The Daddy of all Mysteries

This is my first attempt at writing and I'm told that the rejection I received from LBA was just about the best rejection 'a writer' can get, without getting a - YES. Well, I am not a writer, at least not yet, so I've polished and polished until I have no elbow grease left. This is the Introduction and a snippet from the first chapter of my book, which is a true story about my parents' forbidden love and a search for the father I never knew... The Daddy of all Mysteries.

Introduction

Life is so different today, but in the inner-city slums of Liverpool during the early part of the 1950s, for an unmarried, penniless Catholic woman to give birth to a child at nearly forty-one years of age was an absolute disgrace. My mother had broken all the rules and the consequences were cruel and often brutal. She experienced bigotry and ridicule on a grand scale and was ostracised by many in the community. She would never reveal my father’s identity to a soul, which led to further speculation. It was not until after her sudden death in 1989 that I found a letter which led me to uncover the reason for all the secrecy. A further twenty years of my life would pass before I finally discovered who my father had been.

Tucked away in the bottom drawer of my mother’s old mahogany dressing table, I found a letter. It was in the custody of my old teddy bear, wrapped up in a blanket of pink tissue paper as if both of them were cherished and so belonged together. I recognised my mother’s shaky handwriting on the small, blue, Basildon Bond self-addressed envelope. The letter was dated 18 September 1987 and it was from the warden of Rose Bush Court, a retirement apartment complex in Parkhill Road, Hampstead in London. It appeared that my mother had written to the warden enquiring about a man who had apparently lived at the apartments in flat no. 13. The letter gave my mother the news of his death.

It was this letter that instigated my search and eventually led me to a discovery that has left me wondering if there is memory locked away, hidden deep within our DNA; because, instead of uncovering a sordid family scandal as I had expected, I found a heart-warming story that slowly revealed itself from an unmarked grave in a London Jewish cemetery.

For my mum to be enquiring about any man, let alone a man who had lived in London, was totally out of character for her, as apart from dreaming about her screen idol Tyrone Power, I never remember my mother ever bothering with men. Somehow, I instinctively knew that this man had to be my father. I now had a name and an address and it was from then that my parents’ story began to slowly unfold. It had been a closely guarded secret, which I would later discover my mother had kept since she was barely fifteen years of age . . . a secret she had taken to her grave.

Essentially, this story is about my search for that mystery man revealed to me in the letter, the father I never knew. But as I researched and gathered information about my parents and their families, this book has evolved into far more. It’s about the people who struggled and paved the way for us to live a far better life than they had to endure. It’s about how they needed to duck and dive just to survive, hacking out a life for themselves and often burying their children along the way. It’s about a generation who fought in two world wars, and yet they were given little support from the country they fought for and were often forced to rely on charity in the form of the workhouse. Above all, this book has evolved into a nostalgic journey of discovery; discovery about myself and about a way of life in the Liverpool that was. It’s also about bigotry, tenacity and above all, hope; and all the struggles, fears, laughter and tears of a generation now dead and gone.

The dilemma I faced in writing this book was that we have always been background people who have shied away from the spotlight. By we, I of course mean me, sitting here doing the writing, my hubby and my mother and her family, who were all very private people. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to tell my mum’s story to pay tribute to her for bringing me up in very difficult circumstances. And also to acknowledge the father, who in life, I never met.

My mother’s family was just an ordinary, working-class, Catholic Liverpool family, and their problems were no worse than many. In my search for my father, I have found a family who I have nothing but respect for, and feel both proud and absolutely fascinated by my newly discovered roots.

Since I began this epic quest, I've often been asked the question: Why do some people wait until their family have died before beginning to search?

I think the reason I waited so long was because I was torn; torn between dying to know and scared to find out. If, like me, you have never known the circumstances of your birth and a heavy veil of mystery completely surrounds your very existence, then your imagination runs riot and you fear the worst. Whether it’s illegitimacy, adoption, or maybe an unknown mother or father who left the family home, the deeper the secret, the more your imagination can run away with your fears. It’s the fear of the unknown and the hurt is too deep. So you wait. You wait until everybody you’re close to has died before you begin the search for that unknown parent. That missing piece of life’s puzzle. Your DNA. You want to be told facts without opinion, truth without anything added or taken away. It’s too emotional to ask family that you’re close to. You would sooner ask a stranger and discover the facts alone, discreetly, without opening up and telling even your closest friend. Because you have no idea what skeletons you could discover hiding in that wardrobe, and so you would sooner open that wardrobe door alone.

This was my reason for putting my search for my mystery father on to that back-burner for so long – too long. I would try half-heartedly and then give up too easily. Of course, twenty-four years ago, when my search began, I didn't have the internet. In fact, back then it never even entered my head to use genealogy to trace him. I was thinking more along the lines of hiring a private detective, which all those years ago was far beyond my purse strings, as every penny I had was ploughed back into my business. I was driven by emotion, not logic or common sense, and I overlooked the blatantly obvious, the things that were literally staring me in the face. The things that were, in my case, under my nose. I didn't open up to people who might have been able to help if only I had. This was a time when a fresh pair of eyes was needed, someone who could step back and take a look at the situation from another angle. If you’re emotionally involved you are far too close to see the full picture.

My family secret turned out to be nothing like that which my imagination had caused me to fear as my research has uncovered a heart-warming personal story that has turned my mum into my hero. With the help of the many friends I’ve made along the way, I’ve found my father’s final resting place and a family to be proud of, with thought-provoking roots that have literally made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end!

Chapter 1 Little Italy

John was my nan’s blue-eyed boy. But that didn’t stop her calling him a feckin’ gobshite under her breath whenever he made a ‘’oly show of ’er with ’is ’igh-minded, ’eathen questions tha’ no livin’ soul could answer’. He was her youngest surviving son and my mother’s younger brother. He was also the only father I ever knew.

I was raised by my mum and nan until John returned home to live with us. We were a household of odd-bod leftovers. My widowed nan. Her unmarried nephew, Paddy. My unmarried mum, Katie. And my unmarried uncle, John. I called him John, never Uncle John. He usually called me by a nickname of his choosing, which was Jess. He also had a string of other nicknames for me including, Wallaby, The Worm or Bloody Nuisance, depending more on my mood than his, as I spent my childhood tormenting the life out of him with millions of questions the minute he walked through our door.

My nan only ever cursed the Irish way, which, in her mind, didn’t count. And she only ever cursed under her breath, accompanied by a squiggle of a self-blessing before she clasped her hands and glanced up to heaven. It was as if she thought that God himself was stone deaf or too far away to be listening. ‘Feckin’ eejit’ could usually be read on her lips, especially when doing battle with Mick the coalman or calling John fit to burn. Consequently, I was able to lip-read before I was able to book-read.

The community where my odd-bod family lived in 1950s inner-city Liverpool was known as Little Italy because of the many Italian immigrants who had settled there, along with hordes of Irish immigrants who had left Ireland in the 1840s during the potato famine. Religion and poverty united them, and they all got on well together. Ninety-nine per cent of our neighbours were either Catholic Italian or Catholic Irish. We were all left-footers, as we Catholics were called, and we all lived in varying degrees of typical 1950s working-class poverty. We shopped at Paddy’s Market in Cazneau Street, where Cilla Black’s mother had her market stall and which later relocated to Great Homer Street. And we all either purchased or pawned our few meagre possessions from what was then the community’s lifeline, Berry’s pawnbrokers. I doubt my mum would have survived without Berry’s; it served as her bank and department store. My pram, my first three-wheeler bike and later my little transistor radio were all bought from Berry’s pawnshop. I can still remember the coils of sticky flypaper, encrusted with the bodies of dead flies, dangling down from the cobwebbed ceiling like macabre, silent wind chimes as they turned slowly, driven by the draught from Berry’s door. I can still picture the bare 40-watt light bulb shedding a glimmer of light onto the racks of overcoats and suits that had been previously pawned and were now hanging up for sale. I can still smell the stale, musty odour from their previous owners desperately clinging on, just as desperate as their owners had been. Life was cheap for everyone back in those days. We were all in the same boat – the HMS Destitute.

Asian door-to-door hawkers would call with their little leather suitcases packed with odd pieces of cheap knitwear, household items, children’s clothes and other peculiar items that could be bought for just a few coppers ‘on the weekly’. We called these hawkers the door-knockers.

I remember my mum opening the door one cold December day and an enormous statue of Our Lady was pulled from a suitcase. My mum nearly hit the lad over the head with it. Unperturbed, he dived back into his suitcase and produced a full crib, complete with the three wise men, each carrying their gold, frankincense and myrrh, and their donkeys were thrown in for free. This must have been the beginning of buy-one-get-one-free.

‘God . . . luv . . . trier,’ he said in his broken English and a cheeky grin. Then he stuffed the three wise men back into his suitcase and tucked Our Lady under his arm.

‘Yer, ’e luvs a trier, so go an’ try sumwhere else, lad.’ The door-knockers tried to sell everything to us Cat’licks.

Then there was the Jew-man, as he was known, who would call to offer you a ticket, which gave you credit at the many clothes shops around the London Road area. You could spend the value of the ticket at these shops, treating yourself to a new frock or coat from their ready-to-wear, or off-the-peg as it was then called, or you could have something designed and made to measure at one of the many excellent tailors’ shops in the area– Liverpool’s very own haute couture. Dresses were merchandised according to the price tag, typically 19/11d, 29/11d or 39/11d. These were the days when twenty shillings made a pound and twelve pennies made a shilling, so these old money symbols were the equivalent of one old penny less than 20, 30 and 40 shillings. £1, £1.50p and £2 in today's money. The Jew-man would then call to collect his money every Friday night, usually a shilling or two each week until the debt was paid off. Then, when you had fully paid up, he would try to coax you into another ticket. But my mum didn’t like being in debt and preferred to leave off before, rather than to pay off after. Often she would say to me, ‘whether it’s second hand or bran’ spankin’ new, it’s paid wit’ luv frum me t’ you.’

The tenement flat that was then our home was furnished with bits and pieces of bizarre furniture from Harden House, an auction room run by the Salvation Army, while bigger pieces of furniture were purchased from the all-year-round Christmas club at Stanley’s furniture store. Whatever Stanley couldn’t sell, usually because it was so grotesque that even the desperate turned their noses up to it, Stanley would slash the price down to get rid of it quickly and you could bet your life that this would be the item that my mother would buy. She would usually leave about 2/- (two shillings) off each week until it was fully paid, and then whatever rubbish she had bought she would then carry it home through the streets or have it delivered.

I was playing in the street one day and I will never forget Stanley’s furniture van arriving and the doors being flung open to reveal what my mates first mistook for a fairground ride. But when it emerged from the darkness of Stanley’s rusty old van, I could see it was a three-piece suite, covered in luminous, vivid, purple plastic wrapping. It was the kind of colour that reflected on anything that came within its vicinity, like some kind of scientific experiment that had gone badly wrong. As it floated past me, carried high upon the heads of the delivery men, I realised that the fairground ride wasn’t wearing any wrapping. My mates creased up. And, as a large crowd gathered around waiting to be entertained, I laughed too. While we all stood there watching this colourful spectacle being paraded across the street, we began taking bets on who, in their right mind, could have handed over their hard-earned money for this monstrosity. The smirk was soon wiped from my gob when this fairground waltzer twisted and turned up the steps and disappeared into our flat!

We were stuck with this abomination for donkey’s years, and I would dread visitors. Not that people ever mentioned it, but it would always be the first thing their eyes would fall upon when they walked through our door. Then they would look away quickly, trying their best to hide their amusement, only to feast their eyes upon the rest of our colourful, eccentric interior. Purple was probably the only colour that was missing from our flat, so my mother’s purchase fitted in just perfectly with the rest of the eclectic mess that we called home.

My mum chose things because they were cheap. It didn’t matter to her what they looked like. It didn’t cross her mind that we had orange psychedelic curtains – which my confused nan called psychiatric curtains – blue psychedelic oilcloth covering the floor and red flock wallpaper covering the walls. To keep out the cold, new wallpaper would always be layered on top of the old wallpaper. This was our cavity wall insulation and over the years it became so thick on the walls that there was no longer any sign of a skirting board to be seen, and the old round dolly light switches were embedded into the wallpaper like cherries on the top of a cake.

I remember once setting up the old wooden ironing board by one of the only two electrical points we had in the entire flat, which was on the wall next to the radio socket and behind one of the armchairs. We had always used a flat iron, so the new electric iron was like a toy to me. While I was ironing, someone knocked at the front door. I put the iron down and opened the door to find Mrs Smith clasping a cup.

‘’iya, luv, is yer mam in?’ She then raised her head and began sniffing the air with a puzzled look on her face. ‘’ey, girl, what’s tha’ funny chemical smell?’

‘Christ, the iron!’ I flew back into the flat with Mrs Smith in close pursuit and when I picked up the iron, an iron-shaped chunk of the chair came with it. The full shape of the iron was missing from the top of the chair and we now had a purple iron! The colour was spreading. It was as if it had claimed possession of the entire flat.

‘Jesus, me mam’ll flatten me!’

‘Don’t wurry, luv. Gimme a knife. An’ will yer loan us a cup o’ sugar ’til Fridey?’

She handed me the old chipped cup and I handed her a knife, which she used to scrape the bubbling, purple plastic from the iron and tried to butter it onto the armchair. Of course, it just looked like a purple mess. In a feeble effort to hide the patch, we placed my nan’s old shawl nonchalantly over the back of the chair as if she had just taken it off.