Originally Posted by
brian daley
Since reading about the re-union my mind has been deluged by memories of the place I once called home.
Coming from a cold water lodging in Toxteth, Speke Road Gardens seemed like paradise,from the red tiled roofs and the biscuit coloured brickwork,the georgian type window frames ,scarlet front doors with the elegant brass letter box and door knocker,the whole building sang of solidity and safety,I felt safely at home.
The tenements had been opened in 1929, a fact I learned from the date marked on the drain boxes by the eaves. For a child ,that was in the olden days. We arrived there in 1952, shortly after Norm left,the first of the second generation. There was an heirarchy and a sense of order,the parents ruled the roost there ,you never gave cheek to an adult,if you did ,word would soon get back to your family and your dad would soon sort you out. After your parents ,the caretaker was the next person you obeyed;he was a person of respect and was responsible for the upkeep of your square. Each square had its own gang, at the head of which was the eldest teenager, the head of our squares gang in 1952 was a youth called Ronnie Jones. He would organise our games,"kick the can", "relieveo" ( or,rallyo, the name changed in the late '50's). This was in the pre tv years, and a kids place was in the play ground or on the green. We had lots of chasing games and would improvise when the need arose.
We were very territorial, we hardly ever played in another square,they had their own gangs and we sometimes fought them, not in reality, we would have battles in which we would play Japs and Commando's ,or cowboys and Indians; there times when we would make alliances with the other squares,like when kids from down the cinder path,or under the bridge came to rob our bonfire wood. Then we would unite and go and get our firewood back. Our games hardly ever strayed beyond the boundary of the accepted norms of behaviour,we were always overlooked by our parents who used to watch from the balconies. They would lean on the balcony wall,chatting to the neighbours while keeping an eye on us.
There were no committees ,or parent groups, just the elders looking out for the young.
We belonged to a kind of extended family, the elders organised the upkeep of the immediate living areas, the flights of stairs, up and down from your landing, were the responsibility of the families adjacent to them, my mum took it turns with our neighbour on the other side of the stair well to keep the stairs ,and walls ,clean . They cleaned them by scrubbing on their hands and knees. Woe betide any kid caught chalking on the walls. We could chalk on the pavement in the square, how else could you play hopscotch?. On rainy days, the stairs became our clubroom, there we would sing the latest hits that we had heard on the radio,play "True,dare,kiss or command" or "Postmans knock", that's how some of us got to kiss our first girlfriends. On summers eve's those squares would ring to the sounds of laughter and, when night began to fall ,the cries of mothers began to be heard as they called out to their children to come home for bed.
My family left the Gardens in 1960, in those short eight years ,changes had happened which led to a loss of the old order. The newer arrivals would not join in with the cleaning of the stairs, graffitti began to appear on the walls and litter was left unpicked. I had to go back there in 1970 and was shocked at the dilapidation, there was a mass of grafitti ,in different coloured paints,not chalk, the swings in the play ground were vandalised and broken glass was strewn in the road. I almost wept, gone was that place of safety, the place I had known as home. When I was back up in Liverpool ,in the early 80's ,or very late 70's, I took my children to see the place that marked me for life. It was in the process of being demolished, our old block was reduced to a pile of rubble, and I stood amidst the heaps of bricks ,my ears filled with the sounds of that distant childhood, and gave thanks for having known it at its best.
BrianD
