The Thistle, Breck Road

Unknown house interior c1890

Most of us who collects photographs finish up with family albums and family photographs which offer a tantalising glimpse of the past – even if the people and location are often not known. I have dozens of photographs ranging from WW1 soldiers, young children in prams, proud shopkeepers outside their premises, families on the beach – even children on their death bed. So many questions arise – but even unanswered, they are fascinating social documents. Quite a few years back, Audrey Linkman, realising the historical significance of such photographs, established the NW Documentary Photography Archive – which is now housed at the Greater Manchester Record Office. Most of its holdings are from the Manchester area and are a rich and important resource for the wider community. Is it time we did the same for Liverpool and bring together the thousands of photographs held in family albums – along with the stories behind each one? The NWDPA in most cases just copied the original – but the result is a regional treasure trove.

Here are two of my images which would benefit from more information. The first of an old lady and dog outside The Thistle. What was it? It says high class but the only clues are pots of aspidistras in one window and a few bottles in the other. The other photograph is equally enigmatic, showing an old lady in her well-furnished living room. The pictures on the wall suggest she is relatively well off – but there are no clues as to where the house was.

Temperance March c1895

There is a substantial number of contemporary accounts of life in nineteenth century Liverpool. Journalists such as Hugh Shimmin wrote extensively about slum life, usually sympathetically but invariably looking at drink as the underlying cause of poverty. Invariably, middle class response to the threat of the ‘underclass’ was to lobby for tighter controls on the sale of alcohol – with a growing number arguing for total abstinence. Signing the ‘pledge’ (not to drink) and supporting temperance organisations such as the Band of Hope attracted national support – even if, like most bandwagons, it eventually ran out of steam.

The first photograph, of Burlington Street, is one of a series taken by Liverpool photographer N. Stephen, a committed anti-drink campaigner, and used as lantern slides in temperance lectures. The second photograph, which looks as if it has been taken somewhere near Abercromby Square, shows what appears to be a well-heeled crowd about to start their procession. The distance between the two locations is only a couple of miles in distance – but light years in comfort, opportunity and life expectancy. A century on, one might ask ‘what has changed?’

I was reliably told by a member of English Heritage some years back that there were about 30 equestrian statues (i.e statues with someone on them) in Britain. I have forgotten the exact number (33 springs to mind) and an internet search has been of little help. Liverpool has four of them (Victoria and Albert on St George’s Plateau/King Edward VII at Pier Head and George III outside TJ Hughes on London Road).
Now we have another statue of a horse (although without a rider) down at Mann Island (to be revealed once the new Museum of Liverpool is opened. This one is in tribute to the role the working horse (and carter) played in the vital transporting of goods to and from the docks. Today’s photograph celebrates their contribution and looks as if it was taken in the late 1940s or early 1950s. Once a familiar sight, their days were numbered as motorised transport took over their role.
As for the statue, I have only seen press photos so far – so I will have to reserve my judgement until I see it in situ. I hope it is better than many of the recent ’school of realism’ efforts that have sprung up over recent years. It is interesting that the two most popular sculptures (Superlambananas and Antony Gormley’s Other Place) are far more abstract in concept than the literalism of most of the others. Perhaps an indication to those who commission art that people are more adventurous than they are given credit for.

While researching yesterday’s post about Squeaking Jimmy, I dug out my copies of Horne and Maund’s seminal five book series Liverpool Transport. A lifetime’s work – these are often described as books for ‘anoraks’ by those with only a passing interest in transport. To me, they belong to a fine tradition of writing about Liverpool that I believe is unrivalled in any other city.
Over the last 40+ years, the number of books keeps rising, including many seminal works such as Quentin Hughes’s Seaport – which had a profound effect on all who read it – and the Pevner series, recently brilliantly revised in two volumes by Richard Pollard and Joseph Sharples. There have been many other important books – including English Heritage’s six volume series published for Capital of Culture Year. I have published approaching 200 titles as Bluecoat Press and yet I have turned down five times as many because there is a limit to what I can do. The result of all this effort is a deep awareness of the Liverpool’s rich history – quite astonishing for such a ‘young’ city. Go to Manchester, Newcastle, Leeds or any other city and you will find nothing like the same breadth or depth of titles. Sadly, I see the number of books being published rapidly slowing down – after all, there are only two major bookshops (both Waterstones) in the city centre and little else outside. The internet is obviously a superb source of information but it is difficult to replicate the structure of a physical book (although ebooks will soon take on this function).
Publishing is at an interesting crossroads and I hope my blog helps in the transition from paper to digital. Today’s photographs are a case in point – two previously unpublished images of market life in the 1890s. Both are captioned Back o’ the Market and bear close similarities to Inston’s work. This is life in the raw as hawkers try to make a few pennies from selling rags, broken crockery or whatever else can make them a few coppers.

My apologies for the short break – and also for the quality of today’s photograph, an 1890s lantern slide which has deteriorated over the years. Nevertheless, it is a great image of street life taken with a hand-held camera. In my book on Charles Frederick Inston, I outlined the way in which camera technology became more portable and film became faster and easier to use once roll-film came into use. Naturally this changed the way photographers worked and candid street photography became a fashion that was reflected in the competition categories amongst amateur photographic societies. Within a short period of time, photography shifted from being a rich man’s pursuit to a popular medium within the pockets of working men and women.
The photograph is captioned Squeaking Jimmy, Church Street. The building in the background is Russell’s Building, which was bombed during the War and later replaced by Littlewoods (now Primark). As for Squeaking Jimmy – I can only guess that he was selling those little toy whistles that imitate bird noises or something similar – unless there is a more sinister interpretation to his name.

I have to be a bit careful about cinema locations after my post about the Gaumont, but this is a queue for the Futurist on Lime Street in the early 1950s. The main point of interest is the man with his godly message. I remember him as late as the 1980s in Church Street, still pushing the same proclamation. He seemed remarkably good-natured, although I suppose after 30 years he had survived every insult and witticism anyone could throw at him.

There is a long tradition of photographing street characters. John Thompson had started the genre in 1870s London and it was then developed by many other photographers, particularly after hand-held cameras became widely used in the 1890s. Amateur photographic societies often included a category for street photography in their annual competitions and Liverpool had, in Charles Inston, one of the greatest exponents. Today’s streets perhaps lack the variety – back in the 1950s there were escapologists, strong men having paving slabs shattered with sledge-hammers on their chests as well as the singers, violinists and whistle players – but is still plenty of life to be captured and kept for a future generation.

I reckon I’ve been a bit serious with my recent blogs, so here is an image from 1969 that should raise a smile or two. The Swan was pulled down a few years back for road improvements but I don’t think it ranks highly on the list of lost buildings. As for the mini skirts, they were amongst the last to be seen for a time as the long, flowing skirts, loon pants  etc. took over. The police, as always, are on the lookout for crime on the streets.

I had never come across the annual Orange marches until I came to Liverpool. My first experience was when I worked in Seel Street in 1974 and heard an incredible thumping of drums and the wail of bagpipes. Rushing up to Berry Street, I was mesmerised by a long procession of pipers, drummers, baton carriers and serious looking men and women with orange bands all marching in time. Above all was the sight of numerous King Billys (all women dressed up with flowing wigs) with their consort, Queen Mary, alongside them.
This was the Dingle contingent marching to catch the train to Southport and, in the early 1970s, they made up a sizeable crowd.
Sectarianism is one of those unspoken aspects of Liverpool’s history and the violent riots of the early twentieth century have been pushed back from memory. However one views its historical past, I am surprised that the annual parades have not been better documented. They are a fascinating part of local history and judging by recent thinly attended parades, might follow Judas burning and other once common ceremonies into folk lore. Photographs like these two are not about partisanship but about recording for posterity – although I am not sure whether the three girls in their yellow costumes would be quite as keen.

There cannot be many pubs in Liverpool named in honour of their landlord/landlady. Peter Kavanagh’s on Egerton Street is one and Ma Egerton’s on Pudsey Street is another. Dublin-born Mary Egerton came to Liverpool in the 1890s and managed the American Bar in Lime Street before taking over The Eagle in Pudsey Street, behind the Empire Theatre. Her bar became the favourite haunt of performers and she became friends with many, including Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy and, later, Judy Garland.
One of her claims to fame is that her observation led to the arrest of the infamous Dr Crippen. But first to the photographs. The bottom image is of an older Ma enjoying the company of visiting sailors. The top photograph is of her in the company of visiting performers including her friend Marie Lloyd (seated with a black dress with pearls, Ma is standing next to her). Marie was a superstar of her time, a bawdy singer whose use of double-entendre thrilled audiences yet shocked the moralists. A typical song line ‘I sits among the cabbages and peas’ outraged her critics – so she agreed to change the line to ‘I sits among the cabbages and leeks’ to even greater audience approval. A strong supporter of workers’ rights, she was at the forefront of a strike by theatre workers for better pay. Picketing outside a London theatre, her attention was drawn to a young actress, Belle Elmore, crossing the strike line. ‘Don’t worry about her – she will empty the theatres faster than us’ Marie shouted .. and here the story of the top photograph unfolds.
Belle Elmore was married to Dr Crippen and less than three years later was murdered and dismembered by her husband, who took up with his lover, Ethel le Neve. At some point after the murder, Ma Egerton visited London, where she came across Crippen, who was an old friend. She noticed that le Neve was wearing Belle’s jewellery and, her suspicions aroused, contacted the police. Crippen realised that he was under threat of being exposed, fled to Belgium with le Neve, where they boarded SS Montrose which was bound for Canada. To cover their tracks, le Neve dressed as a young man. Unfortunately for the pair, the SS Montrose was one of the first ships to have the newly invented Marconi wireless installed and the ship’s captain, suspicious of the couple who were seen holding hands, contacted his base, who in turn called in Scotland Yard. Crippen was arrested on arrival and returned to Britain where he was tried and hanged. So there is a bit of criminal history in one photograph (and one overlong blog).