Lime Street at Two

by Helen Forrester

  Finally, she snatched up her macintosh and handbag, and stormed out of the house.

  My parents were left facing each other, nonplussed and panting with rage. I had been in the back kitchen, washing the dishes. Not wishing to be caught up in therow, I had watched through the open door while I continued the greasy, sooty job. We were always short of soap, and a small kettle of hot water is not enough to clean saucepans used on an open coal fire. Dish detergents, now taken for granted, were still being tested in the laboratories; in any case, we probably could not have afforded them.

  Now, I wiped my hands on our single, murky tea towel, and came into the living-room. For once, my parents looked dumbfounded, unsure of themselves. As I sat down, facing them at the table, I felt almost sorry for them. It was as if some quiet grassy slope had suddenly blown up under their feet, leaving a gaping hole.

  "Don't be too upset. Mummy. Fiona will cool down in a little while, and you'll be able to talk to her again."

  Neither parent answered me; Fiona had said too many bitter things to them. Home truths that they would have accepted from me as being just my vicious, bad-tempered character, came hard from a daughter noted for her gentleness.

  I tried again. I was very anxious that Fiona should not marry in haste, out of

  defiance. "She may not marry him, you know. Engagement isn't marriage—and they are often broken, nowadays." I paused. The silence was oppressive. "Try not to be too upset. Just wait and see what really happens."

  Mother suddenly collected herself. "You mind your own business. Keep out of this. We will decide who she marries."

  Father, also, had recovered a little of his usual equilibrium, though he drummed his fingers on the table, as he always did when upset. He gave me a warning look, and then said to Mother, "She is under age, don't forget. She can't marry without my permission."

  I nodded agreement, and sighed wearily. Then I edged my way round the back of Father's chair, to get at the fruit basket, which held the socks to be darned. I wondered wryly if I would ever be freed from mending woollen socks each night; even a husband would need his socks darned, and I thought, with a sudden pang, that a seaman would have needed warm, hand-knitted ones—but that would have been a labour of love.

  Rescue from these monotonous taskswas on its way; a wonderful thread called nylon was already being used for the manufacture of parachute silk; it would, in time, rescue women from hours and hours of work.

  I studiously avoided meeting Mother's eye, by concentrating on threading the needle, as she got up impatiently from her chair, and flipped back and forth in the tiny space of the room, muttering, "We have to stop this." I thought how wise I had been to say nothing about Harry to them.

  While they verbally tore the ill-starred watchmaker apart and discussed possible strategies, my needle flew swiftly in and out of sock heels. I said not a word.

  I felt Fiona creep into our double bed late that night, but I feared Father or Mother might hear me, if I said anything much, so I just asked, "You all right?"

  She whispered, "Yes," and I turned over to sleep again.

  She must have risen very early. I did not hear her. When Father and I went downstairs to start the fire and the breakfast, there was a note addressed to me lying on the table."I am leaving home," she had written. "I am so fed up. Don't worry about me. I will phone you at the office."

  13

  IT'S all your fault," Mother shrieked at me.

  She stood in her nightgown in the middle of the living-room, while my harassed father dodged round her, as he gathered newspaper, a bundle of wood chips and a bucket of coal, in order to build the fire in the Victorian grate, a task he undertook each morning, provided we had coal.

  Normally, long before the rest of the family got up, the living-room was warm and cosy, and hot kettles of water stood on the stove, ready for them to wash in. So that the room continued to keep warm for the children returning at lunchtime. Mother would bank up the fire with damp slack before she left for work.

  Both father and I appreciated being able to hold our cold hands over the flames before we went out, he because his circulation was very poor and I because I was cursed with rheumaticky pains in bothhand and leg joints. Though I got up at six o'clock, I had such a long journey to work that I could not wait to heat water before getting washed, and I always washed in cold. This also chilled me.

  Now, as Father struck a match and put it to the kindling newspaper, I went into the kitchen to wash myself. Angry that I had not replied to her. Mother flew after me.

  "You've encouraged her to leave. Why else would she leave a note for you. Really, you're nothing but a trouble-maker!" She flourished Fiona's note at me.

  I ran cold water into the washing-up bowl, and stripped off my nightgown. As goose pimples rose all over me, I wished that the gas stove would work properly, so that I, too, could have hot water; but I dared not waste time waiting for a kettle to boil.

  Father had put a cup of water in a tiny pan on the only gas burner that worked reasonably, so that Mother could have early morning tea. Now, spitting like a fighting cat. Mother dumped the water into a small teapot and stirred vigorously. I gritted my teeth, partly to stop themchattering with the cold and partly to hold back the sharp tirade I would have liked to let loose at Mother.

  I scrubbed my face and neck, and icy trickles went down my flinching back. Then I said carefully, "Mother. I haven't had anything to do with it; I've hardly seen the boy. But we do know that they've been friends for a long time—and that he'll inherit his father's watchmaking business, so it could be worse."

  Mother poured herself a jam jar of tea; we had no cups. We had commenced the war with very few, and kitchen casualties had taken their toll. It was well-nigh impossible to replace them, so great was the china shortage in the shops.

  Before turning out the gas. Mother stuck a cigarette in her mouth and deftly Ut it by poking it into the flame; she occasionally lost part of her eyelashes and eyebrows from this habit.

  "Humph," she snorted. "She must have had encouragement." The tiny scuUery was filled with smoke, as she exhaled,

  "She's grown up. Mother. Nobody can tell her what she can do and what she cannot. Certainly, I have never given herany advice," I replied, as I dried my goose-pimpled flesh on our grubby towel —the only advantage of being the first person to wash in the morning was that the towel was dry; everybody else had to use it damp.

  "The minute she phones you, get her address. Then telephone your father at the office, and he can go to bring her home."

  I sighed. Without answering, I slipped on my knickers and petticoat, and went into the living-room. I laid the towel on the fender in front of the fire, in the hope of drying it a little for Father.

  Father had heard what Mother had said, and now he told me, "You must tell us. I am really worried about the girl. Nice girls do not leave home."

  There it was again—the idea that women could not manage alone. And yet the whole population seemed to be on the move, either by Government decree or, equally involuntarily, because of the bombing of the cities.

  Father gave the coals a careful lift with the poker and the fire blazed up cheerfully. He laid the poker in the hearth, and then took his razor from the back of themantelpiece behind the alarm clock. I had left my newly pressed blouse and skirt on the back of a chair near the fire on the previous evening, so that they would air overnight. Now I put them on. They still felt clammy. My stockings hung beside Mother's, laid over a piece of string stretched between nails across the mantelpiece; they were rayon, and I washed and mended them each evening. They, also, were still a httle damp, but I hauled them quickly up my long legs, and rolled the tops over a pair of elastic garters; it was customary to wear an elastic foundation garment with suspenders, but mine had worn out and I saw no hope of replacing it, so I was reduced to garters and continual, surreptitious hitching up of my stockings throughout the day.

  Father had gone into the kitchen to shave and wash. Now he called
, "Did you hear what I said, Helen?"

  "Yes, Daddy. But, Daddy, she must be very unhappy—otherwise, she wouldn't have left."

  Father did not reply.

  Privately, I was filled with admiration for Fiona's temerity. But then, I toldmyself wistfully, she can easily afford a bed-sitting room with cooking faciUties. I had considered following her into the factory, but I knew that the minute the war ended we would then both be out of work. She would easily find a husband, but I would not—I would always have to earn my living, and I must have skills and experience to enable me to do this. Moreover, she was not very happy in her new employment.

  *'The girls are horribly crude," she had told me, "and the men! They keep trying to catch you in dark corners, so that they can fondle you."

  "Good Heavens, Fi!"

  "Well, I haven't much choice; I don't suppose it's any better in the ATS."

  "Be careful."

  "Oh, I am. I just mind my own business and try not to leave the assembly line, except with other girls. And the money is good."

  As I laid the breakfast and Mother took her turn to wash in the kitchen, she continued to grumble at what she called Fiona's ingratitude and lack of consideration.Brian, yawning and red-eyed, wandered into the room, and inquired, as he heard Mother's complaint from the kitchen, "What's up?"

  Shaking cornflakes rapidly into six assorted bowls, I told him.

  "What's the fuss? She'd have to leave home anyway if she were directed into one of the Services."

  "God forbid," exploded Father, as I pushed a bowl of cornflakes towards him. "At least she can live at home where she is. She was stupid to have accepted work like that—they could have found her an office job."

  Brian sat down to eat his breakfast. "Looks as if they're going to call up all the girls, any time now," he remarked.

  I quickly made a cheese sandwich for Brian's lunch, wrapped it in the greaseproof hning from the cornflakes packet, and handed it to him. Then I scraped margarine over a couple of slices of bread to take to work myself. While I hunted through the sideboard drawer for something to wrap my lunch in, I asked Brian, "Do you really think we'll all be called up?""Well, everybody's talking about it at the office," he said.

  My heart sank. With so Uttle education, I would get the Army's most dirty, menial jobs to do. It was not a cheerful prospect.

  A quick rat-tat on the front door announced the arrival of the postman; a faint rustle came from a letter being stuffed through the broken letterbox.

  Mother had gone into the hall to get her hat, which she always put on immediately after arranging her hair, so that it did not get ruffled. She picked up the letter and brought it into the room.

  "It's for you," she said to me, suspicion in every line of her. As if there was something wicked about it, she added, "It's a typed letter."

  She tossed it across the table to me.

  14

  THE letter was from the Petroleum Board, a consortium of oil companies formed for the duration of the war. The letter asked me to go for an interview at their Dingle Bank installation, less than a mile from my home.

  For the first time since Harry's death, I felt a tingle of real excitement. Nothing could bring Harry back or ease the pain of loss, but employment close to my home would alleviate the great strain and constant worry over getting to work each day.

  On the morning of the interview, I telephoned the Bootle Office and told Miss Evans I did not feel very well, but would be there in the afternoon. She was accustomed to the disruption caused by the acute menstrual pain I endured, and accepted my excuses. I felt a little ashamed at deceiving her; she had always been most kind to me, and it was not her fault that I was overworked and hopelessly underpaid.I had washed all my clothes the previous evening. Now I scrubbed myself, and set my hair neatly; it was now shoulder length and I curled it with Mother's curling iron and pinned it back from my face. The result was an untidy mess, so I tied a shoelace round my head and tucked it into a neat roll, a fashion made common by the lack of hairpins and clips on the market.

  The Installation lay next to the Hercu-laneum Dock, and, as I walked down Dingle Lane, a high wall on one side and neat, small houses on the other side, the wind blew freshly off the river; it smelled sweet after the acrid, fire-laden air of Bootle.

  Shyly, I approached the policeman guarding the entrance and explained my business.

  He smiled amiably down at me and inquired, to my astonishment, "Got any cigarettes, lighter or matches on you?"

  "No. I rarely smoke."

  "OK. Go to that office over there." He pointed to a brick building more like a small house than an office. "And good luck," he called after me, as I picked my way across a rutted lane.In a glass-walled office, I was interviewed by a snappy little man in rimless glasses. Despite being indoors, he wore a bowler hat. His business suit was of a blue which Father would have instantly condemned as vulgar. I disliked him on sight.

  He did not offer me a seat, but after standing in front of him for a couple of minutes, in a flash of anger I seated myself on the visitor's chair by his desk. As he fired questions at me regarding my experience, he looked me up and down, from ankles, neatly crossed, to the turban on my head.

  Occasionally, the telephone on his desk rang and he barked instructions down it, while I looked around me.

  Through the glass, I could see a number of people working at high desks. One of them was using a machine I had never seen before. He would tap the keys of it and then pull a handle. I learned afterwards that it was an adding machine, and very precious—like everything else, they were difficult to replace.

  After one telephonic interruption, the man swivelled round to look at me again, and said, "You'd be working in Wages."I answered primly that I had hoped to work in a Personnel Department, where my experience in social work might be useful.

  "Well, Wages is Personnel, isn't it?"

  I did not answer, and he continued, "You'll be classed as a stenographer—two pounds, seven and sixpence a week, to start." He turned back to the telephone and picked up the receiver. "You'd better be tested," he told me.

  My heart sank a little. I did not want to be only a stenographer. Yet the wages seemed excellent—and I would have no travelUng expenses. I did not know that the salary offered was not particularly high; throughout the war, Fiona was to earn much more than I did.

  "Miss Hughes'U come and test you," the man said, as he slammed down the receiver.

  While we were waiting for Miss Hughes and the telephone was put to good use, I decided that if the post was offered to me, I would take it; the relief of having enough salary to enable me to buy lunch would be very great. I rationalised my decision bybelieving that I would gain experience which would lead me to a personal secretaryship one day.

  Miss Hughes came quietly in and stood by the desk, until my interviewer deigned to notice her. She was a middle-aged woman with dull brown hair done in the same style as I had done mine. Her homely face was politely expressionless. Instinctively, I felt she shared my dislike of the man in the bowler hat.

  "Take this girl and test her; she's for Wages."

  Miss Hughes' face broke into a friendly smile, as she took me into an empty office, dictated an ordinary business letter and left me to type it on a dusty Remington as heavy as a tank.

  When she returned, she seemed satisfied with the result, despite two rubbings out.

  "I am sorry about the corrections," I said. "I usually do better than that."

  There was a trace of cynicism in her laugh, as she said, "I don't think Mr. Fox decided to take you on because of the quality of your typing!" She looked down at the letter, and added in

  a kindly tone, "But your typing is quite good."

  She left me sitting by the typewriter, while she went to confer with Mr. Fox, and I wondered what her rather odd remark meant. I had been at work on the Installation for some weeks, before I discovered that I had been chosen to join Mr. Fox's Young Ladies, everyone of them picked because they h
ad nice legs! The steady stream of young women coming to take the places of men called up would have made a good chorus line, as far as legs were concerned, and most of them had the prettiness of youth.

  I walked home feeling like a prisoner enjoying his first few moments of freedom. For the first time for months I was almost happy. No more nightmare worries about how to get to work. No more teaching shorthand at nights and on Saturday afternoons. No more going without or with only Httle lunch. I could even go to the theatre a little more often, something which had been a rare treat indeed up to then.

  At the end of March, I said goodbye tomy kind colleague in the Bootle Office, and, without a qualm, put behind me seven years of gross overwork and exploitation, the unhappiest years of my working life.

  15

  DESPITE my hopeful anticipation, I was as scared on my first day at the Installation as if I were about to be guillotined. I think that, when my friend. Belle, joined the staff a little later on, she, too, must have been quite nervous. She had had a wearying series of illnesses, and was in Mill Road Infirmary when it was hit during the Christmas blitz. Needless to say, she had lovely legs, and a very pretty face. She was vivacious and had a wicked sense of humour.

  The policeman at the gate recognised me. He stood, arms behind his back, swaying gently backwards and forwards on the heels of his heavy, black boots, and asked, "So you got in?"

  I smiled up at him. "Yes, I did."

  "Well, that's very nice. Got any matches or smoking materials?"

  "No." I paused, and then, perplexed, I asked him. "Why do you want to know?"