Home Front

As I have mentioned, I was the victim of a happy childhood. Fazackerley in the 1950's was a tranquil place. There wasn't much to do,apart from learning how to spell "Fazackerley".Three versions existed on the front of the buses alone, as the Council had wild stabs at it which came out differently every time. It gave the area a wild exoticism, like living in Pocacatapetl. My mother was the sizzling vamp of the local Post Office, definitely "Cashier Number One,Please",as far as the gentlemen customers were concerned. My Dad wore a suit, even in bed,as far as we knew. Or maybe just pyjamas with a tie,when he was feeling louche. My brother and I were not allowed to poke about in his room, which of course became an imagined repository of forbidden delights. We used to peep around the door when he was searching for cufflinks,or otherwise distracted. Woe would then betide us if he spotted us.Which he always did, his army training in North Africa having equipped him to detect enemy action on the landing. What on Earth was in there? Not my Mother, for sure, who had her own boudoir,shared with the current dog. Certainly my Dad was a Man of Mystery.After he died, I eventually had to clear out his car. There was a curly silver wig in the glove compartment.

My brother and I shared a bedroom. This worked when we were five and ten respectively. My brother was an angelic platinum blond,who had been a very frail baby. There wasn't an inch of him that hadn't caused worry in Alder Hey. He , like one of those fragile Victorian infants not expected to  live, developed a soulful expression, as of one whose eyes already see into Paradise.This served him well in his later career as a bouncer.

Yes, gentle reader, he grew. Practically overnight, the little bugger became two separate gorillas.The refreshing sibling fights ,which would begin in the shared bedroom and erupt all over the house, had to stop.  On one memorable occasion, a skirmish  culminated in our rolling all the way down the stairs,locked in mortal combat, landing at the feet of my Mother, who briskly tipped a bucket of water over us. But I started losing badly. So a strategic withdrawal was affected, and I fell back on other weapons; manipulation, whingeing, verbal goading, and appealing to a Higher Authority (my Nan).

We couldn't go too far, though. My Mother, although ladylike and generally easygoing, was prone to Suddenly Losing It. We would flee,in separate directions, from a pyrotechnical display of hurtling crockery and hurtful invective. All our crockery was so old and cracked that we suspected  Mum rather enjoyed combining the fairground element with a good clear-out. Afterwards, drinking tea out of  the dog's bowl,she would light a cigarette and look relaxed. We would creep about the house, being Well Behaved in a marked manner. When we could make her laugh again, we knew that the storm had passed.

My Dad's temper simmered on a constant low light. Displeased by practically everything,he  was possessed of a terrifying blue regard, which he would turn on the cause of his vexation. He used it on inanimate objects too, in order to intimidate  them into  running  smoothly, which reduced Mum to hysterical giggles.We would find her laughing into the coat rack,  tears pouring down her face. "Your Father.." she would  gasp "Is Scowling At The Hoover Again".

Dad didn't like throwing anything away, and was loathe to admit that things for which he had paid sometimes reached the end of their useful lives.So it was with my Budgie. Eric expired in that startling way that budgies have; one minute, going barmy round a cuttlefish..next minute, toes up and stiffening. Dad wasn't having it. After administering Resuscitatory Glaring to the lifeless bird, to no avail, he finally lifted it from the Tidysan and laid it on the roof of the cage. We were forbidden to touch it, or to plan for a funeral. He was determined that Eric would be the Lazarus of Budgerigars. I think my Mum had to wrestle it off  him to get it into the bin. There was a good seven and sixpence worth left in that bird.

My son does not fear my temper,as I am noted for the sunniness of my nature.Shouting I abhor, and my aim is so poor that throwing things is not an option. I rely on sarcasm, economic sanctions, threatened humilation in public, and big leaky tears. So far, order has been maintained. As I learned with my brother, physical violence is not a reliable tool when faced with a shapeshifting teenager.Such brute strength as I possess I conserve for getting the lids off jars of beetroot. But strangely, both the Giant Boy and my Huge Muscular Brother, are wary of my Mum.She is eighty-seven, but her aim with a slipper is still excellent,as the dog will tell you. It is now so housetrained that it puts a paw up when it wants to go out...