Liverpool Miss (12 page)

The need to give notice saved me.

Fiona was ordered to stay at home with Edward for the following two days. Mother’s contract with the toaster manufacturer expired on Thursday night; she would start a new contract at another store the following Tuesday. This, I argued, would give her time to arrange some fresh care for Edward.

Poor little Edward. Poor Fiona, red-faced and deeply resentful. Mother actually smiled, however, when I presented her with my total earnings for the week, less fourpence for contributions to National Health and Unemployment Insurance and another penny contributed to a hospital fund. She hardly heard me when I explained that the following week, I would be earning only an office girl’s pay.

In the office, I ran so hard and whispered so softly that my appointment was confirmed, despite my gauche manners and poor grooming.

A few weeks later, the other girls asked me to accompany them to the cinema. Bashfully, I refused, owning up that I did not have the money. They looked at me askance and did not ask me again for a number of years; perhaps they thought I did not like them.

Night school came to an end and I passed the examinations. This gave me more time to help Mother at home. The office staff, in turn, went away for two weeks’ holiday to the mountains or the seaside. They usually went with their parents and came back with breathtaking stories of the boys they had met. They giggled behind the stacks of files until Mr Ellis roared at them to return to their work. He seemed to be the only person who spoke above a thin whisper.

I had no adventures to share with the girls. I was not entitled to a holiday that year, and my world of screaming family rows, of creditors, of pawnbrokers, of the lack of the most basic human needs, seemed to be so divorced from the experience of the staff, that there was no common ground. I was obsessed with the need to survive, with simple worries, like how to squeeze a pair of rayon stockings
out of Mother, or even darning silk with which to mend the ones I wore. I was totally dependent upon the whims of Mother. She seemed to take it for granted that anything I earned was hers, and this idea stayed with her throughout my working life. Girls did not need money for expenses; boys did.

One day, the Presence told me sharply to tidy up my hair. It was pay day and, in despair, I took out of my nine shillings and sevenpence a single bright shilling. A comb cost twopence, some hairclips a penny. Ninepence would buy a good, stout pair of rayon stockings.

Mother was so infuriated that she tried to snatch Joan’s old handbag off me in order to extract the shilling, but I whisked it under me and sat on it and, tearfully, refused to move.

Father came home and walked into the middle of the scene, and I appealed to him, because sometimes he did seem to regard me as a human being, even if I was a girl. Without any hesitation, he said I should keep the shilling, and have one each week, so I thankfully fled with my handbag to the kitchen and left my parents to fight it out.

The weekly shilling was usually spent on second-hand articles of clothing. But I soon learned not to leave any pieces of clothing at home unless they were wet from washing, because they would be
immediately pawned; stockings or gloves would be used by Mother herself or given to Fiona. On days when there was nothing to take for my lunch, I would buy a penny bread roll from Lunt’s bakery near the office.

An overwhelming ambition in those days was to be able to afford from Lunt’s a roll packed with cheese. These cost twopence, however, and I had to content myself with buying them for other members of the staff or just looking longingly at them through the bakery’s steamy window.

And so I struggled blindly on from day to day. The trees in Princes Park, where on Saturday afternoons I took Edward to play, turned yellow and carpeted a neat circle of grass beneath them with curled-up leaves. Wet days became more frequent, and I delivered the letters each morning in shoes that became quickly sodden; the cardboard put into them to block up the holes disintegrated, and tender bare soles were exposed to the pavement. I caught so many colds that the days when I was without one became ones of rejoicing. Liverpool air is always damp and, in those days, was filled with black particles from a myriad of chimneys, so that nasal catarrh and bronchitis were endemic and gave rise to the famous, snuffly Liverpool accent. Like many of the population I blew my nose through my
fingers on to the pavement, and kept my single handkerchief for neat dabs at my nose in the office.

Alan reached the age of fourteen in November and left school shortly afterwards. I was plunged into bitter and unfair jealousy, as I watched him set out for his first job as office boy in a new suit bought for the occasion from Marks & Spencers. In his pocket he carried a bit of lunch wrapped in an old margarine paper and a penny for the tram, so that he would not have to climb the long hill home. He was given pocket money as a matter of course, so my battle evidently helped him. He was intelligent and quick-witted and very articulate. He had snatched the job from dozens of other applicants and deserved all the help my parents could give him.

The life of an office boy was very hard. In a tall, gloomy, Victorian building, he worked from eight-thirty in the morning until six o’clock at night and until one o’clock on Saturdays, for a wage of seven shillings and sixpence a week. Office boys were commonly hit when they made mistakes or if they dared to answer their seniors back, and the tight-lipped bookkeeper who taught him how to keep accounts was very heavy handed. He was still far from being fully developed and, like me,
was painfully thin. Since he spoke ‘with an olly in his mouth’, he had been in many fights at school – it is not only sparrows who attempt to destroy those different from themselves – and sometimes, in the absence of the bookkeeper at lunch, a general fight would break out amongst the young men in the office. Though he fought back fairly skilfully, I can remember seeing bruises across his buttocks where he had been beaten with an old-fashioned rounded ruler.

Attached to the church was a troop of Boy Scouts and Alan had joined this. Although we were certainly not the poorest family in the parish, the Scoutmaster must have found it impossible to obtain money from my parents for a uniform for him, and, therefore, provided him with one. He once went away to camp with them and returned looking strong and rosy and very freckled, but the fair skin soon became white again and the beguiling freckles faded, to be replaced by acne in its worst forms. Great boils covered his face and neck. A cheerful expression helped to compensate for this affliction. His tousled cowlick was neatly slicked back with the aid of brilliantine and the black pocket comb tucked into his jacket pocket. His pale skin gained a slight ruddiness as, like me, he ran through the streets of Liverpool, in and out
of horse and motor traffic, delivering letters and messages.

Like me, Alan suffered from the lack of a raincoat and from inadequate footwear. Liverpool shares with Ireland not only Irish inhabitants but Irish weather. When it is not actually raining, there is still a misty dampness which seems to penetrate one’s bones. Older people always seem to be complaining about ‘me rheumatism’ or ‘me arthritics’ and say that they ‘hurt something wicked’ on wet days.

Alan, Brian and Tony all played cricket in the street, often with a beer bottle as a wicket and a piece of board as a bat. Alan had had the advantage, when quite a small boy, of playing the game in better circumstances. A couple of professionals had taken an amused interest in the little eager beaver who haunted their practice ground and had coached him. This acquired ability had led him into the school team. One of his older colleagues at work gave him his old cricket bat and pads, and this enhanced his chances of playing with other teams after he left school. He got a lot of pleasure from these games.

He also went to night school. He always says he learned a lot there. But he did not stay in the system very long, and he probably learned much
more in the Auxiliary Air Force, which he joined a few years later.

I rejoiced in his good beginning in the business world. Because my parents kept pressing me to stay at home again and be the unpaid housekeeper, I was most unchristianly envious of the interest and encouragement lavished on him by both Mother and Father. I cried for hours through freezing winter nights, and prayed frequently and earnestly for strength to keep my temper. I was convinced that most of my misery was caused by lack of self-control over envy and bad temper. It was a long time before I realised that there is a limit to anybody’s self-control; and that the only sin I had committed was to be born to my Mother at a time when she would otherwise have divorced my Father. She could never forgive me for it.

As autumn merged into winter the children began to look forward to Christmas, having been reminded of its coming by Brian and Tony’s extra choir practices. For years, Fiona and I secreted all kinds of bits of wool, old socks and cotton scraps, and out of them we manufactured gifts for the family. Golliwogs and rabbits emerged from the socks, hand-hemmed handkerchiefs, handkerchief cases, pin cushions and hair tidies, prettily covered boxes and pyjama cases were made from the cotton scraps. I once made Fiona a doll’s bed out of a shoebox; it was complete with little blankets and a bedspread, and she joyfully put her tattered doll into it. The doll was her only treasure from our old home. It was dreadfully dirty, and its papier mâché feet and hands were nearly worn out; but its glass
eyes still opened and closed and it still had some hair.

Another time, I made a horse and cart for Edward. The horse was made out of corks found in the street. It had wobbly legs made out of slivers of firewood. The cart, which was a carton from a box of matches, had high wheels made from the tiny lids of ointment tins, also found in the street gutters. Though it was not a very robust toy he played with it for several days before it fell to bits.

From their choir money, Brian and Tony bought little gifts for everybody. One of my most treasured possessions is a pottery black cat given me by Tony and, until recently, I had a tiny pottery donkey with a red pincushion on its back, bought for me by Brian. When, after forty-five years, I recently smashed the donkey I stood over the scattered bits and cried. Both these treasures travelled half way round the world with me. Another treasure is a crocheted red and yellow egg cosy made for me by Avril in one of her earliest sewing classes. Sometimes I take it out and think of the small, determined little girl stabbing away with a crochet hook too big for her fingers.

Alan’s shilling a week was strictly for pocket money, so he bought us all kinds of delightful
gifts, like bottles of perfume and talcum powder from Woolworth’s.

My parents always tried to make Christmas pleasant for the younger children. Only the first two Christmases in Liverpool were without any real effort at celebration, and for both of those we enjoyed one of the Christmas boxes of food distributed to the poor of Liverpool during the festive season.

For two Christmases after I began work, a mysterious stranger telegraphed us five pounds. We never discovered who sent it but it provided a dinner and a stocking full of small gifts for the little ones.

Alan and I, like all working people, had two days’ holiday. Such was his exhaustion that on any holiday Alan slept until midday. For Fiona and me, however, there was never such a luxury. Boys needed rest; girls could manage without. Brian and Tony had to be got up and given their breakfast in time for them to sing at the Christmas services. Edward, like most little boys, was awake at sun-up, as was Father. On Sundays and holidays, Mother stayed late in bed and Avril slept late, too. Holidays for me were not a time for relaxation, and I was always thankful to escape back to work. At work, people occasionally said, ‘Thank you.’

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.’