Towards Mecca via the Mersey

The first time I went on the Mersey, I took my mother with me in my handbag.

We weren`t close, but at this present moment in time, we couldn`t be closer – me sitting on the wind and rain lashed deck – water dripping down my neck and cheeks – her resting quietly and protected on my lap. We didn`t often go out together so this was an unusual occurrence to start with.

We didn`t speak, and I didn`t know, and never knew, if our silences were ever companionable or just intervals of time that were necessary in order for the inexplicable and ever present resentments to flourish and grow.

Resentment – sadness – grief –deep loss –deep love – Mix them all up and what do you get? This, I suppose.

If she could speak to me now –what would she say? If I could speak to her now –would she hear me and what would I say?

So I sit here, hearing nothing except the sound of the mechanical choking of the ferry`s motor and the squawking protests of the low flying seagulls and breathing in the paradoxical peacefulness.

Although I`m not completely comfortable with what I`m about to do, I know for certain it`s what she wants. She said it so many times and it`s written in black and white.

She ends where she began but who notices her final tribute to the city she loved except me and the Liver Birds who stare indifferently out?

…………………………………….

Closing the door to Alex Taylor`s the undertaker behind me and stepping out onto the pavement, I can`t help but notice the rain has now started in earnest. I struggle in vain to open my reluctant umbrella, but then spot McDonalds across the road and decide to make a dash for it.

Sitting there with a relieved bladder and a steaming cup of lousy coffee in front of me, I allow myself to relax and think about what happens next. My flight is booked. I`ll be returning to Turkey in four days. There are still a few loose ends to tie up, but when they are, I`ll probably leave Birkenhead and never return. Why would I? I`ve never lived here, learned here, worked here. It`s just a place I`ve been visiting for the last forty years. My reason for that is now gone. The connection is severed, I suppose, but it doesn`t feel that way and I don`t understand why.

I start thinking about yesterday on the ferry but it`s too painful. Enough time for that later. I gather up my bag and brolly. Places to go- people to see. I`ll start with the bank. They should have sorted things out by now, surely?

Once outside, my head involuntarily turns left and I look down the vista of the shopping precinct. I`ve no practical reason for going that way - in fact, the bank`s in the other direction, but it`s where my feet want to go, so I have to follow.

I look in the pound shop window on my left. It lets me know where I am for the moment, just in case I`m confused. There`s no mistaking that red cross on a white background. I`ve seen enough of those white crescents on a red background to know the difference! So many cheap bargains flew with me over the Channel and Europe to be given as gifts to unsuspecting in-laws who were so appreciative (especially when I lied excessively about the price).

The feet walk into Bon Marche. I look around and remember the countless times I would come in here and stock up on `school clothes` - smart skirts and blouses. Female teachers in Turkey are not allowed to wear trousers. I was always amazed at how cheap the clothes were compared to prices in Istanbul. I`d often buy a nightie or top as a surprise for my mother. Lilac was her favourite colour but she liked pink, too. She was never effusive with her thanks but I could tell from the softened expression she was pleased.

On, past Boots, where I`d bought the blood pressure machine which everyone took the mickey out of me for here in England, saying I was obsessive about the health of my family. How could they understand that the lack of a National Health System and having to pay for literally everything connected to medical treatment down to a simple cotton wool swab used before an injection, made the purchase a necessity rather than an indulgence?

Resting my aching legs on a bench in the square, I look at the solitary old lady opposite. What are her memories or is she already starting to forget? If I stayed in England, would I be her one day? I look at the little boy scaring the pigeons and remember.

When I was back in Birkenhead on visits, mum used to bring Kerem here as a toddler in his pushchair. They`d feed the pigeons and laugh ecstatically at the ensuing squawking and fluttering. Years later, he would wheel her down to this same place. He loved her and she loved him completely and unconditionally and I was so thankful for that.

Nothing much has changed, except now, you`re not allowed to feed the pigeons – and my mother died.

Looking at the statues in St Werburgh`s churchyard, I reflect. In England , they should comfort me – arms beseechingly uplifted to heaven to plea on my behalf for understanding, forgiveness and peace. In Turkey, they would be condemning me to eternal damnation. Any human form of religious effigies are forbidden and abhorrent to Muslims.

Will I never be able to explain to them back there why we, in England, `burn the bodies of our loved ones like rubbish`? Does it really all come down to `geography` in the end?

Back to reality. I was going to call it a day and nip into a taxi outside Beatties, but I need a loo and quickly. The nearest one I can think of is the one in front of the market.

With that familiar feeling of a relieved bladder, I decide that I`m hungry and realise I haven`t eaten anything all day, so, lured by the smell of fried onions coming from the snacks van outside the public toilets ( not the most suitable location), I buy a hotdog. Why do they always smell more appetising than they taste?

Seeing that the rain has stopped and the sun has actually come out, I decide to brave it and sit on one of the benches opposite, placing a carrier bag on it beforehand. After feeding most of the hotdog to the impatiently waiting pigeons, I tentatively look around, light up a cigarette and start to people watch. Funny how old habits die hard. In Turkey, it`s deemed `common` for women to smoke or eat in the street but perfectly alright for men. It`s also disrespectful for females to smoke in front of older male relatives in the house, but yay okay again for men. Imagine my confusion when I`d offer a woman a cigarette and she`d take it gratefully and the next time, she`d tut and shake her head disapprovingly saying she didn`t smoke. Mind you – that`s just the way it is, but I could have been forewarned, don`t you think?

Now that the hotdog`s gone, the pigeons start to desert me, flying off or scuttling jerkily and resentfully to the next bench in search of richer pickings. One, with a particular axe to grind, thinks it`s being clever and getting one over on me. It flies over and around me a few times, craps on my handbag, squawks and flies off. Eyes following it and seeing where it lands, I smile to myself. The offending bird had flown up into the air, veering right and settled on one of the arch shaped structures above the entrance to Mecca Bingo Hall for a few seconds before changing its mind and flying off into the distance, out of sight.

Mum always was one for questionable humorous jokes and gestures. She really believed that being crapped on by a bird brought good luck and if it happened on a day she was going to bingo, she`d win. I suppose she was the archtypical bingo addict. I remember she was in Turkey once on New Year`s Eve. She had a houseful of us playing bingo with those little paper cards and counters, insisting that they all had to shout `House!` in English if they won. She also tried to teach the gang of in-laws `Auld Lang Syne` which degenerated into a cross between `The Hokey Kokey` and a rugby scrum. What sticks in my mind most about that is there was so much laughter and not a drop of alcohol in sight and it was my mother who had created that laughter.