Cherry Simmonds - Nobody In Particular

Looking back, being the youngest of nine children and a change of life baby, conceived and born on Merseyside during the war, was probably not the best start for my Mam or me...

Hand-on-heart honest, charming, occasionally tear-inducingly tragic but more often laugh-out-loud funny, Nobody in Particular is Cherry Simmonds account of growing up on the back streets of Liverpool in the 50s and 60s, the youngest in a large, eccentric and sometimes exasperating Anglo-Irish family. Ruling the roost was Mam menopausal and always saving for a divorce, or her own business, whichever was cheaper. And then there was Dada who when he wasnt in the pub could invariably be found practising the banjo in the outside lav, and her five brothers and three sisters two died, three got married (which amounted to the same thing according to Mam) and National Service would take care of the others...

From the despondent, still-rationed post-war years to the heady, swinging 60s when Liverpool suddenly found itself fashionable, put on the map by the Beatles, rock n roll, industrial strikes, and Liverpool FC winning the Cup this delightful memoir by a born storyteller brings a bygone yet familiar and fondly remembered era vividly and vibrantly to life.

Contents

With very special thanks to Steve Danby, Drama Producer, National Radio, in New Zealand for his insight and encouragement. His advice has been invaluable.

With gratitude to Marion Gilhooley who sifted through and typed the manuscript.

In Heaven even an angel is nobody in particular

George Bernard Shaw
Man and Superman, 1903

The triumphs and tragedies of the Faulkner Family. A true story full of laughter and tears:

Cherry was born during the blitz on Merseyside. Even though she was the last in a family of eleven she was a solitary kid, who from necessity soon learnt to be streetwise and gutsy, with the power to make her own luck as she waited to be adopted by someone anyone!

Mam was menopausal and depressed. Always saving for a divorce from the bloody reptile or her own business, whichever came cheaper.

Dad whiled away the hours in the backyard lavvy, playing his banjo while waiting for the pub to open.

The Family was made up of five boys and four girls: two died and three got married, which according to Mam amounted to the same thing. National Service would take care of the rest.

The House was distinguished by the battleship grey paint-work. All guests were unwelcome especially the crawling and scurrying kind.

The Shop was mostly a labour of love, occasionally became a labour of hate but was one place Cherry could hold down an honest job (or almost honest). Striving for acceptance into the local business community is fraught with disaster and bewilderment as the family contends with the local council, police, power cuts and each other.

Merseyside was booming, put on the map by the Beatles, rock and roll and industrial strikes. Liverpool Football Club won the FA Cup for the first time. It was OK to talk with a thick nasal accent; it was more than OK.

The Story of nobody in particular, whose lifelong search for identity was dramatically revealed and changed by a mousetrap.

This is a true story, however some of the names have been changed but only to protect the guilty!

WED GOT ANOTHER set of twins in our street, born just a few months ago. A girl called Victoria Edwina and a boy, Victor Edward. Their dad was a sailor during the war and he was so glad to be back in one piece that he named his kids after VE day. My dad said it was a bloody good job we won the war, as he might have called the kids Adolf and Eva.

VE day was the very best day of my life. I was fit to burst with happiness. The road had been barricaded with oil drums to stop the traffic from getting through because we were having our very own Victory V street party. Everyone was happy and my mam was even talking and laughing with the snotty neighbours who were sitting in chairs placed into groups outside open front doors. The street became alive with families gathered round the crumbled front walls; kids playing marbles and flipping milk bottle tops in the gutter. Little squares of dyed rags sewn onto string to look like flags were strung across from bedroom windows and wrapped around lamp-posts. Some patriotic soul had carefully saved silver paper from his fag packets and had stuck on pictures of the Royal Family, Winston Churchill and of course, Montgomery. Pity it rained a bit as all the crpe paper flowers and decorations wed been making for weeks got wet and the red dye ran in patches over the bed sheets that were used for tablecloths it looked like someone had been slaughtered on the table.

Everywhere around the country, other street parties were being held. Of course ours was the best, with my Patty working at the Co-op shop. Normally wed get a dividend on everything we bought but we missed out on the divvy because Patty had been sneaking stuff out of the door for weeks.

Old Mrs Tiplady up the road showed me how to make blancmange and junket. Patty made dozens of jellies in paper cups with a dolly mixture on top for decoration. We used up all our sugar coupons in the ration book because Patty couldnt smuggle enough from the Co-op in time to make the toffee apples. Id been collecting lolly-ice sticks from the gutters, parks and rubbish bins, and Mam boiled them in a pan to get the muck off. The bruised apples called penny fades came from Mrs Reid at the greengrocers shop.

I was black and blue after collecting wood for weeks with the local scruffs then piling it on the bomb-site that was once Mr Robertss house before the Germans blew it up and killed his parrot.

I had a very important job and that was to stop any dogs piddling on the table and chair legs by sprinkling pepper; if they crouched to poo anywhere Id been told to kick them up the arse. I stood guard amazed at the spread of grub on the table in spite of rationing. I poked under pan lids covering plates to see what was underneath them. Wow! Hovis bread with sardine and tomato paste, potted beef and cucumber, and even jam butties. After today, my mam said, wed be starving for bread for ages as we had used up all our bread units.

When the party started our street had proper music and all, as one of the neighbours wheeled the old pump organ from out of the local church hall and my dad played the banjo. The kids shouted to be heard over the grown-ups sing-songs.

At night the grown-ups lit the bonfire. Dogs howled, scared to death by searchlights flashing across the sky, and all the boats on the River Mersey tooted as church bells put in their two pennorth. And to top it all off we even had fireworks, and not just sparklers, but big buggers that splattered the sky. There was a deep sense of community spirit, hugs, hard sloppy kisses and handshakes. And cheers for the local blokes back from overseas making jokes of their war wounds, some crying like babies, probably because theyd survived. I hoped the day would last for ever.

Of course, Mam just had to cry and spoil things.

Whats up chuck? my dad asked, putting his arms around her shoulders.

Bloody Churchill, she sobbed.

Well what about bloody Churchill? My dad had a cob on now.

All those young men never comin back. What a waste, hes got a lot to answer for, mark my words.

I groped for a hanky in the leg of my knickers and passed it to her. Here you are Mam, I gulped in my throat. Why do you ave to go an cry and spoil things? Oh, please dont cry.

Blinking through the rain of tears she muttered, Are you still up, young lady? Its long past yer bedtime, now get in the house and up them stairs, theres a good girl.