Love, Liverpool: an A to Z of Hope // Letter 7
Letter 7 shows us there is SO MUCH MORE of Liverpool to love, and plenty of love to go around.
Letter 7: So much more
Jump to: Audio stories // Written stories // Thank you
This episode’s commissioned piece Looking for a Book is by Inclueless Theatre. They’ve created a short video with BSL translation and captioned below.
This episodes public contributions are by Susie McIntyre, City of Dreams, Claire Heslop, Walks on Otterspool Prom, Matthew Jacobson, Norris Green, Melissa Grindon, Lark Lane and Ruth Parry, Bayswater Road.
You can listen to our audio stories here or download them later with the podcast platform of your choice.
A full transcript of our audio stories will be available soon.
Another collection of stories with this episode’s written submissions…
Emma by David Jack
The late morning breeze whistles through the air as we close the front door behind us. The dilapidated house next door, number 20, stares back coldly, and is a total contrast to the warmth of the late May sun. Rumour has it that back in the day it was a brothel with lots of dodgy dealings. We turn away from the building and head towards Sefton Park at the end of the street, excitedly gossiping, and guessing what lies ahead of us that summer. Late night parties, BBQ's with friends, evening strolls, shopping trips, theatre visits - this was the age of the young and care free.
Crossing the fields we excitedly chatted and made plans for that evenings celebrations - I had just turned 23, and we were all full of life, eager to take in whatever the world wanted to throw at us. We walked around the palm house which reflected the light, blinding us temporarily. The old Victorian building had us staring in awe. "You can get married in there you know" mentioned Peter. Eventually we reached the lake and the surface shimmered like the depths of a lovers eyes. It was glorious, and we relaxed, chatted and skipped with glee until.. "where has Emma gone?" someone asked, possibly Catherine or Emily. We all turned around, and sure enough she had vanished. "Emma!" I called. "I am not coming any closer than this" we heard her cry, somewhere the other side of a large tree. "What's up?! What's going on?" I asked. "I don't like geese!" she exclaimed. “They scare me! I was chased away by one when I was little and it bit me!"
For the next half hour we had to walk around the outside of the edge of the lake, at times stopping for a bit in case a goose was a little too close. And how we all laughed and giggled at her irrational fear. Now 10 years later I sit and fondly remember this day and other days like it from that wonderful summer. The food festivals, the runs, the parties. Because Emma didn't make it to 33 - she sadly passed away last year from a blood clot which travelled to her lungs. But in the summer of 2010 was when Emma was most alive. From running away from the geese, and partying until the early hours getting taxis back to our flat on Brompton Avenue. That is how I want to remember my dear friend. That is how I choose to remember her. To Emma, my beautiful friend. I love you.
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Haunted Smithdown by Terri Pickering
This poem was inspired by a story in the Tom Slemen ‘Haunted Liverpool’, series.
Down Smithdown Road in beer blushed haze,
At 4am young Alan strolled
While passing by the hospital
He noticed Jodie, blue with cold.
He gallantly gave up his coat
Flirting, his intentions clear
But Tony was the only one
That Jodie wanted to be near.
Alan thought she was sublime
With perfect form and long blonde hair
They walked and talked up Smithdown Road
Seemingly without a care
But when they reached the cemetery
She bowed her head and ran inside
So, Alan went to look for her
Amongst the graves of those who’d died
He searched in vain until he saw
His jacket draped a new headstone
The epitaph filled him with dread
For this cold earth was Jodie’s home.
His friend told him the sorry tale
Of Jodie’s death at just nineteen.
Waiting for Tony to pick her up
She yielded to a force unseen
The ambulance was quickly called
but there was nothing they could do
though seemingly so full of life
her heart was flawed, but no-one knew
And Tony when he heard the news
Said never would he drive again
Down Smithdown Road where his love died
For it would only bring him pain.
Alan returned to the cemetery
And laid carnations on her grave,
When leaving he turned back to see,
Sad spectre with a feeble wave.
Though years have passed you still may see,
When sun has withdrawn from the sky,
Poor Jodie waiting cold and pale
For Tony to come driving by
---
The Walker by Jane Ryan
There is a room full of statues. White statues. I think it’s on the right when you come in. We spent hours in there. The Walker. Standing still.
When were you last here? he asked.
God, it seems like forever. It hasn’t changed though. He comes at least once a month. Are you nervous about meeting him? I say.
A little bit, it’s your dad, you know.
He’ll love you – just talk about art. He loves art.
Cool.
We would come here every Saturday. Saturday was his day. He would pick me and my sister up and we would come straight here on the number 10 bus. This place kept us warm in the winter.
It’s beautiful, he replies. Nothing like this in Manchester. What does he look like?
I showed you.
No, you were about to, but then you realised all his photos on Facebook are of paintings or something.
Oh yeah.
I did see his profile pic– was of a red-haired woman. Girl, or something?
Oh, that’s by Millais, I think, it’s upstairs. He loves renaissance paintings with women all chubby and-
The men are like depicted as heroes, right? Full of muscle. Is that what your dad looks like?
I laugh and say, he likes to eat. Have you seen the cake here?
Does he look like that? He points at the statue in the centre of the café.
What, that? He has a dagger.
You know what I mean.
Does my dad go into battle?
You know what I mean. Does something in that art remind you of your dad?
I go to look and there he is. Yeah, I do actually; he would protect me from anything. So, watch out.
---
Sefton Park by Michael Stevens
When I first came to the city several years ago and settled into a flat just off Sefton Park, Lark Lane was considered one of the places to be, and occasionally I still go back there. If the majority of shops and businesses are still familiar, the steady profusion of wine bars and restaurants is more recent, wrestling custom away from the rather dour public houses. Further evidence if any were needed, of what city planners refer to as a changing urban demographic. Nothing it seems stays the same for long: take the Albert pub on the corner, once a favourite, now it looks shabby and unloved - there’s even been talk of re-development.
I’m in a particularly open and receptive frame of mind as I drive around the park, and try out new ways to give life to a story; listening and observing, waiting for that one particular image to appear, full of possibilities. An altercation in the street perhaps, or a suspicious character loitering in a doorway: something that will suggest if not an entire episode, then at least a sense of what might happen. I pass by Keith’s wine bar busy with the usual crowd; every year they look younger, more confident, more self-assured than we ever were. Suddenly a young woman appears at the corner crying into her mobile phone, her sobbing has an eerie, inconsolable quality, she is desolate and alone, nobody stops. Whatever is troubling her is too raw, too immediate; no doubt someone else will intervene. As her image recedes back into the rear view mirror and then disappears, her details are lost in the moment and escape me. We can only speculate, invent, even pass judgement; all from a safe distance; but stories can leap out when you least expect them, and catch you off guard.
Further on the park still resonates with a profusion of colour, there’s a solemn authority to the trees, mostly oaks and elms, and the occasional cedar competing for the autumn sunlight. I sense a vibrancy in the cold air, a terse reminder of the changing seasons. Out of habit I stop outside my old flat, just like old times. Now a bright orange pumpkin fills the kitchen window, hollowed out with triangular eyes and a wide mouth: a family has moved in. I can’t remember my last visit, but the same thoughts recur: ‘That’s where he used to live, back in the day, one of that new set…’ and I am left to wonder whatever did become of them; it seems the past is scattered everywhere random and forlorn, poised as the shadows deepen into the evening, just waiting to be remembered.
Elsewhere it seems little has changed, the traffic flows steadily around the park, only there are more speedbumps to navigate, more potholes and cyclists to avoid. Up ahead at the T-Junction there is a shrine to a young girl, her image at its centre is wreathed in flowers and attached to the bough of a tree, along with a poem her friends wrote. They said it was the least they could do. Now the photograph has started to fade and the tribute runs cryptic in the rain, only she still looks so young. There was that article in the local paper.
On the radio I listen to a song and the premise of a story starts to take shape in my mind, it concerns a young man who wants to go back on his word over an engagement present, but his partner will hear nothing of it: “Apropos nothing,” she said, “a promise is a promise, is a promise,” and he knew better than to argue…
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We hope you enjoyed this weeks letter, see you soon.
Love,
Liverpool
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