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 28

Mother never sold another radio. It did teach her, however, that she might be able to sell things. Even her dismissal a week later because of her lack of sales did not deter her, and a little while later she got a temporary job in a store demonstrating baby baths. The store was gloriously warm, and she spent her days bathing a doll and extolling the virtues of rubber baths to expectant mothers who came to buy layettes in the baby-wear department. An arduous week’s bathing netted her ten shillings in commission, which she spent on shoes and stockings for herself, necessities if she was to continue to try for work.

Christmas loomed near. I did not mention it to Avril or Edward. The other children whispered to each other about it None of them was in the Christmas play the school was producing and it was clear that none of them had any hope of our being able to celebrate the birth of Christ.

On Christmas Eve, we were all seated in our living-room. The only light was a shaft of moonlight across the floor. We had a small stub of candle and a couple of matches to be used in emergency and these lay ready on the mantelpiece. Outside the church bells were ringing for Christmas services, and across the road in the mysterious house doors slammed occasionally and rowdy voices rose and fell upon the still air.

I had just decided that Edward, Avril and Tony should go to bed, when Mrs Foster’s genteel bass could be heard in the lower hall.

‘A parcel has come for the top floor. Please come and collect it!’

We were all immediately galvanized into action, except Mother, who continued to sit with her head leaning against the window-frame staring out of the window. We clattered like an army down the myriad of stairs into the hallway, which was dimly lit by a single gas jet.

‘Wow!’ exclaimed Tony.

It was a very large parcel, addressed to Father, and it took the combined strength of Father, Alan and me to carry it up to our top-floor rooms.

We placed it reverently on the dirty table, and, with shaking hands, Father fumbled with the knots of twine, trying to open it. Finally, he gave up, and we tore at the brown paper and the corrugated cardboard box underneath, frantically trying to find the contents.

We clawed at straw and the infuriating string, and suddenly a golden orange rolled out, sailed slowly across the table and fell with a juicy plonk on to the floor.

An orange! An exquisitely perfumed, golden fruit was sitting right in the middle of our floor.

We all gaped at it, and then renewed our frenzied opening up of the package, while Edward crawled across to look at the strange object which had fallen off the table.

We disinterred a turkey of proportions generous enough to have pleased a king, a large plum pudding in a bowl, a bag of potatoes, more oranges, and a box of sweets. Sweets! We were nearly hysterical with excitement.

We had heard of these Christmas parcels, though we had not expected to be the recipients of one; there had been considerable controversy about them in the columns of the Liverpool 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, Father laid it in the ancient oven to the side of the kitchen fire. Some potatoes followed and the heavy, iron door was swung shut, Mrs Hicks having carefully checked that the cat, who apparently slept there normally, was not inside behind the turkey. Mr Hicks grinned all over his little, ferrety face and promised to sit and watch that it did not burn and to add water as needed to the blackened saucepan into which the pudding was subsequently lowered.

‘One of yez come down in three hours’ time,’ commanded Mrs Hicks, poking up the fire with a large iron poker. ‘Ah reckon it’ll be done by then. You could wrap it in a blanket and it’ll keep a bit warm till tomorrer.’

Joy gave strength to our weakened legs and we ran all the way up the stairs, to sink, half fainting, upon the floor when we got to the top.

Nobody could bear to be put to bed, so we sat around in the dim light from the moon and the street, until the closing of the nearby public house told us it was ten o’clock. After that we took it in turns to count up to sixty, so as to make a rough estimate of thirty minutes more, at the end of which Alan and I bolted down to the basement.

We knocked and entered the vast cavern which had been the kitchen when the house was built. Our bare feet pattered on the old brick tiles as we crossed to the fireplace in response to Mr Hicks’s invitation to come and get warm. He was just lifting the pudding saucepan from the hob. His wife took it from him and carried it across to the sandstone sink in the corner. With a skilful twist she got the pudding out without scalding herself, and set it on the bare wooden table, which I noticed with surprise was scrubbed almost pure white. She spread a newspaper on another corner and went to the oven to get the turkey.

Immediately she unlatched the heavy door a heavenly aroma flooded the room, drowning out the usual odours of damp, pine disinfectant and unwashed winter clothes. Saliva ran from my mouth and I hastily brushed it away.

‘Ah think it’s cooked,’ she said, twisting one of the bird’s legs with expert fingers. ‘Are yer goin’ to carry it oop like it is?’

We had few plates and none big enough to hold a turkey, so I said that we would carry it up in the meat-tin and bring the receptacle back in the morning, early enough for her to cook her own Christmas dinner in it. I did not tell her that I could not bear, in any case, to part with a single drop of the fat in the pan.

She agreed to this cheerfully, wrapped up the baked potatoes in a newspaper, then told us to wait a moment, while she rummaged in the back of her dusty kitchen dresser.

‘Here yer are,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Here’s a bit o’ candle to light you up them stairs.’

She lit the small candle stub she had found and presented it to Alan, gave me two crumpled sheets of newspaper so that I would not burn my hands while carrying the hot meat-tin, and sent us upstairs again.

‘Gosh, the pudding feels lovely and hot,’ exclaimed Alan, as he staggered up with the paper parcels of pudding and potatoes.

The family, except for Mother, was gathered to greet us on the top landing, and a great oooh sounded at the sight of the turkey, as we mounted the last flight

‘I’ll wrap it in the newspaper I carried it with,’ I said firmly. ‘Perhaps it will keep it a little warm till tomorrow.’

I could see Father’s Adam’s apple bob in the candlelight, as he swallowed; and hope died on the children’s faces.

Avril kicked my shin to draw my attention to her.

‘I want to eat mine now,’ she said determinedly.

Tony’s eyes looked enormous in his death’s head face.

Again the saliva gathered in my mouth, but I said, ‘It’s not Christmas until tomorrow.’

‘To hell with Christmas,’ said Alan bitterly.

An hour later, there was only a white skeleton left, scraped clean by small clawing hands and teeth. Even Mother came alive, after devouring nearly a whole leg with the gulping enthusiasm of an ex-prisoner of war. We ate the baked potatoes, skin and all, we ate the sweets and pudding, every scrap.

We slept.