man, not a standard fit. I’m going to have to concentrate. Sorry.’
A dismissal, again. It was as if a master surgeon had barred students or Michelangelo had tolda novice to leave him in peace. She could not help, only get in the way. The girl rose without demur, picked up her coat, and went out into the cold square, where shoppers laden with carrier-bags silently trudged past her.
Later, Helen returned to the workshop for the promised lift home. She was tired, more so than had the day been spent in class. Visits were paid to the out-workers, but mostly she stayed put in the car, declining invitations to cups of tea. Her father took a long time in some houses.
At last she snuggled down in the front passenger seat of the elderly Vauxhall as it pulled away from the kerb, turned left into congested Wavertree Road and headed for home. On the back seat was a tumbled heap of finished out-work: it comforted her, this reminder that the system functioned and brought honest cash into several households, and that the hand-made buttonholes with their small neat stitches, the exquisitely turned collars without a ruck or wrinkle, her father’s trademarks, would continue.
Ahead a green Crosville bus stopped to disgorge buttoned-up figures who scurried away with children. Street lights were coming on; it was nearly dark.
‘Mrs Quilter looked upset when she came out on to the step,’ Helen remarked, to start a conversation. ‘She usually asks me about school and whatnot and tells me about her Sandra, but not tonight.’
‘Her daughter’s the same age as you.’ Daniel had been regaled indoors with the story. ‘Bit of a minx, from what I hear. Left school last summer, then threw up her job at Littlewood’s Pools. Now she’s running around in town at all hours. Mrs Quilter’s worried sick.’
The quiet cosiness of the old car, the background chunter of its engine, her father’s concentration on overtaking the bus, made intimacy easier. During this brief journey undertaken about once a month Helen could broach subjects with her father which might have been awkward at the dining room table.
‘You glad I didn’t leave school like Sandra Quilter, Dad?’ Daniel looked in his mirror and adjusted his speed. His legs were aching; a calf muscle cramped. The quack called it atherosclerosis or some such and said he should cut down his smoking.
Helen was waiting.
‘Well: if it benefits you or your brother, we’ll find the necessary to keep you, if that’s what you mean.’
The girl tried again. ‘I have to start deciding what to do next. Miss Plumb wants me to try for university.’
Daniel grunted and changed gear so clumsily that the car protested. He worked the pedals with a muttered oath.
‘Sorry. Your mother and I are in two minds about your plans. You’ll need to persuade me. Why don’t you go to the College of Commerce and do shorthand and typing? You could earn a fair wage as a secretary. Or teacher training.’
‘I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a teacher, Dad. And I know I can do better than a shorthand typist.’
‘Now, don’t you go being snobby about typists. Mrs Quilter’d be delighted if her Sandra had a well-paid office job at the Royal Liver Insurance instead of – you know.’
‘I’m not being snobby, Dad. It isn’t snobbish to want to do the best you can, is it?’
She is as stubborn as I am, Daniel realised. Without reply he steered the car around the Clock Tower roundabout and turned into suburban Childwall Road. Not far now.
‘In some circumstances, it is,’ he answered quietly. ‘We’re born into a certain strata of society. We can dream, of course, of bettering ourselves. But often it’s wiser to stay close to what you know. Wiser and safer.’
‘Stratum,’ she corrected without thinking.
‘What?’
‘Stratum. One stratum of society, two strata. It’s Latin.’
‘Oh, it is, is it? You see what I mean. I never did Latin. Now you correct the way I talk. That’s
A dismissal, again. It was as if a master surgeon had barred students or Michelangelo had tolda novice to leave him in peace. She could not help, only get in the way. The girl rose without demur, picked up her coat, and went out into the cold square, where shoppers laden with carrier-bags silently trudged past her.
Later, Helen returned to the workshop for the promised lift home. She was tired, more so than had the day been spent in class. Visits were paid to the out-workers, but mostly she stayed put in the car, declining invitations to cups of tea. Her father took a long time in some houses.
At last she snuggled down in the front passenger seat of the elderly Vauxhall as it pulled away from the kerb, turned left into congested Wavertree Road and headed for home. On the back seat was a tumbled heap of finished out-work: it comforted her, this reminder that the system functioned and brought honest cash into several households, and that the hand-made buttonholes with their small neat stitches, the exquisitely turned collars without a ruck or wrinkle, her father’s trademarks, would continue.
Ahead a green Crosville bus stopped to disgorge buttoned-up figures who scurried away with children. Street lights were coming on; it was nearly dark.
‘Mrs Quilter looked upset when she came out on to the step,’ Helen remarked, to start a conversation. ‘She usually asks me about school and whatnot and tells me about her Sandra, but not tonight.’
‘Her daughter’s the same age as you.’ Daniel had been regaled indoors with the story. ‘Bit of a minx, from what I hear. Left school last summer, then threw up her job at Littlewood’s Pools. Now she’s running around in town at all hours. Mrs Quilter’s worried sick.’
The quiet cosiness of the old car, the background chunter of its engine, her father’s concentration on overtaking the bus, made intimacy easier. During this brief journey undertaken about once a month Helen could broach subjects with her father which might have been awkward at the dining room table.
‘You glad I didn’t leave school like Sandra Quilter, Dad?’ Daniel looked in his mirror and adjusted his speed. His legs were aching; a calf muscle cramped. The quack called it atherosclerosis or some such and said he should cut down his smoking.
Helen was waiting.
‘Well: if it benefits you or your brother, we’ll find the necessary to keep you, if that’s what you mean.’
The girl tried again. ‘I have to start deciding what to do next. Miss Plumb wants me to try for university.’
Daniel grunted and changed gear so clumsily that the car protested. He worked the pedals with a muttered oath.
‘Sorry. Your mother and I are in two minds about your plans. You’ll need to persuade me. Why don’t you go to the College of Commerce and do shorthand and typing? You could earn a fair wage as a secretary. Or teacher training.’
‘I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a teacher, Dad. And I know I can do better than a shorthand typist.’
‘Now, don’t you go being snobby about typists. Mrs Quilter’d be delighted if her Sandra had a well-paid office job at the Royal Liver Insurance instead of – you know.’
‘I’m not being snobby, Dad. It isn’t snobbish to want to do the best you can, is it?’
She is as stubborn as I am, Daniel realised. Without reply he steered the car around the Clock Tower roundabout and turned into suburban Childwall Road. Not far now.
‘In some circumstances, it is,’ he answered quietly. ‘We’re born into a certain strata of society. We can dream, of course, of bettering ourselves. But often it’s wiser to stay close to what you know. Wiser and safer.’
‘Stratum,’ she corrected without thinking.
‘What?’
‘Stratum. One stratum of society, two strata. It’s Latin.’
‘Oh, it is, is it? You see what I mean. I never did Latin. Now you correct the way I talk. That’s
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