"Well, I'm going to keep the egg cups," Fiona said firmly, as she gave them a final rub with the teacloth, and she marched out of the room with them.
"Come along. Give me that," Mother held out her hand, and she laid the paint lid down on a piece of newspaper.
"It's a shame. Mum." I held on to the plate.
Mother snatched it off me, put it on thedraining board and heaved the heavy tin of paint on to it.
"Really, Mother. We could put the paint on a wad of newspaper."
All that afternoon, as I painted, I simmered with rage, and the drips plopped slowly down the sides of the paint tin to form a thick encrustation cementing the tin to the plate. In the middle of my resentment, I wondered suddenly where Mother had raised the money to buy the paint, and as soon as the room was finished and my hands washed—a washing which left great scabs of dried paint all over them —I ran into the bedroom I shared with Fiona and Avril and checked my handbag, which I had tucked under the side of the bed against the wall. It was inviolate, and I heaved a sigh of relief. I guessed that she had got the paint on credit, and I was right. Later, I helped to pay the bill.
On Monday, instead of staying on the Installation during the lunch hour, I walked briskly up to Mill Street, where despite the bombing, there were still some shops. There, after a very fast hunt, I managed to buy an enamel kitchen plate.
That evening I passed it over the tableto Mother and asked if the paint tin, with its dregs of paint, could be set on it and I could have the little plate I had found. "I really would like to have it, just as a memento of the bomb coming down.*'
I thought Mother would burst with rage. She lifted the enamel plate and threw it straight at me. It skimmed past my face and crashed against the wall.
"I'll decide what happens in this house," she screamed, "Get on with the sewing you're so keen about, and mind your own business." She jumped up and began to collect the dishes off the table. She dumped them on the drain board, and they rattled in protest. She was shaking with anger, and muttered under her breath.
I had been famiUar, since childhood, with Mother's irrational rages, and I became afraid that she might throw some of the crockery at me, so I quickly left my cup of tea on the table and went into the bedroom. Fiona was there, contentedly rooting through the contents of a battered suitcase, in which she kept her small treasures. I wanted to cry."Why does she blow up Hke that?" I asked Fiona helplessly.
Fiona clicked the suitcase shut and locked it, then pushed it under the bed. Still kneeling on the cold linoleumed floor, she looked up at me. "I don't know. She only does it with you and Father—most of the time." She must have seen the tears in my eyes, because she got up and put her arms round me, and said, "Don't take it to heart. Perhaps it's because you look so Uke Father."
It was no compUment to say I looked like my father. He was a plain, large-nosed man with red-rimmed blue eyes. His nose was made more prominent because it was plum red. According to Mother this was because he drank so much, but he actually suffered from a form of acne.
I sighed, and smiled waterily down at my classically beautiful sister. She was right. To look at, I was like my father. And I, too, suffered from the scourge of acne, except that in my case it took the form of septic spots on my chin.
Later on, when Mother had gone to the cinema, I rescued the enamel plate, which now had a large chip in its rim, and hid itunder the mattress of the bed I shared with Fiona and Avril.
Some weeks later, when the painting of our new sitting-room had long been finished and forgotten and the residual paint had been stored in the lean-to shed at the back of the bungalow, I came across the plate while making the bed.
I stood for a moment with the ugly utilitarian dish in my hand. Then, since Mother was out shopping, I took it out to the shed.
The paint tin, well bonded to the silver platter by its drips of paint, still stood on the shelf. The paint in the tin had dried out.
With the aid of a screw driver, I prised the tin off its stand, and put it on the enamel plate. I dipped my fingers in the dust on the shelves and rubbed them over the shiny whiteness of the new plate. It dulled its newness very satisfactorily, and, years later, it was still sitting there, undisturbed.
I spent a very satisfying hour scraping the heavy ring of paint off the old plate, and then scouring it with a newspaper dipped in earth. A silver-plated servingdish was revealed. I dried it and put it under the mattress.
I have it still and use it often. It is a reminder of an extraordinary escape from injury or death during the war—and of a mother with a temper sufficient to supply a whole opera company.
The enamel plate was not the only dish thrown by Mother that summer, but she threw the second one with much more justification.
31
DEREK wrote to me once a month quite regularly, and I replied. It was easy to write to him, because we had much in common.
"Killing off civilians is not much joy," he wrote bitterly in one letter.
"You go for military targets," I reminded him in my reply.
"We often miss," he responded drily. "This game of tit-for-tat won't solve anything."
It was evident that Government propaganda was not getting through to everybody. The horrors of Nazi genocide had not yet burst upon us; our collective rage had not yet peaked.
Suddenly, he missed writing. I sent extra letters, feeling that he might be going through a bad attack of conscience.
No response. I was worried about this charming, gentle person who had been washed up at my feet by accident of war.
Came a letter from Yorkshire in astrange hand. I opened it with unaccountable nervousness. His mother had found a letter from me in the papers returned to her after her son's death. She said she was happy to discover that he had found a girl friend. He had been too lonely in civilian life.
Killed in action. Those awful words every mother and wife dreaded.
I took a long tinie to write the most comforting letter I could, and I grieved myself, not only for Derek, but for the slaughter of my generation. And this, I knew, even when added to the losses at sea, was only the beginning.
Life can deal out other kinds of grief, and, for once, I was sorry for my mother. Feeling pity for Mother was like pitying the scorpion which has bitten you. A fair amount of personal pain has to be overcome first.
Father had a long convalescence after his battle with diphtheria, partly because our doctor was concerned about the strain on his heart. For several weeks, he took little walks and stayed late in bed and had an afternoon nap.
The City continued to pay him. Eachweek his wages were delivered in cash to the house by one of his colleagues, with whom, normally, he went to the theatre or on pub crawls in Liverpool. Mother was delighted to have for her own use the money Father normally spent on fares and lunches. Poor Father got no pocket money, though he still seemed to be able to stand a round at the village pub.
Father's colleague himself fell ill, and another employee, who Hved in the next village, kindly undertook the delivery.
The man came for the first time in the early evening, when Father had gone down to the village for a drink.
According to Mother, he was a sober, quiet person, obviously ill at ease, who sat making small talk, before he produced Father's wages in a sealed wages envelope. This surprised Mother because the earlier messenger had always counted the cash into her hand.
As he handed the envelope to her, he said, "Your husband telephoned me, to ask me to open the envelope and put half the money on one side for him. I reluctantly agreed. Then, I felt so conscience-stricken that I talked the matter over withmy wife. We both feel that your husband should divide the money—it is dishonest for me to open the envelope containing another employee's wages." It was obvious to Mother that he was very embarrassed.
Mother said she looked at the amount of the net salary written on the outside of the envelope. It was over double what Father had told her he was earning, and she did not know how to reply. She felt both angry an
d bewildered.
The man went on, "I know it is not really any of my business, but my wife says that you bear much of the financial burden, that you go to work in spite of having three children still at home. Forrester earns enough to make this unnecessary—I wouldn't treat my wife like that," he finished roundly.
He had voiced his disapproval very honestly, and now he paused for breath. She thanked him for coming and then showed him out.
In the days when few homes had any labour-saving devices, there was plenty of work for a housewife to do, and added to the normal load were all the problems of the war, of queueing, trying to cook withlittle fuel, and making meals out of very few ingredients. It was still the custom for the husband to be the breadwinner, and many men objected strongly to their wives working outside the home.
I was always home much later than the rest of the family. On this night. Mother sat down on the other side of the table, as I began my solitary dinner, which was always kept for me in the oven at the side of the kitchen fireplace—whether it was dried out with heat or absolutely cold depended on whether or not we had any coal.
Suddenly, she put her head down on the table and began to weep, sobbing hopelessly as if she would never stop.
I put down my knife and fork with a clatter, and shot from my chair.
"Oh, Mum! Whatever is the matter? Please don't cry." I put my arm round her heaving shoulders. "What happened?"
Resting her head against me, she told me.
"Every word hit me like a blow," she sobbed. "I was so mortified that all I could think of to say was that it was a heavy load. He must have seen I was upset,because he repeated that it wasn't honest to open someone else's pay packet, and I agreed."
I could not think how to reply, I stroked her ruffled hair and made soothing noises, and mentally cursed Father.
Finally, I said, "I thought you enjoyed going to work, having money of your own." I thought of all the cigarettes, the cinema seats, the Marks and Spencer's clothes that she was able to buy. Surely she was doing what she liked.
She did not reply, so I added, "Of course, the strain on you is great, I know that. And I do try to help you, Mum."
Totally unexpectedly, she agreed. "Yes, you do. You are the only one I can depend upon." And she sobbed on.
Though it was scant reward for my going without things Mother took for granted herself, it was nice to know that she had at least noted that, of all her sons and daughters, I was the one who had helped her.
She sobbed on. "I'm so tired. And if your father paid me proper housekeeping, I could stay at home. There is no real need any more for me to go out to work."The crumpled pay packet on the table told me that what she said was true.
There was also the fact that there were no longer young children in the home— even baby Edward was old enough to be studying for a scholarship to Wallasey Grammar School. The house, peacefully empty from half past seven in the morning until half past four in the afternoon, when Edward and Avril returned from school, must have appeared a much more attractive place to Mother than in years gone by. And Mother herself had aged. The line of hair along her parting, where the dye had grown out, was grey, with silver threads in it.
"It's been harder for me since we came to live in Moreton," she said, her words muffled against my side. "TravelUng is so tiring, and it takes so long."
She did not need to tell me that. Strap-hanging in packed, overworked trains and trams for a couple of hours a day was wearing. One was often surrounded by troops travelling with kitbags, suitcases and bulging haversacks, enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke, and one could end a journey to and from work bruisedand exhausted. Father fared better than most of us. He had been transferred to an office in Birkenhead, and the bus from the end of the road deUvered him to its door.
It had always mystified me that Father could go out so often and come home nearly drunk, on what I had assumed was a very limited amount of pocket money. I had imagined that he earned a little more than he divulged, and I had hoped that he saved some for his old age. Though men gave little enough to their wives for maintaining the home, they did sometimes save, so that if they were unemployed or on strike, they could still keep up the amount of housekeeping. Father once said flatly that he had never saved a penny in his Hfe—money was meant to be spent.
I held my mother until she stopped weeping. I was nearly in tears myself.
"Don't go to work tomorrow, Mum. Have it out with Father. He must realise his responsibilities—Tony, Avril, Edward, yourself, are his responsibilities."
"I've already had it out with him," Mother replied sulkily, as she blew her nose.
"Where is he?"
"In bed."
That was reasonable. If he had had a fight with Mother, the resukant constrictions in his chest would have sent him to lie down.
I sighed heavily. I did not know what, if anything, I could say to him that would make matters any better.
While I scraped my cold dinner into the rubbish bin and washed up the dishes. Mother went into long, haranguing detail about wanting to stay at home.
"I'm over forty," she said, "and I've still got three children under fourteen, so they won't call me up."
I agreed that she was not likely to be bothered by the Ministry of Labour.
Mother had opened her handbag and taken out her powder compact. In between lingering sobs, she powdered her nose. I dried my hands and went over to her. I put my arm round her shoulders and kissed her for the first time for years. I pitied her.
"I'm going down to visit Mrs. Brown," she said in a shaky voice, "I must get out of the house."
Mrs. Brown was a gossipy elderly lady,a widow, who lived in the same road as we did. Mother would, I knew, pour out the whole story to her, and the next day the entire village would know about it. Nevertheless, she was the nearest thing Mother had to a friend, and a sympathetic listener might diffuse the strain in the family which this upset would cause. So I helped Mother into her coat and saw her out of the back door. Then, with a heavy heart, I went to see Father in my parents' bedroom. The bed was empty.
I found him lying on top of Edward's bed. Though the curtains were closed across the window, I could see in the dim light from the hall that his eyes were shut. Along the line of his chin was a dark mark. My heart jumped in apprehension. I quickly switched on the light.
Against the pallor of his face, a long weal oozed blood. His nose also had been bleeding. There was more blood on the pillow under his head. Despite the light, he had not opened his eyes.
I was shocked.
"Daddy! Whatever happened?"
He made a deprecating gesture with one hand, and then let it drop.I went close to him and smoothed the pillow back, so that I could see better the cut along his jaw. Beneath the shadow of the day's growth of beard, there were signs of heavy bruising, as if from more than one blow.
"Good heavens. Daddy! Whatever did you do? I'll get some water and a compress. Just a minute."
I fled to the bathroom. Where the devil were the children? Why was Fiona never there when help was needed?
I ran the tap until the water was ice-cold. Then I wrung the family face flannel out under it. It was an old piece of towelling, but probably as clean as anything else I could find.
Back in the bedroom, I saw that Father had not moved or opened his eyes. I gently took off his spectacles and laid them on the bed. Then I looked closely at the cut and at the bruises. I pressed the flannel hard against the bleeding cut. He winced, and turned his head slightly. When I realised how white he was, apart from the bruises, I asked anxiously, "Shall I get the doctor. Daddy?""No," he whispered from between swollen lips.
"Well, this will stop the bleeding," I assured him.
Though he was certainly conscious, he did not answer.
After a minute or two, I turned the bloody flannel over, took one of his icy hands, and told him to press the rag over the cut himself. He did so.
"I'm going to get a blanket to put over you," I tol
d him. In my bedroom, I tore one from the bed I shared with my sisters, and hurried back to him.
"How's it doing?" I asked, as I tucked the blanket round him. Gingerly he loosed the pressure, and I peeled back the cloth. "I think it's stopped," I told him. "I'll wipe round your nose."
When his face was cleansed, I asked him, "Can you lift your head a bit, if I help you; and I'll turn the pillow clean side up?" I slipped a hand under his neck and eased the pillow over.
"I'll wring the flannel out under the tap again. The cold may stop the bruise from spreading. Whatever did you do?"
Still he did not answer, and after I hadreplaced the flannel over the bruises, I straightened up, and sighed. "I'll make a cup of tea with lots of sugar."
I went back to the deserted kitchen to boil a couple of cups of water for tea. Why had not Mother helped him? I thought angrily. They certainly had had a row, but that was no excuse for not helping a man who was so hurt.
The gas pressure suddenly failed, and I ran into the hall to get my handbag, to find a shilling to put in the gas meter.
I brought the scalding tea and put it on the chair by the bed, to give it time to cool a httle.
Father had discarded the flannel. It lay on the chair by the teacup. His eyes were open and he looked dully at me.
"Daddy, tell me, please, what happened?"
At first he would not reply. Then he said bitterly, "She threw a plate at me, and I fell, and then she came at me with another and hit me across the chin with it." He closed his eyes again, and muttered, "She might have killed me, if I hadn't rolled over."She might indeed have killed him. He could have had a heart attack.
He was cominuing. "I think I've got bruises on my back where she kicked me."
"Good God!" I looked down at this wreck of a man, and then I asked, "Did you hit her back?"
"One does not strike a woman," he said primly.
Father's sense of honour sometimes surfaced in curious ways, and suddenly I wanted to smile. Instead, I sighed again. "I'm going to get the pillows from my bed, to prop you up, so that you can drink your tea more comfortably." I had been shocked at Father's lack of financial concern for the family. I was far more shocked at what Mother had done. I wondered if she was insane.
Lime Street at Two Page 21