“I was in Liverpool for the weekend with my mum and two of my older sisters. We’d driven from Chorleywood in Hertfordshire, where we lived. Mum was from Liverpool, and she wanted to visit some old haunts. Born in 1926, she was the youngest of 14 children, eight of whom survived into adulthood, and although she didn’t grow up in extreme poverty, the family wasn’t well off. She was very ill as a small child: she got tuberculosis and at the age of two was sent to the Isle of Wight to recuperate.
I remember it being a last-minute, flying visit: Mum was impulsive like that. I’ve no idea who looked after my other siblings – probably my eldest sister, who would have been about 17. It was my first time in Liverpool, and I was around 10 or 11. It was pretty dismal and bleak, and wet and cold, even though it was Easter. We visited a lot of desolate sites; Mum grew up near this particular street.
We saw a man there on his own, with a camera and tripod. We thought it was a weird place to be taking pictures. Mum would talk to anyone – she was a teacher – so they got chatting. I think they might even have shared a cigarette while my sisters and I kicked about. He said to Mum he needed to add another dimension to his shot, and would I mind jumping across a puddle. I think he asked for me, rather than one of my sisters, because I was smaller and, I think, looked a bit of a scallywag. I was a tomboy and always had short hair, but I was growing it out when this photograph was taken.
I wasn’t very athletic and didn’t jump very well, so I ended up in the puddle. That is what I remember most: I had wet trousers for the rest of the day and it was really uncomfortable.
There were a few happier moments in the trip, though. I had my first knickerbocker glory, in the cafe at the Catholic cathedral, aka Paddy’s Wigwam. And for the first night we stayed in a B&B, which was fun. For our second night, we stayed with a schoolfriend of Mum’s. It was a council house with very little furniture, and the four of us felt we were imposing.
The name “Frank” is graffitied on the wall behind me. I’ve always found that a strange coincidence, because our surname was Franek, Polish for Frank. Our dad was from Poland, and had met Mum when he was at university in Liverpool. Like many Polish men, he’d fought for both the allies and the Germans in the war. They married in 1950. My six siblings and I all have Polish names except one, my youngest sister, Lucy. She asked for an English name. But it’s funny – she married a Pole and is the only one of us who speaks fluent Polish.
I realised it was me in the photograph only three years ago. I saw it on the cover of a magazine and thought it was the spitting image of my youngest son. He said, “No, Mum, it’s you!” I didn’t think much about it, but later I read the article that said it was taken in Liverpool in the early 70s, and the penny started to drop. I wasn’t familiar with Don McCullin’s name, but he was obviously really famous, so it was pretty exciting.
I do recognise myself in the picture – I still have the same strong jawline and chin – but it’s not like looking at a family snap. It’s an art photograph.
• Interview by Hannah Booth.
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