Liverpool Miss

by Helen Forrester

  Then, quite suddenly, I was shivering in the light of the pale Liverpool sun coming through the bedroom window. My feet were sticking out from under the coverings, and I pulled them up close to me. The movement sent a shooting pain through them. A cold hot water bottle lay at my side and I tried to push it away, but somehow my hands would not obey so I lay still.

  After a little while, I opened my eyes again and turned my head. A small fire was smouldering in the grate, and, in the double bed on the other side of the room lay Brian. He was tucked up tightly in a pile of bedding and coats. His hair stuck up like the hairs of a shaving brush and the face beneath was yellow with two bright red spots on the cheekbones.

  I tried to ask him what had happened, but when I moved, such a pain shot through my head from both ears, and my throat seemed so swollen, that I barely got the first word out.

  He seemed to understand, and one small, chilblained hand crept out of his covering and he pointed to his throat. He managed a wry little smile.

  Mother came slowly in. Her feet dragged, as she came over to me. Without make-up and without her hair combed, she looked faded and pinched. She must have been exhausted, after having two invalids to care for, particularly since I would normally have taken a lot of the load from her.

  She saw with obvious relief that I was awake. To allay the pain, I lay perfectly still while she put her hand on my forehead to check the temperature.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  I tried to smile. ‘Ears hurt – and throat and legs,’ I croaked. ‘Brian?’

  Mother nodded. ‘He has quinsy, poor boy. He is going into hospital this afternoon, to have it cut.’ The lines on her face deepened. Brian was one of her favourite children.

  ‘Where is he going?’

  ‘The Ear, Nose and Throat Hospital.’

  Very carefully, I turned my face towards the other bed. Despite his illness, Brian’s eyes crinkled up cheerfully at me.

  For a long time, I lay looking at the cracked, grey ceiling, trying not to weep with weakness and pain, because crying only constricted the already painfully tight throat. Mother brought both Brian and me a cup of tea and supported us in turn as we drank.

  The doctor came in the afternoon and dispatched Brian, still stoically cheerful, in an ambulance to the hospital. Then he turned to me.

  ‘I was beginning to think I’d have to send you in, too,’ he said, as he probed round my neck with his fingers.

  I smiled weakly. ‘What have I had?’

  ‘You’ve had a nasty attack of bronchitis – in fact, it is still with you – but I think you will mend now. You also managed a bad dose of ’flu. And now we have to tackle your throat and ears.’

  I nodded, while he took a camel hair brush out of his bag and a bottle of tannic acid, so that he could paint my throat. After he had done that, he put drops in both ears. He was very gentle, his handsome young face filled with concern. Afterwards, I learned that he did not charge for his visits to Brian, since he was already in the house to see me. Brian’s hospital stay would be covered by charitable contributions to the hospital, he told Mother. He came every day, twice, to paint my throat and check my ears.

  All I could eat for a while was a cup of Oxo with bread mashed into it or a cup of tea, but I slept a lot.

  Two days after my delirium left me, I remembered Miriam’s typewriter. I lay sobbing quietly for hours in great fear about it, while Mother did an afternoon stint in a department store.

  Father was home first. I had heard Fiona come in, followed by the other children, but she was making the tea, judging by the sounds that floated up the stairs, and had not come to see me. Father came straight upstairs and still had his hat in his hand as he sat down on the bed, careful not to shake me.

  ‘Well, how’s my girl?’

  ‘Not bad,’ I whispered.

  He patted my hand, and I asked him eagerly, ‘Daddy, do you know about the typewriter?’

  He looked grim, as he said that he did.

  ‘Were you able to get it back? Has Miriam got it?’ It seemed as if my whole life hung on the answer.

  He gave a little snort, with a hint of laughter in it. ‘Yes, dear. She has.’

  ‘Thank God,’ I muttered. ‘Thank God.’ The burden was off me.

  He sat staring sombrely at the empty fireplace – we had run out of coal. After a minute, I asked huskily how he had done it.

  ‘Well, your Mother had applied for a five-pound cheque to buy some clothes for the boys – and the finance company granted it. So we bought everything we could on it and pawned the lot. And we didn’t pay the rent, so that made enough. Your Mother took the machine into the office – and I understand that Miriam was very nice to her.’ He sighed heavily, and then said, ‘Don’t worry any more. You should have told me immediately it happened. I doubt if I would have known about it at all, if you had not shouted your head off over it while you were in delirium.’ He looked down at me and laughed suddenly. ‘There was quite a rumpus.’

  I could imagine the row there must have been between Mother and him, and I grinned back at him.

  ‘And I was out of it all,’ I chuckled. My throat hurt and I stopped suddenly. ‘It’s a dreadful load of debt.’

  ‘Nothing new,’ he said, with the same sort of optimism that Alan sometimes displayed. ‘You are not to worry. Just get well.’

  ‘How long have I been ill?’ I asked.

  ‘Eight days.’

  ‘When can I get up?’

  ‘It will be some time yet.’

  I laughed again, this time a little more carefully. ‘Fiona still has to hold me on the chamberpot – so I suppose it will be a while.’ Then I began to cough and to wince with pain in my chest and head. The smoke from his cigarette had got into my throat.

  One day, the doctor asked Mother to refrain from smoking in the bedroom. She was very offended and railed against him as soon as he had gone. He had also lectured her on the necessity for getting some weight back on to both Brian’s and my wasted bodies. He ordered cream, butter, potatoes, fresh vegetables, liver and eggs – and rest, lots of rest and fresh air for both of us.

  Mother listened, and bowed her head politely from time to time, as he urged her quite passionately to stuff us with food. But when she had quietly closed the front door on him and had returned to the bedroom to give me a dose of cough mixture, she first fumed about his rudeness in asking her not to smoke, and then said crossly, ‘And where does he think I will get the money from for cream?’

  Tears of weakness forced themselves through crunched up eyelids, as I lay back on the pillow. I remembered the slice of bread for breakfast, the lack of lunch until I had managed to buy myself a bowl of soup or a roll and butter, the tiny plate of dinner kept from the hot meal Mother made either at lunch time or teatime, according to her work schedule. She did not eat much herself, but I was still growing; my needs were at least as great as Fiona’s. I thought of Alan, able to go to the cinema on the strength of his pocket money, of the lunch he carried each day, of his new shoes and his tram fares. Why could not I have had the same?

  And the answer seemed obvious. Because you are a girl old enough to be more useful at home than at work; a girl, moreover, whose very existence was resented from the day of her birth.

  People, least of all parents, do not analyse their attitudes to children; and I am sure Father and Mother saw me only as a recalcitrant, disobedient offspring who had to be brought to heel. Their lives had been ruined and they were too exhausted to think their children’s problems through. Mother used quantities of aspirin to sedate herself and Father, when he got the chance, vanished off for a drink. And they both smoked incessantly. They had neither time nor inclination to give sober, careful thought to what was happening to me.

  Mother did, however, begin to bring me plenty of bread and margarine and big bowls of porridge with a little sugar and milk. But a great lassitude enveloped me. After a few mouthfuls, the throat seemed choked and I could not eat any more. Frequent sm
all helpings were difficult for her to arrange because she worked a half-day on most weekdays, and she was herself tired to death.

  Fiona helped me to use the chamberpot and she and Mother washed me. At first I accepted these attentions with about as much response as a rag doll would give. Then, as I grew a little stronger, the wells of gratitude were loosed and I would thank them effusively for every service, however small.

  I began to worry that such a long absence would mean dismissal from my job. And how long would it take me to get strong enough to face those awful stone stairs and heavy trays again? And my night school work would be weeks behind.

  I asked Fiona to bring me my text books and I lay with them on the bedclothes, too weak, too tired to lift them up and read them. When Mother went to the library, she very kindly brought me a pile of novels and these were the first books that I read, as I grew a little stronger and was able to sit up.

  As the fear that I might die receded, Mother began to get impatient with my slow recovery. She was weary, weary beyond words, after coping with Brian’s and my sickness, her own periodic jobs and all the tasks that I normally did. Fiona had been pressed into service, but Fiona was as good as Mahatma Gandhi at practising passive resistance; she had no intention of inheriting my domestic shoes. She learned quickly that trade union habit of working to rule. And who could be angry with such a gentle, helpless, blue-eyed beauty? None of us could.

  When Brian returned from hospital, and, after a week’s convalescence at home, was allowed to return to school, Mother seemed to feel that I should automatically have recovered as well.

  I was unable to oblige, though our patient doctor had managed to bring down the inflammation in my throat, and the abscesses in my ears had burst and were healing. I was also able to sit on a chair, though I found a hard wooden one difficult to sit on because I had no fat on my buttocks.

  Christmas was nearly upon us, though I had given no thought to preparing gifts and my parents had not mentioned it, when Fiona brought a letter up to me. Though the letter was addressed to me, it had been opened. It was from the Presence.

  The Presence announced that she was very concerned that I had been so ill, and she would call to see me at three o’clock in two days’ time.

  The thought of such an important visitor as my employer coming into our bedroom threw me into a panic. What would she think of the stuffy, dirtiness of it, of the lack of bedspreads, even enough blankets? How would she regard a room furnished only with two beds, a candlestick, a wooden chair and an unscoured chamberpot? She was a gentlewoman, I reminded myself. She would be horrified.

  ‘What shall I do?’ I asked Mother when, later, she brought me a cup of Oxo.

  ‘I think you had better see her downstairs,’ said Mother. ‘The doctor said you can get dressed for a little while tomorrow, so you can probably get down the stairs all right.’

  I agreed fervently. If Mother tidied up the living room it would look much better than the bedroom did.

  ‘How long did they pay my wages for, Mummy? Did they send any?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They’re still paying them. A money order comes every week. I cash it at the post office.’

  ‘That’s awfully kind of them,’ I said.

  ‘Well, they’re a charity. They should be charitable,’ Mother said, with considerable venom in her voice. She picked up my medicine bottle and shook it.

  The sudden elation in me died at her remark. I shivered. How cold charity could be.

  As I sipped the scalding Oxo, I told myself that I was stupid, inept, untrained and deserved the impatience of the filing clerks and Mr Ellis, the irritability of the Cashier who had the unenviable task of making the charity’s ends meet. Two of the social workers, the ladies of the green overalls, had, at my first Christmas with them, given me gifts, one of sweets, the other of a bottle of lavender, which I had promptly used as gifts for Mother and Fiona; so they knew I existed. There were days, however, when I wondered if I was really a person to the staff or whether I was just an inefficient piece of machinery. Mother had never regarded her servants as people; perhaps they thought of me like that.

  I sighed, and dismissed the depressing subject. Anyone as unwashed, smelly, ugly and generally repulsive as me, I assured myself, was bound to suffer the opprobrium of those who could afford hot water and soap.

  But the Presence realised I was a person. She had apparently ordered wages to be sent to me, and now she was going to call on me. She had sent me on a miraculous holiday which had given me the affection of Emrys Hughes, draper, during his last few weeks on earth.

  At the thought of Emrys, tears of weakness began to flow. The battle to survive seemed too great to be borne and I wished I was with him.

  ‘What are you crying for?’ asked Mother. ‘Come along, now. Take your medicine.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Mother seemed anxious that we should make a good impression on the Presence; and on the day of her visit, she brought the tin basin from the kitchen and washed me all over with warm water. She had ironed my work skirt and she lent me one of her own blouses to wear. I was too weak to endure having my hair washed, so she combed it out and pinned it back from my face with a hair clip. All the time my heart went pit-a-pat at the thought of facing my formidable employer, and I was glad to rest before Mother supported me down the stairs.

  To my surprise, she opened the front room door instead of the living-room door. Obediently, I tottered into the room and stared, unbelievingly, around me.

  A small fire blazed in the hearth and gave a pleasant glow in a room made dark by an overcast afternoon. A pretty beige and green rug covered the floor; the windows were draped with pale green silky curtains. In front of the fire stood a new, beige settee, and at either side was a matching easy chair. In the window was a softly shining bureau. Over the mantelpiece hung a glittering, plate glass mirror. Reflected in it was a watercolour painting hanging on the opposite wall. The picture was one painted for Mother when she was a young girl, and she had snatched it up when leaving our home; it was all she had of our earlier, more prosperous life, and she had never pawned it.

  ‘Good Heavens!’ I exclaimed. I was so startled that my weak legs gave way and I sat down suddenly on the settee.

  ‘It looks nice, doesn’t it?’ said Mother, her face glowing. ‘It’s a little bare yet, but we’ll soon add some more pieces. They delivered it on the Monday after you were taken ill.’

  I replied truthfully that it looked extremely nice. I had more sense than to start a fight regarding the other ideas which shot into my mind. ‘It’s charming,’ I added.

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether to choose beige curtains or green ones. But the green brocade seemed such good quality that I bought those.’

  ‘They look lovely,’ I assured her. ‘Thanks for making a fire here.’ My head was whirling with the effort I had made to get dressed and come downstairs, and my chest felt constricted and painful with the effort not to burst into helpless tears.

  Mother smiled. ‘I’ll just go and tidy myself before your visitor arrives. It’s fortunate that I did not have any work today.’

  She closed the door quietly behind her, and I leaned back against the new upholstery. Mother was an intelligent, well-educated woman, but when I looked around me I doubted her sanity.

  How many shillings each week was this new extravagance going to drain from us? I wondered. And if they felt compelled to buy something for the house, why not start with blankets and sheets or towels? Our beds still lacked the basic necessities to keep us warm and clean – and they had gone out and bought a drawing room full of furniture. I sobbed inside, not daring to cry aloud. And how much longer was I to go hungry – and to a lesser degree the other children, too – until the damned stuff was paid for? I knew that we had not yet finished paying for the furniture that had been repossessed. Would they never learn to be practical? I whimpered in feeble anger.

  There was a quiet knock at the front door, and I hastily dashed errant tears a
way and sniffed. I had not got a handkerchief.

  There was the sound of soft, refined voices in the hall, a familiar, slightly shuffling step. I eased myself round, with some difficulty, to face my employer as she entered. Somehow she did not look so awesome in these surroundings – just a frail, small, elderly lady with a genuine look of concern on her face, as she held out a little gloved hand to be shaken.

  ‘How do you do?’ I inquired politely.

  Her eyes looked dreadfully tired, but she said, with a little smile, ‘Very well, thank you. And how are you?’

  ‘Better, thank you,’ I managed to gulp.

  Mother asked her to sit down on one of the easy chairs, and she did so. She loosened the fur collar of her dark winter coat, arranged her black handbag on her knee and crossed her ankles neatly.

  Mother swished down into the other easy chair, and the Presence looked me up and down earnestly.

  ‘You seem to have been very ill,’ she said. ‘You have lost a lot of weight.’

  I nodded nervous agreement. I wanted to lie down, but did not dare to move.

  ‘Has the doctor told you yet when you will be fit for work?’

  Mother intervened. ‘This is her first venture downstairs, so I imagine it will be a few weeks before she can do much walking.’

  ‘I imagine so.’ The Presence continued to gaze thoughtfully at me. I had the feeling she could have given a police description of me after such an intense scrutiny.

  There was an embarrassed silence, finally broken by Mother, who inquired, ‘Would you like a cup of tea? You must be cold after coming so far. Helen usually has a cup at this time.’