Liverpool Early Teens: Post WWII Years 1946/7 Book 1

By Bernard Fredericks

No longer a schoolboy but now a youth poised for a fresh start, he sensed significant changes brewing in the aftermath of World War II. With the war concluded, nations, both victors and vanquished, were in a flurry to redirect their economies towards peace. He was caught up in the palpable excitement of a transformation on the horizon.

‘I’m leaving school this Easter,’ he announced to the boys on September Road. Climbing down from the low stone wall, he made his way home, bidding farewell with a wave.

He found himself on the brink of joining the ranks of the unemployed. A ship’s engineer, or perhaps an apprentice to one, as his father had hinted? The discussion around what job might suit him never ventured into the realm of Marine Engineering. The topic soon became as extinct as the proverbial dodo – his initial taste of disappointment.

The challenge of finding a position as a young adult had arisen, and his life progressed accordingly. Demonstrating eagerness and a willingness to work was non-negotiable; he was more than ready to spread his wings.

Yet, amidst these challenges, his reflective moments found solace in the image of the breathtakingly glamorous Hollywood actress Rita Hayworth. Her latest film had introduced her new visage, now occupying his quieter moments: a comforting vision that offered him a gentle escape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035825394

Bernard Fredericks

Bernard Fredericks was born in Liverpool. He is a freelance writer; also, he has contributed a multiplicity of published articles to various magazines, newspapers, and on occasions, local radio. Bernard was also an active member of a Northwest Writers’ Club, and for some years, he served as an editor of a monthly arts magazine published in North West England. He released his first book, a WWII trilogy about Liverpool kids titled Escape from the Blitz, After the Blitz, and Beyond the Blitz. Bernard is married, with a grown-up family and presently residing in North Wales, where he’s working on new scripts for future publication.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Off with Short Pants, on

with the Long Trousers!

There was the smell-the feel of big changes in the air around him. Events were catching up on him and he sensed the serious excitement of a transformation of his life about to begin!

I’m leaving school this Easter, he told the September road boys, when they were assembled and discussing school subjects.

Really? No kidding? One said in response.

So…so, how old are you?

I’ll be fourteen in March.

There was silence while they digested this fact among them and compared it to how old they were, and those around them.

It was a milestone, a change in their lives, after some were getting used to the disciplines and specifics of learning. Whether they liked it or not, they were being thrust or dragged, into a stronger flow, faster tempo of life, with challenges ahead of them that were formidable, to say the least. Most knew they were unequipped.

It was a fork in the road, where they’d be pressed into joining the workplace of adults, an area of living for which they were presently unfitted and vulnerable.

So, what are you going to do? A voice piped-up, hoping to gain and learn something from the answer.

Do?

What do you want to be…? The boy identified, more accurately.

When I grow up, you mean? laughing at the idea and use of the connotation.

The kid nodded back, and smiled shyly to mask his own embarrassment.

He frowned and thought hard. Ship’s engineer!

Why is that?

They sail the seven seas, he replied, call in at different ports and places… he tailed off, for want of something else to add.

A wit interrupted, Gerl in every port! and giggled his submission to the response.

He eyed the comedian and allowed a smile response, Hadn’t thought of that?

Really, though, what do you want to do?

He pursed his lips. Have to speak to my dad.

What did he say?

I said, he repeated, I’ll have to talk to my dad.

Do you think his working on the docks an’ all that, he can get you a job as a ’prentice engineer?

Maybe?

My dad, interjected another, not to be left out of the conversation, sez them ship’s engineers are on lots of dough!

Not as much as an engine-driver, another voice objected.

How would you know, shit-head? The originator of the statement said.

’Course! the objector replied.

Course what?

My uncle’s an engine-driver, an’ he earns massive!

Doin’ what, exactly?

Well, for starters, he gets extra, ‘course he’d drivin’ ammunition trains all the time, an’ in the shed where he works, they have to work three shifts, and ’course it’s a dangerous job.

In one day? An incredulous voice asked.

No, there is a different shift, each week.

As it was tea-time and hunger pangs were starting to raise their ugly heads, he slipped off his seat on the stone wall and edged his way down the road.

See you for a game of footie, after tea, alright? He shouted over his shoulder as he headed for home.

See you! the rest of them chorused to his back.

As he headed along the pavement, he realised suddenly, that these little after-school conflabs would soon be coming to an end. It was the conclusion, he told himself, of an era. Still in philosophical mode, he mused about the private indecisive conversations he’d had very recently with his mum-n’ dad on the subject of work, employment, jobs, occupations, appointments-whatever?

Dad and Mum had included him in their conversation about his future, leaving school and what he would do. They’d broached the subject of paid further education with a commercial college in town, learning shorthand, bookkeeping, typing-that sort of nomenclature, job description, under the vague title of office clerking.

He was not impressed, sounded dull and boring. They quickly picked up his disinterest and moved onto other subjects, but not before suggesting he should enrol for a night-school course at one of the city’s institutions, on the subject of book-keeping.

Ship’s engineer or ’prentice to it, didn’t come up in their conversations, not once, even though he knew they must’ve discussed it, because his dad had once mentioned it, and that was where he first was attracted to it.

Pity, Mum quipped, you hadn’t qualified for that Teachers Training Course you headmaster had talked to you about?

He didn’t rise to the statement. Comment wasn’t necessary, because nothing came of the Entry Examination he’d taken. Just a passing event, something that arose suddenly – too suddenly, and was gone in the blink of an eye. Besides, he wasn’t sure he was cut-out to be a teacher. On the subject of what kind of job, ‘they’ reckoned he was best suited for, the use of the definition ‘cut-out-for’ was linked to that of marine engineer-not! No further mention was made on the subject, which became as dead as the proverbial Do-Do in the days that followed.

At fourteen, he was wise enough to know he needed some extra skills, if he wanted an employer-any employer-to be interested enough in him to take him on, no matter how lowly the position might be. Even, if he was taken on, employed by whosoever, because he appeared at the interview as being willing, able and bright enough, he’d still need to hone the pitifully small amount of his ability and experiences to make sure an employer kept him on-employed, that is. He knew he’d visit this train of thought within the very near future, had to, because he was no longer in full time education.

Amusingly, he concluded, there was always Rita Hayworth!

WORLD NEWS!

28 July 1945, B-25 USAAF twin-engine bomber crashed mid-morning into the Empire State building, when it’s pilot-flying down from Massachusetts and hoping to land at a New Jersey airfield-flew into thick soupy fog over New York City. His aircraft tragically collided with the building between the 79th and 80th floors. There were reportedly 14 fatalities, which included the three crew members.

Chapter 2

Contemplating the Future

Leaving school was no great event, he decided. All those years he could’ve and might have reflected upon and didn’t, were not something to even pause to glance back at, write home about, and allow sad reflection even.

Certainly, as far as he was concerned.

No sorrowful reflections on a long-lost past, nor even a teeny-weeny tug on the heart strings.

Never!

That last Friday afternoon, he plunged into the throng of his schoolmates departing the building in an unruly mob, pushing and shoving to get out of the place and away from even the sight of the edifice.

No sadness or Goodbye, Mr Chips!

Tinge of losing and leaving an experience. None of those things. They didn’t even occur to him. Didn’t add up into a hill o’ beans, as he recalled hearing someone once say, he smiled to himself. Wasn’t something that flashed up in his brain-box, before him? Not a thought that sprang to mind. No emotive regret.

Even the hint of something as soppy as that would’ve brought a hollow horse-laugh bursting out of his bony chest-a hiccupping laugh. A cynical grin, perhaps?

Pure escapism?

Freedom?

Mm, well, not quite that dramatic. Just that it was the end of an experience, before the start of something new, altogether massive and somewhat daunting.

You leavin’ today, right? One of his classmates shouted, ahead and slowing down to turn his head and glance back, sideways and over his shoulder, suddenly remembering the event.

Yeah! he responded with a grin.

Lucky bastard! another classmate seconded with a noisy shout, continuing his shambling run across the school yard towards the beckoning maw of the open main gate leading out onto the public road.

Yeah, ain’t I, he reacted, but unheard as his classmates disappeared out of the yard and through those opened gates.

Suddenly, he was physically nudged aside by a couple of other boys as they scrambled past, rushing to follow the rest.

Hey, hold on! he protested.

For the first time, the thought of missing this rough-n’-tumble friendship and harsh banter, did occur to him. He realised he would be moving into a new world, strange and exciting to him, but peopled by strangers-adults, not teachers, who were obliged and responsible for his education, care while on school premises and his wellbeing. These strangers would be alien, civil, but aloof, private and not particularly interested him or his personal concerns.

For the first time, no classmates of similar age to confer with and conclude on subjects that concerned or which they had in common with each other. He’d be a minority of one in a crowd, as compared to being the boy in a crowded class of schoolmates, with that veiled protected and ability to fade into the background of a sea of young faces, whatever concealment from adult probing/seeking eyes might be called for and whenever.

For the first time, he’d stand out-as it were-like a sore thumb!

Sobering thought? He was only vaguely aware of what that might mean?

Passing through the open gateway, now almost deserted after the mass exodus of the ragged charge to depart, he wasn’t even inclined to stop, turn and give the old school one last lingering emotive glance.

Walking away, he gave the subject his last historically heart-felt and fleeting thoughts.

Of Rawson Road Elementary School, Seaforth (huddled in temporary make-shift shelters in the back entry of the back-to-back terraced houses in the dark of early night. The bricked entrances at both ends together with corrugated-iron bolted on top of the walls, which were intended to give those inside, protection of a sorts from flying red-hot shrapnel and loose debris).

Of Warton Village Church School (during his evacuation thence, a nightmare as he sprinted for home in the dark of an early evening as an enemy aircraft overhead zoomed-Brum-brum-brum, the scary unmistakable sound he’d heard before during the early Blitz back in Liverpool, now overhead the target of anti-aircraft gunners; then-after detonations above him-the tiny shell splinters rained down, dancing lights around him on the hard roadway, as a result of the mobile ack-ack gun which had unexpectedly opened up and attempted to down the single German reconnaissance aircraft, that had wandered away from distant Liverpool and its miles of busy docks and fat merchant ships, but preparing s second run on that target, in preparation of that scheduled bombing blitz).

Of Wellesbourne Road Council School, Liverpool (the food parcel donation from the American Red Cross, he’d received, donated for children and their families forced to flee their bombed-out or damaged houses), and St John’s Church School, Liverpool (the dead corpse of a classmate in a coffin on wood trestles in the front room of the boy’s terrace house, the result of an accident while adventure-seeking in a bombed-out property nearby)…

To his left, he caught sight of a number of similar aged girl pupils, slowly departing their entrance, pausing to chat together in a mix of lively high-spirited giggling chit-chat.

He turned and headed home, immediately preoccupied with what was showing at the Empress Picture House in Tuebrook, and which he instantly recalled was featuring THE VIRGINIAN, starring Joel McCrea and Brian Donlevy. He’d seen the picture trailer, last week, and he’d made a mental note to go see it. He hastened his pace, because it had begun to rain, and because there might just be some kids in his road who were getting together to play a game of street footie?

Yes, worth hurrying homewards for.

WORLD NEWS!

Autumn 1945, reports received from the Far East, tell of fighting there between the new Communist Army of Revolution with the local Regional Warlords, at a landlocked location in Eastern China. These Regional Groups are claiming an alliance with the troops of General Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist armies, after the surrender of Japanese Imperial forces still left in China, following their withdrawal from the mainland.

Chapter 3

Job Consideration: Key to Future

Employment

It was early Monday morning, coinciding with the school Easter Break, when his eyes blinked open and he lay quietly under his bedclothes, with only his head exposed, staring up at the early dawn creep of spreading daylight through on either side of the heavy curtains draped across his bedroom window. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the white ceiling above, but was more interested in listening for the sounds within the house.

He was sure his dad had left early for his job on the docks, but could still hear his mum busying herself, given away by the tinkle and click of colliding dishes she had just washed, dried and was putting carefully away in the cupboard in the kitchen. Mum would be leaving shortly to catch the No. 29 tram into town and then to walk in the direction of Weatheralls, the women’s-wear shop she worked at on Bold Street, overseeing the girls in the sewing section of the back upstairs room of the premises.

There were no more sounds from the kitchen. A brief silence elapsed before he heard her quick high-heeled footsteps down and along the uncarpeted, but linoleum-covered floor of the hall towards the vestibule.

Don’t forget to lock up, if you go out! she shouted up to him from the foot of the staircase. His mind instantly pictured the iron key to the back door, lying securely deep within his pant pocket. He had his own key, now fourteen years-just, and been given the extra key his mother had had especially made for him. Yes, a sign he was growing up and the key recognised his responsibility and signified his mum’s faith in his reliability, where coming-n’-going from the house was concerned.

Did you hear me-what I just said? She shouted, again.

He flung the bedclothes back and away off his chest and heaved himself up on a supportive elbow, before replying.

Yes, Mum!

Should be home about five, bye! was her parting shot as he heard her pull open the front door and then tug it too with a muffled thud, firmly behind her, as she stepped through the opening and departed.

He straightened his arms and rolled back into the warmth of the bed, pulling the bedclothes up to his chest and stretched out both legs in pure bliss, enjoying the luxury of not having to rise for school or be called downstairs from his bedroom and then sent on an errand to the local shops by his mum.

Had the whole house to himself!

Bloody marvellous! He murmured mentally, safely ensconced in the comfort of, under the warm heavy-wool blankets of his own personal comfort-zone.

His mind was ticking over as his thoughts dwelt on the fact that school was history and that he should now prepare himself for seeking out a place in a man’s world of job vacancies, learning a trade or business position, being good at it and finally earning his first week’s wage-remuneration, hard-earned, but honestly rewarded.

His face clouded over, creased with concern, because he knew that while it was one thing to respond to a teacher’s or the head’s request and be pretty sure of being capable enough to answer whatever requirements were made of him, it was perhaps quite another when moving into a strange man’s world where there wouldn’t be the tolerance and patience he’d come to expect from adults-teachers in school.

Over the previous week, he’d heard Mum talking briefly with his dad-eavesdropping without their knowledge-about what the future held for him, regards work places and the kinds of jobs he might be best suited for, but nothing conclusive, and they certainly didn’t invite his comment. Well, not all the time, ’cepting – of course – for the odd ask as to what he thought he might want to do with himself when he finally left school?

One thing was for certain, no more talk or engaged discussion about him going to sea as an apprentice marine engineer. It was his dad who first voiced the prospect of their possibly being that kind of vacancy on offer, and which had excited his whole concept of a trade or profession. His brain had worked overtime on the subject, and in bright technicolour, as he recalled all the films he’d ever seen about seafarers and life on the ocean waves…His mental excitement and rapidly-widening imagination produced visions of destinations he might visit, backed by vivid recollections from travel films seen down at the local flea-pits, like foreign locations and for instance Egypt and the Pyramids, Bombay with its Asian backdrop, the skyscraper skyline of New York City! A surge of adrenaline pulsated through his being at the promise and prospect of further exploration?

After all, he told himself, hadn’t his uncle Arthur, who collected him from Seaforth during the beginning of the Blitz, and who had escorted him to the country village of Warton, outside Lytham-n’-St Anne’s to stay with his auntie Nelly-his mother’s cousin-been, and was in fact, a ship’s wireless operator? One of Dad’s brothers was once a second engineer on the Liverpool to Dublin Ferry boat route before the war, he’d been told. So, exhilarated and buoyed up at the thought, argued that didn’t he have sea-salt nautical blood pulsating through his veins?

Yes, Sirree!

He’d pressed his dad on the possibility of an opportunity-a chance that might go begging. Disappointedly, at a later date, his dad had become vaguely lukewarm, on the subject. He and Mum had got into a huddle about it, he was sure. The possibility was never mentioned any more. Mysteriously, his dad avoided the subject whenever he raised it with him, until finally he turned to him, smarting from puzzling exasperation and to being so regularly badgered about it by him, and replied heatedly in an unguarded moment of vexation. Your mother doesn’t think you’re suited to going away to sea! And don’t tell her, I told you! And let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?

He was left dumbfounded, hurt and very disillusioned.

A day or so later, while he was out at work and late coming in, having to work some overtime, he decided to broach the subject with his mum.

I think my dad doesn’t want me to go to sea as a ’prentice engineer?

Oh! was all she said.

Didn’t seem to want to discuss it, Mum?

Your dad was probably tired.

No, I asked him several times, last week, seein’ as how I’ve left school, now?

Your dad’s very busy down at the docks, at the moment, an’ hasn’t got time to look into it, she excused, but added, leave it for a few days or a week-or-so; then remind him.

This was the part where he knew his mum was gently shifting the subject aside.

Now, was the moment.

So that’s why I’ve brought it up with you, Mum.

Me? I don’t have any contacts down on the docks with the ships and crews-an’ all that, she replied, giving him a sympathetic smile.

I was hopin’ you’d have a word with my dad, like?

Oh, well, I don’t know, she wavered.

Don’t mean necessarily tonight, but over the next few days?

She was silent and reserved for a few moments and concerned herself removing the dirty dishes with the remnants of their evening meal, together, still in evidence.

Mum?

I’ll see, she responded, tight-lipped.

That a yes, Mum?

Said, I’d see, she replied a little too abruptly; then glanced closely at him for a moment, as though making up her mind about something.

You’re too young to go to sea.

The pain it caused at what she said, must’ve registered on his face, because she hurriedly added, Your father and I discussed it, an’ your dad said it’s very rough and dangerous where some of these ships sail to. On your own, at your age, you wouldn’t be able to cope-to look after yourself.

But… he tried.

We’re older and know a bit more about the world that you do!

Okay, next year? He tried, desperately.

We’ll see, was all she’d say. When you’re a little bit older, we’ll look at it again, but until then-well, we’ll leave it at that!

And, next year?

Next year is next year! Let’s not talk about it anymore?

I just… he tried, again.

Let it rest! I’ve said all your dad-n…-I want to say on the matter. It’s in your own best interests. You’re important to us, an’ we know what’s best.

Mum turned and left the table carrying soiled dishes into the kitchen. He saw that determined look on her face and knew she wouldn’t budge. He decided not to push it and since his dad had especially asked him not to tell his mother, what he’d told him. Even if he persisted and made a nuisance of himself, he knew he wouldn’t win her over and would cause strained tempers in their relationship between him and his mum-n’-dad. Knew instinctively, he was on a loser.

It was true, he confessed inwardly, he didn’t know much about what job he wanted and why, except some romantic notions of going to sea. Knew he hadn’t the first idea about applying for a job, where and who to write a letter to? Or even, in fact, how he should compose that letter, what he would put into it and how long it should be?

If that job was not to be sought-after, and with heavy heart he had to-was forced to-accept; then so be it!

What else?

He slid out of bed, shot into the bathroom for a quick pee, cat-lick of a wash, dressed and descended the staircase, his mind on breakfast and what goodies he would rustle-up for himself?

He was delighted to find a hot cuppa with at least three heaped-teaspoons of sugar; he had to open a fresh pint-bottle of milk, which meant he could pour off the cream into his steaming hot cuppa, although Mum always insisted he shake the bottle of milk first, but then, she wasn’t here to supervise. The cream made all the difference to the colour of the tea, contents spinning as he stirred it, reflecting a tinted light-brown texture, almost. He just knew it would taste fantastic, after it had cooled a bit, that is.

He placed the cup on the table next to the bowl of two Weetabix and poured onto them almost half the pint bottle of milk. He turned and snatched up last evening’s copy of the discarded LIVERPOOL ECHO newspaper from his dad’s chair and laid it flat on the table top, thumbed through it until he came across the Employment Wanted; then seated himself down, picked up his cup, blew briefly on the steaming surface and lifted the cup gently up to his lips, blew again and then sipped carefully at the gorgeous nectar.

He stared down over the brim of the cup at the printed columns before him. As he didn’t know what specifically to look for, he just simply scanned his way down the page.

Murmuring to himself, he began: Electrician? That would be a no; Plumber? No; Car mechanic? No, Tailor? No…

Another series of headings: Scholastic, Artistes, Dancing? No, and sighed in frustration, was getting nowhere.

Start again, yeah: Boys sixteen to eighteen years for Kitchen Work? No; Butcher’s Delivery Boy? No; Baker’s Assistant? Nope.

Okay, Cleaner? No; Domestic? Didn’t like the sound of that, No; Stockroom Assistant and Messenger? No; Milk Round Helper? No; Office Boy? Mm, his eyes stayed with that ad, and monitored the brief prerequisites: No experience necessary or required. Must be smart in appearance. Will be working from a busy city-centre office. Apply in writing…

His thinking and preoccupation with the job situation, was temporarily interrupted by movement, when from the corner of his eye, he was attracted through the adjacent dining room window to next