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

       CHAPTER TWENTY

      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.