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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      At a corner, out of sight of the home of Mother’s customer, we unloaded the radio and set it down on the pavement. We whispered conspiratorially together, trying to decide how to get it to the house concerned, without the customer seeing any of us except Mother.

      Father finally decided that he would make the first sortie and carry the batteries to the front step of the customer’s house which led straight on to the pavement; there was no front yard or garden to be negotiated.

      We watched with excited anticipation as he glided ghostlike down the empty street, quickly deposited the batteries, and continued on down the street, round the block and back to us, so that he actually passed the house only once. Then Alan and Mother together carried the radio itself to the house, and put it down on the step. Mother stood by it, while Alan fled down the street, taking the same course as Father had.

      Mother was out of sight of all of us, but we heard the peal of the old-fashioned front door bell when she rang it; and the sounds of the door opening and shutting and of strong Lancashire voices came to us clearly through the frosty air.

      Brian and Tony started an excited conversation. Father hushed them immediately. He was standing tense, listening like a hound.

      My arms were aching with Edward’s weight, so I put him into the pram. Avril complained that she was cold and I put her in with him and rubbed her legs which were mottled like an old woman’s from exposure.

      Coatless, hatless and hungry, we were all shivering by the time we heard the sound of the door opening again and cheerful voices bidding Mother ‘good night’.

      She was coming slowly towards us. In the gaslight, her face had a look of stupefied wonderment, as if she had just experienced a religious revelation of some kind.

      The policeman on the beat was coming slowly towards us, trying the doors of each shop which faced the road on which we stood; and Father, ever fearful of being arrested for vagrancy, moved us slowly to meet Mother.

      ‘I sold it – that very one – they wanted the demonstration model. They signed the hire purchase agreement and gave me the deposit there and then. And they gave me tea and cake.’ Her voice quivered, as she mentioned the last item.

      ‘Really?’ exclaimed Father, unable to believe that in Depression-bound Liverpool anybody could afford to buy anything. ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Yes,’ she whispered, sudden pride in her voice.

      ‘What will you get for it? Your commission?’

      ‘Thirty shillings.’

      ‘We shall have to tell the public assistance committee. The little bit you earned selling treacle was not worth worrying about We shall have to declare thirty shillings – and they will just cut it off our allowance.’ Father’s voice was tired and old.

      ‘Are you mad?’ cried Mother with an unexpected burst of spirit.

      ‘No, of course not. But it is not honest not to tell them.’

      ‘We will not tell them,’ said Mother savagely. ‘They’d let us die. They don’t care. Why should we bother about what is honest and what is not?’ The bitter question sounded all the more so because it was expressed in her beautiful contralto voice, a voice almost identical to Brian’s.

      Father had his arms crossed over his chest and his hands tucked into his armpits to keep them warm. He said in a broken voice, ‘I must have some gloves. I can’t bear the pain in my hands any more.’

      ‘And I must have lots of fish and chips,’ shouted Avril unexpectedly. ‘Lots of lovely fish and chips.’

      Fiona clutched my arm.

      ‘Helen, I feel awfully odd.’ Her face was ashen.

      I caught her as she fainted. She was the quietest, most uncomplaining of us all and, as I held her frail little frame in my arms and looked down at her closed eyes with lashes like Michaelmas daisies, it seemed as if Death was breathing down the back of my neck.

      ‘Fish and chips,’ roared Avril again, quite unperturbed by her sister’s collapse.

       CHAPTER TWENTY

      Mother never sold another radio. It did teach her, however, that she might be able to sell things. Even her dismissal a week later because of her lack of sales did not deter her, and a little while later she got a temporary job in a store demonstrating baby baths. The store was gloriously warm, and she spent her days bathing a doll and extolling the virtues of rubber baths to expectant mothers who came to buy layettes in the baby-wear department. An arduous week’s bathing netted her ten shillings in commission, which she spent on shoes and stockings for herself, necessities if she was to continue to try for work.

      Christmas loomed near. I did not mention it to Avril or Edward. The other children whispered to each other about it None of them was in the Christmas play the school was producing and it was clear that none of them had any hope of our being able to celebrate the birth of Christ.

      On Christmas Eve, we were all seated in our living-room. The only light was a shaft of moonlight across the floor. We had a small stub of candle and a couple of matches to be used in emergency and these lay ready on the mantelpiece. Outside the church bells were ringing for Christmas services, and across the road in the mysterious house doors slammed occasionally and rowdy voices rose and fell upon the still air.

      I had just decided that Edward, Avril and Tony should go to bed, when Mrs Foster’s genteel bass could be heard in the lower hall.

      ‘A parcel has come for the top floor. Please come and collect it!’

      We were all immediately galvanized into action, except Mother, who continued to sit with her head leaning against the window-frame staring out of the window. We clattered like an army down the myriad of stairs into the hallway, which was dimly lit by a single gas jet.

      ‘Wow!’ exclaimed Tony.

      It was a very large parcel, addressed to Father, and it took the combined strength of Father, Alan and me to carry it up to our top-floor rooms.

      We placed it reverently on the dirty table, and, with shaking hands, Father fumbled with the knots of twine, trying to open it. Finally, he gave up, and we tore at the brown paper and the corrugated cardboard box underneath, frantically trying to find the contents.

      We clawed at straw and the infuriating string, and suddenly a golden orange rolled out, sailed slowly across the table and fell with a juicy plonk on to the floor.

      An orange! An exquisitely perfumed, golden fruit was sitting right in the middle of our floor.

      We all gaped at it, and then renewed our frenzied opening up of the package, while Edward crawled across to look at the strange object which had fallen off the table.

      We disinterred a turkey of proportions generous enough to have pleased a king, a large plum pudding in a bowl, a bag of potatoes, more oranges, and a box of sweets. Sweets! We were nearly hysterical with excitement.

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