Читать книгу 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 - Страница 23

Very slowly, I trundled the Chariot down the Avenue. The trees which lined it were in leaf, and each leaf of the privet hedges in the small town gardens in front of the houses looked as if it had been specially polished. On the stone-flagged pavement the puddles from recent rain were drying up under a mild sun. It was mid-afternoon and very quiet. My teeth gradually stopped chattering, and Avril ceased her lament and demanded to be lifted out so that she could walk.

When I picked her up out of the pram she felt remarkably light, even in my wasted arms, and my teeth again began to chatter like castanets, as I looked down at her. She began to toddle along contentedly, however, singing in a rasping little voice ‘Little Bo Peep’ which we had been practising together.

The warmth of the sun and the peace had its effect. Perhaps, I argued to myself, ‘Mr Parish’ or even Daddy’s regiment would protect us from the ire of Mr Ferris. I stopped in the middle of the pavement and smiled to myself, as I visualized Father’s regiment marching down the street, their putteed legs moving in purposeful unison, to rescue us from Mr Ferris.

‘Frog’s eyes! Frog’s eyes!’ shouted a rough voice in my ear, and a couple of big boys made playful snatches at my spectacles.

Avril screamed. I instinctively clutched at the precious spectacles. They laughed, and quickly kicked my shins with their heavy boots. Screaming wildly, they ran on down the Avenue, leaving me quivering with pain and mortification.

‘Beasts!’ shouted Avril after them, with considerable spirit.

Crying quietly with pain, I walked on into Princes Park and into the rose garden which, though as yet bare of roses, was a pretty place, with a little lake much favoured by ducks and other small water birds.

My legs felt like jelly and I thought I was going to faint, so I sat down on the first bench we could find. At the other end of the seat was an old gentleman. He was shabbily, though respectably, dressed, with a stiff winged collar encircling a thin, turtle-like neck. A heavily moustached, sallow face was framed by a trilby hat set a little to the back of his head. His expression was benign and he had an air of quiet dignity. He was persuing a small, leather-bound book.

Avril came to sit on my knee, and I began to teach her the names of the various kinds of ducks swimming on the lake. The faintness receded and I forgot my bruised shins.

Our peace was soon broken.

‘Hey, you there with the pram! Get out o’ here! No children allowed in tins here garden without an adult.’ A uniformed park attendant was waving a stick at us from the rose-garden gate.

Because I did not immediately respond – I was still unaccustomed to my reduction to the ranks of the under-privileged – he started down the path towards us, his stick raised menacingly.

Without warning, a quiet commanding voice beside me said, ‘The children are with me. I am responsible for them.’

The old gentleman had closed his book, and was staring coldly at the attendant.

The parkkeeper lowered his stick and looked disbelievingly at the old gentleman, who gazed back calmly at him, until finally the parkkeeper, his lips curled in a sneer, grunted, ‘Humph!’ and turned away, to continue his promenade through the park.

In a quiet voice, with an accent that might have been French, the old gentleman asked me, ‘And where did you learn to speak English like that, child?’

I blushed guiltily. He must have been listening to Avril and me.

What was wrong with my English? And how does one learn one’s own language? I asked myself. I was nonplussed.

Sharp brown eyes, with yellowed whites, appraised my bare feet, greasy gym slip, worn without a blouse, which I had had to lend to Fiona, and knitted cardigan with holes through which my elbows stuck.

Ashamed, I bowed my head so that my face was shielded by a mass of untended hair.

‘I … er … I learned it at home,’ I muttered.

‘You speak it beautifully,’ he said with a gentle smile. ‘I have not heard better speech during my many years in Liverpool.’ The intonation was definitely foreign.

The bent head shot up. This was the first compliment anyone had ever paid me.

‘Do you really think so?’ I asked incredulously.

‘I do.’

I said impulsively, ‘Mummy and Nanny thought it was important to speak well. Neither of them seemed to think that I spoke very well.’

‘Nanny?’

I nodded confusedly.

‘We don’t have a nurse now.’

A watery sniff muffled the much admired accent.

He said dryly, ‘I imagine not.’

Avril clambered down off my knee and went on one of her small perambulations. Edward slept. My acquaintance opened his book, as if to continue his reading. Instead, he sat tapping the page with a swollen, chilblained finger.

My eyes were carried to the page by the pointing finger, and I was astonished to see that the print in the book consisted of curly dashes with occasional dots.

He noticed my interest, and smiled at me.

‘It is Arabic,’ he said.

I was impressed.

‘Can you speak it, sir?’

‘Of course. My mother was an Arab.’

That accounted for the darker skin, I thought, and I wondered if I dare ask him what brought him to England. How romantic to have a real Arab for a mother! I wondered if she wore a yashmak and transparent trousers, like the princesses in my fairy-tale books.

His eyes were twinkling. Perhaps he was lonely, too, for he said suddenly, ‘I speak seven languages and can read four more.’

‘How wonderful!’ I exclaimed in genuine admiration, remembering my own struggles with the French language.

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘How is it that – that—’ and he waved his hand in a comprehensive gesture, which took in the Chariot with its half-starved baby and Avril’s and my deplorable condition.

Hesitating and seeking for words at first, I explained as best I could about bankruptcy and unemployment. Gradually I gained courage and confided in him my despair at not being able to continue at school and my fear of what would become of us.

He listened patiently, occasionally interjecting a question or nodding understandingly.

Finally I trailed to a hopeless stop.

He sat silent for a while, contemplating the lake, his book still open on his knee, his face full of the sad resignation of the very old.

At last, he sighed and said, ‘You know, child, it is not what happens to you that matters – it is how you deal with it.’

This was a new idea to me and I pondered on it, as I shyly watched his face.

‘You can read?’

‘Yes.’

‘You go to the library?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then read! Read everything you can. Read the great historians, the philosophers, especially the German ones, read autobiographies, read novels. One day, you will have the opportunity to make use of the knowledge you will accumulate, and you will be surprised to find that you know much more than those who have had a more formal education.’

He closed his book and put it in his pocket, and then said quite cheerfully, ‘Your day will come, child. Your parents are having a difficult time at present and cannot help you.’

He got up from his seat slowly and stiffly and then bowed politely to me.

‘I come here every sunny afternoon to commune with nature. Come one day and tell me what you have read.’

The faintness which had threatened me before was making his face dim to me, but I thanked him warmly and promised that I would come. I felt wonderfully comforted.

I sat down again after he had left, to allow my faintness to recede. Then I called Avril and hastened out of the rose garden before the keeper could find us without a guardian.

The way home seemed infinitely long and the momentary peace engendered by the conversation with the old man gradually left me, to be replaced with memories of Dickens’s descriptions of workhouses.