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My submission is about summer picnics at the beach, wrote Betty Swart, now living in Gloucester, MA, USA.
We were young enough before the war --- at least, most of us were --- to look forward to day trips with Mam and Dad. The war, my Dad working long hours and long weeks, curtailed our outings, and by the time the war was over most of us were too old for such things.
Living in the Liverpool-Manchester-St. Helens triangle, we might go to Billinge Hill, Taylor Park, or Carr Mill Dam. If we were lucky, and my Dad's horse had come in, we'd go to Mossley Hill Zoo, Bellevue, or Southport. But every year, no matter what, we went to New Brighton.
Now, with New Brighton being on the Wirral Peninsula, the other side of the Mersey from us, we had to take a tramcar to Liverpool, eight miles away, then a ferry across the river. It couldn't have been easy for my parents with six small children, the buckets and spades, towels, and food enough for the day, but we'd been taught not to complain or make nuisances of ourselves and I don't remember anything or anybody getting lost.
My mother would be up early making sandwiches, or 'butties,' as we called them. Jam butties. Cheese, maybe. And in good times, meat paste bought by the ounce from the pie-and-cold-meat shop. She'd have made a sandwich cake the night before and cut it into portions. There might be a few bananas. And all went into a suitcase. My mother carried the smallest child and my father the next oldest along with the suitcase.
From our house we could hear the tram grind up the hill to the Prescot terminus. If we left the house right away we'd be in time to see the conductor switch the trolley to what was now the back of the tram, and to get on in time to help the driver reverse the backs of the wooden seats with a satisfying 'bang.' We travelled cheap: most of us weren't old enough to pay the child's twopenny fare.
'Pling. Pling,' was the signal for the tram to lurch onto the straight-of-way and grind back up the hill. Past the shopkeepers pulling down the awnings for the day. Past the first few shoppers in cardigans and modest hats, carrying shopping baskets. Past the dentist's office, a high and forbidding Victorian on the crest of Prescot's hill. And finally, the steep glide out of town and into the countryside that lay between us and Liverpool.
'Huyton Lane,' the conductor called. 'Blue Bell.' Then, 'Knotty Ash.' By the time he called, 'Old Swan,' we were in the city's outskirts, and by 'Lime Street Station' we were well inside it. But we had to be patient a while longer, for the terminus, and our destination, was 'Pier Head.'
The Pier Head was where trams from all around the city poured forth families bent on the same destination as us. Children in summer togs; fathers in old suits and hats and mothers in whatever came to hand and shoes with heels. We hung onto each other as the throng caught us up and pressed everyone hip to hip at the entrance to the gangway.
There we'd stand, excited yet patient, waiting for the 'Iris' to bob up against the landing. A big, old tub, it seemed to me, no effort ever made to brighten it with colours to reflect the pleasures of sun and sand. And when the plank went down, a slow shuffling began, so very slow, my mother wondered if there'd be any seats
left when we got on. There usually weren't, and we'd stand on the upper deck, we kids' heads pressed up against some lady's leg, and faces only inches from those of other children who made it clear they didn't like us.
'Mam, that girl's staring at me,' you might hear, and see maternal elbows applied to complaining heads.
Once we were 'over the water,' the surging descent to shore began --- I remember the quick patter of feet --- until at last we disembarked onto the promenade, and arrived, at length, at the beach.
First job, of course, stake out a position. Couldn't take too long at it: the place grew more crowded with every arrival of the ferry. Next, rent two deck chairs and set them facing the water, while we children stripped down to the prickly wool bathing suits we'd worn all the way there, and which we tried mightily not to get wet, for fear of wearing them home with a quart or two of water weighing them down.
Now, into the Mersey up to our knees, never mind the dark water and the brown bits that coated our legs. Jumping, shouting, delighting in the open reaches of the river; the gulls; the mussel and cockle shells; the occasional glimpses of ships. And thinking, always, of the contents of the suitcase, wedged close to the feet of our drowsing parents.
There wasn't much sun, of course. This was north-west England. From an early age I'd developed the habit of scanning the sky whenever the shade grew chilly. Looking for a break in the clouds. Waiting for the feel of warm sun on my shoulders. When the sun did stay awhile, adults covered their faces with newspaper against a burn.
There came that time at length when the lunch sandwiches outdrew the water and the sand. When Dad established that the time was right, he walked up to the promenade and bought a large pot of tea. Out of the suitcase came our cups, and the welcome brew, already milked and sugared, poured into them. It tasted as good then as it does today.
No juice or soda or paper cups in those days; not in our frame of reference; no thirst, really, unless the day was warm and you'd been working hard. Then water filled the bill. But tea, now, that had nothing to do with thirst. Tea was what you took with meals.
After lunch, Dad helped us build a sand castle. I realized later, when we learned about medieval castles at school, that we had been building, all unawares, a small replica of a real castle: keep, corner towers, moat, battlements. The configuration had been passed on down by generations of children.
When the sun sank low in the sky and we children developed goosebumps, we'd pull on our clothes over the sand and wet of our bathing suits and walk up to the promenade. We watched people on carnival rides or trying to win at the sideshows. Rarely did we ever ride. We'd long silently for the stuffed toys on the ring-toss game, or the duck shoot.
But my Dad had said the games were rigged --- the rings never fitted over the blocks the toys lay on, and the rifle barrels were crooked. I suspected the truth was, we simply didn't have the money for such entertainments and he didn't want us to know it. Yet oddly, he was interested in the man who guessed people's weights, and usually had a go.
We never got to the ferry early enough to avoid the crowds. Going back was harder; we were bone tired, drowsy, complaining. The tram at least had seats. I remember three of us to a seat, tumbling toward each other in a heap and waking only when we sensed the downward run from Prescot Town hall to the terminus.
Do I remember anything after that? Not a thing. And when next year came around, I didn't remember the grimy river water, the chill breeze, the sandy butties or the weary drag home. Big enough to carry the suitcase now, I brought up the rear of the happy crew heading for the tram.
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