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In the slums of Liverpool in the late 19th century, there lived or should I say, existed - a strange, gifted boy of thirteen named Joe Liddle. Joe was what was then known as a street urchin; one of the many neglected barefooted children who wandered the city in need of food, shelter - and often parental love. During the hot dusty summers of those far-off years, there was one particular place in Liverpool where the forsaken, ragged-clothed nippers frequently congregated; the Steble Fountain at the top of William Brown Street, where the lost children would wade and splash about in the cool fresh waters. The authorities continually attempted to drive the abandoned kids away from the fountain, but they always reformed and returned to their favourite summer haunt - especially when Joe Liddle was at the Steble. None of the kids knew exactly where Joe was from. Sometimes he claimed that he was from the south-end of the city, and on other occasions he would maintain he was from Scotland Road. Then again, he occasionally asserted that he had Royal blood in his veins and that his father lived in a remote Scottish castle. Joe was such a spinner of convincing yarns and tall stories, and when he was at the Steble, he would always be surrounded by a circle of spellbound associates - their ages ranging from five upwards. And what tales Joe spun. A regular character in Joe's narratives was the 'elastic man' who could stretch his arms and body to incredible lengths and curl himself into a perfect spherical bouncing ball. The character bears an uncanny resemblance to the Marvel comic-book hero "Mr Fantastic" (of the Fantastic Four) who later thrilled the children of the TV age. The poverty-stricken audience of kids loved hearing about the exploits of the rubber man and other amazing characters. While the little fabulist Joe was recounting his far-fetched tales, his underprivileged listeners would forget about their impoverished existence. Another creation of Joe was 'Sam Strong' - a superhuman kid who could hold his breath as he walked under the Mersey from Liverpool to Birkenhead and often passed his time saving sailors from sinking ships and chatting to mermaids. Alas, this was an age when a welfare state and the social services were just a socialist's pipe-dreams. There were charitable organisations in the city such as the Food and Betterment Association, which tried to mitigate the crushing effects of poverty on families by supplying them with the odd halfpenny now and then, but these alms were just a drop in an ocean of misery. The family Joe had belonged to was an overcrowded one that lived in a crumbling, squalid house near Great Homer Street in the north of the city. Joe's parents were alcoholics and continually in trouble with the law, as were their sons and daughters. It seems that Joe had been the 'white sheep' of the family, an unusually introverted and clever lad who preferred his own company. His family never missed him, and as far as Joe was concerned, the feeling was mutual. Had Joe Liddle been around today, his talents for fiction and imagination would have been encouraged and nurtured, regardless of his background or class. Who knows what fantastical novels would have poured forth from the pen of Joe Liddle. But in the 19th century, Joe was just condescendingly regarded as an embarrassing dirty-faced specimen from the under-side of society. One evening in the winter of 1889, at the age of fourteen, Joe
Liddle died from hypothermia after huddling in a doorway during
a biting cold spell. The policeman who came across the little storyteller
broke down and unashamedly cried when he recognised the round ashen
face. Joe looked as if he was just sleeping; perhaps dreaming of
some adventure featuring his astounding imaginary friends in his
little world of make-believe.
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