Helen Forrester

“While she was downstairs she could have the illusion that her mother was quietly sleeping in the bedroom; now, faced with the empty bed and the need to clear it, she had to recognise that she was alone. Slowly the tears came, accompanied by great helpless sobs. Instead of having someone to lean on, to advise her, to bully her into staying on her feet when life seemed impossibly hard, she herself would have to be the adviser, the kind helper, the referee of family quarrels; hers would be the knee on to which grandchildren would climb to be comforted, hers would be the shoulder on which the women would weep out their bereavements and all the myriad sorrows of being mams.
"Aye, Mam," she whispered brokenly, "I don't know whether I can do it.”
― Helen Forrester, Liverpool Daisy

“exteriors reflecting the dancing light from outside. The light from outside did not penetrate the kitchen, so Mrs Starr struck a match. “Ah, that’s better,” she cried. Though very dusty, the kitchen was practically undisturbed. The telephone, which Emmie had put on the sill to hold down the blackout curtains of the small window, had fallen on to the table beneath the window. Emmie lifted the curtain to peer out and was surprised that, at least there, there was still glass to look through. Mrs Starr, one of the volunteers, asked Mrs Robinson a little diffidently,”
― Helen Forrester, Three Women of Liverpool