Liverpool Miss

by Helen Forrester

  Filled with dismay at my lack of knowledge, not only of the telephone, but of the myriad of social nuances, the courtesies, of this new world, I struggled on to the end of the day. The other girls, with a hasty ‘good-night’ ran for their trams, and I trudged slowly home, head bent against a blustery wind. A cup of tea brought to me during the afternoon had reduced the pangs of hunger, but I felt very weak. Night school would begin at seven o’clock, and I wondered how I would manage to get there in time. I badly needed food, warmth, and a little comforting encouragement that tomorrow I would do better.

  When I slowly opened the door of the living room, I saw that Father was seated in the old easy chair, deep in a book. I wondered why he was not reading in the front room, but decided it was probably too cold for him in there. Alan, his blond cowlick swinging over his forehead, was seated on a small upturned oil drum by the fire. His head was bent over an exercise book while he did his homework.

  Brian, Tony and Avril were sailing an imaginary ship across the floor. Brian was shouting to his bosun, Tony, ‘Ahoy there, Bill. Belay there.’ And then to Avril, he called, ‘Hard astarboard, you lazy landlubber.’ And Avril laboriously turned a huge, imaginary wheel. They were so absorbed in the game that they did not reply when I said, ‘Hello, children.’

  ‘Hello, Daddy. Hello, Alan.’

  They both looked up from their occupations and nodded acknowledgment in a vague, guarded way, then went back to their reading. Only Baby Edward, who was whining steadily, toddled towards me, to put his arms round my legs. I picked him up and hugged him, in an effort to assuage the terrible sense of emptiness within me, and carried him into the kitchen from which came the clatter of dishes.

  Fiona was filling the sooty, tin kettle from the tap, and she half-turned and smiled at me timorously in the flickering light of the candle on the draining board. Beside her, Mother was emptying teacups into the soapstone sink. She said, ‘Oh, you’ve come, have you? You are late.’

  I stroked the back of Edward’s scurfy head, as I answered, ‘It took a long time to walk home.’

  I looked uneasily at both of them. I sensed that something had gone wrong. I could almost smell it. And it was my fault. I could see it in Mother’s stiffened back and frozen look as she swung round to the back door, teapot in hand, to empty the leaves down the outside drain.

  ‘Down?’ requested Edward, and very slowly I slid him on to the worn tiles, my eyes on Fiona, in the hope that she would give me a hint while Mother’s back was turned. Her eyebrows went up and she gave an almost imperceptible shrug. She seemed scared, and turned hastily back to the kettle, which was running over with water.

  Mother clicked her tongue when she saw the overflow.

  ‘Fiona, you stupid girl. Empty some of it out. Put the lid on and then put it on the fire.’

  Obediently, Fiona did this and then slid past me into the living room, to put the kettle on to heat. Edward toddled after her, and I could hear him saying to Brian, ‘Me, too. I want to play.’

  I was left to face Mother.

  ‘You had better get yourself something to eat,’ she said frigidly.

  I had begun to tremble. It started in my legs and worked its way up, until all of me seemed to be shaking. Was nobody interested in what had happened to me? Surely, normal curiosity would have brought a question or two. Whatever had happened in my absence must indeed have been terrible to blot out all remembrance that this had been my first day at work. I waited for the blow to fall, as I whispered, ‘Yes. I am very hungry.’

  I turned to the deal kitchen table upon which lay half a loaf of bread and a very misused-looking pat of margarine sitting on its wrapping paper. ‘Can I make some tea?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mother. ‘The milk is still on the table. That’s all the bread we’ve got.’ She went swiftly into the living room and I heard her go through to the front hall.

  I closed my eyes, as if by shutting out the world, I might persuade the trembling to cease. I wanted to seize the spongy piece of white bread, tear it apart and stuff it in my mouth and gobble it down. I could have eaten the margarine in big, revolting chunks. But Mother’s words had gone into me like a sharp hat pin. What she had really said was, ‘You should not eat anything. If you do, the children will not have any breakfast.’

  But I had to eat. So I took up the knife and very carefully, because my hands were so unsteady, I cut a slice off the loaf and put some margarine on it. Despite a throat tight with misery, I ate it, standing there, staring down at the grey surface of the table.

  When I went into the living room to ask Fiona for some water from her kettle in order to make a cup of tea, she was standing aimlessly watching the game of ships. I touched her shoulder. She jumped and turned towards me, her expression unaccountably defensive as if she expected to be struck. I saw that she had been crying.

  At my request, she took the singing kettle off the fire and brought it into the ill-lit kitchen.

  I asked in a low voice, as I put a pinch of tea into a cup and poured water on to it. ‘What’s up, Fi? What has happened?’

  She looked suddenly as if she would burst into tears again, and my trembling increased. Her usually red lips looked almost bloodless and she pushed her straight brown hair back from her face with hands that shook. She whispered dismally, ‘Oh, Helen. I did a terrible thing. Mother and Father are furious. And they’re awfully cross with you, too, for not being here …’

  In my opinion, Fiona never did anything wrong, so probably it was my fault. As she started to cry, I quickly reviewed the family. Everybody seemed well; nobody appeared to have been hurt.

  Fiona was nearly as tall as me, and I put my arm round her lanky frame. ‘What is it, Fi?’ I asked, through chattering teeth. But she just put her head on my shoulder and cried harder, long, slow sobs, silent like mine usually were, but sobs that seemed to be wrenched out of the innermost depths of her. My own despair was forgotten in the new fear of what had happened to upset her so much.

  ‘What is it, Fi?’ I implored again.

  She gave a huge snuffle and began to mutter into my ear.

  ‘Well, some men came with a big van – and they hammered on the front door until I simply had to answer. And they said they had come to collect the furniture because we were behind in our payments. And both Mummy and Daddy are so angry because I let them in and they took it.’ She lifted her face towards mine, and then said desperately, ‘But I couldn’t help it, Helen. They were so big – and one of them put his foot in the door so that I couldn’t slam it shut. I was so scared, Helen.’ And she began another flood of tears.

  ‘They really took it away?’

  ‘Yes. The front room is empty.’

  I began to chuckle quietly, so as not to draw Daddy’s attention.

  ‘It’s nothing to laugh about, Helen,’ Fiona whispered forcefully. ‘It was terrible.’

  ‘There, now, Fi. Don’t cry. Don’t you see? We don’t have to pay for it any more. That is five more shillings a week in the house. It’s glorious. Think, five shillings will buy at least twenty more loaves a week. That’s two loaves a week each. Cheer up, love.’

  Fiona wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said harshly, her voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘No such luck. Father says we have to go on paying, whether we have the furniture or not. It’s in the agreement.’

  My trembling ceased entirely at this sudden revelation. I looked at her unbelievingly.

  ‘Pay for what we haven’t got? What nonsense.’

  In my innocence, I knew nothing of hire purchase agreements or how they were abused by some companies doing business in the city. Many, many people were caught up in this vicious system, and many of them paid for years, because they either failed to read the small print in the agreements they signed or they did not understand the jargon in which they were couched. There were, of course, many reputable companies who stood by the spirit as well as the letter of their agreements. But my parents had apparently falle
n victim to the blandishments of some salesman who was, perhaps, himself desperate for the commission he would get on the sale.

  ‘We do, Helen. We have to pay.’

  I looked wildly round me, for someone or something on which to vent my frustration.

  ‘Where was Alan when all this happened?’ I asked savagely. ‘Couldn’t he have helped you keep the door shut?’

  ‘He wasn’t home from school. It wasn’t his fault. I left Avril with him and ran on ahead. I wanted to have the tea ready for you when you came home.’ She looked piteously at me and sobbed again.

  ‘Never mind, Fi, dear. You did your very best. Don’t cry any more. I have to go to night school. And I must get Edward and Avril off to bed.’

  I patted her on the shoulder, took a large breath and strode into the living room. ‘Bybyes time, darling,’ I said to Edward, and with a laugh swept him up off the imaginary ship. A few minutes later, I forcibly dragged Avril away from the game to have her face, hands and knees hastily wiped before popping her into bed. Brian and Tony began to quarrel as to who should be thrown overboard to the sharks. Father told them irritably to get ready for bed, and Alan asked equally irritably if he would ever be allowed to do his homework in peace.

  I had brought my books down from the bedroom after hearing recalcitrant Avril’s prayers, and now I picked them up and ran out through the back door. Fiona was washing her face under the tap and I shouted goodbye to her as I went by.

  Two quiet, orderly hours in school restored me.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The next morning, a few minutes after I arrived, breathless and hungry, the Presence sent for me. I was still very upset from the bitter recriminations of my parents, which had burst forth from both of them as they rushed between living room and kitchen getting themselves washed and dressed for work. Mother had gone out the previous evening to the pawnbroker and had pawned all the clothes which Mrs Fox had sent, except what I was wearing, and this had added to my distress. It was a very miserable and frightened young girl who crept into the Presence’s office, and stood humbly waiting for her to speak.

  She looked up from her desk and in a few crisp, sharp words she dismissed me for inefficiency. She gave me a week’s notice.

  My small world, my new hopes, shattered round me. It was as if they fell like tinkling glass from a broken window, leaving me naked to a winter wind.

  As I stood dumbly staring at her without any idea of what I should do, she turned the pages of a file on the desk in front of her. Gradually my eyes focused on her long, shrivelled fingers and following the line of them, I saw that the file was marked ‘Forrester’, in large capital letters.

  In the silence, the significance of the file slowly dawned upon me. At some point, my parents must have applied to my employers for help. And a file on our family must have been sitting on the shelves in the outer office, available for all the girls to read. I felt so mortified at the idea of a social worker’s report on our poverty-stricken home being read by the other girls, that I wondered how I would manage to face them during the week’s notice the Presence had just served on me.

  She was speaking again. ‘Miss Finch will be promoted to telephonist. I am prepared to give you another chance as office girl in her place. Her salary is ten shillings a week.’

  Reprieve! I snapped up the offer.

  Ten shillings would pay Alice. And people got rises in pay, didn’t they? Perhaps I would, if I could last out long enough.

  She lifted the telephone receiver. ‘I will speak to Mr Ellis. Report to him.’ She gave me a grim, small smile of dismissal, and I crept out of the room. Her manner was cool and distant, and yet I felt that, amid the many worries of her day, she had tried to help me.

  I did not look at any of the other girls, as with eyes downcast I went over to Mr Ellis’s desk and stood by him, waiting to be noticed. He was saying, ‘Yes, yes. I understand,’ down the telephone. Finally he hung up the telephone receiver, and swivelled round towards me.

  ‘That’s a proper mess now, isn’t it?’ he barked.

  I hung my head and said nothing.

  While I waited, crestfallen, he reorganised his staff, so that Miss Finch could spend the day showing me what to do. Then I was borne off by a naturally triumphant Miss Finch to hurry into our outdoor clothes again.

  All letters addressed to destinations within approximately one mile of the office were delivered by hand, as were urgent ones to more distant addresses. One of the sights of the city was the vast number of small office boys and girls trotting about, delivering letters. Their wages were cheaper than the cost of postage.

  I knew the city well and soon sorted the letters into a round, and Miss Finch and I set out together. In and out of lawyers’ offices, shipping offices and shops we tramped. There was even a letter for the Liverpool Playhouse, which we excitedly delivered at the stage door, hoping against hope that we might catch a glimpse of one of the actors. But we were disappointed. A joking, cheerful doorman took the missive from us.

  Mary warned me that the lift men in some of the buildings were not to be trusted, and several times she insisted that we walked up the stairs, once as far as the sixth floor.

  I did not understand the import of her warning until the next day, when I did the round on my own. Two men pawed me, while with one hand they pulled the rope that carried the lift upwards. I shrank into the far corner where I could not be reached. This did not deter one of them who, with a grin, stopped the lift at a deserted top floor and pinned me into the corner.

  Instinctively I screamed at the top of my voice, and pushed away the exploring hands with all the force I could comamnd. The letters scattered over the floor of the lift. I was panic-stricken, though I could not have said what I was frightened of.

  When I shrieked the man let go of me. He turned and angrily flung open the iron gates, and told me to get out and walk. He picked up the letters and threw them after me, as I shot past him onto the landing. I snatched up the letters and scampered down the staircase to the floor I needed. I was sickened, as he slowly followed me down in the lift whispering obscenities which I had previously only come across scribbled on the walls of public lavatories and had never quite understood. His leering face, seen through the iron gates as I passed them on my way down, haunted my nightmares for several days.

  This was the first time that anyone had made a sexual advance to me, and, since I did not really understand what the threat to me was, I was filled with nameless terrors for a long time, and learned to run upstairs like a rabbit. Practically all the novels I read ended with a first kiss and I imagined that a happy marriage was a life of gentle tenderness. That there was a physical side to it was unknown to me. I had washed my brothers often enough to know that there was a difference between boys and girls, and Edith had always washed us and dressed us in front of each other, so it all seemed perfectly natural, as did the fact that elm trees and oak trees had different types of leaves.

  I had once watched a bull amongst a herd of cows and understood from the cowman that they were making calves. I vaguely understood that babies were carried in their mothers’ stomachs, because some of my brothers and sisters had been born at home; and I had picked up from scurrying maids a little of what was happening, but how the baby got there was unknown to me and I presumed that its beginning was spontaneous, though I gave it surprisingly little thought. I knew I was too plain for marriage so would not be having any babies anyway.

  During the past two years, while I had been developing into a woman, I had been entirely cut off from the speculative gossip of young girls. Mother had not seen fit to explain anything to me or to warn me of any danger to myself. Yet I sensed now a real physical danger and I gave a wide berth to all liftmen and commissionaires.

  When Miss Finch and I returned to the office, we dashed up the stairs to the kitchen to make the morning tea. A tray was spread for the Presence, kettles were filled and cups and saucers were assembled on other trays. A box of biscuits was opened
and a biscuit put on every saucer.

  While Miss Finch delivered tea to the Presence and to the people working on the same floor as the Filing Department, I ran down the innumerable stone stairs to the basement, carefully balancing in one hand a cup of tea for Miss Lester, who took the names of the clients when they first entered.

  The stench in the badly-ventilated cellar room was appalling, as I handed the cup of tea to the blue-clad girl seated at a tiny table facing the clients. She thanked me, while about twenty pairs of eyes watched silently. I paused by the table, expecting Miss Lester to make some light remark or other. Gossiping, however, was a major sin in the eyes of Mr Ellis, so she said nothing.

  I looked out over the clients and they stared back at me. There were fat women in black shawls, black skirts and white aprons. They were Liverpool Irish, I knew. Once or twice, while sitting in the park watching the children play, I had spoken to such women shyly about their children, and found them kind and responsive. Some of them still had the high colour of country women, but most of them looked white and drained of strength.

  There were also a few women in coats and hats, shabby and grey. A number of men in stained working clothes sat quietly, with their cloth caps held neatly on their laps. One or two children fidgeted fretfully on the wooden benches or sat on the coconut matting which covered the stone floor. Low-watt bulbs cast a poor light over the well-ordered crowd.

  Perhaps it was their quietness, their resignation to the long wait for attention, which was most depressing. They seemed people who had lost all hope, and my heart went out to them. I understood why they smelled, the exhaustion which made them so very quiet. The organisation, I guessed correctly, had not enough money to enable them to offer their clients a cup of tea. Thoughtfully I stole back up the stairs to the kitchen.

  ‘You were a long time,’ complained Miss Finch impatiently. ‘Take this tray down to the first floor. Give each of the interviewers a cup – and don’t forget the volunteer at the centre table.’