I hate crying down my legs but I really could do with a bit of help as I have no real resources around me at the moment. I just need to know if I;m on the right track? I have pasted my first chapter to go with my foreword for a local publisher.
It's not a massive chapter and its all in short paragraphs which is a format I think suits my style, but I;m not even sure if that would be acceptable to a publisher. So any help ar all would be really appreciated, it really would.
Teddy
Chapter One
It all started early on a Sunday morning, which was unusual for our house given that Sundays were sacred. Sacred in the sense that no one got up before noon, apart from my mother that is. She was always up with the lark, chopping, mopping, washing, sweeping and God knows what else? For his part my dad would be lying in bed no doubt with a Saturday Night hangover.
That said when he was up and about my father was never shy of telling anyone who'd listen how he worked a five and a half day a week. Meanwhile my mother quietly worked the full seven. However, this discrepancy in their shift patterns wasn't totally overlooked, as it was often the first thing to come up when they argued.
There had been a time when we got up early and just lazed around reading the papers. That was until my dad got into argument with the paper boy over a wet copy of the New of the World. After that we had to go and get the papers ourselves. This created yet another reason to stay in bed, as you could easily be sent to the newsagents if you were stupid enough to be caught 'Up and about'.
Since the heatwave had started even lying in bed was losing its appeal. Special thanks for this had to go to the crappy nylon sheets that my mum bought off the Tally man. They stuck to you the minute you began to sweat it was like being mummified on the cheap, even more given she paid monthly.
And it wasn't going fully dark either, my bedroom faced East so the suns in my face the minute it rises. Factor in the heat as well and it's like kipping at high noon outside your tent in the dessert. And as we lived in a pre- war council house, the only air conditioning available was to open the windows.
This sadly wasn't as easy as it sounded. Because on the one and a half days that he had off, my dad hated doing jobs around the house, particularly painting. His approach to the task was to just slap it on as quick as possible so that he could get back to laying on the couch watching Grandstand. Then jump up and start peeling the Sunday spuds on the couch while he watched the wrestling in order to get in my mum's good books. So, when it came to opening the windows, it turned out that every latch had been painted over and was stuck fast.
It was only after a direct threat from my mother in the shape of "Those windows had better be open when I get back from the shops!" that my dad had finally got his toolbox out. His toolbox being an old biscuit tin that contained a hammer, a large yellow handled screwdriver, a hacksaw with no blade and several loose screws and nails and a lock padlock with no key. So, after using the hammer as intended and the screwdriver as a chisel, my dad had eventually managed to get the windows open, saving his own skin and giving us temporary respite from the searing heat.
I say temporary because if there was one thing our neighbourhood was good for it was rumours and urban myths. For instance, most of the teenage girls in our road had supposedly seen the Yorkshire Ripper at least twice. And over a dozen people who after helping an Irish person with one thing or another had in return been given advice to stay away from places that were going to be bombed. And the best one being that someone who no one was really that sure who it was? Had been spiked at a party and had woken up with a kidney missing!
This being the case the conditions were ideal for the advent of 'The Paw' a rumour that go so much traction that despite the intense heat, windows were being tightly shut the minute dusk came. It had even made the Liverpool Echo who had dispatched a cub reporter only to discover that none of the alleged victims would agree to be either named nor photographed. So I suspect the story was spiked
The rumour itself begun after a couple in the next road to ours claimed to have been awoken in the night by the sound of a case snapping shut followed by a rustle of their net curtain. And having put the big light on to investigate they had found that their travel alarm clock was missing from their bedside cabinet? Soon cases were being reported all over the place. Cigarettes and lighters were the most common reported losses, vanishing into the thin night air. Also, several wirelesses had allegedly been stolen including two that were still playing radio Luxemburg.
Then a local character Billy Thompson known as 'Big Licks Billy' claimed to have lost a solid gold lighter he bought in Corfu, 200 duty-free Embassy cigarettes and an ashtray that he brought back from Benidorm. But given that he was a known show off, most assumed it was his way of reminding everyone that he'd been abroad a few times. In the end the heat beat the myth and windows began to stay open at night despite the danger.
So, there I lay wide awake on a sticky hot Sunday morning thankfully still the proud owner of a wireless. I was in an almost airless box room with my uncle Frank on the floor snoring away in a sleeping bag. Meanwhile the sounds of the Real Thing singing 'You to me are everything' was coming from the kitchen radio as my mother went about her business.
Uncle Frank was a mystery to me in many ways and his sudden return along with the fact that he had developed an American accent only added to his mystic. From what I could gather he had suddenly just up and left my nan and grandads house and had signed up with the crew of a ship headed for New York.
My dad had started calling him 'Frank the Yank' behind my mums back and told me that Uncle Frank could pick up an accent on a day out in Wales. However, being my mum's brother, his secrets were safe.
If it had been the other way round and it was my dad's brother Kevin, then the whole thing would have been out in the open. Because while my mother would never have a bad word said about her family, she rarely had a good one to say about my dad's. And there was no better way of showing how the family dynamic worked like throwing a surprise family party. And that's what was on the cards for that very day as it was my nan & grandads 40th wedding anniversary.
It was my mum who was behind the planning, but my dad was dead set against it He claimed it was because he wanted to have massive party for my mums 40th instead. When my mother suggested that they could have both, my dad pointed out that they were only five months apart and it would be a dead giveaway, whatever that meant? But as always mum's word was final, and the party was on.
How my nan and grandad would take to the idea of a party in their honour was another thing altogether. Not noted for their subtlety at the best of times, my mum had to work hard on the guest list in case someone who my nan thought needed putting straight was accidently invited.
They were not a nasty couple they just had their own views on everything. Decimal currency was their main issue despite it being over five years since its introduction. My grandad had not taken to the 'new Money' at all. Whenever you got back from the shops, he'd ask how much it cost. When you told him my nan would then convert it to 'Old Money' and every time he would reply "The robbing Swine's'"
Not that my grandad was noted for his honesty, given that he ran the Spot the Ball in his local pub which was designed to raise money for the pub team. According to the regulars if my grandad had handed in half the money that he'd collected, then they could have Pele playing up front and Sir Alf Ramsey would be the manager. He also marked the board at his local bookies, and I suspect he never declared that income to anyone either, not even my nan!
My nan on the other hand was as straight as they come if not straighter. This also applied to her approach to other people. In one recent incident a woman who lived over the road from my nan who was reportedly in her mid- forties. Had only made the mistake of passing my nans gate in a mini skirt, only to be told to her face that she looked like "Offal dressed as mutton".
Personally, I was all for a party, in fact I had the whole day planned out to perfection. For a start me and my best mate Tommo had four lots of hedges to cut that afternoon which could bring in at least two quid each. This meant that I could get whitener for my pumps, ten ciggies from the mobile shop that sold to kids and a bottle of cider from the off licence, if I could get someone to go in for me.
Cutting hedges was my main income as despite the grass being brown, privets hedges were bursting out an alarming rate. So much so that a Housing Officer had been around the area knocking on doors and telling residents to sort them out or they'd be getting a 'Letter from the Corpy' and that was not what you wanted, especially if you were behind with the rent.
Otherwise known as Liverpool Corporation, the 'Corpy' run everything from the bins to the buses to the schools, the houses and their upkeep, along with the roads and everything else. Basically, they do everything, and they get the blame for everything as well. But they're also not ones to be crossed and evictions were not uncommon. That being the case Tommo and I had taken full advantage of the situation after all no one wanted a dreaded letter especially if they were behind on their rent.
As far as planning the day goes, I was well ahead of the game having set my kit up the night before. I had lashed the rake to the frame of my racer with two old snake belts. I had my dad's shears in my Gola bag on the handlebars. And not only that but my best white Wranglers and favourite Ben Sherman shirt were already washed for the party they just needed ironing, so I was good to go.
That was until I heard my mother shouting from the bottom of the stairs in her angry voice "Get up the lot of you I've got a party to sort out!" My first reaction was to lay low as it was not a personal call to arms, so it included my dad and my Uncle Frank.
I reasoned that it would be better to be at least the second one down, that way any arguments would be out the way and there would be hot tea in the pot. Sadly, my mothers next shout was "James get down here now!"
Normally I get called Jimbo even by my mum, and as my middle name was William, I had been trying out telling girls that I was called JW, but that wasn't getting me anywhere. But to my point being called by your full name is never a good thing in my experience. And when I got to the bottom of the stairs I was proved right.
