Liverpool Miss by Helen Forrester

it or not. I may never get such a chance again. I must take it.’
    ‘Helen, you forget yourself,’ exploded Father.
    ‘Oh, no I do not. For once, I am remembering myself.’
    ‘Helen!’
    Mother’s voice came in behind him. There was more than a little malice in her tone, as she said, ‘You have no suitable clothing, anyway.’
    ‘I’ll borrow some,’ I replied recklessly.
    ‘Helen! That would not do at all.’ Father sounded genuinely shocked.
    ‘It’s no worse than borrowing money,’ I retorted, and his face whitened. I had hit home most cruelly. Savagely satisfied, I fled from the room and back to the sooty saucepans.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    I peeped over the railings surrounding the area. The curtains had not yet been drawn over the barred windows of my dear Spanish lady’s basement living room. In the soft light of her oil lamp, I could see her sitting in an easy chair on one side of the fireplace, with a pile of crochet work on her lap. Her handsome, black-eyed husband, Alonzo Gomez, sat opposite her on another easy chair. He was reading the newspaper, while a large black cat crouched on his shoulder, its lemon-shaped eyes glowing in the light. The remains of their evening meal still lay on a nearby table.
    I opened the iron gate and ran down the winding iron steps of the area, knocked at the plank door under the main entrance steps of the house and, after waiting a moment, walked in.
    I was engulfed by skinny brown arms and a flood of mixed Spanish and English words of welcome. Alonzo put down his paper as I entered their living room.
    ‘Come, come,’ he said, gesturing towards the blazing fire with one hand, while he smoothed his handlebar moustache with the other. He got up and bowed me to his chair.
    Suddenly, I was in a different world.
    Despite the general squalor, there were many people like Cristina Gomez who created real homes out of attic crannies or damp basements in once fashionable houses. There was never much money, though Alonzo Gomez worked as a carter for a fruit merchant in the city and the couple’s children were now grown up and had moved away; and yet the old kitchen had an air of cosiness, as if affection was exuded from the walls with the damp. The few pieces of well-worn furniture, the primitive cooking utensils hanging by the fireplace, the stone floor covered in the centre by a piece of coconut matting, all were clean and well cared for. Alonzo was known to have an explosive temper, but the explosions seemed to be rare, and at other times there was a lot of good-natured banter and teasing, when they laughed like children.
    Cristina Gomez had a good collection of clothing. She had once told me that whenever her husband earned overtime money or won on the horses, he would spend the money on clothes for one or the other of them. And now I needed to borrow a whole outfit.
    All Cristina’s clothes were black, even her petticoats, but that would not matter. Black was the uniform of work. It was usually worn by shop assistants and by many office workers.
    After I had been cuddled and installed in Alonzo’s chair, while he sat on a straight-backed one, an orange was sliced and put on a saucer and a cup of strong, black coffee set before me on a brown-painted orange box. The health of all the family was inquired after by Cristina, and Mother’s poor health sighed over with much rolling of eyes and shrugging of shoulders.
    At the mention of Mother’s health, my determination faltered. If I went to work, her load would inevitably be increased. Then, as Alonzo told a funny story about a carthorse which loved to steal apples from displays outside the Fruit Exchange, I realised that, on average, Mother did not earn much more than I would get, that if she stayed at home to look after the family, we would be very little poorer. And my resolve hardened.
    Cristina asked me how I was faring at night school, and this gave me a chance to talk about my own troubles and the reason for my visit, to