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 FIFTEEN

      Very slowly, I trundled the Chariot down the Avenue. The trees which lined it were in leaf, and each leaf of the privet hedges in the small town gardens in front of the houses looked as if it had been specially polished. On the stone-flagged pavement the puddles from recent rain were drying up under a mild sun. It was mid-afternoon and very quiet. My teeth gradually stopped chattering, and Avril ceased her lament and demanded to be lifted out so that she could walk.

      When I picked her up out of the pram she felt remarkably light, even in my wasted arms, and my teeth again began to chatter like castanets, as I looked down at her. She began to toddle along contentedly, however, singing in a rasping little voice ‘Little Bo Peep’ which we had been practising together.

      The warmth of the sun and the peace had its effect. Perhaps, I argued to myself, ‘Mr Parish’ or even Daddy’s regiment would protect us from the ire of Mr Ferris. I stopped in the middle of the pavement and smiled to myself, as I visualized Father’s regiment marching down the street, their putteed legs moving in purposeful unison, to rescue us from Mr Ferris.

      ‘Frog’s eyes! Frog’s eyes!’ shouted a rough voice in my ear, and a couple of big boys made playful snatches at my spectacles.

      Avril screamed. I instinctively clutched at the precious spectacles. They laughed, and quickly kicked my shins with their heavy boots. Screaming wildly, they ran on down the Avenue, leaving me quivering with pain and mortification.

      ‘Beasts!’ shouted Avril after them, with considerable spirit.

      Crying quietly with pain, I walked on into Princes Park and into the rose garden which, though as yet bare of roses, was a pretty place, with a little lake much favoured by ducks and other small water birds.

      My legs felt like jelly and I thought I was going to faint, so I sat down on the first bench we could find. At the other end of the seat was an old gentleman. He was shabbily, though respectably, dressed, with a stiff winged collar encircling a thin, turtle-like neck. A heavily moustached, sallow face was framed by a trilby hat set a little to the back of his head. His expression was benign and he had an air of quiet dignity. He was persuing a small, leather-bound book.

      Avril came to sit on my knee, and I began to teach her the names of the various kinds of ducks swimming on the lake. The faintness receded and I forgot my bruised shins.

      Our peace was soon broken.

      ‘Hey, you there with the pram! Get out o’ here! No children allowed in tins here garden without an adult.’ A uniformed park attendant was waving a stick at us from the rose-garden gate.

      Because I did not immediately respond – I was still unaccustomed to my reduction to the ranks of the under-privileged – he started down the path towards us, his stick raised menacingly.

      Without warning, a quiet commanding voice beside me said, ‘The children are with me. I am responsible for them.’

      The old gentleman had closed his book, and was staring coldly at the attendant.

      The parkkeeper lowered his stick and looked disbelievingly at the old gentleman, who gazed back calmly at him, until finally the parkkeeper, his lips curled in a sneer, grunted, ‘Humph!’ and turned away, to continue his promenade through the park.

      In a quiet voice, with an accent that might have been French, the old gentleman asked me, ‘And where did you learn to speak English like that, child?’

      I blushed guiltily. He must have been listening to Avril and me.

      What was wrong with my English? And how does one learn one’s own language? I asked myself. I was nonplussed.

      Sharp brown eyes, with yellowed whites, appraised my bare feet, greasy gym slip, worn without a blouse, which I had had to lend to Fiona, and knitted cardigan with holes through which my elbows stuck.

      Ashamed, I bowed my head so that my face was shielded by a mass of untended hair.

      ‘I … er … I learned it at home,’ I muttered.

      ‘You speak it beautifully,’ he said with a gentle smile. ‘I have not heard better speech during my many years in Liverpool.’ The intonation was definitely foreign.

      The bent head shot up. This was the first compliment anyone had ever paid me.

      ‘Do you really think so?’ I asked incredulously.

      ‘I do.’

      I said impulsively, ‘Mummy and Nanny thought it was important to speak well. Neither of them seemed to think that I spoke very well.’

      ‘Nanny?’

      I nodded confusedly.

      ‘We don’t have a nurse now.’

      A watery sniff muffled the much admired accent.

      He said dryly, ‘I imagine not.’

      Avril clambered down off my knee and went on one of her small perambulations. Edward slept. My acquaintance opened his book, as if to continue his reading. Instead, he sat tapping the page with a swollen, chilblained finger.

      My eyes were carried to the page by the pointing finger, and I was astonished to see that the print in the book consisted of curly dashes with occasional dots.

      He noticed my interest, and smiled at me.

      ‘It is Arabic,’ he said.

      I was impressed.

      ‘Can you speak it, sir?’

      ‘Of course. My mother was an Arab.’