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-ONE

      Malnutrition, when much prolonged, causes a terrible apathy, an inability to concentrate or think constructively, and that winter was so grim that my mind was closed to the intense suffering of my parents. A child’s world is a small one and given a reasonable round of home and school, his life is fairly full. Our little ones suffered unbelievably, however, as they dragged themselves to and from school through snow and rain. Even brave Alan cried when the great chilblains on his heels burst and went septic, and it seemed as if the clothes of all of them were permanently wet; good fires are a necessity in a climate as rainy as Lancashire’s. In my parents’ case, however, they suffered not only all that we did but also from social deprivation; they starved mentally as well as physically.

      To me, the suffering of Fiona and baby Edward was the more scarifying, because it was silent. Fiona never complained as the others did; she sat quiet and terrified in a kind of mental burrow like a fox that has been savaged by hounds and must be quiet lest they find him again; only when she was playing with Brian and Tony did a happier little girl emerge. And I loved her so much that it filled me with grief to be unable to comfort her – she was past comforting. Edward, who could now crawl rapidly and occasionally stood up, was making valiant efforts to speak. He seemed to have a natural serenity, but when he cried (which he rarely did), it was with terrible deep sobs that came slowly, not at all like Aval’s ferocious bellows when she was thwarted in any way.

      Until hunger made him fall into lethargy, my father tried to pick the brains of other men who stood with him in the endless queues. He tried to find out how they stayed alive and how they hoped to get a job. But, finally, it took all his strength to get to the labour exchange or to the offices of the public assistance committee and stand, without fainting, until he received a curt ‘nothing today’ from the former and forty-three shillings each Thursday from the latter.

      We always had colds. Old copies of the Liverpool Echo were collected from anywhere we could find them and torn up for use as handkerchiefs. The paper was then used to make a fire in the tiny bedroom fireplace in our living-room.

      The acid which I had spilled on my leg from the battery of the radio caused a burn which went septic, and the sore showed signs of spreading. Old Miss Sinford noticed the mark on my leg as I went upstairs one day and commanded that I come into her room to have it examined. She sat me down on a wooden chair placed on a piece of newspaper and, having put on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, she took a good look at it.

      ‘I’ll poultice it for you,’ she decided. ‘You should have kept it cleaner.’

      The fact that I was seated in the middle of a newspaper indicated that she knew how dirty our family was, so I just smiled weakly.

      She found a clean piece of white cloth, put it in an old sugar basin and poured over it boiling water from the kettle on the hob. She then wrung it out and slapped it on to the sore, scalding the surrounding flesh until I clutched Edward too hard and he cried out. She hurled texts about Good Samaritans at me, as she worked with trembly ancient fingers, and then ordered me down to her room the next morning for a repeat performance.

      Her room was spotless, filled with crochet work which she had done herself. In the window on a wickerwork table stood a large aspidistra in a plum-coloured china pot, and I gathered that an aspidistra was a lot of work, as she felt the need to dust it daily. She cooked at the fireplace, which was larger than ours, her room having been the dining-room of the original home.

      It was from her that I learned that the house opposite, which was visited by so many seamen, was a House of Sin and that the women who lived in it were harlots. ‘Harlot’ was a word which occurred in the Bible, so I ventured to ask her what it meant.

      She blinked at me through her spectacles, as if realizing for the first time how young and innocent I was. Then she pointed a bony finger at me and said sharply, ‘Girls should not ask such questions.’ Her voice became shrill. ‘It is not a word I should have used. It is a word you must not use. Out! I must pray!’

      She seized me by the shoulder, turned me about and pushed me into the hall.

      Bewildered, I took myself back upstairs and left my leg to heal by itself, which it eventually did.

      Next time I went to the library, I looked up the offending word. It really sounded very wicked indeed, and I was most impressed.

      Fiona came home from school one day, in tears. She said she had a pain in her back and chest. I felt her forehead. It was burning with heat. Helplessly, I looked at her and we were both terribly afraid.

      When Father came home from the library, I told him about Fiona. I had laid her on the bed and, to keep her warm, had covered her with what few odds and ends of blanket and garments I could find.

      We went to look at her and found that she had tossed aside her wrappings and was muttering feverishly, her mouselike hands clenching and unclenching.

      Father clamped his mouth tight. His breath came in small gasps and perspiration glistened on his forehead.

      Alan came softly up to us.

      ‘Don’t you think we had better send for the doctor, Daddy?’ he asked.

      ‘I haven’t any money to pay him,’ was the despairing response.

      ‘We could tell him that.’ Alan’s lips trembled. Like all of us, he loved Fiona. ‘He might come anyway.’

      I said, ‘We have nothing to lose by asking. Is Fiona very ill, Daddy?’

      ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I can see that she is very ill indeed – I am not sure what it is, though.’

      I leaned over Fiona and whispered that we would get a doctor for her and she would soon be better.

      ‘I’ll go and ask,’ said Alan in his bravest voice, sticking his chest out and trying to look strong.

      ‘Yes, do so. I think Helen and I had better stay here. I haven’t any paper on which to write a letter. You will have to explain to him yourself. Tell him about the pain and the temperature.’

      Tony, Brian and Avril tiptoed into the room and went silently out again.

      Alan plunged out into the February wind once more. Terrified of facing whoever would answer the doctor’s door but even more terrified about Fiona’s illness, he seized the doctor’s brass knocker and banged it.

      The door was answered by a neatly dressed older woman.

      ‘The doctor’s out,’ she said before Alan could open his mouth.

      ‘It’s my sister,’ said Alan. ‘She’s awfully ill and we haven’t any money to pay the doctor. But, please, will he come?’

      The boy’s evident fear made the woman soften her tone.

      ‘Well,’ she said, ‘step in, lad. I am not sure that the doctor can come. He’s very busy.’

      Alan, shivering, stepped into the linoleumed hall. Under the faint light of a very low wattage electric light bulb, the lady surveyed him.

      She sighed at what she saw, and took down a notebook from beside a telephone on the hall wall. ‘Tell me your name and address and I’ll ask him. Now then.’

      Alan told her, and explained the symptoms of the illness as best he could.

      ‘Now mind,’ said his questioner as she shut the notebook. ‘I don’t know whether the doctor can come. I’ll have to ask him. If he does come, it will be after surgery, about half past nine.’

      The hours dragged by. We took it in turns to sit by Fiona. She would not take the tea we offered her. I wetted our only towel which was, as usual, very dirty, and wiped her