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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СКАЧАТЬ Echo. Many people held that it was ridiculous to help the poor only at Christmas, that the money spent could be put to better uses throughout the year. Whoever made up the parcel for us, however, would have been amply rewarded by the ecstasy with which we received it. It was too much for me, and I burst into tears.

      All this time, Mother had continued to sit with her head against the window-frame, though she had shown some interest at first. Suddenly she began to laugh in a high-pitched, wild fashion.

      We were silenced immediately. My father was trembling visibly, as he looked at her. Was this the breakdown he had been fearing?

      ‘How are we going to cook it?’ she screamed between gusts of laughter. ‘With no fire, no oven, no nothing!’

      ‘Be quiet!’ Father said firmly, trying to keep a grip on the situation.

      Edward and Avril began to cry. Brian stood, an orange in his hand, as if turned to stone. Fiona, clutching the tattered remains of her doll, moved closer to Alan, who put his arm protectively round her shoulder. The darkness of the room made the whole scene macabre and unreal.

      Tony, who had been about to open the box of sweets, said, ‘Listen!’

      Through Mother’s wild laughter could be heard the sound of a heavy tread on the top staircase leading to our landing.

      ‘Mrs Foster,’ muttered Brian, his voice full of dread. ‘Have we paid our rent?’

      Avril stopped crying and listened: ‘Mr Parish,’ she suggested.

      The thought of the public assistance committee’s visitor discovering that we had a secret hoard of turkey and oranges and deducting its value from our miserable weekly pittance made me frantic, and I ran to the door with the idea of stopping his entering.

      I was too late.

      A knock sounded on our door.

      Mother was still giggling to herself and Father seemed unable to move.

      I will be brave. I will be polite, I told myself, and opened the door.

      A huge, joint sigh of relief nearly blew the visitor back down the stairs.

      ‘Ah come,’ said the visitor, peering round in the gloom, ‘to wish yer all a Happy Christmas from Mr Hicks and meself.’

      ‘Mrs Hicks!’ exclaimed Brian, and flew to his dear friend from the basement. She caught him in her one free arm.

      ‘Well, now me little peacock! How’s our Brian?’

      Father came out of his trance and led her through the darkness to our second chair. She sat down and carefully arranged her skirts over it like Queen Victoria about to be photographed.

      Mother was quietened by this unexpected visitor and regarded her with silent dislike. Mother, as far as possible, never spoke to anyone in the house, except Mrs Foster, and regarded all our neighbours with abhorrence. Her chilling stare did nothing to cool Mrs Hicks’s exuberance. She carefully laid a paper shopping-bag on the floor in front of her, and one by one she brought out a little package for each child and for Father. Lastly, she brought one out for Mother.

      ‘Here yer are, luv. Happy Christmas to yez.’

      Mother just stared.

      ‘Come on, luv. It won’t always be like this. Maybe the New Year’ll bring some luck to yez.’

      I could see my mother fighting to make a tremendous effort, and, at last, in a little, panting voice, she said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Hicks. You are very kind. I heartily reciprocate your good wishes.’ She took the parcel and laid it in her lap.

      Mrs Hicks was obviously nonplussed by the word ‘reciprocate’ but she beamed at Mother in a maternally approving way, and said, ‘Na, that’s better. You’ll soon be well, luv.’

      ‘Helen, can we open them? Please!’ Fiona had forgotten her earlier fright and was entranced at having a present

      I looked at Father and he said, ‘Yes, of course.’

      We all tore at the crumpled, old tissue paper of our parcels.

      Mrs Hicks had knitted each of us a pair of gloves and each pair had a distinguishing Fair Isle pattern in a contrasting colour worked into it.

      ‘So as you will know whose is which,’ she explained. ‘Ah made ’em outta a couple of old pullovers ah bought at Maurrie’s.’

      I looked at her with wonderment Such an enterprising idea had never occurred to me. The idea was better than the Christmas present itself, for I could knit Grandma had taught me. Mrs Hicks was brilliant! Bits of old hand-knitted sweaters and cardigans, too holey to be sold as complete garments, could be bought from old Maurrie at the second-hand clothing store for as little as two for a penny. I could buy some, unravel them and knit, just as old Mrs Hicks had done. Edward could have a warm sweater. I forgot my earlier tears in the splendour of this new idea.

      Mrs Hicks meantime had grown accustomed to the darkness and spotted the turkey on the table.

      ‘Got a Christmas parcel, have yer? Proper nice, ain’t it?’

      Father agreed that it was proper nice. Mother stared emptily at the naked bird.

      ‘There is one difficulty,’ said Father.

      Mrs Hicks looked puzzled.

      ‘We haven’t got an oven to cook it in,’ and he added rather apologetically, ‘or a knife to cut it up small enough to stew on our fireplace.’

      ‘We haven’t even got a fire,’ said Alan.

      ‘Oh aye,’ responded Mrs Hicks. ‘Now that’s a bit of a difficulty, aint it?’ She ran her red hands up and down her ample thighs while she considered the matter.

      ‘Tell yer what Ah’ll be cooking me own turkey on the morning, but there’s a good fire going downstairs now. If I turn it to the oven you could cook yours now. It would be cooked afore midnight, when we goes to bed.’

      ‘Oh, Mrs Hicks!’ I burst out. ‘That would be marvellous.’

      Father looked dimly hopeful.

      ‘Would you mind?’ he asked.

      She laughed at him. ‘Not a bit. You could put some potatoes round it, to bake, and you’d have a reet good meal.’ She looked at our dead fireplace, and added, ‘You can put the pudding at the back o’ me fire at the same time. Most o’ the heat’s only going up t’ chimney right now.’

      Mother said suddenly, ‘Thank you, Mrs Hicks.’ I thought for a horrid minute that she was going to follow it with ‘But we do not require your assistance’. She controlled herself, however, when the whole family, sensing this, turned on her in frozen, silent rage.

      While the children sucked the oranges, Father and I took the bird, the pudding and the potatoes downstairs.

      Mrs Hicks put it into a baking-tin which was thick with the encrustations of twenty-five years of cooking, and larded it with a bit of bacon fat. Then, guided by her instructions, СКАЧАТЬ