The children attended school with reasonable regularity. If I was ill, Fiona was kept at home to help, but the boys never were. I resented this blatant discrimination. Why, I often argued, was so little attention given to Fiona's and my future? A lot of anxious talk went on about careers—never jobs—for the boys. Could not girls have careers? My parents thought such remarks were funny, and they laughed. Girls got married, they said.
At night school, the other girls were talking hopefully of getting jobs as shorthand typists or as bookkeepers, and some of them were already at work in shops and offices. They did not seem to be counting on having a husband to keep them, and yet they were all much prettier than I.
I used to watch them as they filed into class, usually dressed in hand-knitted sweaters and dark skirts, rayon stockings and high-heeled shoes. Their hair was always neatly cut and sometimes marcel-waved. They used powder and lipstick generously, and some of them, I noted wistfully, had necklaces, bracelets, or rings.
I knew that unless a miracle occurred, I would never manage to look as nice as they did. What chance would I have of employment, even if my parents allowed me to apply for jobs? Just to get
rid of the vermin on me would be a heavy task for a fairy godmother.
At best, the years between the ages of fourteen and seventeen are not very balanced ones. Children tend to query and test the prevailing social mores, even when they have been blessed with a stable, comfortable life. Like a windowpane through which a stone had been thrown, our family's life had splintered in every direction, leaving a gaping hole. Almost nothing that I had been taught as a child by Nanny or by Grandma seemed to have any relevance in slums, where fighting and drunkenness were everyday occurrences, where women stood in dark comers with men, where theft was considered smart and children openly showed the goods they had shoplifted, where hunchbacks and cripples of every kind got along as best they could with very little medical care, where language was so fiill of obscenity that for a long time I did not understand the meaning.
The comparison was so hopeless that I sometimes laughed. But beneath the laughter, I seethed with suppressed rage and apprehension that, even if the rest of the family managed to crawl out of their present sorry state, I would be left behind.
One wet February afternoon this anger burst through my natural diffidence. A plainly dressed lady called at our home, her hair hidden by a navy blue coif, a close-fitting cap, her glasses perched on a nose reddened by the chilly weather. She wore no makeup, and her navy-blue mackintosh reached down to her ankles. Her black shoes, flat and frumpy, shone despite the rain. I did not recognize my fairy godmother.
When I opened the door a fraction, afi-aid of yet another creditor, she blinked at me in a friendly way and asked if Mother was at home.
"No," I said cautiously, shifting Edward in my arm.
"And you are—?"
"I'm Helen," I said. "Mother will be at home this evening, if you would like to call again then."
The wind drove a patter of rain down the street, and I heard the click of our neighbor's fi*ont door. The unemployed tenant liked to lean against his own door jamb and listen to my battles with creditors. He would laugh as if he were watching a variety
show and, when it was over, would spit onto our doorstep and go indoors again.
Our visitor's eyes flickered toward the other door. Then she said, "I wonder if I might come in for a moment. I'm sure I can explain to you what I have come about."
Reluctantly, I admitted her and heard the next door snap shut.
I ushered her into our front room. She paused on the threshold and looked around the room in obvious surprise, as she took off her gloves. The comparison between Edward's and my threadbare appearance and the pleasantly frirnished room must have struck her immediately. The bugs in the walls gave it an unpleasant smell, but in the hope that they had not yet penetrated the pristine easy chairs, I invited her to sit down.
She sat down gingerly on the edge of one of the chairs, while I stood in front of her holding Edward. I did not want to put him down, because his feet were bare and very cold. He sucked his thumb and laid his head in the curve of my neck, so that throughout the conversation I could hear the placid slush-slush of his little tongue.
She said she had come from the church to which the children's school was attached. That seemed to me remarkable; during the two and a half years that the children had been attending the school, no one from the church had called on us. In a bright, brittle voice she said she had heard from Brian's and Tony's teachers that their singing voices were good enough for them to sing in the church choir. She had come to inquire if my parents would be agreeable to this.
It was never possible for me to forecast what reaction my parents might have to any new situation, so I thanked her cautiously and said that Mother would be home at five o'clock.
She smiled gently, but she did not get up to leave. Instead, she sighed and looked at Edward's blue bare feet. After an uneasy silence, she said in a much softer voice, "Did you attend our school?"
"No."
"Or the church? Have you been confirmed?"
I cleared my throat nervously and replied again, "No. " Then, since my replies seemed abrupt, I added, "I go to night school. I'm in Second Year Commerce."
"where did you go to school?"
Her face was so land and her interest seemed genuine, so I told her about my four years in a variety of private schools up and down the country, and said rather sadly, "I didn't learn very much. I think, if Grandma had not taught me to read and my aunt to write, I would be illiterate."
Very slowly, while I rocked a sleepy Edward, she drew out of me the story of my struggle to go to night school, the fact that I had no clothing to speak of and the other children very little. And with a catch of self-pity in my voice, I finished up, "There doesn't seem to be much hope for anything better for me, unless I can be fi-ee to go to work. But there is nobody to look after little Edward, if I do
go.
"But things seem to be getting better, " she comforted me.
"This room is very nicely fiimished."
"I'd rather Edward had some shoes and socks, " I retorted suddenly. "And you should see the other rooms." The dam burst. "Come and see," I almost ordered her, and strode to the open door. "Come and have a look."
Without a word, her face very serious now, she got up and followed me.
Up the stairs she trudged after me, to the icy, fetid bedrooms, to inspect three iron beds with thin, old-fashioned felt mattresses on them, the urine stains uncovered by any sheet. I had tidied up the bits of blanket and old coats which we used to cover us, and some of the pillows had grubby, white pillowcases on them. She looked, aghast, at the door on which I slept. There was no other furniture, and, of course, there was no bathroom.
In a passion, I swept her downstairs again, to look at the back room, where we spent most of our time, with its bare pine table, assorted straight chairs, and upturned paint cans helping out as seats. The only sign of comfort was an old, wooden rocking chair and a very ancient, greasy-looking easy chair. In the old-fashioned iron fireplace I had laid the fire, ready for the children's return home.
The kitchen looked quite large because there was so little in it. A small table flanked the gas stove, and there was a built-in soapstone sink in one comer. The opposite comer was taken up by a brick copper, with a tiny fireplace under it, for boiling washing.
Our single bucket stood under the sink; our only wash basin caught the steady drip from the house's cold-water tap.
Long lines of shelves ran down one side of the kitchen. They held a motley assortment of rough, white dishes and cups, two saucepans, and a dripping tin. A kettle sat on the gas stove beside a tin teapot. A small wooden table held our bits of food, a packet of tea, and a blue-bagged pound of sugar, some margarine in a saucer and a new loaf.
I was shivering with cold and with emotion, and my visitor turned pitying, gentle eyes upon me. "Don't you have a fire?" she aske
d. They were the first words she had spoken during our lightning tour.
"Edward and I manage during the day. I light the fire for the children coming home at lunch time, and then I relight it for tea time. "
I realized, as I said this, that Edward and I were just as vulnerable to cold as the others were, but we remained in the frigid house while everyone else spent the day in warm buildings. No wonder my joints hurt when I moved. No wonder Edward sometimes cried because of the cold.
"Where do you keep your food?" she asked.
"On the table here, " I said. "I buy it every day. "
She bit her lips, as she pondered over the bread and margarine, and I said a little defensively, "Avril or Tony will fetch a pint of milk from the dairy when they come in. "
Edward had gone to sleep, so I led the way into the back room and laid him down in the easy chair. He stirred, but slept on, his tiny legs spread-eagled. "I'll get something to cover him," I told the lady, and flashed up the stairs to get a coat.
When I came back, she was still standing where I had left her, and I hastily tucked Edward up before I turned again to face her. My hysterical outburst had spent itself and I felt exhausted and ashamed.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I shouldn't have bothered you with all this. And I'm sorry it is not very clean—but I have nothing but a broom and cold water with which to clean. It's just impossible. "
She seemed wrapped in thought, almost as if she had not heard me. Then she smiled at me and very sweetly. "I'm glad you did show me, " she said reassuringly. "I can understand better the
struggle you are having. Don't be discouraged—things have a way of getting better."
I tried to smile back. I did not believe her.
"I'll come again this evening to see your mother," she continued, a briskness in her voice.
As I let her out of the house, she turned again to me. "Now remember. No getting discouraged."
I nodded. Then she smiled and went out into the rain.
She came, as promised, and then again and again. She was a deaconess, and Mother seemed to like her because she was a gentle, cultivated woman. First Brian, and, later, Tony joined the choir, their white surplices saving them from the embarrassment of their shabby clothes. Later on, Tony became an altar boy, and the faith he acquired while kneeling in the richly decorated sanctuary never left him. He has always been an active member of the Church of England. The experience must also have helped mischievous, highly strung Brian, because, if nothing else, he learned music by many of the great composers in a bright and beautiful church. Both boys were allowed to retain the one shilling and eightpence per month paid to them for their services.
Apparently, the deaconess did not tell Mother of her tour of our house. She did, however, become an earnest advocate on my behalf. Not all fairy godmothers carry wands.
FOURTEEN
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Father sometimes bought a Liverpool Echo to read on the tram while coming home from work. A day or two later, before using the newspaper to start the fire, I would read it, as I knelt in front of the big, back-room fireplace.
I loved news of Royalty. Love of the royal family is still quite strong, but in those days, particularly among women, it was close to a passion. All our princes were ofiicially handsome, and the courtship of Princess Marina of Greece by Prince George, Duke of Kent, was a romance about which many a girl like myself dreamed wistfiilly. I followed developments from day to day with eager anticipation.
I also began to read the advertisements, including the ones offiering jobs. Once or twice I stole a piece of Mother's notepaper and wrote replies. I was not a very good writer but I had been taught in night school how to formulate a letter of application. I said I had been privately educated. This was true and absolved me from having to say how few years I had been in school.
I told the advertisers that my appearance was neat, which was far from true, and that I was honest and hardworking and was attending evening school. With the letters wrapped in a piece of newspaper to keep them clean, I then wheeled Edward down to the center of the town and hopefijlly slipped the letters in the box provided by the Liverpool Echo for replies.
Nothing happened.
Then one day I received a reply, in handwriting far worse than my own, from a sweetshop near St. Luke's Church. They wanted an assistant and asked me to come to see them the following day, a Saturday. I was dazzled at the prospect.
I hummed all day, as I waited for the evening and the return of my parents. The children found me unusually cheerful at midday, as I gave them their main meal—a half-pound of stewed, minced beef among the six of them, and mashed, boiled potatoes.
They had tea to drink. Because they had a Httle meat, the food was an improvement over their fare during the first two years of our sojourn in Liverpool.
Mother and Father ate their lunches in cafes or took a sandwich with them. My lunch was boiled potato. This, with the occasional addition of carrots, onions, or cabbage, was my staple meal for a number of years, and it is doubtful if my parents fared much better.
Lack of nourishing food added to my parents' irritation. So I approached my parents on the subject of the letter with the care of a cat stalking a mouse.
To no purpose.
Father, at times, seemed to live in a Never-Never land of illusion. He looked at me over his gold-rimmed spectacles, and said firmly that I could not be spared to go to work at present. Who would look afi:er Edward and the children's dinner if I were absent? Perhaps, later on, he added cheerfully, I could be sent to a teachers' training college and become a schoolmistress. But a shop assistant? Never! That would be absurd.
I almost laughed at him. "Which training college would consider a girl with only four years of schooling?"
His reply was drowned out by Mother's musical contralto saying firmly, "Your place is at home, Helen. It's the most sensible arrangement. In a few years you will marry, and by then Edward will be old enough to look after himself."
I was aghast. "But you've always said—everybody's always said—that I am so plain. How can I get married if I'm so ugly? I'll be stuck here forever." I began to cry, with hot, angry sobs.
I knew I looked terrible. So when Father and Mother suddenly started to talk about my getting married, I became almost hysterical. I had read fairy-tales where princes materialized fi-om all kinds of unexpected places—but the princesses were always beautiful. No prince was going to come riding by to collect an ugly hoyden like me. I classed myself with cripples, who could hope only for attractive souls, appealing to God alone.
In a paroxysm of rage all the finstration came pouring out. I raved helplessly at them, and they raved back.
I was ungrateful, thoughtless, utterly selfish. Father and Mother worked all day to maintain the family. The least I
could do was to keep house. And, anyway, no matter what happened, I could not become a shop assistant. It was beneath our station.
Beside myself with fury, I ranted that Mother was working in shops. Why couldn't I?
The boys, with long-suffering looks, went out to play with their friends. Avril burst into tears and howled nearly as loudly as me. Fiona snatched up her ancient doll and fled upstairs.
It was night-school time, but still the argument raged. Finally, I could think of no more reasons why I should go to work, and I sat on a paint can, buried my face in my hands and wept uncontrollably.
Mother angrily seized some of the dishes off the table and took them into the kitchen. Father folded up the newspaper into a neat small square, a habit he had. Suddenly the room was quiet, except for miserable sobs from Avril. My own sobs were almost silent; I had long ago learned to cry without drawing attention to myself.
Mother returned from the kitchen, and Father said rather carefully to her, "Perhaps if Helen went to this shop for the interview and saw how much work a place like that would expect from her, she might realize that she is better off
at home. Small places like that usually squeeze the very Iffe blood out of their people."
I looked up quickly at Mother and swallowed a sob. Here was a tiny opening. I was sure I could do any amount of work. I conveniently ignored the fact that my physical condition was so poor that quite small exertions could make me dizzy.
Between sniffs, I begged Mother in watery, meek tones, to let me do as Father suggested.
Mother had wearied herseff with her tirade. She sat down suddenly and was quiet. Then she said resignedly that she had no work for the next day, so she supposed she might as well take me to see the shop.
I had not considered that Mother might accompany me, and this had worried me. I had no idea what one should say in such a situation, particularly as I did not want to give any indication of the kind of life we led. I felt instinctively that I would stand a better chance of getting work if it appeared that I came from a
stable working-class home. What kind of an impact on a small businessman would Mother have, a lady who spoke "with marbles in her mouth?"
I sighed, but made no objection to her coming. I said instead, "I'd have to make myself look respectable, somehow."
I looked at Mother hopefully, and she returned my look. "Yes, you would," she replied sharply.
I was as tall as Mother, though with a much slighter frame, and after surveying me for a moment, she said I could borrow the dress she was wearing. Since the following day would be Saturday, I could also borrow Fiona's black woolen stockings and black, flat-heeled shoes. Fiona was not consulted.
I recklessly washed my hair and then the rest of me in a quart of hot water in the tin basin, and used up the last sliver of soap we possessed. There would be a row with the boys in the morning about the lack of soap, but it could be endured.
Minerva's Stepchild Page 16
