She's Leaving Home (2 page)

Colette restarted the conversation. ‘What was your bloke like? I gave up on mine pretty quickly. He smelled sweaty.’

Helen tried to answer honestly but could barely remember. ‘Ordinary, I guess. Merchant Taylor’s. Wanted to see me again.’

‘And you said no.’

A grimace. Colette flashed that sweet smile showing her small white teeth which Helen so envied. ‘Oh, Helen, you’ll never find a boyfriend like that. Your standards are too high – you’re never satisfied.’

‘So what?’ Helen did not feel particularly defensive. She was very fond of Colette, whose prettiness, intelligence and willingness to defy authority made her the ideal companion on their occasional forays to the Cavern. ‘If I fancied a schoolkid, we can have our pick at the Institute – over a thousand of ’em. No, thank you. I want something better.’

Their destination was the first stop past the brow of the hill. Quickly Helen took off the black polo neck jumper which had concealed her school blouse and tie and folded it into an inconspicuous bundle. Colette dug in her pocket and found a tie – with more devilry in her, she had not bothered with concealment. Both knew school regulations did not permit the partial wearing of the uniform. Either it was the whole works of striped masculine necktie, blazer or belted navy mac, yellow and
green scarf and hated green beret, or none of the school’s identity could be revealed. Every Blackburne House pupil dreamed of the final day at school when, in a ritual ceremony on the Mersey ferry, that reviled headgear would be cast onto the waters and would float away like so many shelled pea husks. Both girls flapped arms and ran fingers through their hair to get rid of the tell-tale odour of the Cavern.

Helen walked back into school demure, in her first year of the sixth form, likely to be a prefect next year. With a bit of luck nobody would have missed her.

Thursday afternoon. Not the best moment of the week: double period from two p.m. till three forty, to be utilised by science students on experiments in the laboratory. Monday and Tuesday afternoons were stolid drudgery, lightened only by her being still fresh after the weekend. Wednesday was survivable – the afternoon was wholly allocated to games for which Helen had little talent but which gave some enjoyment. Energetic exercise on a muddy pitch, hockey stick in hand, had its moments as long as she was not required to take the game too seriously. Friday was a short afternoon, especially in winter; she could leave early in order to be home before dusk. Thursday had none of these advantages.

She sniffed as she climbed the stairs to the chemistry lab. The pong of hydrogen sulphide indicated that the juniors of the Marie Curie Club had been in there between lessons, probably trying to make primitive stink bombs. Miss Clive, the assistant teacher, thought it was fun to impart to the younger children a love of practical chemistry. Helen saw, however, as the teacher did not, that the little horrors simply adored spending their spare time on a cold day making a mess – and making life nastier for the older students who must follow.

The long room was strangely quiet. A dozen girls in stained white lab coats loafed around uncertainly. Some, more daring, sat on the work benches. Near the fume cupboard where retorts and Petrie dishes should have been set out, Brenda Jones was perched. Chubby and bouncy, she was chattering to Meg Findlay, the tall intense girl who would compete with Colette for the top A grades in the year. The latter’s slight figure was seated nearby, her black hair hiding her face as she flicked through pages of her file. She had slipped in a moment or two earlier.

Colette raised her head and winked as Helen entered. As ever, the greenness of her eyes was startling. Nothing could conceal Colette’s origins, any more than Helen’s own brown eyes and strong features could hide hers.

‘What’s up? No class?’ Helen asked. Brenda twisted around.

‘We have to wait. Miss Clive got an acid burn at lunchtime – one of the juniors was chucking the hydrochloric around, the idiot. She’s had to go down to the Royal Infirmary to have it dressed. And Mrs Egerton came in snuffly and has gone home with flu. We’re to stay and revise till we can make a decent escape.’

Helen placed her satchel on the bench. She felt deflated after the released energy at the Cavern; the pulsing noise still vibrated faintly in her brain. Without the discipline of an adult’s supervision it would be hard to concentrate. ‘I haven’t anything much to revise, have you? My folder’s up-to-date.’

Brenda considered. Light brown hair framed her rosy face. She would never attain the heights of fashion but her confidence and ebullience made her the self-appointed leader of the coterie, though Meg, bespectacled and angular, kept her in check with sardonic asides laced with veiled sarcasm.

‘You’ve been downtown, haven’t you?’ Brenda’s tone was not accusatory. ‘Who was on – any good?’

‘It was them – the best. The Beatles, of course.’ Helen sighed as theatrically as she could manage.

‘They ponce about. I prefer Gerry Marsden – he’s a better singer. Or Billy Kramer – now
there’s handsome for you.’ Brenda made the remarks to tease. In response Colette clutched her stomach and made retching noises. By now the two truants were the centre of an admiring circle.

‘You’ll get caught,’ Meg interspersed sourly. The discussion of their favourites’ relative merits and talents continued for several moments. A small group over by the far window, who had asserted that the locals were not a patch on the real thing from America, began softly to croon the Roy Orbison hit ‘Only the Lonely’.

Brenda spoke sharply. ‘Shut it. We’ll have Miss Plumb in here if you’re not careful.’ She turned to Helen. ‘You doing anything tomorrow? We have a day off, remember.’

Helen was puzzled. ‘It’s a Friday. What’s up?’

‘It’s for Founder’s Day. Oh, I forgot, you weren’t in assembly last week when the date was announced. You know we’re entitled to an extra day’s holiday to commemorate Emma Holt, daughter of our illustrious founder, whose demise in 1844 at the early age of seven led to his recognition of the importance of education for girls. Have I got that right?’ Brenda appealed to her listeners.

‘Nearly. Except the child died before that,’ Meg could not help correcting. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick; when anyone looked at her hands she would slide them behind her back. ‘Still, nice of her Papa. Not many people believed in educating girls in those days.’

‘They still don’t.’ This was said with feeling from Colette.

‘Your Dad still being a pest?’ Brenda was sympathetic.

Colette put down her file and pushed hair from her forehead. ‘He can’t see the point in my staying on,’ she said quietly. ‘I could have left in July and he says I ought to be out earning my keep. Nobody in my family has ever stayed at school longer than the law required, ever, and most skipped off long before that.’

‘Can’t he see that you’ll end up maintaining the entire household if you go to college and get a good job?’ Meg spoke with a hint of superiority. ‘Anyway, what does he want you to do? You can’t exactly end up working in the docks like him or your brothers.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with dock work.’ Colette’s response had a touch of irritation.

Meg could not restrain herself. ‘Except there’s less and less of it. If your brothers want to be sure of wage packets in ten years’ time, they’d have been better off staying at school themselves.’

‘Fat chance. They weren’t learning much at Paddington Comprehensive, were they? But our Billy’s applied to the new factory at Ford’s. The first cars roll off in March – if they’re on time. He says he’ll hate being indoors the whole day and the moving track will drive him crackers but the money’s great, and steady.’

Helen moved to the large sash window whose design revealed the Regency origins of the grand house that Mr Holt had purchased for his pioneering school. The Anglican Cathedral towered nearby, its red sandstone creeping inch by inch to the sky, still unfinished after half a century. A solitary crane stood gaunt, its small load being raised with infinite slowness up to a solitary workman who sat on the scaffolding, his feet dangled over the edge. Nothing would happen till he had finished his cigarette. When the foundation stone was laid this area had been wealthy and snobbish, the perfect location. Now it had become run-down; the handsome old properties had slid into multi-occupation as the more affluent headed for suburbs and to smart mini-towns over the water. It was not safe to wander around Canning Street and Blackburne Terrace after dark.

Beyond the cathedral the land dipped away steeply down past the old cemetery towards the river. On a fine day Birkenhead and Cammell Lairds were clearly visible. But this afternoon the damp chill made the light soft and misty so that the mythical Liver birds on top of the Cunard building seemed to float, unsupported and ethereal.

The river. You can always leave, murmured the river, as it had to generations of young Merseysiders who had watched its grey-green waters surge and lap on the boards of the landing stage. Each sluggish wave would leave a dirty scum on the rotting wood. You don’t have to stay. You can
go for a short while or for a lifetime; sail round the world or merely to New Brighton or Hoylake. See New York, or Cape Town, or Zanzibar. You can taste the delights of another life, more exotic, more exhilarating while others, the timid, linger and console themselves with their fear of the unknown. Let them languish, you need not. Nor need you have any fear that you will have burned your boats for ever, for I am the river and I do not change: I will always be here, should you need me, to bring you home.

‘Helen! You’re miles away.
Your
parents aren’t being difficult, are they?’

Helen turned back to the room. ‘Yes and no. I wouldn’t be the first to have an education but I’d be the first girl. They’re so conventional and strict. My worry, Bren, is how to convince my Mum in particular – I know she’d be proud of me, but still she warns me off with comments like “Remember, boys don’t like clever girls”. It sends me spare.’

Brenda grunted. ‘Stuff. Tell her you’ll find a clever boy. You will, too. Provided your father doesn’t interfere too much. Honestly, Helen Majinsky, I don’t know how you put up with it – all those restrictions. Can’t go into assembly in case the word “Christ” is spoken or the Lord’s Prayer is recited. Can’t eat proper food. Can’t go out Friday nights ever – I ask you! And your beady-eyed parents vet your friends for their race purity. It must be horrid, being a Jew.’

‘We have a day off tomorrow. Founder’s Day.’

Helen rose from the table, collected the used dishes and helped her mother clear the table. The
tzimmes
– a sweet carroty stew – had been substantial and filling. Her father picked up the
Liverpool
Echo and began silently to read; Barry had speedily disappeared up to his bedroom from which warbles of Del Shannon (‘
Run run
run run-awayyy
!!’) soon emanated. He insisted on doing his homework to musical accompaniment, which in Helen’s view explained his poor marks. Nor did she share his taste. When it came to exams however, he sailed through. That didn’t seem quite fair: another minor example of how males were favoured in life, especially younger brothers.

‘Oh? D’you have any plans?’ In the back kitchen her mother swished soapy dishes in the bowl, rinsed them under the tap and laid them out in an order known only to herself on the plastic rack. This year Annie Majinsky would be forty-five. Her daughter was already an inch or two taller, for Annie was a tiny woman who ate sparingly. Her hair, formerly thick and black, had become straggly and pepper and salt in colour. The face showed fine lines and – at home at least – she wore only a little lipstick.

‘Well: I thought I’d spend a couple of hours in the Central Library then maybe go to Dad’s at lunchtime if he’ll let me. Later I can cadge a lift home with him. I like it when he calls at Mrs Quilter’s and the other ladies with the outwork.’

Annie Majinsky sniffed. ‘They keep him talking.’

‘I won’t delay him, Mum.’

It occurred to Helen that her mother was a little jealous. She had solely her husband Daniel’s word for it that he stopped merely to collect the bundles made ready with buttonholes or hand-turned collars, to pay for jobs done and to drop off the following week’s batch. A quick cup of tea might be shared and pleasantries exchanged as the more intricate tasks were discussed. That he was inside the shabby hallway of a divorced woman’s home, or – worse – close to a lonely widow, was enough to worry her. They were
shikses
, known to have fewer moral scruples.

‘You could come instead with me to get the chicken for
shabbos
dinner, if you like,’ Annie offered. ‘You haven’t been for ages. They’re going to close the Great Newton Street market soon – they say it’s not hygienic, though I think it’s better to choose your bird yourself, then you know what you’re buying. It’ll mean we’ll have to buy our chickens from Patsky’s at twice the price. A real
gonif
, him.’

Helen resented the implied rivalry between mother and father vying for her limited free time.
She tried to love them both equally. So why did her mother think up objections to anything her daughter suggested – why couldn’t she for once say, ‘Great idea, darling, go ahead’? What was there to be afraid of? She finished drying the dishes, but as she lifted a pile of plates Annie stopped her with a yelp.

‘Not there! Those are
milchich
plates. That pile is
fleischich
. Don’t you know the difference yet? Put them in the cupboard by the sink.’

‘I do know the difference.’ Helen was cross with herself for her slip. ‘I keep forgetting because I can’t see the point. Christians cope perfectly well without separating milk and meat crockery and cutlery, and I don’t see them coming down with weird diseases. Lots of Jewish people don’t bother these days, either.’

‘Helen! That’s enough. You know perfectly well why we do it. It says in the Bible that you should not boil a kid in the milk of its mother. As for the
goyim
, I wouldn’t want to eat anything that comes out of their kitchens, thank you very much.’