We'd stride down the hill to town: Kensington, Prescot Street and London Road, passing the closed shops in quiet streets. Two 13 year olds on a jaunt, me with my friend Nancy in tow, headed out most Sunday afternoons. My favourite place was the Pier Head. We charged through the town whichever way I fancied.
From Mann Island, we'd make for the tunnel gangways onto the Landing Stage. If the tide was out, the smell of wet sand arose over the city. We'd raced down the gangways hoping we could stop before the river. A few people might be waiting for a ferry. If it was good weather, lots could be heading for New Brighton. I wished I could go on the ferry, but I only had a few pennies in my pocket. On a miserable day, people, would huddle under the covered area, its windows steaming up so you could barely see the boats arriving. The smell of cooking onions from the hot-dog stall luring you closer.
In this shed, we wandered round, examining the machines. We'd check the chocolate vending machine for uncollected chocolate or change. We'd decide if we were going to spend our few coins on the fortune telling machine, or the machine where, for one penny, you could stamp out your name on a strip of metal to take home. If a ferry arrived, passengers rushed forward, boarding first, to ensure a seat inside.
I loved watching ferries dock, the boatman calling to the lad on shore, ropes flying through the air, the lad tying the rope to the capstan. The passenger gangway crashed down as its chains rattled. All aboard, gangway clanked up and ropes back on deck, the ferry departed, taking my heart with it to another world. Time, then, to drag the body back up the hill, home.
- Patricia J Livingston
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