On the fourth day, the postal van arrived wdth two very large parcels. They were addressed to me, not to Mother.
I tore them open and went through the contents wdth wonderment. The dear woman had thought of everything: underwear, skirt, two blouses, shoes, gloves, overcoat, even a small, rather tired-looking handbag and a plain tam-o'-shanter for my head. There was a short letter wishing me well and mentioning that Joan was at a finishing school in Switzerland.
For a few moments, I touched and fondled the garments as if they were specially beloved possessions. I tried on the crumpled coat, a blouse, and the skirt. They fitted reasonably well, though they were a little loose. I took them off reluctantly and folded everything into a pile. All the garments were clean and sweet smelling, a gift fi-om a world of bathrooms with soap and hot water, efficient laundries, and houses kept sparkling clean. As I stroked the little fiar collar on the coat, I felt an overwhelming sadness, the sadness of someone bereaved who has come to terms with that bereavement but still at times mourns the loss.
I pulled myself together and picked up the string. Untangled, it would be strong enough to make a clothesline across the kitchen on which to dry the children's clothes on wet days.
Gathering up the heap of clothes, I took them upstairs and laid them on Edward's and my bed. I hoped that the cleanliness of the clothing would deter the bugs fi-om crawling on to them. When, later on, the fire was lighted for the children's homecoming, I would heat our single flatiron and press the garments for Monday.
I dreaded the fighting still before me, and I knew fi*om experience that, unless I was particularly adamant, the parcel's contents would end up at the pawnbroker's.
Edward and I went for our afternoon walk. It was raining slightly, so he rode in the Chariot, and I put up the ancient pram's hood to protect him fi*om the wet. The rain slowly soaked my cardigan, but I was used to it and did not care.
Our street was a straight line of row houses, once respectable working-class homes. Now the inhabitants were very mixed, and my father and a fireman who lived fiirther down the street were the only two men in regular employment. Many of the homes had more than one family in them and were dirty and neglected. A few were very well kept, mended curtains arranged neatly on either side of the fi*ont window, with an aspidistra in a pottery bowl filling up the middle space, the windowsill highly polished and the fi-ont step whitened.
Our beige curtains, as yet unpaid for, looked tidy behind windowpanes which I had washed with hot water and newspaper pads. Our fi*ont step, however, was littered with dried orange peel and cigarette ends flung there by our next-door neighbors.
They also spat on our step, as they sat on their own doorstep and smoked and read comic books. We never spoke to the man and wife and toddler who lived there. They would stare at us when we passed them, as if we were beings from another planet, and I suspect that they made ribald jokes at our stuffiness.
Edward and I walked the length of the long street, spent a little while shop gazing, and I taught Edward the names of some of the household utensils displayed.
The April clouds rolled away, and the sun came out to make the rain-washed streets glitter with sudden cleanliness. When we neared home again, Edward said he wanted to walk. The pavement was no longer very wet, so I set him down on it, and he ran ahead of me. I had made him a pair of bootees out of an old felt hat. They were stitched with wool from an unravelled sweater, and between two felt soles I had put a double layer of cardboard. I hoped the damp would not penetrate to his tiny feet.
Alice Davis was leaning against the doorjamb of her home as we came near, and she called to the small boy. He stopped and gave her one of his winning smiles. She stepped into the street and squatted down in front of him to talk baby talk to him. Then she ran back into the house and returned with a plain biscuit for him, which he snatched gladly out of her hand.
Though Alice was only about twenty-five years old, her face was lined and her smile practically toothless. She wore her black hair screwed into an unbecoming bun at the back of her head. Her blue-gray eyes were merry as she gently teased Edward.
I stopped to thank her for the biscuit and made Edward say, "Thank you."
"That's nothing," she replied. Then she went on, "That Mrs. Ferguson come to see me about Edward. I said I'd take him. Did you get the job?" Her voice had the thick nasal accent of the bom Liverpudlian.
"Yes," I responded dully. "I'm supposed to start on Monday."
"Well, aren't you?" She looked me over disparagingly, and burst out, "You're lucky, you are, to get a job."
I nodded agreement. "I know I am." Then I thought suddenly that there is nothing like a fait accompli, so I said boldly, "If you will look after Edward, I can start."
"Oh, aye. I said I would. He's a little dear, he is."
"I could pay you the ten shillings every Saturday afternoon when I come home from work. I think I would be paid on Fridays, but I am not certain. So I'll promise to bring it every Saturday."
"Isn't that your Mam's business?"
I hesitated. I could not say that I doubted if Mother would pay regularly, so I said, "We'll settle it between us. I'll bring Edward down every morning before I go to work, and Fiona can collect him when she gets back from school."
Alice threw back her head and laughed. "First few days you could bring him. After that he'll run up and down by himself, won't you, luv?" She bent down and chucked Edward under the chin. He swallowed the last of the biscuit and giggled and twisted away from her. " 'Tis only a few doors away," she added.
"If you think he'll be all right," I said anxiously.
"Sure, he will. I'll see our door is open for him. And he can have a bit to eat with us at dinner time. "
"Thank you, Alice. I'm very grateful to you. See you on Monday morning—about eight o'clock."
Alice bent down again and picked up Edward and nuzzled her face into his, laughing all the time. "Yes. We'll have a proper nice time together."
And with great relief I felt that she was right.
Clean out the grate, make the fire, lay clean newspaper on the table, cut the bread, make the tea, all with a stomach tight with apprehension. Would I ever know what it was like not to be frightened?
It was worse than I had expected.
Firstly, I had opened the parcel. Did I not realize that letters and parcels were opened by parents, regardless of how they were addressed? Furthermore, I had ironed the garments, thus accepting them without parental permission.
I had no right to speak to Alice. I had no right to say that I would begin work on Monday. Parents decided such a thing, and they had decided that I should stay at home. It seemed to me that I had no rights at all, only a formidable list of obligations.
Cornered, terrified rats turn and attack. Some human beings, however, have less courage, and I was ready to give in, when help came suddenly from an unexpected quarter.
Fiona said in a quivering voice, "I can make the tea and take care of Edward and Avril till you come home, Mummy. And I can help to put them to bed. I could even do the shopping if you gave me a list. '
It must have cost her dearly to speak up on my behalf. It came as a surprise to me that she should love me enough to do so. I gave love but I did not expect anything in return. I had always protected her as much as I could from hunger and cold and jeering local boys and girls, helped her with her homework because she had great difficulty in learning, and frankly admired her because she had such a sweet temperament. And now, on my behalf, the gentle creature was laying herself open to our parents' bitter censure. I was moved beyond words and was still gaping at her, when Alan put down his toast and said, "I don't mind giving a hand as well. "
Alan and I had always got along very well, and I was gratefril for his intercession. Mother loved her sons and would listen to him.
Alan was saying stoutly that all girls went to work now. A lady from the employment exchange had come to the school to counsel them about work, and she had interviewed the girls
as well as the boys. So it must be so.
Though Father was still trembling with rage, I could see he was listening to Alan's remarks. Mother started to cry and say that she could not manage, and I felt dreadfril, because the ultimate responsibility for all of us rested on her shoulders. She was not idle after returning from work; she would rest for a little while and then spend some time with Edward and Avril. While I was at night school, she would check the children's clothes after they had gone to bed and sometimes did part of the washing and ironing. She was not in the best of health, and her tears racked me.
Fiona and Alan were, however, arguing in a soothing way that the family was big enough and each of them old enough to make it possible for me to be spared.
Father got up suddenly and swung out of the room. I saw him take his trilby hat off the hall peg and clap it down on his head. Without a word, he lifted the latch of the front door and went out into the ill-lighted street. I knew from experience that, when he
came back, he would smell of beer and would be amiably jocular with all of us.
As he went, Mother blew her nose quickly, and then shouted after him, "You can't face anything, can you? Must you always waste money on drink?"
He did not reply. Shell-shocked, war weary, he had been ill enough himself to draw a full army pension for several years after serving in Russia. Probably his nerves screamed for sedation, and his comfortless home and unruly family made the pain unbearable.
Fiona got up and put her arms round Mother's neck. "Don't cry, Mummy. If Helen goes to work, she's so clever she'll soon earn lots and lots. And then you will be able to stay at home and not have to work any more. "
Fiona's and Alan's advocacy gave me a little courage again. I was so terribly unhappy myself that I felt I could not go on as I had been doing; something had to give. Unlike Fiona, I was quite sure that the last thing Mother wanted was to be at home with her family all day; yet my needs deserved consideration, too.
"Let us try. Mummy," I begged. "I should get more money after a little while, and it would help."
But Mother was still flaming with wrath. She pushed Fiona away, bounced out of her chair, and shook her finger at me. "You are talking rubbish. You are disobedient and ungrateftil. You haven't finished school. You are unskilled in anything. "
I fired up immediately, "And whose fault is that?"
Mother nearly choked. She slapped me across the face. "I never heard such impudence, " she screamed.
I backed away from her, snatched up my night-school books from the mantelpiece, and tried not to scream back, as I said, "I don't care. I'm going to work on Monday. Otherwise, I am going to Granny's—so you won't have my help anyway."
Mother had been a very beautifial woman. Convulsed with rage, she looked like an infiariated witch, and I was terrified.
"Go! " she yelled at me. "All right. Go to work! You will soon discover that the world is a very cruel place, and you will long to be at home again. Get out of my sight."
By this time all the children were bellowing like fiightened cows. Fiona and Avril clung to Mother, crying, "Don't, Mummy,
don't." Brian, Tony, and Edward were all in noisy tears. Only Alan sat tearless; he yelled, "I don't know why everybody had to make such a row!"
I backed through the door. Then turned and followed Father into the night.
Mother did not need to tell me that the world outside was a cruel place. I knew that already. But faintly, faintly on the horizon it had its rays of hope.
SEVENTEEN
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Mr. Ellis," I whispered shyly, "I'm the new telephone girl."
Four other girls in the room paused in their work to stare at me, while Mr. Ellis looked up and frowned.
"Humph. You are?" He took out his handkerchief and held it to his nose. I heard a girl giggle.
I lowered my eyes. I knew I looked awful. Joan's skirt and blouse hung on me. My rough-cut hair could have served as a mop. Both feet throbbed with the pain of blisters rubbed on tender chilblains, and I was biting my lips as I endured the misery of it. Over me lay the smell of poverty, of a body poorly washed, clothes unaired, foul breath, and fatigue.
The man before me was thin and dark-visaged, with the same air of nervous tension as Father had. He called to a girl sitting in front of the telephone switchboard.
"Miss Finch, show t' girl what to do."
He gestured toward the switchboard with his pen, so I silently went over to Miss Finch. Out of the comer of my eye, I could see two other girls sniggering behind their hands as they watched.
Miss Finch answered the telephone in a thick Liverpool accent. In between calls, without preamble, she explained to me that people wishing to apply to the Charity for help entered through the basement, where there was a waiting room. A girl took their names and telephoned them up to the room we were in. The switchboard operator wrote them down and handed the slips of paper to the filing clerks. The applicant's file, if any, was then sent down to the interviewing floor directly below us, where there was another waiting room.
The applicant was then sent upstairs, past the tea-blending company on the main floor, to be united with his file. At this point, a senior staff* member inquired what he had come about, and he was then seated in the second waiting room. He was finally
interviewed in a side room. It was a long, slow process for the applicants.
Miss Finch was a black-haired, rosy-cheeked girl, who seemed to resent me very much. She told me she was the office girl and was filling in on the switchboard until I could take over. I presiuned that she had not won promotion to the job of telephonist because of her bad accent.
"Names beginning A to J go to Dorothy Evans, K to Z to Phyllis over there." She got up and handed me the phone. "You take the next call fi-om the basement."
Gingerly, I lifted the receiver to my ear, while Miss Finch moved the appropriate switches. A garbled rattle came through the receiver. I could not interpret it. In a panic, I handed the instrument back to Miss Finch, who hastily jotted down a name on her pad.
"What's the matter?" she demanded impatiently, as she handed me the slip. "Give this to Phyllis Barker." When I hesitated uncertainly, she snapped, "Over there. Be quick."
Phyllis snatched the slip out of my hand, jumped up, and vanished down her aisle of files. Her high-heeled patent leather shoes flashed as she moved.
"How do you answer the phone and deliver the names to the filing clerks at the same time?" I whispered to Miss Finch.
Miss Finch made a wry face. "You run," she whispered back. "Everybody runs."
She was right. The filing clerks, the telephonists, the disembodied voice in the basement, the whimpering nervous girl who served in the Cash Department next door. Miss Finch herself as she made tea and delivered letters, all ran. Like convicts, at the double, they scuttled upstairs and downstairs, scurrying in and out of offices to look for files or deliver messages, running, running, running. Sometimes I almost expected them to take wing. They were not allowed to use the elevator, because the charity was short of money, and it was necessary to keep the electricity bill to a minimum.
Miss Finch left me to manage the telephone alone for a few minutes. She had to sort some letters for hand delivery and did this at another table. In seconds, the awesome Presence who had given me the job, shuffled out of her room, to inquire of her
secretary why she had found herself speaking to her own basement when she wanted to speak to the pubhc-assistance committee two miles away.
Miss Danson murmured about the new girl just starting and eased her back into her room, while Mr. Ellis barked at both Miss Finch and me to be more careful.
It was a dreadful morning, during which I managed to create telephonic chaos. I could hardly hear what was said. I had no idea of the names of the other staff or where they were to be found. I had no list of commonly required outside numbers and had to look each of them up in the telephone book.
And, quickly enough, I realized from Miss Finch's manner that she did not feel it was in her interest to help me to make a success of the job.
I was left alone, while Miss Finch went to make the office's morning tea, and I called almost tearfully to Phyllis to come to help me sort the switchboard out.
"Not Phyllis, Miss Forrester," roared Mr. Ellis behind me. "Miss Barker, if you please." He paused, while I sat paralyzed with fright, and then said, "Can't you speak quieter? I can't stand that la-dee-da accent. "
"Yes, sir, " I whispered, as Phyllis Barker kindly came to my aid.
I realized suddenly that, except for Mr. Ellis, everyone in the room whispered. And nobody laughed. Not one girl, except Miss Barker, had even smiled at me yet. The constant tattoo of Miss Danson's typewriter, the buzz of the telephone switchboard, the flutter of paper, and the steady hiss of whispers made up the noises in the room.
Miss Finch told me my lunch hour would be from one-thirty to two-thirty, and the morning seemed endless. She dumped a cup of tea in front of me with a biscuit tucked in the saucer, and I ate and drank eagerly. In a quiet moment Miss Barker found me a list of commonly used telephone numbers, and I tried to master it. The names and figures danced in front of me. I needed badly a list of the names of the staff and their numbers on the switchboard, so that I could connect incoming calls to the correct extension, and when Miss Finch returned to assist me, I asked her for this.
She shrugged and said I did not need a list. I would soon learn the names. In the meantime, outraged voices on every extension phone sibilantly rebuked me. It was a nightmare.
At twelve o'clock, the basement waiting room closed, and there were no more names to write down and deliver to the filing clerks. This gave me more time to deal with other calls and contemplate more quietly the hateful, buzzing board.
Minerva's Stepchild Page 20
