Who rightly could live in these conditions? Winters were cold in Liverpool, yet hardly a chimney was seen to smoke in these parts. Coal was scarce; newspapers and cardboard collected from the streets burned too fast, and made sickly smoke that clung to the walls. In the government-built housing estates, the wind crept through broken panes and into the cold living rooms. The tenants had no water or electricity; they bathed in cold water, and all the family shared in the weekly bath. A small washbasin served as the bathroom on weekdays, and grimy hands and faces mingled in its waters morning and night. Above it there hung a mirror the size of a saucer, and above that an old rag that served as a towel. In the bedrooms, the mattresses were squeezed in like sardines. The family washed and slept as one, which kept them warm at least. They fought over blankets, and dreamed of pillows. Only the father could claim a handful of feathers for his greyish cushion, which he slapped vigorously before stuffing it beneath his neck. A little brother snuggled into his mother, while a little girl held tight to her brother. The night fell quickly.
Henry was born in a Liverpool slum; he was six years old, and a happy young lad. “Money doesn’t buy happiness!” as his mother, Liz, was fond of saying. Henry could do nothing about the poverty that pervaded Liverpool. The lad was very attached to his mother. “We can’t all be rich, and the rich won’t go to heaven!” she sometimes told the boy to lift his spirits. Henry’s Mum always knew what to say. She said that you should always “face the day in a good mood, even if you’re poor, because the future belongs to those who keep a smile on their faces.” Liz was a thrifter, and spent her days scouring the city’s stalls and markets for bargains. She sought out kitchen utensils – almost-silver spoons, battered saucepans that yet had no holes, near-intact wooden spatulas. She looked for wares that could be re-sold in Liverpool’s middle-class neighbourhoods – gold frames, blanched tablecloths, fine combs and other superfluous dainties. Her greatest quarry, though, was clothing. Henry had never known his father, and every time he looked out the window of their apartment he hoped to see his Dad returning from his long absence. One day he had gone out to buy cigarettes, and had never returned. That was just before Henry was born; one year after his brother’s birth, and two years after his sister’s. So Henry looked with envy upon the fathers of his friends, even if they were the only ones in their families privileged enough to sleep on a pillow. There were no pillows in Henry’s house, anyway. Henry imagined his father to be tall and thin, with red hair on his temples and a father’s nose, very big and slightly bent. He’d have liked to know the man.
Luckily he still had his mother, who had an eye for a good deal. What would she find at the Concert Square market today? The last time it had been a wedding dress, the time before that two silver spoons. Before that, children’s shoes. Finding a good deal took gumption; you couldn’t be too greedy, but you had to make at least three pennies on whatever you bought. The coins she gathered up would buy a can of baked beans, or perhaps a few handfuls of oats. Sometimes they got eggs. Henry loved eggs. Three minutes on the coals, no more, no less. Henry waited for his mother, nose pressed against the window in the hopes of espying his father. The afternoon was coming to an end, and he was cold. Yesterday a yob from the estate had thrown a stone through the window, leaving a space you could stick your head through. The smell of the street came through the hole; they would be frightfully cold tonight.
Do you know the story of Liverpool’s lady thrifters? Once they’d worn them to death, the rich gave their clothes to the rag-and-bone men, who were also called “biffins”. These men travelled on foot from farm to farm, street to street. They drove their carts, pulled by donkeys or wild dogs, to transport their wares to barns piled high with old possessions. Then they would bring their treasures to market squares. Nothing went for free, and swaps were common. They traded clothing for cheap plates or glassware, and in this way the Scouse thrifters eked out a living. This Saturday morning, in Liverpool’s Concert Square, Liz had ventured out into the cold in search of woolly jumpers and scarves; the biting cold of winter had driven Liverpudlians out in search of cover.
“Guess what I found!” cried Henry’s mother as she swept open the door.
“Mummy, I’m hungry,” grumbled Henry.
“A denim jacket! I couldn’t afford it, mind, but I haggled with Jeanie so we could buy it together and share the takings. I even got a couple of spuds for dinner. Still a bit of butter from yesterday, in’t there? Oh Henry, I’m so pleased. When I sell this jacket we’ll make a nice little packet.”
“I waited for you all day,” whimpered Henry. “I looked out the window all day. How are we going to fix it?”
Alan Alfredo Geday