Chrissie's story (Chapter one)

The early years

Does anyone expect to write something about their lives? I think that many people do. The writers of most of the life stories I have read seem to have been prepared with a genealogical list and tales of family achievements dating back many years. In my background things were very different. All I know is that I was born in 1938 to Frederick and Maureen Lewington, the fifth of six children. What came before I can only guess. Memories of my parents are dominated by my vivid impressions of the sheer pressure they were under while trying to feed six children in wartime Liverpool.

Later I would find out, through whispers, about my father’s previous marriage and about half brothers and sisters whom I have never met. These things, though, were not spoken of in front of the children, and even now I know hardly any family history beyond my own first memories. My older brothers were born at roughly two-year intervals. Don was the eldest, followed by Eddie then Frederick (who we called Toshy) and John. Two years later I was born, to be followed by Michael six years later.

We grew up in Pringle Street, Tuebrook, a poor area of Liverpool. It consisted of crumbling Victorian terraced housing that had been built in a frenzy to house the massive population growth of the city after the Irish potato famine. We had the legacies of Irish Catholicism: a large family and hunger.

Fear of death

The squalor that I can remember seems almost unreal now. The tiny house was also home for an auntie, uncle and two cousins, and everyone was crowded into four rooms, scrambling for the little food available. My father was a thin, sickly man, not suited to working as a coalman. Before long he was unable to cope with the physical labour of the work and lost the job. After that it was a case of trying to earn money doing ‘bits and pieces’. This phrase could also describe the regularity and content of our meals.

My first memories are of cooking over an open fire in the tiny kitchen and of sharing a bug-ridden bed with an indeterminate number of brothers. But perhaps the most vivid memories are of the air raid shelter during the night raids of World War Two. Tuebrook was near enough to the docks to suffer during Hitler’s blitz of the port. The shelter was in the middle of Pringle Street, just as there were shelters in most of the roads around us. It had hardly any ventilation and no toilet area. Most of the people in the street would rush into the shelter at the first sound of the warning siren and stay inside until the all clear had sounded.

In one corner was a wall with a space behind it where people would go to urinate or worse. Couples groped each other or themselves while others pretended to be asleep. The smell of pee on the newly concreted floors, combined with the unfamiliarity of some of the other people and the fear of death, have left my times in the shelter imprinted on my mind. As the only girl in the family I felt that I was singled out for bullying. I was often referred to as ‘our bitch’ and I was hit a great deal more than any of my brothers or cousins.

Even now I find it hard to think of my mother with great affection, although when I consider the pressures she came under it is impossible not to have some sympathy.

‘Nuisance’

The family had always been poor and were getting poorer. The pawnbroker (‘uncle’) had always been a central figure, not just within the family but in the whole area. As my dad’s employment got more and more sporadic, ‘uncle’ was used more and more. Dad had one suit and a silk scarf which spent more time in the pawnshop than anywhere else.

Every Friday, if dad was working, he would come home and I would have to rush to ‘uncle’ to retrieve his suit. The suit would be worn to the pub on the corner of New Road that night. During the week, from Monday morning onwards, home for the suit was Dalglish’s pawnshop on Dorset Road. I would run there, breathless, through the alleys, desperate to reach the shop before four thirty closing time on Fridays. Everyone used the pawnbroker but there was still a stigma attached to it. Even at a young age I’d check to see whether anyone who knew me was around before sneaking through the side door.

Frank the pawnbroker was a hard, sly man. Often he’d have some fun by telling me he was closed. I’d panic at the thought of the good hiding I’d get at home and cry and plead with him to give me the suit. Finally he’d relent, full of invective, and give me the suit. “You’re a bloody nuisance,” he’d say, sneering, and I’d rush home with the suit for my dad. Monday mornings were always worse. I’d be sent again to pawn the damned suit. Then Frank would pore over the thing, looking for stains that would decrease the value, offering a pitiful amount. “I can’t sell this thing,” he’d say. “Tell yer mam she can have two pounds for it.”

Again I’d beg, telling him we’d be evicted, but he’d smile maliciously, place the suit on the three-pound shelf and give me the two.

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