‘Number eleven in the centre of the terrace is a small house with a bow-window in the front overlooking a tiny garden surrounded by a low privet hedge. Open the front door and in we go, to find ourselves in a small vestibule with what is obviously the “parlour” on the right-hand side. Let’s have a look. Neat and tidy as one would expect. Not a trace of dust, and the smell of Brasso and beeswax furniture polish tells us that there is a house-proud mother somewhere. Notice the framed pictures of Rio de Janeiro in which a collage of butterfly wings has been used as a background, the Moroccan pouffe and the procession of miniature ebony elephants, suggesting that whoever lives here has travelled abroad. I think much of the furniture polish will have gone on the radiogram over there, and on the upright piano, obviously much in use on account of the sheet music propped up and the lid left open. Let’s have a quick peep at the LP on the turntable and see what their taste in music is. My money is on Glenn Miller. Joseph Locke perhaps? No, I’m wrong, Beniamino Gigli. Ooh. Aren’t we posh!
‘We can lose that I think. Let’s move on to the living room, and mind the crucifix on the wall as you back down the hall.
‘Living room, recently redecorated and very much up to the standard of cleanliness we’ve already come to expect. In the centre of the room a square dining table with four chairs, and two tapestry easy chairs by the fireplace. Low oak sideboard, on top of which are a pair of brass candlesticks and a pewter tea service consisting of a teapot, sugar bowl and milk jug. Probably a black iron grate over there once upon a time, with a hob and an oven. Gorgeous, weren’t they? But a devil to clean, so it’s been replaced by this geometric fifties version of brown and beige tiles. A pair of hunting prints on the wall? No, I rather doubt if a Master of the Hunt lives here, but they do provide a glimpse of the countryside. Rather a dark room being overlooked by the backs of those houses opposite; and while we’re by the window, notice the pane of glass at the bottom here has recently been replaced, the putty is still soft. Would I be right in suspecting a small boy playing with a ball in the backyard? We shall see. A small bookcase above a writing bureau. Let’s have a look … Family Medical Encyclopaedia … World Atlas … Adventures on the Roof of the World, some National Geographic magazines, P. G. Wodehouse … Mazo de la Roche … Some authors I don’t seem to recognise … Novels about the sea, which surely gives us a further clue …
‘Leading into an extremely small kitchen, which is very dark indeed, overlooked by the house next door. Gas stove on the left, standing next to a green-and-cream-painted kitchen cabinet complete with glass-fronted cupboards and a fold-down table. On the right, below the window and with a sumptuous view of the backyard wall, a chest of drawers with a spotlessly scrubbed surface, on which the lady of the house no doubt does her baking. And hanging from the ceiling what looks like two iron coat hangers with wooden slats fitted in, and a rope-and-pulley system, one of those fabulous contraptions they used for hanging out the washing to dry. Absolutely of its time!
‘In the far right-hand corner the kitchen sink with the inevitable Ascot heater providing the hot water. And not only for washing-up, because along the length of the far wall is an iron bath, with a low curtain of yellow gingham to hide its modesty, and a removable lid of plywood covered with Formica. No central heating, of course, and even now there’s one helluva draught blowing under the back door.
‘Is it time for a coffee-break do you think, or would you rather carry on? Yes, so would I, so let’s continue upstairs.
‘Its dreadfully narrow, so do be careful, Giles.
‘And the stairs lead directly into a small bedroom, a girl’s by the look of it. I should imagine this was formerly the bathroom, which has been converted. Linoleum flooring and an empty fire grate. Coming out, we take two steps up to the left into what is obviously the boy’s room. One large wardrobe with a full-length mirror that seems to glower over the room. Again, it’s very dark in here, the only view being a sky the colour of old saucepans reflected in the dull grey roof tiles of the house opposite. It’s about thirty metres away and it’s got its back to us. Another unused iron fire grate and the inevitable linoleum. In the recess next to the fireplace what used to be known as a tallboy, a high chest of drawers made in two sections and placed one on top of the other. Alongside the bed what would appear to be a home-made bookcase. Let’s have a shuftie. Comics mainly: The Wizard, The Hotspur, Adventure, Rover, and some abbreviated classics, A Christmas Carol, A Tale of Two Cities, Treasure Island, the usual boy’s stuff. No sign of any particular hobbies or interests, unless you count Owzat, a sort of rolling-dice game that is set out on the top shelf, next to the cricket scorebook and pencil stubs. And we can’t leave without saying goodbye to the Virgin Mary, whose statue it is on top of the tallboy.
‘And cut! And Giles, please make sure that Toby doesn’t lose the bit about the saucepan-coloured sky, I really liked that. Did you? Thank you.
‘The master bedroom at the front of the house is bigger and much lighter thanks to the two windows overlooking the cobbled street outside. Double bed, and bedroom suite consisting of dressing table and matching wardrobe. A painted plaster statue of St Theresa, I think it is, on the mantelpiece and an even larger statue of some saint or other on top of the cupboard.
‘Cut! Who is it, Giles? Anybody know? Saint Anthony perhaps, although it could be Saint Francis of Assisi. That’s a gorgeous little town, anybody been there? You have! All right, then, let’s make it Saint Francis.
‘A painted plaster statue of Saint Theresa on the mantelpiece, and an even larger statue of Saint Francis of Assisi on top of the cupboard. So there you have it, a quick glimpse through the keyhole of an ordinary working-class house in post-war Liverpool. And it’s back to David in the studio.
‘And cut! God, Giles, do you think there’ll be a Caffè Nero around here? No, neither do I.’