THE DEAR OLD PRIMROSE PUBLIC HOUSE.

NOW, AFTER A GOOD HALF-CENTURY, no kidding, we went for a beer or three at the Primrose.

THEN, I was eighteen years old and had just started a rather marvellous and formative new life, changing my outlook from grey to bright Mondrian colour.

From a desperate ‘job’ in the drawing office of Clayton Crane & Hoist Co., in shit-streaked Liverpool, after a failed and extended grammar school education, I had been accepted as a student at Wallasey School of Arts and Crafts, in Central Park, Liscard.

Job, in quotes, because there actually was none, with commensurate pay; beer money spent in the Pig and Whistle three times a day, for the sake of sanity. Morning tea, Lunch, and Knock-off; consecutively two pints, two pints, and four pints, then two deep-fried pork pies with English mustard for the delightful ferry-ride to my rented single room in New Brighton, in a house  where mad rooters kept me awake and wondering all night.

Very demoralising and fruitless. As was Merseyside.

So from the drawing office, where I was distinctly disliked, and where I would watch pigeons kick their old rain-and-soot-soaked nests onto the heads of pedestrians far below in a  derelict blackened city, I entered a new life.

WSA was housed in a delightful rambling mansion in a well-tended park near the Liscard shops, and the Primrose was the nearest pub. Once settled in, with old and new friends, in a playground of Pottery, Ceramics, Lithography, Sculpture, Art History, Drawing, and curious lectures and ‘criticisms’, I found the Primrose. I had swapped The Scouse for Paradise.

The Primrose, (and I must research its history) is, or was, (it may have been pulled down), a very ancient sandstone cottage of Tardis aspect; it seemed bigger on the inside. It looked as if it were carved from a single giant block.

In the Summer, it was surrounded by a tended rose-garden, with raked gravel paths and leafy arbours containing tables and benches, and a waiter would regularly potter around, in case anyone should want a re-fill. We always did.

I have always just managed to escape becoming alcoholic; not without trying, and became familiar with every detail of every pub on that mysterious Wirral peninsula,  but the Primrose was Home. My own Cottage in its beautiful Garden.

In Winter the Primrose was even more welcoming. Being, in a way, homeless, I would put-off nights in my cold cell until late, and spend hours of cosy contentment in one of the tiny snugs of that ancient place. A comfortable upholstered bench, a long polished wooden table, a coal fire in the grate, and on the paneling by my head a bell-push to warn the barman of my requirements.

So with books on Art, and on Pottery, and a sketch-pad, sticks of conte, and a novel, I would nest in that snug every evening, mostly alone and content to be so, but sometimes joyfully joined by friends from my classes.

In later times, room-rent became better spent on food and academic materials, and I took up secret residence in the Art School itself, like a mouse in the wainscotting. From the Primrose I was minutes away from my nest; up the coke-heap in the kiln-yard, along a parapet, through a small window, to my luxurious bed amongst the mattresses and blankets of the Life Room.

It was one night, alone and studious in the Primrose, that Victor Sanderson, a handsome and charismatic older student, joined me in my snug; ‘you’re Andy, aren’t you?’

But that’s another story; life-long, and spanning the entire Earth, which spins yet, though without dear Vic.

Never, ever, go back.

But I did, fifty years later, with another dear: Lucy. And I was glad of the supportive company when we cautiously entered the almost-derelict pub in a dead drizzle. The whole neighbourhood was dismal, run-down. Un-repaired broken window-glass, weather-streaked for-sale signs, peeling paint and un-cared-for cottages.

However, a pub is a pub, and there was strange laughter and occasional shouts from the inmates. Not the clientel of old; what the hell did I expect? But I have to use the term ‘derro’, though I feel ashamed of my reaction. The snugs were gone, everything except the bones of the place was perhaps new thirty years ago, and now decayed, sordid.

We were ‘welcomed’ by a hyperactive small friendly-aggressive mostly-toothless person, who danced up to us grinning and chattering, watched by the few others from the asylum. I took refuge in boldness, quickly ordering two pints and getting a far table, talking very loudly in my best Aussie accent to confuse the natives, who settled down to stare at us, scratch, and attend to their itching eyes.

The pints gave us time to explore the surroundings; first from our table, then wandering around like landlords inspecting a tenement. The old place still had masses of charm, and though many of the interesting mechanical features were defunct, the stucco decoration was intact with the charming tobacco-brown glaze of a century or more. Much more.

A second pair of pints had us considering buying and restoring…….ah, the romance of ale, and of irretrievable memories. Madness, but so curiously beckoning. And it seemed the place actually was for sale. Like every pub in Britain.

But oh dear, the lovely beer garden and the roses.

Outside, in the solid motionless damp, was a ground of crumbling bitumen and concrete littered with stacked detritus, trucks and parts, piles of anonymous wet and dripping stuff, with the ancient building discarded like the rest, cowering in its own domain.

Never go back.

Ever.

POST SCRIPT!

HAVING CRIED INTO MY BEER, I thought I’d better Google the old place, just in case, because that 50-year re-visit was a few years ago now, and has depressed me ever since, until this rather astounding moment. I honestly thought the Primrose was finished.

Should have looked first.

What a gratifying surprise! The Primrose risen from dereliction to magnificence! Looking so pretty and cared-for and loved, as good as new…….you have no idea how I have cheered-up since recovering from the gloom of my blog.

As an old customer, to the owners, congratulations; to the staff, and the new generations of custom, my very best wishes to you all for enjoyment and long life, and may The Primrose thrive til the end of days, and longer.