Minerva's Stepchild

by Helen Forrester

  Though Cristina might have qualms, her swaggering gallant of a husband had none. I think he had always resented my parents' supercilious attitude toward their neighbors, and his pride had been hurt.

  "Give them to her," he ordered his wife with a lordly gesture.

  Cristina's eyebrows went up expressively, and she shrugged. "All right, my little one. Let us see what we can find."

  I bounced out of my chair, suddenly gay, and followed her. She had lent me old shoes on one or two earlier occasions, when she had observed that my gym shoes were soaking wet.

  Half an hour later, I glided through our back door, through the deserted kitchen, and down the steps to the coal cellar, where I stowed away a brown paper bag containing shoes and stockings. On the inside of the cellar door, I hung a coat hanger which held a black dress with matching jacket shrouded in a piece of discarded curtaining.

  "Who is there?" Father's voice came sharply.

  "It's only me. Daddy."

  I opened the door and went into the back room. The gas had been lighted, but the fire was out. Upstairs, I could hear the boys fighting in their bedroom.

  "Where have you been? " Father's voice was fi'eezing.

  "To see Mrs. Gomez. Where's Mummy?"

  "She has gone out to buy a pair of stockings." He flicked over a page of his book impatiently. "You know I don't like you mixing with local people. "

  I hung my head, but did not reply.

  "If you have no homework to do, you had better go to bed."

  "Yes, Daddy." I wondered if I should give him his usual good-night kiss, but he did not look up fi-om his book, so I crept by him and went forlornly up to bed. I knew I had hurt him badly, and perhaps he really did not know how to cope with me.

  SIXTEEN

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  In the usual rush to get everybody off to school and themselves off to work, my parents had no time to discuss Miss Ferguson's visit. Mother gave me a shilling, as usual, to buy food, and two extra pennies to put in the gas meter. Father asked me to wash his second shirt ready for the next day, and suddenly Edward and I had the house to ourselves.

  Greatly daring, I borrowed a large pair of scissors from a crippled Jewish lady who lived across the road. I was acquainted with her, because on cold winter Saturdays, Brian lighted her fire for her and went over occasionally to make it up, since her religion demanded that she do no work on that day.

  I stood in front of our piece of mirror in the kitchen window and hacked off the greasy rat's tails of hair until I was left with a short bob. I wished I had the family comb, but Mother had taken it to work with her. Then I attacked my nails, which were not very easy to cut wdth such big scissors, but finally they were snipped down to the flesh and that got rid of much of the dirt under them as well. Hair and body were then washed with a kettle of boiling water and a rag. I combed my hair with my fingers and smoothed it with the dirty towel.

  My hands still looked awful. Then I remembered an old beauty trick of Grandma's. Feeling as if I was robbing Edward of a breakfast, I took a small pinch of oatmeal, damped the hands again, and rubbed the oatmeal in hard. The hands emerged looking clean and much whiter than usual.

  I put on the new pair of black woolen stockings which Cris-tina had lent me and found they would stay up fairly well if I twisted a piece of coal very tightly into the top of each.

  How did one behave at an interview? I worried. What did one say? During the past three and a half years I had been practically cut off from all social contact. At an age when most middle-class girls would be being taught social graces by their

  schoolmistresses and their mothers, I had been walking the streets of Liverpool in rags, pushing a baby in a pram. Sometimes I was afraid I would forget how to speak properly. Only at night school did I ever get a chance to express myself The lack of mental stimulation, the ever-present lack of food, and the lack of fun and young friends had played havoc with an already shy personality— and I knew it.

  As I scuttled around the shops with Edward in tow, and bought bread and potatoes and margarine, I silently said the General Confession and then the Lord's Prayer, turning toward the only help I knew. God received a rather wild collection of prayers that morning.

  This mental exercise reminded me of Father's question as to whether I had approached the Anglican fathers at the church about a job. The pressure Miss Ferguson had put on my parents was more than might normally have been expected. Perhaps Miss Ferguson had consulted the priests. None of them had come to see us, but they had hooked Brian and Tony into the choir. The idea that they might be trying to help me filled my romantic teenage heart with a kind of joy and lifted me for a while out of my wretchedness.

  I fed the children when they came in for dinner and then dragged Fiona into the kitchen and confided to her the story of the job. Would she look after Edward for me, while I went for the interview?

  "What if Mummy finds out? " she quavered.

  "Oh, Fi, just take Avril to school and then slip back here. I'll be back ages before the boys or Mummy and Daddy come. They'll never know."

  "I'm scared, Helen. Teacher may be cross, too."

  "Look, I'll take all the blame. You can say I bullied you into it. They'll believe that. They'll blame me anyway."

  "Helen!"

  She was very frightened, and yet I had to have a baby-sitter for a couple of hours.

  "Please, Fi, darling. Please."

  She shift:ed around unhappily and finally agreed.

  While she took Avril to school, I put on the dress and the little jacket and then, as I squeezed a large acne spot on my chin

  and anxiously examined two more at the side of my nose, I agonized that she might not return. I peered anxiously at myself in the broken mirror. Behind the outgrown glasses my eyes were red with strain or pinkeye. A fiirther black rim around them from lack of food and rest did not add to my looks. I sighed, and ran to the window of the sitting room to see if Fiona was coming.

  I had nearly given up hope when she suddenly rounded the corner and dawdled down the street toward our house.

  The walk down the hill to town was more painfril than I had expected. The borrowed shoes pressed on the ragingly painfril chilblains on my heels and toes. The wind blew the carefully arranged hair all over the place, and emphasized the need of a hat and a comb. Some of the euphoria which had sustained me evaporated, and was replaced by plain fear of the unknown.

  To add to that, I had defied Father and Mother, and I feared that I might be punished by God for it. He had said, "Honour thy Father and thy Mother," and I presumed He meant what He said.

  The closer I got to the city center, the more I quailed. And yet some stubborn instinct kept me going.

  Without a watch, I did not know whether I was late or early, and I hurried into the office building, which I had passed many times with Edward in the pram. It was a tall, Victorian structure with high, narrow windows looking out on a very busy side street.

  The main floor was occupied by a tea-blending firm, and this confused me for a moment. A jolly, little woman with a steaming bowl of tea in her hand came to my rescue and directed me up the stone stairs.

  I climbed and climbed. Halfrvay up I had to stop. Though I walked a lot in the fresh air, I was wasted from lack of food. A middle-aged lady in a green wraparound ran past me down the stairs without so much as a glance. A fat Irish woman in a black shawl and skirt panted her way upward, muttering to herself. She gave me a sly grin as she passed.

  Up I went again, and finally found the door mentioned by the lady with the tea bowl. I knocked and cautiously entered.

  It was a big, ill-lighted room with dusty yellow walls. There were several large tables, piled with files and papers, at which people sat engrossed in their work. In one corner stood a small table with a telephone on it. Behind the telephone stood a large

  wooden box with rows of knobs along its front. For a second, I imagined myself
seated before the telephone transacting all kinds of important business.

  At the back of the room stood rows of deep bookcases filled with files, and several girls in blue wraparounds were running about with stacks of brown folders in their arms. The only man in the room was a dark, saturnine person in a formal business suit, who sat at a large table writing in a big book.

  The gentleman looked up at my entrance. "Yes?" he snapped.

  Quivering with fright, I explained humbly that I had come for an interview.

  He sniffed, and gestured toward a young lady sitting before a typewriter. She smiled at me, took my name, and made me sit down on a wooden chair.

  While the typist knocked and went into an inner room, I thankfully regained my breath and tried surreptitiously to ease the agony of my feet inside the borrowed shoes. In a few minutes, she returned to usher me into the inner room. I was sure I would faint with fright.

  At first I could not see anybody in the big, gloomy room. Then I realized that a tiny woman was seated at the desk by the window. I stood quaking just inside the door, until she looked up and took notice of me. She was plain to the point of ugliness, with graying hair combed neatly to her head. She had, however, a tremendous aura of authority.

  While she examined me in the poor light from the overcast day, I stood with hands clenched together in front of me, awaiting the verdict. Her voice when she spoke was cool and sibilant.

  "You may sit down."

  Too scared to look at her again, I sat down on the edge of the chair by her desk. In answer to her questions, I said, "Yes, madam," or "No, madam," exactly as servants had done when addressed by Mother. I volunteered no information for which she did not explicitly ask. She had a file in front of her, and occasionally she would flick over the papers in it with a long thin finger. It was apparent that she knew something of our family, and I presumed that Miss Ferguson had told her about us.

  Finally, she said, without looking up, "You may commence

  work next Monday. The hours are from nine to five-thirt' on weekdays and nine until twelve-thirty on Saturdays. Two wraparounds will be provided for you to wear in the office, and you will be expected to keep them clean. The salary is twelve shillings and sixpence a week." She paused, and then said, after some consideration, "The salary is payable monthly. However, in view of your family's circumstances I will arrange for you to be paid weekly."

  "Thank you, madam, " I said weakly. I'd got it! A real job!

  "Report to Mr. Ellis on Monday—in the outer office. "

  "Yes, madam."

  I hesitated, uncertain whether I was dismissed or not. Part of me was mentally singing a hymn of thanks, part of me was so scared that for a moment or two I could not have moved.

  "You may go now. " The voice was cold and disinterested, as if the mind behind it was already giving attention to other matters.

  "Thank you very much, madam," I said to a head already turned away from me. I crept shakily to the door and went quietly out into the hustle of the general office.

  I said, "Thank you," to the pretty typist, as I passed her, and she nodded back cheerfully, her fingers keeping up a constant tattoo on the typewriter.

  Nobody else took any notice of me, so I slipped away, down the long staircases, like a warehouse cat. For a moment I shivered in the great pseudo-Gothic doorway, and then plunged into the crowd which thronged the pavement.

  A blister had formed on top of a chilblain on my heel, and it hurt sharply as I climbed the long hill toward home. The wind was so strong that it pushed and tousled me as if it had human hands. Fear of what lay ahead at home stole through me and sapped my strength, fear also that I would not be able to please my new employer. She had such a fearsome presence that I quailed at the memory of her.

  She had asked me a number of questions, but she had not asked me the most important one. Had I any experience of using a telephone?

  I had never spoken on a telephone, never even held a receiver in my hand. What it sounded like, how it worked, were both mysteries to me. And I had been hired to be a telephonist.

  It was nearly half past four when I hurried silently through the back door, slipping ofiFCristina's jacket as I ran.

  The back-room door was slightly ajar, and I could hear the hurly-burly of the children at tea. Bless Fiona for making the tea!

  In the cellar's cold blackness, smelling of coal and long departed cats, I carefully removed the borrowed dress, shoes, and stockings, and pushed the latter back into the brown paper bag I had left down there. Naked, except for a torn pair of panties, I ran up the stone steps and hung the precious dress and jacket on the inside of the cellar door. I hoped frantically that there was no coal dust on them.

  Standing on the top step I slipped on my hopelessly short jumper and a gray cardigan long since abandoned by Mother. Back in the kitchen, I stuffied my tortured feet into battered gym shoes, and I was back in character.

  In the living room, Brian, Tony, and Avril had left the table, and Brian was laying down the rules of a new game he had invented. The stairs would be a train, he would be the driver and the others the passengers. Without even looking at me, they ran into the hall, and I could hear them squabbling on the stairs about the details of the game and who would fall out first.

  Edward was chewing a crust at the table, and I ruffled his hair playfiilly as I walked around him and sat down at the table opposite Fiona and Alan.

  "How did you get on?" asked Alan. He nodded his blond head toward Fiona, and added, "Fi told me."

  I told them of my success, and they were jubilant. In spite of the family row the previous night, Alan said he thought Mother and Father would relent. "YouVe got to start some time," he said firmly. "It's only fair."

  It sounded as if he had given the matter some thought, and Fiona was equally enthusiastic, though it is doubtftil if the poor, suppressed child ever really thought deeply about anything, other than what was happening to her at any given moment. Only when she unexpectedly burst into floods of tears did one know that deep inside the beautifiil, doll-like creature was a suffering human being.

  I had a misbegotten hope that my parents would be too tired

  to wage another battle. It was my mistake; they were never too tired to fight each other or lash out at me.

  After they had eaten the scanty meal I had kept for them and Mother was about to go upstairs to take off her work dress, I said in a carefiilly controlled voice that I would like to speak to them about Miss Ferguson's offer of a job.

  They both looked at me with cold suspicion.

  When I told them about the interview, they were outraged. I was standing quite close to Father, and he was so furious that he jumped up and struck me across the head. This stalled the hysterics I could feel rising inside me. They seemed more incensed about my disobedience than by the actual interview, and they took turns ranting about my general insubordination and lack of respect for their wishes.

  I was myseff very fatigued and was therefore quieter than usual, so that, unfueled, their fury began to trail off. Summoning up as much courage as I could muster, I announced that either I should be allowed to go to work or I would run away.

  "What nonsense! ' shouted Father. "The police would bring you back, my girl. You are not even fifteen yet."

  I was frightened by his mention of the police, but I answered steadily, "Not if I went to Grandma. If she lets my cousin work, she would let me go, too."

  Fortunately, they did not remember that I had no money for the ferry, and my threat sobered them.

  Father laughed, and then said in a sad, dead voice, "You would certainly not be welcome."

  Mother said savagely, "The whole idea is absurd. You are needed at home." She began to move toward the hall. "Besides I could not possibly find the clothes for you. It's hard enough to keep myself dressed suitably."

  "I know, Mummy," I replied quietly. "And I've never ever asked you for clothes. " Then I added eagerly, "But I have thought how I could get something to wear. I
f you would write to Mrs. Fox, my friend Joan's mother, I think she would send me some. Joan and I were always much the same size—and she has wardrobes full of clothes."

  Mother tossed her head. "I seem to remember your meeting Mrs. Fox and her precious daughter in the town some time back and that they cut you dead."

  "They did, Mummy," I agreed miserably. "But when I thought about it some more, I think I understood how they felt. If Joan and her mother had stopped in elegant Bold Street to speak to a ragamuffin like me, status-conscious shoppers would have stared in fascinated horror at them."

  "Humph," said Mother, her hand on the door.

  "I don't think you have ever written to Mrs. Fox," I went on persuasively. "She's really very kind and generous."

  Father was looking me up and down, as if he had never seen my clothing before. He said suddenly, "Helen needs clothes very badly by the look of her. That jumper is hardly decent. It doesn't cover her properly. " He turned to Mother. "Try to wheedle some clothes for her out of that Fox woman. It wouldn't hurt her to help her daughter's friend. I am sure Helen would feel much better if she had some decent garments."

  Perhaps he thought that, placated by some new clothes, I would be more amenable to being the family drudge.

  "She might send some money, too," I suggested.

  Mother looked again at Father. He gave her the smallest affirmative nod.

  "Very well," said Mother coldly. "I will write. We both need clothes. " Then in another burst of sudden anger, she turned to me. "This doesn't mean that I have agreed to your going to work. I wall not hear of it. You can't be spared."

  I ground my teeth, as I swallowed the angry retort I longed to make. Seething inwardly, I replied, "Yes, Mother."

  The letter was written there and then, while Father watched; and the next few days were filled wdth anxiety. Creditors were visibly astonished when the front door was whipped open at their first knock, as I joyfully anticipated the coming of the postman. I listened sullenly to their upbraidings and then promised to tell Father all they threatened.