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 NINE

      Mother still had in the stitches from the major operation which had been performed upon her soon after Edward’s birth. I had seen the scarifying gash which ran from above her waist to her pelvis; it was now healed and should really have been examined by a surgeon some time back. We considered getting the stitches out ourselves, but we had no scissors and Father was afraid to risk cutting them with his blunt razor. It was decided, therefore, that next time Father drew our allowance from the public assistance committee, Mother would have to see a doctor, no matter what we had to go without as a result of having to pay his fee.

      Two mysterious middle-aged ladies, who went out only in the evening, and two married couples lived on the floor below us. With strict instructions from Father not to speak to either of the single ladies, who were, I was assured, not ‘nice’, I was dispatched to inquire from one of the married couples the name of a doctor.

      A man in mechanic’s overalls answered my knock. He was undersized and very thin, his hair slicked back from a long, narrow face. Tired, hazel eyes regarded me kindly.

      ‘What do you want, luv?’

      ‘My father sent me down to ask if you know where we could find a doctor round here.’

      ‘Soombody took ill, luv?’ His voice was much more alert.

      ‘No, thank you. Mummy was very ill before we came here and now she must see a doctor – to have her stitches removed.’

      ‘Oh, ay. Just a minute, ducks, I’ll ask the wife.’

      He left me standing at the open door, while he retreated into the room. I caught a glimpse of a stoutish blonde girl ladling stew out of a saucepan on to plates at a table by the window. The room was crowded with a bed, a stove and living-room furniture, but the general effect was of cosy friendliness. The smell of the stew was unbelievably good and I sniffed appreciatively as I waited.

      The girl put down the saucepan and they both came to the door. She wiped her hands on a grubby apron as she looked down at me.

      ‘There’s the parish doctor,’ she said doubtfully. ‘But none of us goes to ’im unless we’re dying. Tell yer Dad that Dr Dent around the corner by the grocery shop is proper kind. He wouldn’t charge you much – but you’d better take half a crown, in case.’

      I thanked her and was just about to turn and run back upstairs, when she put her hand in her pocket and brought out a toffee. ‘’Ere yer are, luv. Have a toffee.’

      I had not tasted a sweet since I had arrived in Liverpool and I accepted the gift delightedly and rushed up the stairs with unseemly exuberance.

      ‘’is surgery hours are seven to nine,’ she called up after me.

      Father normally went to the library in the evening to read the Liverpool Echo and write replies to any advertisements which offered office jobs, so I was told to accompany Mother to the doctor’s surgery. Alan would take care of the rest of the family while we were away.

      Mother washed herself as best she could with a piece of rag dipped into cold water, and made sure she had no vermin on her. I did the same and also combed my hair; we had only one small pocket comb between us and were always afraid of breaking it, as we could not afford to replace it; consequently, I hardly ever combed my straggling locks. Since my overcoat was still in pawn, I borrowed Fiona’s.

      For the first time since she had arrived, Mother made the long trip downstairs. The night was clear and frosty and she paused at the top of the front steps to take a big breath of fresh air; it smelled good after the foul atmosphere of the house. Slowly we proceeded down the steps and down the street, to a cross street of smaller houses and shops. We found the doctor’s front door, which led straight off the street, except for two small steps. A notice on the door invited us to enter. I turned the well-polished brass handle, it gave, and we went in.

      We found ourselves in a narrow hall in which ancient brown linoleum gleamed with much polishing under a low-watt light. To our right was a door slightly ajar, marked ‘Waiting-Room’. This proved to be packed with people, many of them Negroes, sitting on chairs ranged round the walls of the room; the centre was occupied by a large Victorian dining-table on which a number of tattered magazines lay in disarray. A gas fire, turned low, stood in front of a black, iron fireplace. On the varnished mantelpiece a marble clock ticked despondently, while on either side of it two cast-iron Greek warriors kept guard.

      A whisper of conversation ceased as we entered and all eyes regarded us. I suppose that Mother’s pale pink hat caused the interest. While we hesitated, a huge man in an old macintosh got up off his chair and offered it to Mother, who, by this time, was looking very white.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said and sat down gratefully.

      The man grinned sheepishly, his great red face breaking into a thousand wrinkles, as he stood near us fingering a greasy cap. I stood close to Mother, feeling a little frightened. This was all so different from the chintz-clad sitting-room of our old doctor and the ready welcome of his smart little wife.

      Neither of us had any idea СКАЧАТЬ