Orphan of Angel Street

by Annie Murray

  What had happened to his glorious ideals of their love, his fantasy of her gratitude and devotion? She was lying there, naked and vulnerable, curled up with her hands over her eyes, unable even to bear looking at him.

  He let himself out of her room without a word and walked disconsolately back to his own. What a fool he was! A naive, ridiculous idiot, seeking paradise between the thighs of a servant like many another boorish master! That his behaviour fell into the realms of such a run-of-the-mill cliché only increased his despair.

  All of it was finished, he knew. He would avoid her from now on – in America, once he was busy with Kesler this would be easy. And once they were back in England she would have to be moved on. He couldn’t have her there, knowing, reminding. And Margaret – the thought of her knowing how he had behaved, he who always saw himself as superior to her! Oh, the humilation! The thought was too appalling to contemplate.

  He did not think though, that she would tell Margaret. He tried to rally himself. Why should he let her have this power over him? Who was she, anyway? A servant, dross from the workhouse, a nobody! He should just forget it.

  But his last sight of her would not leave his mind, her utter dejection as she lay there on her bed. He burned now with contempt, with remorse for his grotesque behaviour. And he was weighed down by sadness – for his loss of innocence: for her bitter tears.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ‘This is our last night,’ she said to Paul the next evening with a heavy sigh. She was longing to leave the ship: her room now filled her with abhorrence. What had happened in there with James Adair could not be undone. He had shamed and abused her, and while she was on the ship she could never get away from the fact. Once off the ship it would be over. Finished. James Adair’s madness was something conjured by the sea.

  But she was also afraid that with the landfall something else would evaporate: the magic wonder of Paul loving her. She was afraid he would see her with new, more critical eyes. She knew she would love him whatever.

  They sat after dinner in the second-class saloon. First class and James Adair felt like another existence. Raw and fresh as his forced visits to her were, Mercy had grown used to pushing things she couldn’t bear to think about into the darkest pockets of her mind. She didn’t want any sadness or pain to colour her time with Paul.

  They talked of what Paul was to do next.

  ‘I’ll be on the return voyage of course. The next main thing will be to look for a job.’

  ‘On a ship?’

  ‘Oh no – not actually on a ship. I’m best at design, I think, so it could be marine engineering – I’ll have to see what opportunities there are. So – the future’s rather uncertain. Shall you mind that?’

  Mercy’s heart stepped up its pace. He was including her in his future!

  ‘No! All I’d mind is not being able to be with you.’

  Paul laid his hand gently on hers. ‘You’re so sweet and trusting. But it may take a little time before I have a living.’

  Mercy looked up earnestly at him. ‘Paul – knowing that I’ve got you – somewhere – that we love one another . . . They’re the things that matter most. The only things.’

  Eventually, as usual, they went outside, where a quietness overcame them both. It was a clearer night than the three before, the wind gentler, and they kept their hats on, Paul’s misshapen trilby, Mercy’s hat with the brim. Paul smoked a cigarette.

  After a while, Paul said, ‘I wonder where we’ll be in a year.’

  ‘Don’t!’ Mercy shuddered.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t like talking like that.’

  He stamped the cigarette out and put his arm round her shoulders, pulling her close, then gently removed her hat, freeing the pin and pushing it carefully through the brim to keep it safe. He kissed her hair. Mercy closed her eyes and leant against him.

  ‘All I want’, Paul said softly, ‘is to look after you. Care for you. It’s all that matters. Both of us seem to be so alone in the world.’

  She opened her eyes and wrapped her arms round his neck, felt his round her. He was still holding her hat.

  ‘Do you really love me?’ she asked urgently. ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. More than I can say.’ He went to kiss her but she held back.

  ‘You could forgive me – anything?’

  ‘Mercy.’ He stroked her face. ‘Why do you feel so bad and unworthy? Of course, my love, anything.’

  She held him tight, kissed him, overwhelmed by his care and trust.

  ‘Listen,’ he said after a time. ‘You can hear the music even better tonight. Can you dance?’

  ‘Me? No!’

  He laughed. ‘No, nor me. But let’s do it anyway!’

  He laid her hat on a chair and, oblivious of two men pacing the deck, they grasped each other awkwardly. Mercy couldn’t forget being hauled around the dance floor by James Adair. Paul held out his left hand and Mercy placed her right hand in it, looking uncertainly into his eyes.

  They started off swaying and shuffling, each trying to move in different directions and stumbling over the other’s feet. By trial and error they made up their own half-galloping, half-twirling dance up and down the deck until Mercy was panting and whooping with joy. Ignoring the music, they linked hands and spun round and round, counterbalancing each other, until the windows, cables, funnels, sky, became a spinning circle of lines and blurred light.

  ‘Stop – my head’s gone all funny!’ she begged.

  Laughing like children, they held and steadied each other, Paul’s back resting against the side of one of the lifeboats. When their laughter faded it was replaced in his face by a solemn, hungry expression. He took her cheeks between his warm palms, gently stroking her face and looking at her with such a longing intensity that she felt awed.

  ‘I love you,’ she said, afraid for a second.

  ‘I never thought . . .’ He paused for a second. ‘I never thought I should ever feel anything this strongly.’

  She looked into his face and saw her whole world in front of her. For a long time they stood in each other’s arms on the deck of the Mauretania, a tiny island of love and hopefulness in a dark, hurtful world.

  Much later, dizzy with happiness from Paul’s embraces, she lay in her room.

  ‘I don’t want to go back in,’ she’d said. ‘I want to stay out all night.’

  Paul squeezed her shoulders. ‘Anyone’d think that room was haunted.’

  Mercy gave a pained frown in the darkness. ‘It is.’

  If James Adair came tonight, he could knock the door down before she opened it. He could do no worse to her than he had already done.

  But the night was undisturbed. He didn’t come. She slept.

  She was woken by knocking, gentle, then louder and more insistent.

  She could tell by the sound that it wasn’t James Adair.

  ‘Mercy?’ Paul hissed as she opened the door a crack. ‘We’re coming in. You can see land. Come up on deck!’

  ‘What time is it?’ She felt disorientated.

  ‘Only seven – will you come?’

  She wouldn’t miss it for anything. ‘But I’ll have to bring Stevie . . .’

  She dressed herself hurriedly, then the sleepy boy, wrapping him warmly. Paul waited for them outside.

  ‘Let me take him,’ Paul offered. ’He’s such a weight for you.’

  Stevie went to Paul without protest, and sat quiet and wide-eyed as they went up on deck. Mercy followed, smiling at the sight of Stevie’s little hand draped over Paul’s shoulder.

  It was chilly and damp, the early morning sky rubbed with smudges of darker cloud. Mercy felt the air stinging her nose. There were already a number of people up on deck, all looking in the same direction, some raising a hand to their brows as if better to focus their vision.

  Paul led Mercy to a space where they could see. And there it was, already closer than she had expected, there, with sea all around her, the statue on her
plinth in the mouth of New York harbour. From here she still looked grey and indistinct. Beyond her they could just see little puffs of steam from boats further into the harbour.

  ‘Lady Liberty,’ Paul said.

  ‘Is that what it is?’

  ‘The Statue of Liberty. She’s holding up a torch for freedom.’

  The end of his sentence was lost in a massive blast of sound from the Mauretania, as if in salute, as she rode majestically into the harbour.

  ‘Look,’ Mercy said. ‘Look at that.’

  It was as if they’d entered a fairy tale. A magical, unpredictable land was rising out of the sea to greet her. Her stomach fluttered with expectation. Between the shifting water and pale sky, the uneven line of buildings, high, pointed towers, square, blockish constructions, too distant as yet to see their detail, some tall, some squat, seemed flat and melded together from here as if in a painting, with its unique proportion and beauty. Mercy narrowed her eyes, trying to see it more clearly.

  ‘It’s hard to imagine there are streets and people behind there, isn’t it?’ Paul said.

  ‘It looks lovely.’ Mercy leant her head against his shoulder. His old coat felt soft and worn. ‘Let’s stay here, shall we? Just live in America and never come back.’

  Everything felt different now land was in sight. There was a new purposefulness in the air after the languor of the crossing. She and Paul would soon have to part: he was wanted at work downstairs.

  ‘But we shall see each other,’ he said as they climbed down from the deck. ‘I’ll make sure of that. You’re staying with this Mr Kesler, aren’t you?’

  Mercy could not hide the dread his words aroused in her. She would have to live in the same house as Mr Adair. She wouldn’t be able to avoid him as easily as she had done on the ship. A wave of terrible emotion passed through her as land drew closer.

  ‘I don’t know where. I’ll ask Mrs Adair to write the address for you and put it under your door,’ she said, subdued.

  ‘Cheer up.’ Paul squeezed her hand. ‘Things’ll work out. Have faith.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mercy said wanly. ‘Yes. I s’pose.’

  ‘You know,’ we ought to go and say goodbye to the Petrowskis! They won’t be going the same way as us.’

  ‘Won’t they? Why not?’

  ‘They take all the steerage immigrants over to Ellis Island to be processed, I gather. To see if they’re going to be allowed in.’

  ‘You don’t really think they won’t be allowed to stay?’

  ‘It’s possible. They do turn people away. But they must have a good chance.’

  They went down to third class, Mercy carrying Stevie. The Petrowskis were, as ever, pleased to see them, but enormous anxiety now showed in their faces. They looked as if they’d been too worried to sleep. Yola was tearful. She was sitting in the overcrowded, smoky third-class saloon holding Peschka, a pitiful little bundle of belongings tied in a shawl, resting at her feet. She grasped Mercy’s hand and pulled her down beside her, with Stevie on her lap. Mercy could see the mingled hope and desperation in her eyes. She squeezed Yola’s hand, kissed it. Tomek and Paul were shaking hands, hugging. Tomek showed Paul his precious slip of paper again.

  Yola started talking in agitation, the Polish words cascading from her lips.

  ‘Oh Yola, I wish I understood you better,’ Mercy said, trying to show with her own eyes all she hoped and prayed for this new little family. She reached over and stroked Peschka’s forehead. Yola looked down at the baby, pride, love, fear all clear in her eyes.

  ‘Yola,’ Mercy said, ‘I wish you and Tomek and Peschka all the luck in the world. I hope you find your family and everything goes well for you.’

  She suddenly knew a way to make Yola understand all she hoped for them. Awkwardly, touching her fingers first to her forehead, she made the sign of the cross. Yola flung her arms round her and they held each other in a tight embrace.

  On the way upstairs, Mercy burst into tears in earnest, all her gathered emotions coming to the surface.

  Paul gently touched her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, my love. They have a good chance, and so do we.’

  They had to part. Even though she hoped it would not be for long, Mercy felt her heart was being torn out. She looked up at him with huge, sad eyes.

  ‘I love you, Paul.’

  ‘I love you,’ he said, kissing her. ‘Don’t worry.’

  *

  Margaret Adair was still very weak and groggy.

  ‘I’m sure I shall feel better just for being off this ship,’ she said. Mercy helped her wash and clothe herself.

  They all sat in silence together in the first-class saloon, waiting to disembark. James Adair was very distant, businesslike. Just once, Mercy felt his gaze on her, but when she looked at him he immediately turned away. In that second, Mercy was chilled by the disgust she saw in his expression. The same emotion, and more, had showed itself in her own.

  She wanted passionately at that moment to be away from them both. Now she had met Paul she could only feel diminished by them. To them she was a servant – Margaret was exceptionally kind, it was true, but he had shown what he thought of her. She was something to be used, like an old rag, then thrown away. And both of them were deceiving Margaret. Mercy sat full of shame and revulsion. But here, now, thousands of miles from home, she could do nothing. Margaret needed her to care for Stevie more than ever before.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to walk far, I’m afraid.’ Margaret’s voice was thin and feeble. She had visibly lost weight during the voyage, eating very little and then not keeping it down.

  ‘You won’t need to walk. Kesler said he’d send a car.’ James spoke so abruptly he almost snapped at her. He picked Stevie up and went to stand by the window, making a show of talking to his son. Showing what a marvellous father he is, Mercy thought savagely.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Margaret put her hand to her head in distress. ‘I do feel so ill. And I feel such a fool letting James down like this, but really I can’t help it. And he’s so angry and tense – look at him. I know it’s my fault.’

  No, Mercy wanted to assure her. You haven’t let him down. It’s the two of us who have let you down, and far, far more badly than you know.

  ‘Stay with me, Mercy,’ Margaret implored. ’I’ll be able to bear it all if you’re with me.’

  ‘’Course I will.’ Mercy squeezed her arm. ‘Where else would I be going?’

  ‘But you must see him while he’s here, my dear.’ Mercy had asked her earlier for Kesler’s address. ‘That young Mr Louth. I insist. I want you to have a happy time, Mercy. Some freedom. You’ll only be young once.’

  Kesler’s driver was a talkative fellow with a stocky body, a jauntily angled Homburg and a thick accent Mercy couldn’t at first identify.

  ‘A warm welcome to the United States of America,’ he said, after James had spotted him among the throng outside the Battery, holding a piece of card which had, ADAIRS FROM ENGLAND printed on it. He introduced himself as Tommy O’Sullivan, shaking their hands with his huge, brawny one.

  James said curtly, ‘Do we have far to go?’

  Margaret had only just endured the formalities of arrival.

  ‘No, sir,’ Tommy O’Sullivan said, not seeming to notice James’s rudeness. ‘Not far at all. Well, hello there little fella!’ His stubbly cheeks shifted into a wide smile at Stevie. ‘We’ll have to find you some candy when we get on home.’

  The road was busy, but Tommy had managed to park the car remarkably close.

  ‘Nice machine Kesler’s got there,’ James said, thawing a little at the sight of the stylish black motor car.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Tommy said. ‘Ford T – nothing but the best for Mr Kesler.’

  Between them they helped Margaret into the back seat and she sank into it gratefully, closing her eyes. Tommy stowed their bags. Mercy sat Stevie between herself and Margaret, and James removed his hat and took his seat at the front. He did not turn round.

  Mercy stare
d at the back of his head. He sat very stiff and upright. Beside Tommy O’Sullivan’s easy lounge at the wheel he looked rather foolish. Mercy could see his pink flesh glistening through his sandy-coloured hair. The thought came to her of his head close to hers, the rasping cheeks, his heaviness on top of her as he strained into her. A horrible blush spread all over her body.

  I wish you didn’t exist, she thought. That I’d never met you. She sensed he was feeling the same.

  As they left the Battery at New York’s tip, Tommy O’Sullivan nudged the Ford through the cars, carriages and streetcars of Manhattan with some aplomb.

  ‘Mr Kesler says I’m to show you a thing or two on the way up,’ he said, his hairy hands expertly manoeuvring the wheel.

  He gave a running commentary on the journey, turning his head as if he was addressing Mercy, had picked her out. She felt easy with him, as if there was a bond between them. They were both servants of a sort. She listened, craning her neck to see the things he was talking about.

  ‘We got the tallest buildings in the world here in New York. Space, you see – saves space. Beautiful, aren’t they?’

  And they were, dizzily tall, stately skyscrapers crammed in between the other buildings, dwarfing the bustle of life on the streets below.

  ‘This your first time here?’ Tommy jerked his head round to look at her.

  Mercy was so excited, so busy trying to take in all the new impressions, she almost didn’t reply.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and at the same time James replied, ‘It is, yes,’ sounding as if he didn’t like to admit it.

  ‘If you look out this side—’ – he jerked his head to the right – ‘that’s the East River. This here’s Manhattan Bridge.’

  He stopped at a junction with the second bridge. Traffic wormed across its gigantic, metal span. The car turned into a busy mesh of streets and Mercy was already beginning to feel drunk on all these new sights and sounds. She found herself wondering what Paul was doing. The thought of him sent an excited rush of feeling through her.