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Dockside follows the intertwined lives of a working-class community in 1980s Liverpool as economic and social hardships begin to fracture the neighbourhood.
Bricklayer Tommy Higgins and window cleaner Danny McCarthy trade sharp Scouse banter on Dockside crescent, masking underlying anxieties about a city running out of opportunities. Inside number four, a looming council eviction notice pushes partners Sandra and Chrissie to their breaking point as they face local hostility and systemic neglect. Meanwhile, near the Anglican Cathedral, trade union leader Jim Harrison fights to maintain order against a looming wildcat strike, unaware that his postman son, Billy, is witnessing a younger generation turning to desperate measures to survive.
The rain in Liverpool did not fall; it swept sideways off the Mersey, stinging the face of anyone foolish enough to look it in the eye.
Down on Dockside, a newly built crescent of red-brick houses slicing through the carcass of the old south docks, the morning routine was underway. Tommy Higgins shifted the gears of his battered blue Ford Transit van with a crunch that echoed off the brickwork. At fifty-two, Tommy’s knees were shot from a lifetime of laying bricks, but his tongue remained as sharp as a polished trowel. He rolled down the window, letting the damp air hit his face.
"Oi! Macca!" Tommy shouted, leaning out. "You’re missing a spot there, soft lad!"
Up a wooden ladder, balancing a bucket of soapy water on the top rung, Danny McCarthy didn’t turn around. He merely extended a middle finger, wet from his scrim cloth, before squeegeeing the top pane of number four. "It’s called polishing, Tommy, you caveman," Danny yelled back, his Scouse accent thick and melodic. "Something you wouldn't understand. Your work usually involves a bucket of muck and a bad back."
Danny was twenty-three, saved every penny he made cleaning windows, and spent his weekends DJing in the sticky-floored clubs around Mathew Street. He had big dreams, none of which involved spending his thirties clinging to a piece of timber in a gale.
Inside number four, the heat from the radiator was doing nothing to melt the ice in the kitchen.
Sandra stood by the kettle, her dressing gown wrapped tight around her. Her eyes were red, the skin underneath dark and hollow. On the Formica table sat an open letter from the council. Across from her, Chrissie was frantically stuffing leaflets into a canvas bag, her breath visible in the chilly room.
"They’re going to evict us, Chrissie," Sandra said, her voice barely a whisper above the whistling kettle. "It’s not just a threat this time. Look at the date."
Chrissie stopped. She walked over, placing a hand on Sandra’s shoulder, but Sandra flinched away. The tension between them had been building for months, fueled by the whispered comments from neighbours and the outright hostility from the older residents down the road. Being a couple in 1986 was hard enough; being two women trying to hold down a tenancy in a city bleeding jobs felt impossible.
"We’ll go to the union office," Chrissie said fiercely, her eyes flashing. "Jim will know what to do. The council can't just throw people on the street because the budget's been slashed by London."
"Jim’s got his own problems, Chrissie," Sandra sighed, finally turning off the gas. "The whole city’s striking. He hasn't got time for two girls who can't pay their rent."
A mile away, near the towering red stone of the Anglican Cathedral, Jim Harrison was indeed busy. As the regional trade union convenor, his phone hadn't stopped ringing since 6:00 AM. He walked briskly down the hill toward the city centre, his heavy donkey jacket zipped to the chin. His son, Billy, a postman with a sack full of final demands and Sears catalogues slung over his shoulder, kept pace beside him.
"The lads at the depot are talking about a wildcat strike, Dad," Billy said, his boots clicking on the wet pavement. "They’re sick of the overtime being cut."
Jim stopped, grabbing Billy by the arm. His face was etched with the exhaustion of a man carrying the weight of a thousand households. "A wildcat strike plays right into their hands, Billy. We go by the book, or we get crushed. You tell them that. If we lose the docks, we lose everything."
Billy looked down at his post bag. He knew what his dad didn't: half the young lads on his route were already looking for a way out. His mate, a student up at the university campus by Mount Pleasant, was earning more selling dodgy rave tickets than Billy made in a month of early shifts. The city was changing, splitting between the old guard fighting for dignity and the young people just trying to survive.
Back on Dockside, the post van rumbled past, splashing mud against the pristine white front door of old Mrs. Gallagher. She watched from her net curtains, clutching a rosary, praying for her grandson who hadn't come home last night.
The clouds parted just enough to let a pale, watery light hit the river, but on the streets below, the storm was only just beginning.
