Liverpool Miss

by Helen Forrester

  In February, the cold and the lack of food caught up with me, and I fell ill. I staggered round the spinning office, dumbly terrified that if I said I was ill I would be dimissed, as girls in shops sometimes were. There was the further fear that if I had to stay at home, Mother would find means of keeping me there. She looked after Edward on days when she had no work; occasionally Fiona would be kept at home to mind him, and on other days he was handed round to various neighbouring women to be watched for a few hours. The problem was solved when he reached the age of four and could run along to school with Avril. Nothing seemed to disturb him much. He was used to a large family and seemed to add any strangers to that family. He was obedient and had a tranquillity which the rest of us lacked. Perhaps he realised that, despite the fights which raged over his head, he was never attacked and we all loved him very much.

  Though the gulf between Mother and me had, since infancy, appeared to me to be unbridgeable, she had recently begun to talk idly to me as if I were a woman. Only the surface of her mind seemed to be engaged in the conversation; somewhere deep underneath lay the real woman, with true passions and motives. But it was better than nothing. Despite this small break, I still dreaded that she would again pass over her family responsibilities to me. So that in overwhelming fear I fumbled about the office making tea, sorting index cards, going out to deliver letters, while Mr Ellis ranted that I was more than usually slow and stupid. My chest hurt and my throat hurt and I ached all over as I sought to please him. On the second day, like an Edwardian heroine, I collapsed quietly into a chair.

  Everybody was concerned and kind. Smelling salts were thrust under my nose, tea was made; and, when I could get up, Mary was instructed to escort me to the tram. I was not very clear about what was happening and was shivering, as Mary bundled me into the vehicle.

  I sat down by a workman in torn work clothes, and took out my last penny from Joan’s handbag. I dropped it, and it rattled away down towards the front of the vehicle. The workman looked up from his Echo, while I sat aghast, feeling that even if I could find the coin under the feet of all the other passengers, I would collapse if I bent over to retrieve it.

  The middle-aged workman next to me was staring, as the skinny conductor, rattling his money bag as warning, came down the aisle to collect the fares. I sat silent, waiting to be thrown off at the next stop because I did not have the fare.

  The man folded up his paper and proffered a sixpence to the conductor. ‘Two woons, lad,’ he said.

  The conductor punched two tickets, handed them to him, and wandered on down the aisle. The man handed one of the tickets to me. ‘’ere ya, luv,’ he said, his rough red face beaming.

  My voice seemed to come from far away, as I said, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much. You are most kind.’

  ‘Aye, that’s all right, luv.’

  He looked down at his folded paper and I looked down at the stubby fingers holding it; they were scarred from many cuts about the knuckles and the nails were broken to the quick. The memory of them and of their wonderfully perceptive owner stayed with me through the illness that followed.

  Contributions to National Health Insurance entitled workers to the services of a doctor. When my parents came home and found me shivering in my bed, they sent for the general practitioner with whom I had registered my name.

  He came marching into the smelly, bug-ridden bedroom, went straight to the window and flung it open, waited for a moment and then closed it partially. In the light of a candle held by Mother, he examined me and diagnosed influenza and tonsillitis. The tonsillitis had caused an ear infection. He ordered that more covering than the single blanket and old overcoat on my bed be put over me, a fire be made in the bedroom, the window kept slightly open. He painted my throat with tannic acid, put drops in my ears and ordered aspirin to alleviate the influenza. He was a handsome man with a very white skin and a large black moustache. He was exceedingly kind to me over the three weeks of my illness, coming in daily to paint my throat, and assumed an almost Godlike character in my romantic mind.

  He also ordered a light diet of milk, eggs and orange juice. This seemed to be out of the question. But Mother did make bread and milk for me, and for the rest I had Oxo cubes dissolved in hot water, toast and tea. When there was enough coal, a fire was made for me by Father, but most of the time we were too short of fuel, despite the fact that my kind employer continued to send my wages by mail and Mother cashed the postal orders.

  For days I lay in my cold bed watching the sleet and rain of February through the dusty, finger-marked window, too exhausted by fever and pain to think. The children were used to my retiring temporarily to bed with bouts of tonsillitis and rarely came to see me except at bedtime. Edward had been moved from my bed in case of infection and shared my parents’ bed; but as soon as the fever had departed Mother used me as a baby-sitter for him, which meant I dared not sleep during the day.

  Once I could walk about the house, I asked the doctor to certify me as fit. I told him that if I was away much longer, I might lose my job. This was such a common reason for going back to work before one was fit, that he signed the certificate. I washed and ironed my blouse and panties, mended my stockings and the next day reported to work.

  It seemed as if the staircases had grown longer in my absence and the distances I had to walk to deliver letters seemed to have expanded to infinity. Several times I had to lean against a wall until bouts of faintness passed.

  It took such a very long time to walk home that Father became anxious and set out to meet me. We came face to face beside the Philharmonic Hall, where he had paused to glance at the tattered black and white posters announcing their concerts.

  His cheap navy blue suit shone at the elbows and seat, and it hung on him. He looked cold and forlorn without a raincoat, and his thin, lined face showed anxiety, as he hastened towards me.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he inquired, as he took my elbow and turned towards home. ‘We have been worried about you.’

  ‘I had to wait for the letters to be signed before I posted them,’ I muttered, my breath coming in short gasps after the effort of climbing the hill.

  ‘You should have taken the tram home,’ Father said. ‘You’re not fit to walk.’

  ‘I didn’t have any money,’ I wailed suddenly, all the misery of years bursting from me in one long, subdued howl.

  ‘Good God! I thought it was arranged that you should have a shilling a week for pocket money and fares.’ He stopped and looked into my woebegone face.

  ‘Mother didn’t have any of my wages left, when I asked her this morning,’ I sobbed.

  He clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘Dear Lord!’ he exclaimed in exasperation.

  This was the first time for many years that Father and I had been together without any other member of the family present, and it was as if he came out of his usual absent state and really looked at me. The sight seemed to have some impact.

  I continued to wail softly as we inched our way along dark Myrtle Street and turned into Catherine Street, while he supported me by the elbow.

  My sobs receded and I turned towards him. His large, high-bridged nose was scarlet from acne roseola, the rest of the skin an unhealthy yellow. His shirt and collar had reached an off-white colour from too much washing with too little soap, and his trousers badly needed pressing. His expression was so sad that I nearly burst into tears again. When he was not absorbed in a book or quarrelling with Mother, he could be quite light-hearted and very witty, but now I was again reminded of a butterfly caught in a rainstorm. With horrid clarity, I saw, not a vague, exasperating figure called Father, but a defeated man; and for a moment I walked with him through the morass of despair into which he had fallen. There seemed nothing left of the cheerful young man, described to me by Grandma, who had gone off to war, despite his short-sightedness, and ended up in the forests of Russia. My first memories of him had been of a voice screaming with terror in the night. He suffered scarifying nightmares of his war
experiences while he tried to re-establish himself in a post war world, which was fed up with returning soldiers and their needs. He was a cultivated man, clever in his way, but now he worked as a clerk for the city, earning more than he handed over to Mother, but still very little. With the rest of the family, he suffered very much from the lack of intellectual companionship as well as lack of food and comfort.

  As we slowly made our way along Catherine Street, we began to feel comfortable together, like walking wounded helping each other along. Though we did not talk much, because I was too exhausted, a feeling of understanding began to grow between us.

  Before we entered the house, Father took a sixpence from his waistcoat pocket and pressed it into my hand.

  ‘Come home on the tram every day,’ he ordered.

  I stared down at the tiny silver coin, too tired even to thank him, and then nodded agreement and slipped the coin into my handbag.

  He pulled the string hanging from the letterbox and released the latch of the front door. He swung the door open and stepped back on to the pavement with a little bow, to allow me to pass in first. Poignantly, that polite gesture brought home to me, more than anything else, how different he was from the men who lived round us. Little Avril once expressed a similar idea. She said, ‘I love Daddy. He is so gentle and he is the only man in the street who wears a collar.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I soon gained strength again and, through long days, slid silently between the patient, smelly clients, carrying cups of tea or files or messages. Sometimes I felt like advising the quietly courteous interviewers that our funds would do as much good if they were simply scattered in the back streets and left for the inhabitants to pick up. In large areas of Liverpool there was barely an inhabitant who was not in distress. Workless, half-starved, they were packed into deteriorating houses lacking proper toilets or running water. They were often shiftless and stupid, many spent their money on drink and some on drugs, but their need was blatantly manifest to anyone who cared to walk down the long treeless streets and through the narrow courts. Born and bred in such shocking conditions, who could blame them for seeking at every opportunity the garish warmth of the public houses on almost every corner?

  It was pathetic to watch the clients doing their best not to use coarse language before the gently-bred ladies of our organisation. Their usually loud voices were lowered to the whispers of the confessional, as they hesitantly chose words that would please, not offend. They never laughed.

  In fact, nobody laughed, except the shorthand typists in their isolated nest on the top floor. It was not an environment calculated to raise the spirits of a sad and sick fifteen-year old.

  Grandma had, however, taught me to read out of the Bible, and I believed firmly in miracles. I had also not yet totally lost my belief in fairies, particularly Robin Goodfellow, a wicked sprite who sometimes snatched cups from my careless fingers and smashed them on the floor or who lost my pencils and dropped the hairpins out of my hair.

  When the Presence sent for me one sunny May morning, therefore, I was expecting to be upbraided for the breakage of a cup and saucer, Robin Goodfellow having been rather busy the previous day. Instead, she performed a miracle.

  I stood humbly before her desk, blue overall crumpled and splashed, greasy hair untidily knotted into a bun at the nape of my neck. Fortunately, she was too busy to look up at me.

  She had a letter in her hand and she announced, as she read it, that I was entitled to two weeks’ holiday that summer and had been granted a free holiday in a place called Kent’s Bank. Mr Ellis would tell me when I could go, and a train ticket would be sent to me by the charity concerned. It did not strike me at the time that she might have asked me if I would like to go. I was ordered to depart for Kent’s Bank on a date to be arranged.

  Beside myself with excitement, I thanked her and fled back upstairs to the kitchen, where I stood quivering in front of the sink. A holiday! An undreamed of luxury. A miracle.

  Later, I cautiously inquired of one of the filing clerks if she knew where Kent’s Bank was. She looked derisively at me for a moment and then sniggered. That little choking laugh told me that a recipient of charity was contemptible, and that she knew why I asked.

  ‘It’s on Morecambe Bay,’ she said, and turned superciliously back to her file sorting.

  Terribly hurt, I slunk back to the kitchen.

  As I ate potatoes and cabbage and gravy, saved for me from the hot meal Mother had made at tea time, I told her about the holiday.

  ‘It’s all free, Mummy. Even the train ticket. Except I think I would simply have to have a nightgown and some walking shoes – if you could get them, Mummy.’

  ‘I can’t afford them,’ said Mother simply. She was sitting in the easy chair, Edward on her lap, and smoking a cigarette.

  ‘It is time you provided things like that for yourself, now that you are at work.’ She took a slow pull at the cigarette and exhaled the smoke through her nostrils. ‘You must have had a rise in salary since you started. You have been working for over a year now.’

  Startled, I blinked at her. I had hardly given a thought to pay increases. I had concentrated solely on retaining my job.

  ‘No, Mummy. I’ve never had a rise – only a reduction the first week. I’m still the office girl.’

  Mother’s eyebrows rose. ‘That’s absurd. You must have had an increase.’

  ‘Honestly, Mummy. I haven’t. I would have told you if I had.’

  Her lips twisted and she stared hostilely at me. It was clear that she did not believe me.

  My throat constricted. Then I said stiffly, ‘I don’t cheat, Mummy.’

  ‘They don’t have money to give increases,’ interjected Father, looking up from his book, laid on the table in front of him beside a half-drunk cup of tea. ‘Helen should go. She still doesn’t look well. Perhaps we could get a one pound cheque to buy the things she needs. Try. See what you can do.’

  While they argued and Mother fretted about the peremptoriness of the Presence, who had obviously not considered that my help might be needed at home, I rescued Avril from a fight on the front pavement and put her and Edward to bed. Avril always wanted to be included in the boys’ games; and this time they had not allowed her to join in a game of marbles and she was in a howling tantrum over it. She transferred some of her furious frustration to me, as I hauled her into bed and told her in true sisterly fashion to shut up.

  It was a further miracle which found me standing on the doorstep of a fine stone mansion in Kent’s Bank run as a guest house by an organisation which used its profits to provide free holidays for the less fortunate. The June sun warmed my back and the clear, sharp smell of the sea wafted round me. In my hand I held a brown paper bag containing a clean blouse and panties, a nightgown and a toothbrush. On my feet I wore a second-hand pair of boy’s shoes. Fiona had volunteered the loan of her raincoat which was a little short on me, but made me look quite neat. All the children had been delighted that I was to go on a holiday, though it was clear from their wistful faces that they wished they could come, too.

  In answer to my timorous knock, a middle-aged man, swarthy and black-haired, ushered me in and up a fine, well-carpeted staircase, to a large bedroom containing six single beds.

  ‘You are the first arrival, so choose whichever bed you like,’ he said with a cheerful grin. ‘You can put your toilet things on the dressing-table there and clothes in the wardrobe.’ He gestured towards two enormous pieces of shining Edwardian furniture.

  ‘I’d enjoy being by the window,’ I replied shyly, pointing to the furthest bed which stood close to a tall light window draped in white net curtains. Through the window I could see pine trees waving in the breeze and a dazzling glimpse of the sea.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Come downstairs to the lounge and have some tea, as soon as you are ready.’

  I smiled my thanks and he went away.

  Feeling very nervous, I put the paper bag in the wardrobe, and then like
a cat in a new place I walked round the room, examining the peerless white pillows on the beds, looking down at the highly polished linoleum on the floor, and finally stopping to wash my hands in a tiny basin in a corner. I combed my hair and redid my bun in front of the spotted dressing table mirror, and then cautiously opened the bedroom door and ventured downstairs.

  The lounge was full of chattering men and women, who all seemed much older than me, and I hesitated in the doorway while the scene came into clearer focus.

  An elderly gentleman was sitting on a settee directly opposite the doorway. When he looked up from his teacup and saw me, he smiled, and evidently realised that I was feeling very shy. He motioned me to come over and sit by him, which I did, perching nervously on the edge of the settee.

  He had a large, grey moustache and heavy black eyebrows under which bright blue eyes twinkled merrily. He took a pipe out of his mouth and said, ‘Just arrived?’ I nodded, and he put down his teacup. ‘I’ll get you some tea. Do you take milk and sugar?’

  I assented with another shy nod, and he went to the tea table and returned with tea and three biscuits. He pulled a small table forward and set the cup in front of me.

  ‘There we are,’ he announced. His voice was deep, with a pleasant Welsh sing-song to it. He sat down beside me and took up his own cup again. He had put his pipe away in the pocket of his finely cut tweed jacket.

  ‘My name is Emrys Hughes,’ he said. ‘And that’s my brother, Gwyn, over there.’ He gestured towards the mantelpiece against which leaned a tall, thin man, also grey-haired, talking to a lady in a green dress. ‘What’s your name?’