "all I can say is, if that's Her Majesty's bloody uniform, I pity the bloke she's married to, 'cos he'll have a bloody hard time in bed! If that's her uniform she must be built like a brick shithouse!"
The policeman nodded at the stationmaster's office. "I think you two had better come along with me." He turned to the red-capped beetle-crusher. "I'll take these two along and question them. I'll see you for any evidence later, sergeant."
"Right," said the sergeant, huffing and glaring at us. He snapped his beady, piglike eyes around the platform, searching for other victims among the hundred or so uniformed men alighting from the train. The bobby walked along with us for twenty yards or so, then said in a low tone, "Andrew, eh?"
"Yeah."
"What depot?"
"Chatham."
"Chatty Chats. I was Portsmouth meself, destroyers, came out in '46."
"You did the right thing, mate," said I.
"Yes, I sometimes wonder, though. Now look, you two, sod off as soon as we turn the corner."
"How are we going to get to Liverpool?" I asked the grinning rozzer.
"Buggered if I know. Take the bus. I'm letting you go because that MP back there is a right bastard and I can't stand him. But if I see you again, it won't be Liverpool for you two, it'll be bloody Chester Prison."
"O.K., wings, thanks a lot. We'll have a pint for you when we get to the Tool."
"Right, Jack, right, mate, now piss off—"
"
Christ, we got out of that one," I said. "Only one snag, Tris—the bloody sea bags!"
"Oh, Jesus!
Kiwi grinned. "Ah, well, it was good while it lasted. Right, there's a bus over there. Liverpool, here we come!"
We clambered onboard with all we had in the world on our backs. As we settled into our seats, Kiwi murmured, "Well, Tristan, me old mate, there's one thing."
"What's that?"
"It's either ship out or the bleeding Salvation Army."
"Don't talk to me about bloody armies!"
"Right, not if they've got bastards like that one back there in 'em. The bus rolled off. "How d'ye feel now, Kiwi?" I said. "I'm dying for a bloody pint, mate!"
I grinned; we were free at last. And my back didn't hurt anymore.
Now, gather round you sailor boys And listen to my plea, For when you've heard my tale
you'll pity me, I was a goddamn fool in the port
of Liverpool The first time that I came home
from sea.
I was paid off with my share Off a ship from God knows where, Five pound ten a month was all my pay, With a whisky and a gin I was very
soon taken in, By a little girl whose name was Maggie May.
How well do I remember when I first
met Maggie May, She was cruising up and down
in Canning Place, Her figure was divine, like a frigate
of the Line, And me bein' a sailor I gave chase. Next morning I awoke, bleary-eyed
and stony broke, No shoes, no pants, no waistcoat
could I find, When I asked her where they were She replied, "My dear young sir, They're down in Paddy's market,
number nine."
To the market I did go, no clothes
there could I find, So the bobbies came and took poor Mag away, The judge then guilty found her, For robbin' a homeward bounder, An' little Maggie's down in Botany Bay!
Chorus:
Oh Maggie, Maggie May, they have taken
her away, And never more round Lime Street
will she roam, She robbed so many sailors and captains
of the whalers, Now poor old Maggie never will come home!
Liverpool merchant seaman's song, originally nineteenth century. A "pulley-hauley" shanty, sung when the longboat falls were heaved
3
Entertaining the Ladies
Comparing London to Liverpool is like comparing Monte Carlo to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Not that I'm for one or opposed to the other. It's just that one is for the eyes and nose, while the other is for the ears and the heart.
Liverpool is like a small New York, only much, much kinder. The biting wit of the people on the street is the same, with its dislike of pomposity and bullshit, and so is the attitude to government, except that, as far as I can see, corruption is better hidden in Liverpool. The friendliness, too, is a bit less offhanded than in New York. New Yorkers are better at hiding their personal feelings toward a stranger than are Liverpudlians, but not as good at masking their public feelings.
London reflects the outer Britain, the country which the prating pedlars of propaganda would have us believe is the United Kingdom. It is the city of Covent Garden Theatre and the Ballet Rambert and red-coated, black-busbied Guardsmen standing at the gates of "Buck House." The city of the military mustache and the bowler hat, the umbrella and the briefcase, Hampstead Heath and pale blue gentility.
Liverpool, on the other hand, is the real center of industrial Britain, where the heartstrings of England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales all join together. If London is the capital of the Normans, then Liverpool is the capital of the Celt and the Saxon. If the umbrella is the symbol of London, then that of Liverpool is the wheelbarrow. London has its nose in the air, Liverpool has its in a pint of beer.
Kiwi and I pulled in on the train. The terminal, down by the docks, under the shadow of the great brick-pile Liver Buildings, was abustle with seamen from all over the world, shoppers coming in from the country and from over the River Mersey, Irish and Welsh coming in from the west, Scots heading through from the north.
"Tris," said Kiwi, as we headed for the nearest pub, "do you think the Liver bird will shit today?" He looked up at the two carved stone birds perched atop the twin towers of the huge Dock Authority building. The legend in Liverpool is that every time a virgin passes, one of the birds shits.
"If the Irish boats come in, I wouldn't be at all surprised."
"Never had your end away in Ireland, then?"
"Yeah, but her wig fell off."
"How come?"
"She was too busy telling her rosary beads to hold it on." We entered the pub. There was none of your London nonsense here, no red-plushed seats and cut-glass chandeliers, nor carpets. Just a plain wooden bar, two dartboards, and sawdust on the floor.
"What'll we do, Kiwi?" I asked, after the third pint.
"We'll have to hang about until tomorrow. The shipping office is closed in the afternoons, the recruiting side any way. They don't want to take chances of getting a load of pissy-assed seamen in there when the pubs shut at three. The best thing we can do is get a night's lodging. We shouldn't go to the Seamen's Institute, though."
"Why not?"
"Jesus, it makes Portsmouth Barracks look like the Strand Palace Hotel."
"Where do we go, then?"
"We wait till the pubs shuts at three, then hop over to the Mersey Ferry. The bar on the boat is open all day, so we ride over and back a few times, have a couple of pints, then at opening time, nip ashore on the other side, find a good pub, and ask around."
"Sounds good to me. Game of darts?"
"Right, you're on."
And so it was, and by the time we did alight from the Mersey Ferry, we were three sheets in the wind, about ten pints each under our belts. It was a bit shaky, playing darts on the ferry. Every time a tug or a big steamer passed by, the boat would roll, and then we would demonstrate true skill, aiming for double-twenty at the top of each lurch and winding up with a treble six or even a bull's-eye.
As we landed on the Wallasey side, I said to Kiwi, "You know, my old man brought the first roller-skating rink ever landed in Britain, back in 1924. He brought it from Australia in his ship."
"What happened?"
"He did pretty well for a year or so, then the slump came and he went bust. No one could afford the three-pence-a-go any more."
"Where was that, Tris.?"
"New Brighton, just along the road a few miles. Why don't we go there? It's a sort of seaside holiday resort."
"Won't be much there now. Season's over."
'"Not in New Brighton. There's always a good crowd in the pubs, and plenty of crumpet at the New Brighton Palace Dance Hall. That's where my old man had the rink."
"O.K., you're on," he said, and we headed for the green double-decker bus.
By the time we'd had a few in the local pubs, it was time to find lodgings. I signaled to the landlord, a small, rotund, friendly fellow.
"Know anywhere we can doss for a few days, guv?"
"Seamen?" he asked, sizing us up.
"Sort of; R.N.—"The navy was very popular in Liverpool.
"Oh, right, Jack. Yeah, there's a place just around the corner, nice and clean, good meals. Tell Aggie I sent you."
"Ta, guv, see you later."
"You'd better hurry. Closing time at ten-thirty."
Aggie turned out to be an aged treasure, spotlessly pinafored, rosy cheeked, eyes asparkle. Before we knew it we were signed up and settled in. "If you hurry, I can get you in for the last sitting at supper, love," she said. We spruced ourselves up as best the beer under our belts would allow, turned our jerseys around to show the clean side, and headed for the dining hall. Once there, we were in for a surprise. The place was crammed with old ladies, none of them looking a day under eighty. It was an old folks' home! There were about twelve of them, all sitting around the open fireplace, some knitting, some charting in low, sweet voices. As Kiwi and I scoffed down the tucker, well cooked and
plentiful, for which we were paying twelve shillings a day (one dollar, at today's rate), a couple of the old ladies eyed us, smiling.
"D'you play the piano, Tris?" Kiwi said to me. "You're a Welshman.
All Welshmen play the piano."
"Well, of course I learned. I was never very good at it and that's years ago. Couldn't get much practice in bloody destroyers, now could I?"
He turned and pointed his spoon. "Well, there's one over there."
"O.K.," I said, standing up and walking over toward the wall. "Do you ladies mind if I have a go at the piano?"
They all smiled sweetly. One, more lively than the rest, said, "Oh, no, by all means do, we shall be delighted. Ladies, I've had a word with Agnes and she tells me that these two young men have just retired from our brave navy."
The old dears sighed and twittered.
"But you must first introduce yourselves, and as we've no one to do it for us, I'll introduce myself—Mrs. Rosina Steele, widow of dear Captain Steele." Then she went on to introduce all the rest, whose names, though not their faces, escape me now, twenty-five years later.
The piano turned out to be a pianola, a sort of phony piano into which you insert a roll of paper, with holes punched, like a computer program. When you pump with your feet, the air from the bellows inside the machine blows through the holes and makes a sound resembling music. At the side of the pianola was a large basket crammed with paper rolls. I grabbed the nearest one, inserted it into the roller-holder, and started playing. As the notes came flowing out, Kiwi's face was a picture of startled desperation. It was "Selections from Bohemian Girl"'—the same music we had escaped from in the Union Jack Club, back in London. Awful, terrible, sentimental, sloppy tripe.
