The Complete Helen Forrester 4-Book Memoir: Twopence to Cross the Mersey, Liverpool Miss, By the Waters of Liverpool, Lime Street at Two. Helen Forrester

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       CHAPTER EIGHT

      Brian and Tony went back to school, two subdued ghosts walking hand in hand for fear of being bullied by the heavily booted older boys in the street.

      Mrs Foster, declaring that she had never had a complaint before, produced half a tin of Keating’s powder to repel the bugs. It did have some temporary effect, but the pests were coming in from the house next door and only a thorough stoving of both houses would ever have cleared them. We had to learn to live with them, just as we soon had to learn to live with head-lice which the children picked up in school.

      I went through each child’s clothing before it set off for school, hoping to save them the humiliation of being labelled verminous; they were already cowed enough.

      The days dragged by and both Mother and I became stronger, despite our poor diet of white bread, potatoes and tea. Though Mother’s physical health was improving, she seemed to withdraw further and further away from us. It was as if she could not bear to face the miserable existence which was our lot. She tried very hard to appear normal and calm, but attacks of hopeless hysteria descended on her without warning and she would rage and weep over some trifle, while whichever child happened to be the cause of the explosion made matters worse by trying to defend himself verbally. We were all still at the age when we believed that grown-ups knew what they were about and had sensible reasons for all that, they did, and in consequence we were thrown into real fright each time one of these distressing scenes occurred. The idea that a person’s life could be so shattered that they were unable to build anything new was unknown to us. We were young – we hoped for better times in the early future.

      I learned to do practically everything for the baby, and when my legs were steady enough I borrowed Mother’s overcoat, which though too wide was not too long for me, and took Edward and Avril down to the street for fresh air.

      In Victorian times the street had been quite a fashionable one and each house had a flight of steps up to its front door. The steps had heavy iron railings running up either side and round the area bordering the basement of the building, so that no one should fall into these tiny front yards below the level of the street.

      Avril, like a squirrel released from a cage, skipped joyfully up and down the pavement, stopping occasionally to peek through the railings and catch a glimpse of someone’s basement home. Her pretty blue satin bonnet, though by now rather battered, caused quite a number of favourable comments from women sitting on the steps or standing in groups gossiping. The women were mostly of the labouring class, dressing in dull greys and blacks, some with flowered pinafores and most of them wearing black shawls as protection against the cold wind. Their hair either hung in greasy confusion to their shoulders or was braided and pinned up in fashions I had seen in early Victorian photographs. Their teeth, when they smiled at Edward, were uniformly bad or non-existent. I passed them without speaking as I shyly walked up and down with Edward in my arms.

      A Spanish woman was seated on the steps of the next-door house. Her greying hair was done high on her head and held at the back by a fine tortoise-shell comb and she watched my promenade with merry black eyes. Finally, she called me to her.

      ‘Can I see your baby?’ she asked in a throaty voice.

      Obediently I brought Edward to her and lowered him so that she could see his sleepy face. She made delighted clucking sounds at him.

      ‘You not have pram?’ she asked.

      ‘No.’

      She looked at me carefully, weighing me up.

      ‘Not your baby?’

      ‘Of course he’s my baby. He’s my brother.’

      My innocence nonplussed her for a moment. Then she laughed and pinched my cheek.

      ‘So! He is little brother.’

      ‘Yes. Mummy’s ill,’ I volunteered, warmed by her cheerfulness.

      ‘I know. Mrs Foster tell me.’

      She put her finger into Edward’s hand. He promptly clutched it, and she sighed gustily.

      ‘I got old pram. You have it. My baby big boy now. No more babies for me. You wait.’

      She СКАЧАТЬ