Tuesday, 15 October 1940
The plateau by St George’s Hall was busy with visitors. Children in dusty clothes ran amongst the crowd as their parents shouted to them to slow down and behave, and women and older men in expensive suits paraded around the raised promenade. Anthony had wanted to see for himself what the War Week parade was all about, but for some reason he had not expected it to be quite so busy. He had thought that most would be at work, but then he himself had managed to find time to take in the event. There was something about Liverpool that no matter what happened its residents would find a way to let off steam and relax. They would take part in whatever was happening and yet somehow the work would always get done. It was quite impressive and never failed to give the city a lively feel.
St John’s Gardens below them was often as busy as it was on that day, with the statue of Britannia in its centre. He remembered looking up at her stone visage when he had first moved to the city as a younger man, wondering what victories she would bring him and hoping that one day he would be able to join the air force and provide his own.
St George’s Plateau ran across the top of the park, at the base of St George’s Hall, which was modelled after the National Gallery in London. He had read about that, but having only seen the National Gallery once from a distance the other side of Trafalgar Square, he would have to take their word for it. It was an impressive building and at times acted more like the town hall than the actual town hall up on Castle Street.
Anthony pushed his way through the crowd and onto the plateau, careful not to bump into anyone and thankful that on his own he could pass through with ease. The crowds were so thick he felt a sense of unease.
Dotted around the plateau were volunteers, holding metal buckets and shaking them occasionally. The tink of coins could almost be heard above the hubbub of the crowd. One of them, a young woman, appeared in front of him now, pushing the bucket in his direction with a smile. He reached into his pocket for some coins, and dropped them into the bucket with a loud clatter. Apparently the bucket was quite empty.
He crossed the plateau, making his way around St George’s Hall in the direction of the Waterloo Memorial, Wellington stood atop his column. In peacetime he would have gone to the Walker Art Gallery, but now the paintings and frescoes had been taken down and hidden away in case the building was bombed. He had spent many an hour there, sheltering from the elements be it rain or too much shine. He wondered whether he would ever see the paintings again, or whether they would be kept in storage for years to come. If the Nazis came, what would happen to them then?
The crowds were thickest on the Lime Street side of the hall, but even from there Anthony could make out the gold-chain garbed Lord Mayor of Liverpool. He stood near the cenotaph, flanked on either side by army and navy senior officers as well as a group of men whom Anthony assumed were from the Liverpool National Savings Committee. A number of them shuffled their feet impatiently while policemen kept the crowds away from them.
Anthony worked his way closer. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to be nearer, to be a part of the ceremony. The mayor was giving a speech, but Anthony couldn’t hear much as his words were swept away by the wind and the general noise of the crowd. He only caught the odd word, but could get the idea. It was about the pride of Liverpool, its contribution to the war effort and how they were all pulling together. Anthony wondered how much of his own streets the Lord Mayor had actually seen. Had he been above ground during a raid? Anthony didn’t think so, otherwise the Lord Mayor might have taken a different approach.
At that moment a band struck up, causing Anthony to flinch. He hadn’t seen the military band waiting patiently on the street until they had started to play. The steady rhythm rose as each instrument fell into line with the others, drowning out the crowd. They preceded the march as it began to snake its way along Lime Street. Liverpool had a strong connection with the military, a number of its regiments had fought through the last war, at Ypres, Passchendaele and others, but Anthony hadn’t quite realised how many of them there were currently stationed in and around the city. There were thousands of them in procession, throwing a salute towards the gathered dignitaries as they passed the cenotaph. First came the soldiers in khaki, displaying various cap badges, then the territorials. Navy personnel followed, from ratings to officers, the detail of their uniforms showing their hierarchy. A group of Wrens passed, eliciting wolf whistles and cheers from a group of men.
The march was taking its time, but still the crowds stood by, soaking up the atmosphere and revelling in the pomp. For a second the uniforms of the navy gave Anthony a recollection of the newsreels they had been shown before the war of German soldiers goose-stepping through Nuremberg. He realised, if not for the efforts of the RAF and the anti-aircraft guns, it could quite easily have been the Wehrmacht making their way down Lime Street saluting a newly installed German commander of the city. The thought made him shudder and he took a step away from the masses, feeling the intense pressure of it pushing in on him.
He tripped on the edge of the pavement and dropped. Even as he grappled for some kind of support the ground rushed up at him. It took longer than he imagined, but eventually the road wiped the air from his lungs as his splayed arms were crushed underneath his body. He lay for a moment, collecting his thoughts. The roar of the crowd poked through his dizziness, filtering through like the start of a film reel warming up. He pushed himself to his knees, but buckled again to lie on his side. Looking up, two wide nostrils of a horse filled his view as it reared up in surprise. The officer in its saddle cursed at him as he tried to bring the horse back under control and dodge around Anthony. He offered his apology but it was lost in the roar. Before he could attempt to rise again, a policeman grasped him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him out of the way. The starched linen cut into his throat, stilling any protest he may have had.
‘Bloody fool,’ the policeman said, giving Anthony a kick in the ribs for his trouble. Then it was over. The policeman left him lying on the ground as the sounds of the military bands disappeared into the distance. Members of the crowd gave him pitying glances as they moved away, pointedly avoiding him. The cobbles were beginning to cut into him and the muscles in his back tensed. With a struggle he hauled himself to his feet. He had become too used to wallowing in self-pity and the only way to fight it was to occupy his mind with something else. His legs ached as he stumbled away, but he had been lucky not to have been trampled by the horse. A few Union flags had been dropped on the ground and he glanced at them as he passed. How quickly national fervour could be forgotten when there was nothing left to see.
He crossed to where the Lord Mayor had stood, taking in the memorial to those lost in the first war. It was designed to look like soldiers fighting in the trenches and though he had no realistic idea of what that had been like, to him it captured the mutual struggle involved in fighting that war. The cenotaph was a block of stone, but that made it no less impressive. He touched a hand to the surface, feeling the cold grey. It might have felt disrespectful, but he wanted to feel it, to connect with those who had perished during the last war. They had given so much to protect them, yet here they were at war with Germany again. A tear rolled down his cheek and he wiped it away.