Footprints in time- March

Gosh, the 21st of each month comes round quickly and it is already March, the month of my birthday, and the first day of Spring. Back in January we booked a weekend in Liverpool to coincide with my birthday and continue this year of seizing the date before it sucks the energy out of us, a calculated counterbalance to the sinking dread of before.
We had few plans other than to get there and at some point take Matthew to Goodison Road to see where my Mum grew up with her brothers and sisters. Little did we know, at the time, that the weekend had an energy, a force, and a plan of its own, one that would lead us into the unknown and tease us with what we thought we knew. This amazing, vibrant city threaded with history, music, trade and a unique sense of humour wove my story into hers so that we danced in time and tune, mirroring each other perfectly for two glorious Spring days.

After a rather scary search down unfamiliar narrow cobbled streets and bewildering one-way systems that everyone seemed to know how to navigate, except us, we finally parked the car, checked in and breathed out. Resisting the desperate longing to collapse on the extended leather sofa with a gin and tonic and the TV, we set off for lunch at the Albert Dock.
The inevitable commercialism and tourism that pervades the pedestrian walkways cannot conceal, distract or dismiss the history of the buildings, the deep basins of murky water and the echoes of sailors, slaves and merchants haggling, harassing and hood winking the traders of times gone by. The Mersey slipped past, not the prettiest of rivers by far, but rather a statement of strength and purpose, as she flowed out to sea, ignoring the warehouses, loft apartments, restaurants and the History of Liverpool Museum itself.
Stupidly...again....I allowed myself to be enticed onto the same Ferris wheel I was terrified of in
Manchester at New Year. Why do I do it? Up we rose above the city, the river, the theatre and the tiny dots of busy folk, all oblivious to my white knuckles and fixed smile.
On the third rotation (please, God, don't make me go round again!) there, below us, was a sea of turquoise and glitter as the theatre disgorged thousands of petite wannabe Elsa's, and the occasional embarrassed Olaf, into the afternoon sunshine. At the moment when dizzy horror met Frozen fantasy, we ' Let it go! ' and headed up through a maze of historic streets, to the modern Metropolitan Cathedral.
I have always found solace and peace in the empty spaces of a church. It doesn't matter if it is large,
vacuous, old, new, soaring or confined, there is something calming and soothing, reverent and quietening in being in the unseen presence of our God. The Cathedral was no different. Light flooded the space with a fusion of colours reflected from the bold geometrical windows. God's own
rainbow offering hope, comfort, forgiveness in His promise, so awe inspiring it brought us to our knees to utter mumbled thanks, pleas and familiar prayers. Bach's Fugue in G Minor soared to the top of this ecclesiastical tepee, filling  the space with beauty beyond description, as a group of musicians rehearsed for an evening concert. The need to light a candle in memory of Mark pulled us towards a side chapel, where a wooden carving of Jesus invited us to bring the little children to Him. The text was in both English and Chinese! Of course it was!
A quick return to the car and we were journeying past the old docks, warehouses, grain silos and nodding cranes on our way to Crosby beach, where Anthony Gormley's figures awaited us in Another Place. As far as the eye could see, they stood solid, staring sightless out to sea. The narrative said that they depicted a middle aged man, who had experienced the trials of life, but was still standing, still facing forward and still staring hopefully towards whatever might be out there in the distance.

I feel like that. Every morning I fight my own demons to drag my sleep deprived body to a standing position so that I too might face forward, and look into the distance to my future, however short or long that might be. A future where there might be grandchildren, a gap year, a published book, my Mum and Mark waiting for me, when my time comes, in Another Place. The three of us wandered that beach, separate, thoughtful, alone together. As our shoes made their imprints on the soft, rippled sand of the shore, it occurred to me that once the tide crept in, there would be no evidence that we, or any of the other folk on the beach that afternoon,  had ever been there at all. But just because there are no obvious footprints, no tangible evidence, it doesn't mean that we never walked in that place.

Somewhere in the world there is a sofa Mark slept on, a mug he drank coke out of, a record he played, skate boots he wore, a train seat he sat on, a cool pool he dive bombed into and a pretty girl he kissed. He was here, he was....... and now he is simply in Another Place.
The three of us sat awhile, beside a heart drawn in the sand, until the early evening chill blew in from the grey Irish Sea and we hurried, shivering, back to the car to share cupcakes......Happy Birthday to me!
Our evening was spent on the edge of an unfamiliar and unthreatening club scene. Music blared out of every doorway, music of every genre meeting on each street in a surround sound sort of way. Bright young things, arm in arm, wove their way to their first destination of the night - high heels, designer jeans, smart/casual wear - worn with nonchalant confidence. We retired to bed and the TV well before the streets were really fully awake and left the city to continue its all night party.
I'm not sure if we slept well or not, but we certainly awoke to bright Spring sunshine casting shadows through the now almost deserted streets. Sipping coffee over breakfast, there came a blurry realisation that  groups of folk, dressed in Liverpool football shirts walked heads down, like Lowry figures, past the windows. A quick check on the phone and, yes, Man United and Liverpool were playing that afternoon at Anfield. My own father had once played for United and the majority of arguments in my childhood home were about football; my Mum being a die hard Liverpool supporter. Mark followed my Dad and continued the rivalry with my Mum and his many friends across the world. How I miss his text messages, which came thick and fast as a game progressed. A short, snappy commentary full of exclamation marks and words that cannot be repeated here; me at home; him in Taiwan or London, or South America. Wherever, the football and United took priority. We laughed out loud! Only Mark and my Mum could have arranged such a thing for us.
But first, the famous Cavern Club on Mathew Street. Bronze figures of the Fab Four led the way, beckoning us down the dark steps and into the deep underground world where it all began in the 60's.
Memorabilia adorned the walls, graffiti smeared the bricks and posters plastered the alcoves. For an hour or two we were rocked, serenaded and sang along to Beatles' songs, the words so entrenched we didn't have to think about them. A copy of the original contract between Brian Epstein and the Beatles told us that it had been signed on 1st October 1962-Mark's birthday!

And so back to the one place we had intended to visit; Goodison Rd, Walton, L4. Since Mum died a couple of years ago, I have researched the family history, the names of people long gone and yet still significant. There is the continuation of surnames through the generations, Christian names that appear time and again, anomalies and mysteries through the lineage. Why was my grandfather born in Limerick when his older and younger siblings were registered in Liverpool? Did my grandparents divorce or just separate in an era when such things were unacceptable? I have recently found the exact number of the house that my Mum grew up in until 1941 when she moved away to Stockport, met my Dad and the rest is history, as they say. Mum told stories of watching the Everton games from the upstairs bedroom windows of the house and then entering the ground at the end of the match to pick up silver paper from the inside of cigarette packets, and cashing in their trove for Sherbet Dips, Aniseed Balls and Black Jacks. We found no 41 in a sad and sorry state; dirty, red brickwork, boarded up windows and peeling paint. It was hard to imagine the noise and bustle of a house filled with six children, a shiny front door step and neighbours chatting as they kept an eye on each others kids playing Whip Stone 123, The Big Ship sailed on the Allyally O, and Whip and Top.

We could only imagine the scene on match day, a sea of blue and white, chanting and shoving to catch a glimpse of Dixie Dean and his touch of genius on the ball; the swell of the excited crowd and a little girl with her nose pressed tightly against the window pane.
We drifted away from the now silent and empty house, shielding its secrets behind dark boards, and made our way across Walton Lane and into Stanley Park. This was where Mum and her brothers and sisters, Douglas, Lily,( she who must not be mentioned......), Mary, Edith and Stanley played in the endless sunshine of summers long ago. The lakes, the bridges, rose terraces and the beautiful glasshouse remain unchanged and true to their original design. Children played, dogs strutted and families picnicked in the sunshine, as they have always done, as my family did. The world of work, and school, stress and business a million miles away. .Daffodils marched in a swathe up the hill towards Anfield and the match being played with all the ferocity of a dawn duel to the death. All in all. the distance from one football ground to the other is a mere 0.7 miles, but Mum never crossed over to the 'dark side', never ventured into the red and white of the houses on Anfield Rd. Why would she? She was an Evertonian, a Toffee, until she left the city and became one of Liverpool's staunchest supporters until she died.
The Kop lifted its songs in a resounding chorus, and the United supporters responded with rousing abuse; boos rumbled round three sides of the stadium as Gerard received his red card and was sent off. We could hear Mark laughing his socks off and secretly laughed with him. C'mon United! As we headed back to the park gates, the cheer went up and a quick conversation with a down at mouth security guard, who had for a moment mislaid his sense of humour, confirmed that United were 2-0 up. That put a spring in our step as we headed back to the blue and white, passed a gnarled old tree that I'm sure my uncles would have climbed with scraped knees and grubby hands and reluctantly left this city that had captivated and enthralled us, ahead of the stream of football fans happily making their own way home to Manchester to celebrate the final score of 2-1.

It is hard these days to use words like 'happy' and 'good' or 'great'. I've lowered my expectations and aim each day for 'OK'. 'OK' is 'OK and is the new norm, but this weekend was special in every sense, and for that I am grateful to my thoughtful, gentle surviving son, who wants so much to make it better for all of us, David and to Mark, of course, who daily leaves his unique footprints on our hearts.