Liverpool Miss (7 page)

In the usual rush to get everybody off to school and themselves off to work, my parents had no time to discuss Miss Ferguson’s visit with me. Mother gave me a shilling, as usual, to buy food, and two extra pennies to put in the gas meter. Father asked me to wash his second shirt ready for the next day, and suddenly Edward and I had the house to ourselves.

Greatly daring, I borrowed a large pair of scissors from a crippled Jewish lady who lived across the road. I was acquainted with her, because on cold winter Saturdays, Brian lit her fire for her and went over occasionally to make it up, since her religion demanded that she do no work on that day.

I stood in front of our piece of mirror in the kitchen window and hacked off the greasy rat’s tails
of hair until I was left with a short bob. I wished I had the family comb, but Mother had taken it to work with her. Then I attacked my nails, which were not very easy to cut with such big scissors, but finally they were snipped down to the flesh and that got rid of much of the dirt under them as well. Hair and body were then washed with a kettle of boiling water and a rag. I combed my hair with my fingers and smoothed it with the dirty towel.

My hands still looked awful. Then I remembered an old beauty trick of Grandma’s. Feeling as if I was robbing Edward of a breakfast, I took a small pinch of oatmeal, damped the hands again and rubbed the oatmeal in hard. The hands emerged looking clean and much whiter than usual.

I put on the new pair of black woollen stockings which Cristina had lent me and found they would stay up fairly well if I twisted a piece of coal very tightly into the top of each.

How did one behave at an interview? I worried. What did one say? During the past three and a half years I had been practically cut off from all social contact. At an age when most middle-class girls would be being taught social graces by their school mistresses and their mothers, I had been walking the streets of Liverpool in rags, pushing a baby in a pram. Sometimes I was afraid I would forget how
to speak properly. Only at night school did I ever get a chance to express myself. The lack of mental stimulation, the ever present lack of food, and the lack of fun and young friends had played havoc with an already shy personality – and I knew it.

As I scuttled round the shops in Granby Street with Edward in tow, and bought bread and potatoes and margarine, I silently said the General Confession and then the Lord’s Prayer, turning towards the only help I knew. God received a rather wild collection of prayers that morning.

This mental exercise reminded me of Father’s question as to whether I had approached the Anglican Fathers at the church about a job. The pressure Miss Ferguson had put on my parents
was
more than might normally have been expected. Perhaps Miss Ferguson had, after her tour of our house, consulted the priests. None of them had come to see us; but they had hooked Brian and Tony into the choir, so they knew we were High Anglicans. The idea that they might be trying to help me filled my romantic teenage heart with a kind of joy and lifted me for a while out of my wretchedness.

I fed the children when they came in for dinner and then dragged Fiona into the kitchen and confided to her the story of the job. Would she
look after Edward for me, while I went for the interview?

‘What if Mummy finds out?’ she quavered, her eyes wide with misgiving.

‘Oh, Fi, just take Avril to school and then slip back here. I’ll be back ages before the boys or Mummy and Daddy come. They’ll never know.’

‘I’m scared, Helen. Teacher may be cross, too.’

‘Look, I’ll take all the blame. You can say I bullied you into it. They’ll believe that. They’ll blame me anyway.’

‘Helen!’

She was very frightened and yet I had to have a baby-sitter for a couple of hours.

‘Please, Fi, darling. Please.’

She shifted around unhappily and finally agreed.

While she took Avril to school, I put on the dress and the little jacket and then, as I squeezed a large acne spot on my chin and anxiously examined two more at the side of my nose, I agonised that she might not return. I peered anxiously at myself in the broken mirror. Behind the outgrown glasses my eyes were red with strain or pink eye. A further black rim round them from lack of food and rest did not add to my looks. I sighed, and ran to the window of the sitting room to see if Fiona was coming.

I had nearly given up hope, when she suddenly rounded the corner and dawdled down the street towards our house.

The walk down the hill to town was more painful than I had expected. The borrowed shoes pressed on the ragingly painful chilblains on my heels and toes. The wind blew the carefully arranged hair all over the place, and emphasised the need of a hat and a comb. Some of the euphoria which had sustained me evaporated, and was replaced by plain fear of the unknown.

To add to that, I had defied Father and Mother and I feared that I might be punished by God for it. He had said, Honour thy Father and thy Mother, and I presumed He meant what He said.

The closer I got to the city centre the more I quailed. And yet some stubborn instinct kept me going.

Without a watch, I did not know whether I was late or early and I hurried into the office building, which I had passed many times with Edward in the pram. It was a tall, Victorian structure with high, narrow windows looking out on a very busy side street.

The main floor was occupied by a tea-blending firm, and this confused me for a moment. A jolly, little woman with a steaming bowl of tea in her
hand came to my rescue and directed me up the stone stairs.

I climbed and climbed. Half way up I had to stop. Though I walked a lot in the fresh air, I was wasted from lack of food. A middle-aged lady in a green overall ran past me down the stairs without so much as a glance. A fat Irish woman in a black shawl and skirt panted her way upwards, muttering to herself. She gave me a sly grin as she passed.

Up I went again, and finally found the door mentioned by the lady with the tea bowl. I knocked and cautiously entered.

It was a big, ill-lit room with dusty yellow walls. There were several large tables, piled with files and papers, at which people sat engrossed in their work. In one corner stood a small table with a telephone on it. Behind the telephone stood a large wooden box with rows of knobs along its front. For a second, I imagined myself seated before the telephone transacting all kinds of important business.

At the back of the room stood rows of deep bookcases filled with files, and several girls in blue overalls were running about with stacks of brown folders in their arms. The only man in the room was a dark, saturnine person in a formal business suit, who sat at a large table writing in a big book.
Two well-coiffured, smartly dressed ladies sat at the same table writing busily.

The gentleman looked up at my entrance.

‘Yes?’ he snapped.

Quivering with fright, I explained humbly over the bent heads of his lady helpers that I had come for an interview with the Secretary.

He sniffed, and gestured towards a young lady sitting before a typewriter. She smiled at me, took my name and made me sit down on a wooden chair with my back to the room.

While the typist knocked and went into an inner room, I thankfully regained my breath and tried surreptitiously to ease the agony of my feet inside the borrowed shoes.

When the typist returned to usher me into the inner room, I was sure I would faint with fright. However, she smiled very kindly at me, so I shuffled unhappily into the furnace.

At first I could not see anybody in the big, gloomy room. Then I realised that a woman, a tiny person, was seated at the desk by the window. I stood quaking just inside the door, after closing it silently behind me, until she looked up and took notice of me. She was plain to the point of ugliness, with greying hair combed neatly to her head. She had, however, a tremendous aura of authority, like
all the ferocious head mistresses who had had me in their care rolled up into one powerful, scarifying personality.

While she examined me in the poor light from the overcast day, I stood with hands clenched together in front of me, awaiting the verdict.

Her voice when she spoke was cool and sibilant.

‘You may sit down.’

Too scared to look at her again, I sat down on the edge of the chair by her desk. In answer to her questions, I said, ‘Yes, madam,’ or ‘No, madam,’ exactly as servants had done when addressed by Mother. I volunteered no information for which she did not explicitly ask. She had a file in front of her and occasionally she would flick over the papers in it with a long thin finger. It was apparent that she knew something of our family, and I presumed that Miss Ferguson had told her about us.

Finally, she said, without looking up, ‘You may commence work next Monday. The hours are from nine to five-thirty on week days and nine until twelve-thirty on Saturdays. Two overalls will be provided for you to wear in the office and you will be expected to keep them clean. The salary is twelve shillings and sixpence a week.’ She paused, and then said, after some consideration, ‘The salary is payable monthly. However, in view of your family’s
circumstances I will arrange for you to be paid weekly.’

‘Thank you, madam,’ I said weakly. I’d got it! A real job!

‘Report to Mr Ellis on Monday – in the outer office.’

‘Yes, madam.’

I hesitated, uncertain whether I was dismissed or not. Part of me was mentally singing a Te Deum, part of me was so scared that for a moment or two I could not have moved.

‘You may go now.’ The voice was cold and disinterested, as if the mind behind it was already giving attention to other matters.

‘Thank you very much, madam,’ I said to a head already turned away from me.

But she had opened a Minute Book and was immersed in reading it, so I crept shakily to the door and went quietly out into the hustle of the general office.

I said, ‘Thank you,’ to the pretty typist, as I passed her and she nodded back cheerfully, her fingers keeping up a constant tattoo on the typewriter before her.

Nobody else took any notice of me, so I slipped away, down the long staircases, like a warehouse cat. For a moment I shivered in the great pseudo-Gothic
doorway, and then plunged into the crowd which thronged the pavement.

A blister had formed on top of a chilblain on my heel and it hurt sharply as I climbed the long hill towards home. The wind was so strong that it pushed and tousled me as if it had human hands. Fear of what lay ahead at home stole through me and sapped the strength from me; fear also that I would not be able to please my new employer. She had such a fearsome presence that I quailed at the memory of her.

She had asked me a number of questions, but she had not asked me the most important one. Had I any experience of using a telephone?

I had never spoken on a telephone, never even held a receiver in my hand. What it sounded like, how it worked, were both mysteries to me. The closest I had ever been to a phone was when I had occasionally stepped into a public phone box to press the ‘B’ button, to see if I could retrieve twopence forgotten by a caller who had failed to get his connection.

It was nearly half past four when I hurried silently through the back door, slipping Cristina’s jacket off as I ran.

The living-room door was slightly ajar, and I could hear the hurly-burly of the children at tea. Bless Fiona for making the tea!

In the cellar’s cold blackness, smelling of coal and long departed cats, I carefully removed the borrowed dress, shoes and stockings, and pushed the latter back into the brown paper bag I had left down there. Naked, except for a torn pair of knickers, I ran up the stone steps and hung the precious dress and jacket on the inside of the cellar door. I hoped frantically that there was no coal dust on them.

Standing on the top step I slipped on my hopelessly short gym slip and a grey cardigan long
since abandoned by Mother. Back in the kitchen, I stuffed my tortured feet into battered gym shoes; and I was back in character.

In the living room, Brian, Tony and Avril had left the table, and Brian was laying down the rules of a new game he had invented. The stairs would be a train, he would be the driver and the others the passengers. Without even looking at me, they ran into the hall, and I could hear them squabbling on the stairs about the details of the game and who would fall out first.

Edward was chewing a crust at the table, and I ruffled his hair playfully as I walked round him and sat down at the table opposite Fiona and Alan.

‘How did you get on?’ asked Alan. He nodded his blond head towards Fiona, and added, ‘Fi told me.’

I told them of my success and they were jubilant. In spite of the family row the previous night Alan said he thought Mother and Father would relent. ‘You’ve got to start some time,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s only fair.’

It sounded as if he had given the matter some thought, and Fiona was equally enthusiastic, though it is doubtful if the poor, suppressed child ever really thought deeply about anything, other than what was happening to her at any given moment.
Only when she unexpectedly burst into floods of tears did one know that deep inside the beautiful, doll-like creature was a human being who suffered dreadfully.

I had a misbegotten hope that my parents would be too tired to wage another battle. It was my mistake; they were never too tired to fight each other or lash out at me.

After they had eaten the scanty meal I had kept for them from the midday meal served to the children, and Mother was about to go upstairs to take off her work dress, I said in a carefully controlled voice that I would like to speak to them about Miss Ferguson’s offer of a job.

They both looked at me with cold suspicion.

When I told them about the interview, they were outraged. I was standing quite close to Father and he was so furious that he jumped up and struck me across the head. This stalled the hysterics I could feel rising inside me. They seemed more incensed about my disobedience than by the actual interview, and they took turns ranting about my general insubordination and lack of respect for their wishes.

I was myself very fatigued and was therefore quieter than usual, so that, unfuelled, their fury began to trail off. Summoning up as much courage
as I could muster, I announced that either I should be allowed to go to work or I would run away.

‘What nonsense!’ shouted Father. ‘The police would bring you back, my girl. You are not even fifteen yet.’

I was frightened by his mention of the police, but I answered steadily, ‘Not if I went to Grandma. If she lets my cousin work, she would let me go, too.’

Fortunately, they did not remember that I had no money for the ferry I would have to take to get to Grandma, and my threat sobered them.

Father laughed, and then said in a sad, dead voice, ‘You would certainly not be welcome.’

Mother said savagely, ‘The whole idea is absurd. You are needed at home.’ She began to move towards the hall. ‘Besides I could not possibly find the clothes for you. It’s hard enough to keep myself dressed suitably.’

‘I know, Mummy,’ I replied quietly. ‘And I’ve never ever asked you for clothes.’ Then I added eagerly, ‘But I have thought how I could get something to wear. If you would write to Mrs Fox, my friend Joan’s mother, I think she would send me some. Joan and I were always much the same size – and she has wardrobes full of clothes.’

Mother tossed her head. ‘I seem to remember
your meeting Mrs Fox and her precious daughter in the town some time back, and that you told me they cut you dead.’

‘They did, Mummy,’ I agreed miserably. ‘But when I thought about it some more, I think I understood how they felt. If they had stopped in Bold Street to speak to a ragamuffin like me, a crowd would have gathered. People would have thought I had stolen something off them or was begging.’ I gave a shivery sigh. ‘They did the right thing.’

‘Humph,’ said Mother, her hand on the knob of the hall door.

‘I don’t think you have ever written to Mrs Fox,’ I went on persuasively. ‘She’s really very kind and generous.’

Father was looking me up and down, as if he had never seen my clothing before. He said suddenly, ‘Helen needs clothes very badly by the look of her. That gym slip is hardly decent. It doesn’t cover her properly.’ He turned to Mother. ‘Try to wheedle some clothes for her out of that Fox woman. She has more money than sense. It wouldn’t hurt her to help her daughter’s friend. I am sure Helen would feel much better if she had some decent garments.’

Perhaps he thought that, placated by some new clothes, I would be more amenable to being the family drudge.

‘She might send some money, too,’ I suggested.

Mother looked again at Father. He gave her the smallest affirmative nod.

‘Very well,’ said Mother coldly. ‘I will write. We both need clothes.’ Then in another burst of sudden anger, she turned to me. ‘This doesn’t mean that I have agreed to your going to work. I will not hear of it. You can’t be spared.’

I ground my teeth, as I swallowed the angry retort I longed to make. Seething inwardly, I replied, ‘Yes, Mother.’

The letter was written there and then, while Father watched; and the next few days were filled with anxiety. Creditors were visibly astonished when the front door was whipped open at their first knock, as I joyfully anticipated the coming of the postman. I listened sullenly to their upbraidings and then promised to tell Father all they threatened.

On the fourth day, the postal van arrived with two very large parcels. They were addressed to me, not to Mother.

I tore them open and went through the contents with wonderment. The dear woman had thought of everything; underwear, skirt, two blouses, shoes, gloves, overcoat, even a small, rather tired-looking handbag and a plain tam o’shanter for my head. There was a short letter wishing me well and
mentioning that Joan was at a finishing school in Switzerland.

For a few moments, I touched and fondled the garments as if they were specially beloved possessions. I tried on the crumpled coat, a blouse and the skirt. They fitted reasonably well, though they were a little loose. I took them off reluctantly and folded everything into a pile. All the garments were so clean and sweet smelling, a gift from a world of bathrooms with soap and hot water, efficient laundries, and houses kept sparkling clean by maids armed with the newly-fashionable vacuum cleaner, tins of polish and bottles of disinfectant and liquid soap. As I stroked the little fur collar on the coat, I felt an overwhelming sadness, the sadness of someone bereaved who has come to terms with that bereavement but still at times mourns the loss.

I pulled myself together and picked up the string. Untangled, it would be strong enough to make a clothes-line across the kitchen on which to dry the children’s clothes on wet days.

Gathering up the heap of clothes with the brown paper underneath them, I took them upstairs and laid them on Edward’s and my bed. I hoped that the cleanliness of the clothing would deter the bugs from crawling on to them. When, later on, the fire would be lit for the children’s homecoming I would
heat our single flat iron and press the garments ready for Monday.

I dreaded the fighting yet before me; and I knew, from experience, that unless I was particularly adamant the parcel’s contents would end up at the pawnbroker’s.