By the Waters of Liverpool (10 page)

Then, as if propelled by instinct alone, I got up and quickly washed my hands and face in the communal bathroom, changed my blouse, galloped down the stairs and ran along the Promenade, not pausing for breath until I was faced with the slope of King’s Gap. My battered handbag was clutched in one hand, while with the other I tried to stop the hairpins falling out of my hair in the playful breeze.

Breathless, I opened the gate and ran up the familiar path, as if afraid that if I were observed from the windows someone would stop my entering.

I knocked.

There was no response. Perhaps everyone was out.

Shyly, I knocked again, and there was the sound of the well-remembered step of one of my aunts.

She opened the door, looked at me blankly, and then smiled. ‘Why, Helen!’ she exclaimed.

Still panting, I asked, ‘Is Grandma at home?’

My aunt hesitated, and then said, ‘Yes, she is. Do come in.’

I entered and paused in the doorway, while the feeling of the house rushed over me. The grandfather clock was still ticking its friendly tick, the house still smelled sweetly of flowers, polish
and women’s perfumes. No odour of tobacco or cooking. The antique china pieces still decorated a small shelf above the sitting-room door, through which my aunt had vanished, her pink-striped Macclesfield silk dress flicking behind her, as she shut the door after her.

As breath returned to me, panic also invaded. What was I going to talk about?

My aunt was back in the hall, and saying, ‘Go in, Helen.’ She gestured with one thin, delicate hand. She closed the door behind me as I went in, and I could hear her going upstairs. I felt the same fear that I always did when the Presence sent for me to scold me for typing errors.

The room was shadowed in comparison with the bright sunshine outside, and for a second I could hardly see the figure seated near the fireplace in one of the chintz-covered easy chairs.

I caught my breath sharply, as if someone had stabbed me with a pin.

A tiny, shrunken person, swathed in black, seemed engulfed in the chair. Beneath a white wig which appeared too large, two dim blue eyes smiled at me in a face hung with paper-white folds of skin. The familiar brooch on the lace under her chin looked big and clumsy. Hands which seemed only bone and blue veins rested on a shallow china bowl
of green peas, and on a small table by the chair was a basket full of pea shells and a brown paper bag, which presumably held more of the vegetable.

I stood awkwardly in front of her. ‘Granny,’ I said, while inside my heart cried. I had forgotten what great age did to the human frame. To me she was eternal. I was suddenly and brokenly aware of all the years that I had missed being with her. She was in her nineties, and though I did not care very much about death for myself, I wanted her to live for ever.

‘How very nice,’ she said, in a weak but clear voice. ‘Come here, dear.’

I went to her and carefully kissed the papery cheek. She smelled sweetly of Yardley’s lavender, as usual, and her lace modesty vest was fresh and white. ‘Sit down, dear, and tell me about yourself. Bring that chair close to me.’

So I brought a straight chair and sat knee to knee with her. While we shelled peas together, I told her about the Holiday Home and about my job and how I hoped one day to be a social worker. Somehow, I could not bring myself to tell her about the frightful privation we had endured, nor about the steady hunger and cold, the lack of blankets, woollens and coal from which we still suffered. She had obviously been ill and I was not
too certain that she comprehended all that I was saying to her.

When the peas had all been shelled, she leaned her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. I stopped talking, and she reached out her hand. I held the fragile fingers, while she rested, and thought about a small girl whose hand she had held through many a walk to the village. Now, it was I who was holding her hand.

After a while, my aunt came briskly into the room, and said, ‘It’s time for your walk, Mother.’ She picked up the bowl of peas, the brown paper bag and the basket of shells. ‘Perhaps Helen would like to go with you.’

‘Certainly,’ I agreed.

Grandma opened her eyes and looked at me. There was a slight twinkle in them. ‘Yes. We’ll go together. It will give Aunt Emily a rest.’

A long black coat was brought in by Aunt Emily and the old lady was eased into it. Carpet slippers were exchanged for tiny button shoes, which Aunt Emily did up. A hat as monumental as I ever remembered, trimmed with a touch of white – Grandma’s only acknowledgment of summer – was carefully pinned on by Grandma herself. Then she sat down on a straight chair for a moment to recover from the exertion.

‘How long for, Auntie?’ I asked.

‘About half an hour. Keep off the Promenade. The wind is too much for her.’

I nodded, and she opened the door for us. Grandma carefully crept across the rugs, and I eased her down the single step. She shuffled forward along the red-tiled path.

It seemed a terribly long way to the gate, and miles to the end of the road. However, Grandma silently concentrated on walking, and we turned into King’s Gap, away from the sea. After about five minutes on the gentle slope, Grandma gasped, ‘I think I have to sit down, dear.’

‘Oh, goodness!’ I looked wildly round for a bench or a low wall. The nearest place was a wooden seat about a hundred yards away. I pointed it out.

Grandma was panting, her mouth a little open. ‘It seems a long way.’

‘It is closer than returning home, Granny. I could carry you.’

She smiled up at me with the bright flash that I had known as a child, as if her mind had reverted to its old clarity. ‘No, no. Don’t be afraid, my dear. We will do it a step at a time.’

It was the longest hundred yards I have ever walked, but we finally got there and sank thankfully
on to the weathered seat. I put my arm round Grandma’s shoulder and she leaned against me and closed her eyes. It was like holding a small sheaf of wheat, the same sense of easy crushability.

I looked down at the top of the satin-trimmed hat, now pushed askew because she had laid her head on my shoulder. My old enemy, despair, washed over me. Memories shot through my mind, a belief in her inherent goodness, gratitude for the skills she had passed to me. She had taught me more subtle things than reading and sewing, to put on a cheerful face so that one does not depress others, to face with fortitude what cannot be changed, daily courtesies, which always surfaced when I was with people of my own class. My aunts, too, had been very patient with a silent, obstinate little girl.

Now I knew in my heart that Grandma had come close to the end of her allotted span, and I did not know how to face the idea. I wanted to wrap her up in cotton wool, like something infinitely precious that must be preserved at all costs.

But nothing I could do would stop the remorseless march of the years – and it was obvious that the aunts were caring for her very well.

The return was accomplished by slow shuffles and pauses, a trifle more easily since the mild slope was downwards. Grandma did not say much, except
for an occasional deprecating chuckle at her own inadequacies as she stopped to pant.

The front door opened as we approached up the path, and I pushed Grandma ahead of me up the step. She stopped for a second when safely landed, and then toddled into the hall. My aunt said, ‘Thank you very much indeed for taking her out. She has to rest now.’ She began to close the door, and added, with a bright smile, ‘It must be your tea time by now.’ Then she quietly shut the door.

I looked dumbly at the blank piece of wood in front of my nose, hardly able to believe that it was truly shut. A slow burning flush flooded my face and I turned angrily away and marched down the hill to the sea. The wind rushed up to meet me and helped to cool the fury within. I dropped over the railings of the Promenade on to the deserted powdery sands, and turned towards my favourite place, the Red Rocks.

Until the water began to lap close, I did not think of the tide cutting me off. I hastily took off shoes and stockings and paddled quickly the last few yards. Such was the respect for property instilled into me that it never occurred to me to climb the sloping walls which protected the private gardens running down to the beach, and walk through to the road, and so save myself from the icy water.

I sat down on the rocks at a safe elevation and wrung out the hem of my heavy skirt. Then, cross-legged, chin in hand, I watched for a long time the tide race in and the sailing boats set out from Hoylake and West Kirby. I forgot about tea at the Holiday Home and was aware only of the pain inside me.

The sun sank slowly down in the centre of the sea, leaving an emerald green and bright pink sky. Grandma had a little oil painting which she said Turner had painted of that sunset. The painting was dark from years of being too close to the smoke of the fireplace, but as a child I had loved to run my fingers round its elaborately carved gilt frame.

With twilight, it became cold, so, shivering, I put on my shoes and stockings and clambered over the rocks to the road, and with head bent with grief and no little sense of humiliation I plodded along the almost deserted road back to the Home.

At home, Mother had recovered from her vexation at my daring to go for a holiday. She was further mollified by the gift which I had brought her, a pretty box covered with sea shells. Both she and Father were intensely interested when I told them that I had been to see Grandma.

‘Did she ask about us?’ inquired Mother.

I looked at them both sadly, and had to admit that she had not asked a single question about the family, not even about Father.

‘She’s very weak,’ I defended. ‘I’m not sure that she is quite aware of what is going on around her. And, of course, I got cut off rather abruptly from her, when the door was shut on me. I had imagined that we would talk more over a cup of tea – or something.’

Father’s voice was acidulous. ‘I’m surprised they let you in.’

In June of 1939, a strange man presented himself at our door. He was small, dressed in a belted raincoat and a trilby hat. Father had answered the door and thought he was a salesman. He was just about to say, ‘Not today, thank you,’ when the man said, ‘You must be Mr Forrester?’

Father agreed that he was.

‘I am sorry to tell you that your mother has died,’ the stranger baldly announced. He then went on to say when the funeral would be held.

I had been standing on the staircase watching the scene, and the cold words bit into me. I wondered how much more they must have hurt Father. He looked very white, as he ushered the visitor into our living room. Our tenants in the front room had recently found a house and left us, so our home smelled a lot better – but the sitting room was still bare of furniture. I followed them into the living room.

Mother was introduced as the visitor edged his way into the crowded room, and when they were all seated Father asked how Grandma had died. My eyes misted, as I leaned against the door jamb. I remembered the little wraith with whom I had
walked. It would not have taken much to blow her out of this life.

‘She died in her sleep – from a stroke,’ the visitor said. He went on to explain that she had had a stroke a year earlier and then, more recently, a series of smaller ones.

Father and Mother sat quiet for a minute. Then Father realised he had not inquired who the man was, and now he did this. The man gave his name and said he was a friend of the family. He had business in Liverpool, so had been asked to convey the news of the death to us.

Father closed his eyes. Despite the gravity of Mother’s expression, there was a bright gleam in her eyes, which I did not understand.

Father said he would attend the funeral and looked inquiringly at Mother. Mother nodded negatively. ‘Mrs Forrester will not attend.’ He looked unhappily at me. ‘If my eldest daughter wishes, she will accompany me.’ I lowered my eyelids and made no response. I had not thought about the funeral.

Politenesses were exchanged and the man was ushered out. ‘Unfeeling bastard,’ exclaimed Father, as he came back in. He sat down slowly on his battered easy chair and put a shaky hand over his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Daddy,’ I said gently. ‘After all, he was a stranger – he didn’t
have
to come.’

After some dithering, I decided not to go to the funeral, though as a child I had been very fond of my aunts. I was afraid they would think ill of me, because I had no mourning clothes and no money to buy any. I said to Mother, ‘I would have to ask for a half day off – and every office boy who wants to go to a football match says he needs time off to go to his grandmother’s funeral – and I’ve had so much sick leave that they might feel I was imposing on them by asking for more.’

Mother sighed, and agreed. ‘Remember your grandmother as she was, dear, when you were little.’

She had understood, and she had called me ‘dear’. I was grateful to her.

The day of Grandma’s funeral was overcast and rainy in Liverpool. Mother stitched a black band of ribbon, culled from an old felt hat, round the left arm of Father’s overcoat, a sign of mourning for those who could not afford black clothes. He shaved slowly and carefully that morning and gave his shoes a tremendous polish in a kind of dumb honour to his mother. I checked that his socks did not have holes in their heels, and wept all the way to work.

When he arrived home in the evening, he was emotionally exhausted. For once, Mother fussed round him. She made him tea, and put more coal on the fire to dry the legs of his trousers, which were soaked, as were his muddy shoes and socks which were put inside the fender to steam on the hearth. He had walked all the way to and from James Street station, because he did not have enough money for a tram, after paying the train fare to Hoylake.

‘Did they give you anything to eat?’ I asked, as he sipped the scalding brew from his cup.

He nodded negatively.

While Mother sat with him, I went into the kitchen, made toast, and in some bacon fat fried the solitary egg sitting on the shelf. Fortunately, all the children had gone out to friends’ houses to play, so the house was quiet.

Father was not accustomed to so much attention, and after he was warmed and fed and had returned to sit in his easy chair, he cheered up a little.

‘They all stood on one side of the grave – and I stood on the other. I felt like a pariah. Nobody spoke to me, except the solicitor, who said I had better come back to the house with them for the reading of the will.’

Again I saw the sudden gleam in Mother’s eye –
and this time I understood it. Grandma had quite an estate to leave. The unlit cigarette between her lips quivered.

Father sighed heavily. ‘You will remember that years ago, my brothers and I signed an agreement that the contents of Mother’s home should not be broken up but would be left to my sisters, so that they were assured of a home.’ He paused and took off his spectacles to rub his eyes. Then he laughed, a small deprecating laugh. ‘That was before your uncles died – and in the days when we had a home worth speaking of.’

Mother nodded. She tore a piece of newspaper from the
Echo
on her lap and started absently to fashion it into a spill.

‘Well, of course, that still holds,’ continued Father. ‘Then in her will she left all her own property – that’s the dowry she brought with her when she married father, to the aunts, so as to give them a better income to live on, I suppose – I don’t think they have a great deal themselves.’

Mother leaned towards the fire to light the spill and then with the flame she lit her cigarette, puffed and blew the smoke towards the blackened ceiling.

‘What about your reversionary interest?’ she asked.

‘What on earth is a reversionary interest?’ I interjected.

Father turned to me. ‘Well, dear, you know your grandfather died when I was a little boy. He left all his property to your grandmother for her life-time. This meant that she enjoyed the interest – rents – whatever else he had – but she could not touch the capital. The capital was to be divided between his children or their heirs, after your grandmother died.’

I knew my grandfather had been far from poor, and I gasped. ‘Does that mean we actually get some money?’

‘Well, I had hoped so, though I think that the estate has not prospered because of poor management by his executors. Anyway, the thing is that when you were young, I borrowed from one of your aunts against my interest. Not against all of it by any means.’

He stopped and stared into the fire. Then he took out a cigarette, leaned over and lit it from Mother’s.

‘Well, what happened?’

‘I signed a legal agreement in which I promised to pay interest on the loan – I had expected to pay the loan back quite quickly. I could not repay – and I forgot about the interest until today. She claimed the interest for ten years – and that wiped out my share.’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Mother, cigarette halfway to her mouth. ‘Did she really?’

‘Yes.’ Father sighed again. ‘She was legally entitled to it. Only it never struck me that a sister would actually charge interest.’

I made a face. Father was so unbelievably innocent at times that I wondered how he had survived at all so far.

‘Well,’ I said slowly, ‘I suppose if she had had the money invested all these years, she would have got interest on it – and if she had not spent it, her capital would have increased substantially.’

‘True,’ said Father sadly. ‘She was entitled to it.’

Mother clicked her tongue in exasperation, and unthinkingly stubbed her half-finished cigarette out on the bars of the fireplace. She flung the stub angrily into the unusually cheerful blaze.

And I sat quietly thinking of my usual obsession – cold. I thought of a frigid bed, where I lay with aching limbs beside a restless Avril, whose feet seemed always to be icy, and a patient Fiona who folded her arms tight across her chest and never complained. I dreamed of white sheets and a pile of fluffy blankets piled on top of us – and, yes, a hot water bottle each. And of the boys, inadequately clad, despite their school uniforms paid for by the City, often with wet feet and no gloves. Alan at least
had his Air Force boots and a really thick Air Force uniform, so that he was warm during the weekends, but he must have been cold in bed, too. Our house was jerry built and the heat of our single fire was soon dissipated.

I thought wistfully that a small capital sum, if my parents used it sensibly, would save us so much misery – though I had to admit that our present circumstances were a little better than they had been.

‘Never mind, Daddy,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘One of these days, we will have all the basics of life again and be quite comfortable.’

He smiled at me, looking suddenly very like his mother.

Mother looked as if she were about to cry.

A few days later, a small parcel came by mail for me. It contained a watch, and it had come from Hoylake. I presumed it was Grandma’s and was delighted that she had remembered me. It was a neat gold one, with a black moire ribbon wrist band, and I put it on with tender pleasure. I never left it off my wrist, so it was never pawned.

Early in the war, when I had enough money to afford it, I took the watch to a reputable jeweller to be cleaned and adjusted. He asked my name, opened the watch and took it into a back room.
A moment later, he returned very fast, his face most forbidding. ‘We sold this watch to…’ and he named my cousin. ‘Please explain how you come to have it.’ He waited, lips pursed, eyes accusing.

My mouth fell open with shock at the abrasive tone. I licked my lips and swallowed, not knowing what to say. I knew I still looked like a skivvy, a kind of person who would never normally have been in his shop.

‘It was left to me by my grandmother,’ I faltered. ‘The lady you mention is my cousin who lived with her.’

‘When?’

I gave the date of my grandmother’s death. I was very frightened. I feared he might call the police and accuse me of theft.

‘What is your cousin’s address?’

I gave my grandmother’s address, where I presumed she still lived, and said, trembling, ‘She probably bought it as a gift for Grandma.’

The address obviously tallied with the one he had, so he said slowly, ‘I see.’

He pulled out a receipt, made it out in my name and, without apology or explanation, handed it to me. ‘Ready in a week,’ he said.

Badly shaken, I went out of the shop and stood on the pavement and watched unseeingly the rush
of lunch-hour pedestrians. Because I was obviously so poor, I had been treated as a possible thief. I was outraged.

I never forgot the arrogant jeweller, and I felt a most unchristian satisfaction when his shop was blown up later in the war.