Orphan of Angel Street

by Annie Murray

  Paul, I love you, she thought. She missed him, ached to see him. Would he find her? Would he come?

  Names spilled from Tommy O’Sullivan’s lips: Park Avenue, Grand Central Terminal, and then the park moved past their windows to the right. They were still passing it when they turned into a side street and Tommy drew the car up outside a gracious brown-stone dwelling.

  ‘So – here’s home,’ he said cheerfully, opening the car door. ‘Mr Kesler’s waiting for you.’

  As he spoke the front door opened and a rather short, stout man with ruddy cheeks and spectacles, wearing a tight brown suit, bounced down the steps, beaming.

  ‘James, my dear friend!’ He was shaking James’s hand through the window before he had even had a chance to get out. Mercy saw James Adair relax visibly, and felt herself do the same, for how could you not in the cheerful face of William Kesler?

  ‘My wife Margaret . . .’ James managed to extricate himself from the car and step round to her door. ‘I’m afraid she is feeling rather unwell.’

  Margaret roused herself, managing to sit up and give a strained smile. Mercy climbed out, lifting Stevie into her arms.

  ‘Oh – and your beautiful son!’ Kesler enthused. ‘My children will be so pleased. You must come and meet Gerder, my wife – ah, here she is! Gerder, come on down!’

  Gerder Kesler was a slight, dignified woman, also not grand in height. She came shyly towards them and Mercy felt immediate liking for her. She was relieved. The personality of the woman of the house always seemed to be what made it homely and welcoming or not. Mrs Kesler wore simple, rather old-fashioned clothes – a grey skirt which reached almost to her ankles and a white blouse embroidered with small blue flowers. Her voice was soft and sweet, the American accent gentle and very different from Tommy O’Sullivan’s.

  ‘We’d like to welcome you most warmly to our home,’ she said smiling.

  ‘Mrs Adair needs some assistance.’ Kesler nodded meaningfully at his wife, who peered into the car.

  ‘Oh my dear,’ she said. ‘What a terrible ordeal for you. We must take you indoors and make sure you are made very, very comfortable.’

  At hearing the wonderful kindness in her tone, Margaret Adair covered her face with her hands and began to sob.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Keslers’ was an elegant, orderly home, every wellupholstered chair in its exact place, Kesler’s collection of china all perfectly dusted on shelves and in a glass cabinet, shining mirrors, and a smell of polish as soon as they walked through the door. Gerder Kesler was its deceptively soft-spoken, efficient organizer.

  They had four children: Konrad, fifteen, Lise, twelve and Karl, eight, who were all at school, and little Andreas who was five and was looked after by Helga, a pale, plain woman in her twenties. She barely raised a smile at Mercy, but as soon as she saw Stevie, her face shone with happiness.

  ‘A baby!’ she cried, in a strange, guttural voice. ‘Oh – let him come to me, won’t you? Andreas is getting such a big boy now – he’ll soon be away to school!’

  To Mercy’s surprise, as personally she thought Helga a wee bit odd, Stevie went to her straight away with absolute trust.

  Margaret Adair wept even more at the sight of the immaculately made bed in her room, the piles of pillows encased in stiff, white linen. Gerder Kesler was all concern, and Margaret immediately confided in her the nature of the problem.

  ‘I shall feel better later, I feel sure of it,’ she said, once she was lying down. ‘I just need some time to recover . . . Mercy—’ – She reached her hand out and Mercy took it – ‘Paul Louth asked my permission to see you during the days the ship is in port . . .’

  Mercy waited, nervously.

  ‘Is that what you’d like?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied fervently. ‘Yes please, if that’s . . .’

  Margaret looked at Gerder. ‘Mercy is my very special friend as well as Steven’s nanny. Owing to my illness on the voyage she has been working very hard. I wonder if Helga would mind . . . ? For a day or two?’

  Gerder smiled at Mercy. ‘You could see, I think, how delighted Helga would be! She’s a simple girl, but you’ll find she is nothing but kindness and she has a rare gift with small children. So please, Mercy, feel relaxed here. I can see—’ – she sat down on the end of the bed with a graceful movement – ‘that Margaret and I are going to be firm friends. And I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing very much of the men, do you?’ She laughed softly.

  Margaret squeezed Mercy’s hand and then let go. A spasm of nausea passed across her face. ‘There you are – and you deserve some time to yourself.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ Mercy went to find Helga, her heart singing.

  As soon as James Adair stepped into the Keslers’ house a huge tide of relief swept through him. His emotions during the voyage had reached such extremes of agony, desire, relief and shame that his life had felt like a shattered glass, the pieces distressingly scattered and misplaced. Quite apart from what had taken place with Mercy, Margaret’s sickness had confined him. He had been reduced, on the ship, to a kind of passive, semi-domestic situation. But he could reassemble himself here with Kesler, step back into the comforting, manly world of work.

  He dined with the Keslers that night at an oval, rosewood table, a silver candelabra unlit at the centre. To his relief he found that Mercy was expected to eat with Helga and the other servants. He enjoyed the simple but flavour-some meal of soup and beef and fruit tart, and questioned Kesler about the ornate pieces of china he saw arranged round the room.

  Once Gerder had excused herself, he and Kesler spent the evening discussing business. Kesler, ruddy-cheeked, offered him brandy and a cigar, and the two of them sat back into slippery leather chairs so large they looked as if they might swallow them up.

  ‘What I propose’, Kesler said, resting one plump leg on the other and blowing smoke towards the ceiling, ‘is that we take a few days here in New York City. After that we can go on down to Rochester and I’ll show you the new place. It’s coming on. Another couple of months and I’d say we’ll be on the move. But I’m glad for you to visit now. Of course, New York City has far more to offer a visitor.’

  James appreciated Kesler’s directness and enthusiasm. He gave off an air of anything being possible. ‘That all sounds very satisfactory to me.’

  ‘So—’ – Kesler leant forward – ‘while you’re here – let’s sit down and design the greatest damn racing cycle the world has ever seen. Agreed?’

  James blew out the smoke from his cigar and grinned, suddenly boyish. ‘Agreed.’

  Retiring to bed that night, James was full of drive and excitement from his conversation with Kesler. After the afternoon’s rest and all this enthusiastic talk the last thing he wanted was sleep. He’d like to have been out on the town, dancing, laughing, throwing off the constraints of his life again. He was restless, amorous.

  Very quietly he opened the door of his room. Margaret was awake, to his surprise, watching him as he stepped close to the bed.

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Goodness, you smell of cigars.’

  ‘Kesler’s a generous man.’

  ‘You had a good evening then, darling?’

  ‘I did!’ He spoke with rather overdone enthusiasm. ‘He really is rather marvellous. And are you feeling better?’

  She thought about it. ‘I’m not sure how permanently, but yes, at this moment I don’t feel too bad.’

  He could feel her eyes on his as he undressed for bed. Then they lay together, in a rare, companionable position, each on the left side, he wrapped round the back of her.

  ‘I’ve given Mercy permission to spend some time with Paul Louth,’ Margaret murmured.

  His jealous, at odds feeling returned. ‘What, go gadding off? But she’s a servant for goodness sake. And you need her more than ever . . .’

  ‘Nonsense. Helga, that pale creature downstairs, will take over Stevie. Mercy’s in love. Haven’t you noticed? But then no, I don’
t suppose you have!’

  He was silent. Of course he had noticed. He felt relieved, in some way vindicated. He nuzzled Margaret’s neck. Her rounded, soft body pressed against him made him harden with desire.

  ‘Won’t she need a chaperone?’ he murmured.

  Margaret elbowed him playfully. ‘Don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy. And anyway, Paul seems very nice and responsible to me. She arched herself against him, surprising him with her sudden, slightly wanton energy.

  He reached round for her lolling breasts, sculpting them into peaks while she squirmed. He let out a groan of relief and pleasure. Kissing her hair he slid up into her, feeling her, moist, taut, enclosing him. In a fraction of a moment, before thought ceased his mind said: at last, something proper, something right.

  The next morning Mercy was sitting restlessly with Helga, Stevie and young Andreas Kesler in the nursery when the doorbell rang. Helga, oblivious to the effect this was having on Mercy, continued to chatter on.

  Mercy found she was holding her breath and wishing Helga would do the same. She strained to hear the voices downstairs. Her heart was racing. Surely – she just caught the sound of it – that was Paul? A moment later she heard footsteps in the passage and Gerder Kesler appeared smiling at the door, her spectacles catching the light from the window.

  ‘Your friend is here, Mercy dear.’

  ‘Oh – thank you!’ Mercy scrambled to her feet in confusion. Gerder Kesler was even more informal than Margaret and barely treated her like a servant at all. ‘You shouldn’t have had to come . . .’

  ‘Not at all.’ She smiled at the obvious elation on Mercy’s face. ‘I’m only sorry the weather’s so inclement for you.’

  ‘Oh . . . well,’ Mercy said. Weather? What did weather matter! ‘Never mind.’ She hesitated, awaiting permission of some sort.

  ‘It’s all right, dear, you may go. Helga is perfectly fine looking after little Steven.’

  Mercy kissed Stevie’s cheek hurriedly with a ‘Be a good boy now, won’t you?’ smiled gratefully at Helga and dashed for her hat and coat.

  He was waiting for her in the hall and the sight of him, slightly dishevelled-looking as ever, filled her with immense tenderness and joy. He was real! He had come for her!

  ‘Hello,’ he said, with a shyness that suggested he, too, might be afraid she’d changed her mind.

  ‘They’re letting me off – the days you’re here. Isn’t it marvellous?’ she whispered.

  Paul’s face fell a fraction as he picked up his sodden umbrella from the stand behind the door. They went out into the rain and he opened it and held it over her. ‘The thing is – I’m afraid I’ve only got two days.’ He sounded apologetic. ‘They want me back on board the day after tomorrow.’

  Mercy took his arm and squeezed it. ‘Two whole days though!’

  He looked down at her fondly, relieved. ‘Yes! Let’s make the most of it.’

  ‘How about saying hello properly then?’

  ‘What – here?’ He looked round the respectable Upper West Side street.

  ‘No one knows who we are, do they? And anyway, I thought you didn’t care about what people think.’ She felt euphoric in the rain in this great, exciting city.

  Laughing, he scooped her closer to him and their lips met, finding each other hungrily.

  Paul rested his forehead against hers for a moment and gave a loud sigh of happiness. ‘Everything feels right again as soon as I see you. I can somehow make sense of things. See a point to it all.’

  Mercy took his face in her hands. ‘I’ve missed you’ – kiss – ‘missed you’ – kiss – ‘missed you!’

  They set off with more purpose, arms linked, elated at simply being together, and further intoxicated at the thought of this place to explore freely.

  The rain fell steadily, the sound of it all round them. They walked the distance of a few blocks through Riverside Park, smelling the pungent scent of wet spring flowers and hearing the doleful blast from the hooters of steam boats chugging along the brown water of the Hudson. Then they turned east again. Paul had a plan of the city which he opened while Mercy held the umbrella.

  ‘Let’s come back through Central Park later, shall we? It’ll be interesting to look at more of the streets.’ He glanced down at her. ‘Are you all right? We’re going to get soaking wet.’

  Her pigeon grey eyes beamed back at him from under her blue hat. ‘I don’t care!’

  They walked on, stopping to admire grand buildings, talking, exclaiming, swerving round the puddles which were forming everywhere.

  ‘I tell you what though.’ He stopped abruptly as they made their way towards Fifth Avenue. ‘I think I can remember the address – shall we go and see if we can find the Petrowskis?’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Paul was certain that Tomek’s scrap of paper had said Broome Street. When they reached the Lower East Side, they found themselves in streets edged by high, dingy tenements between which streetcars rattled and cars hooted. The buildings were astonishingly shabby with shutters hanging off and ancient, peeling paint. From the windows spilled hanks of bedding, and laundry festooned every possible spare hanging place. Racks of clothes for sale splayed across the sidewalks. And there were people everywhere, teeming through the streets, sitting on steps, standing in doorways, yelling from windows. Mercy looked round in fascination at the men in shabby black clothes like dishevelled crows with their hats and beards and ringlets, and the shawls and embroidered blouses, the stiff, old-fashioned dresses and assortments of garments and materials worn side by side that she’d never seen in her life before, on people of a kind she’d barely ever seen either, with their high cheekbones and raven hair. And a pandemonium of different languages, guttural sounds shouted along the milling streets where you had to shout simply to be heard at all.

  Broome Street was as crowded with activity as anywhere else. Paul remembered that Tomek’s number had been forty-three. They walked slowly along the row of poor tenement houses, amid a curious gaggle of ragged children, and found a house with forty-three chalked on the door. They looked uncertainly at each other. A man sitting on the step of a house two doors away stared at them, then hawked and spat into the gutter.

  ‘I think this is right,’ Paul said. ‘Can you hold this a minute?’ They had bought bread and spiced meat in the Italian Quarter on their way, and Paul handed the bag of food to her.

  Going to knock, he found that the door shifted a little and he nudged it with his shoulder. When it opened he turned and grimaced comically at Mercy.

  ‘Well, here goes.’ He led her inside.

  When the door swung shut again they found themselves in almost total darkness. The air was thick with smoke and there was an overpowering stench of lavatories mixed with stale smells of cooking and a general frowstiness.

  ‘Ugh,’ Mercy said. She was afraid to move. But then she said, ‘Listen, Paul – that’s a babby crying upstairs! Could be little Peschka.’

  ‘It could.’ Paul went and opened the front door again to let in some light. It was then they noticed that the walls and ceiling of the hallway were also very dark and seemed to be covered with some sort of pattern.

  ‘Good Lord!’ Paul tapped his hand on the wall. ‘I do believe it’s lined with – tin, it feels like. Embossed tin! How strange. Bit wasted in here, isn’t it? It’s like the Black Hole of Calcutta. I tell you what – let’s see if there’s anyone in here.’

  He went to an inner door off the hallway and knocked softly. After a moment it opened a crack and a woman’s face, very pale and gaunt, peered out at them. Mercy could just make out an arc of frizzy red hair round her forehead which was wrinkled with suspicion.

  ‘Er, Petrowski?’ Paul said to her. ‘Petrowski? Polska?’

  Without altering her expression she opened the door a little wider, pulling the ends of her shawl round her. Mercy heard a clicking sound behind her, comfortingly familiar, and realized it was a sewing machine. The woman pointed silently up the stairs.


  It was Tomek who opened the door. His face remained blank for a moment as he peered at them in the gloom. It was then transformed with joy as he recognized them and he pulled Paul into his arms, chattering madly.

  Two young children also peeped out through the door at them.

  ‘Yola – Yola!’ Tomek shouted.

  Yola came to them from what appeared to be a second room behind the first. As she walked across the bare boards of the dingy room and saw them, emotion immediately welled in her dark eyes. She clung to Mercy, weeping, kissing her and clutching her hands, as if she were a true sister who’d come all the way from Poland to find her.

  The Petrowskis’ living quarters, which they shared with Tomek’s brother and his wife and children, consisted of two rooms, where they had to cook, wash, live and sleep, amid the smoke from the range. Yola showed Mercy the little back room in which a bed was curtained off from the small amount of space remaining. She indicated that she and Tomek slept on the floor in the other room.

  Yola’s sister-in-law Zanya, who spoke some broken English, explained haltingly to Mercy that her husband was finding Tomek a job at the docks, that soon he and Yola might be able to find a place of their own. She was taller than Yola, with a lighter complexion and more pointed face, her hair fastened back in a green scarf. When Yola told her who Mercy was she smiled and kissed her.

  Yola looked exhausted, Mercy thought, but did not seem downhearted. The four of them and Zanya’s children shared the food that Mercy and Paul had brought and Zanya brewed coffee on the stove. Tomek insisted that Mercy sit on one of the chairs and Yola, suckling Peschka, had the other, while the others sat round on the floor. The Poles exclaimed to each other over the Italian meat, which was as strange to them as to Mercy.