Angel of Brooklyn

by Jenkins, Janette

  ‘Really?’

  ‘For sure,’ said Beatrice. ‘Even as I speak, Marta will be collecting up the hoops whilst her sister holds a box out for the dimes.’

  Two days later, Mary’s bed was stripped, and the house looked empty from the outside. Beatrice took out the folded piece of paper. The address was a street in the centre of town, a crooked row of terraces with roofs the colour of ox blood.

  ‘Mr Fell?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘That’s me,’ he said. He was fastening his collar. ‘I’m not in the mood for a talk about God. Or are you selling something?’

  ‘No. It’s about your daughter, Mary.’

  The man stopped what he was doing. He looked frozen. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  Beatrice nodded. He leaned against the peeling door frame, looking somewhere over her head. ‘Who are you anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘I was Mary’s friend. I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to shock you. I thought you might have heard already.’

  ‘From her mother, you mean? There was never any chance of that.’

  ‘Can I come in? I won’t stay long; it’s just that I promised Mary that I’d speak to you.’

  She followed him inside. The room was small and sooty. Toys were strewn across a large horsehair sofa and the grate was full of ashes.

  ‘My wife’s out with the little one,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way to work; I’m a porter, at the town hall, I’m on the afternoon shift. Can I get you a cup of tea? I’ve time for a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’ll make it,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ he said. ‘The kitchen’s like a pigsty.’

  She heard him running water and pulling out the crockery. When he came back with two small cups, she could see he’d been crying.

  ‘I wanted to see her,’ he said, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. ‘I know I did wrong, but it had nothing to do with Mary. I missed her so much I ended up in the hospital. Ulcers,’ he said. ‘I was all twisted up inside.’

  ‘She talked about you. She said she didn’t blame you, and that she would have done the same.’

  ‘And now she’s gone for good,’ he said, ‘and there’s not a damn thing I can do to make it up to her.’

  ‘There is one thing. She wants you at her funeral, and I made a solemn promise that I would get you there.’

  He pulled in his lips and looked into his teacup. ‘She wouldn’t let me. She’d put her foot down. Cause trouble.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘The other one.’

  ‘Not at the funeral. She’s your daughter too.’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘Thursday. I hope you don’t mind, I’ve written down the details.’

  ‘You were her friend, you say? Are you a foreigner?’

  ‘American.’

  ‘Still, I’m glad she had friends. It must have been a lonely life, cooped up in that bed. Sometimes, I’d go and stand across the lane, and look up at the window. Watch the lamp going on and off. I saw her once. At least, I think it was her. She was brushing her hair. She had lovely brown hair.’

  Beatrice didn’t say anything. He looked at the clock.

  ‘I have to be going,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘It’s better than sitting here, thinking things that shouldn’t be thought.’

  ‘You will be there on Thursday?’

  ‘I’ll be there. I’m her dad. It’s the least I can do.’

  The sun was shining on Thursday as they followed the hearse, through the village, around the scented lanes, and into Heapy where they stepped aside, and the pallbearers (three elderly men from the funeral home, and Lionel) took the small, light coffin onto their shoulders, walking behind the Reverend McNally who read the twenty-third psalm so fast, the words meant nothing. Beatrice kept her head down. Through the little crowd of black, she’d seen Mr Fell, skirting around the edges.

  They gathered at the front of the church, where Mary’s mother was being supported by the doctor. The coffin, with its small sprays of flowers, was the size of a malnourished child. The Reverend McNally looked down at his notes, belching quietly into his hand.

  ‘Let us remember our dear departed loved one and friend, Mary Ann Fell, who lived in Anglezarke village all of her life, and was loved and cared for by many.’ He looked up at the congregation, his eyelids drooping; it was like he had run out of steam. ‘We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’ He paused. ‘Let us now sing hymn number 329.’

  It was a quivering congregation who sang ‘Abide With Me’. They had no help from the choir, who were on a charity picnic, in aid of the widows and war orphans. The organist stuttered over the keys and the timing was out.

  Mr Fell was noticed at the graveside. After Mary’s mother had thrown in her handful of earth, she looked across the faces to where her former husband stood with his hands cupped and his eyes lowered. She looked liked she’d been stung.

  Afterwards, when the reverend had disappeared into the vestry, where he could loosen his robes and sip a little drop from his flask, and the mourners had nodded their silent prayers into the deep rectangular hole that was slowly being filled by the gravediggers, Mary’s mother lunged at him, before he could quietly slip away.

  ‘Who told you?’ she hissed. ‘Who said you could come?’

  He shook his head, and shrugged his heavy shoulders, because words were no use; he was here and there was nothing more to be said.

  ‘You’ve sullied it. My own daughter’s funeral and you’ve made it something filthy.’

  ‘How?’ he asked, wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. ‘I’ve kept my distance. I wanted to be here. She wanted it.’

  ‘What do you mean, “she wanted it”? Since when have you bothered with what we ever wanted? How do you think I feel? Look at them all, staring at me and remembering my shame. Making me out as the fool you left behind.’

  ‘Mary wanted it. She wanted me to come, more than anything.’

  ‘How did you know that she wanted it?’ she asked. ‘How?’

  He didn’t say anything, but he looked towards Beatrice. Mary’s mother swung round. ‘So that’s what you were plotting,’ she hissed. ‘Who are you anyway? Who are you to decide things about my life, when we don’t even know who you are?’

  Shaking her head, her eyes stinging, Beatrice began to walk through the graveyard and out into the lane. Mr Fell followed her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he called.

  ‘Don’t be,’ she told him, pulling off her hat. ‘Really. You mustn’t be sorry. You did the right thing, and whatever anyone says, I only kept my promise.’

  From the back-bedroom window she watched the linked throng of black filing into Mary’s cottage, where they would sip what little sherry could be found and nibble on whatever could be made with the rations. Ada had donated a tin of corned beef, a jar of raspberry jam and a box of sweet wafers.

  Beatrice walked from room to room, peeling off her gloves, listening to the birds, feeling the streams and squares of sunshine melt across her face. She lay across the bed, and catching sight of her reflection in the mirror, she was startled by how black she was, like a long narrow crow.

  And later, she could hear them in the distance, the cottage door banging, the shuffles on the gravel that paused outside her gate, before crunching off again. The mutterings, the talk fuelled by drinking sherry in the daytime, the bitter aftertaste from the poor bereaved mother.

  Then from the kitchen table, where she was half-heartedly chopping a salad, she could hear something clicking in the hallway, and lying on the doormat was a piece of torn yellow paper telling her in no uncertain terms that she was Nothing But A Traytor.

  LETTERS TO ELIJAH

  Galilee Hotel

  Renton Street

  Brooklyn

  New York

  July 25,
1911

  Dear Elijah,

  I have news from New York! Not only did I arrive here safely, thanks to all your arrangements, but I have managed to find myself employment, and although it isn’t in the jewelry store that I had once imagined, it’s a respectable business, and from Monday of next week, I shall be selling postcards to the tourists who flock to Coney Island.

  Miss Flood, here at the Galilee, went more than a little pale when I told her. She said that Coney was a place full of heathens and wickedness, but I assured her that it is really not the case. The resort is full of families, who are looking for a break from their regular routines, and are here simply to have fun, and who says that good healthy fun is a sin?

  Talking of sin, how are the not so good people of Chicago? I hope they are listening to you, and not throwing things at you, as I have heard of some preachers being hit upon by missiles, and one young Wesleyan who ventured into the Bronx was killed when he was pushed into a butcher’s store window. Best not to think on that.

  The people here at the Galilee have all been very kind, though in due course when I have earned enough, I hope to move out and into accommodation of my own. It is only right, that once you are earning, your place should be taken by someone less fortunate, though having said that, the other bed in my room has always been empty.

  I often think of you in Chicago. Have you ever been back to the zoo? Or passed the Lemon Tree Hotel on your travels?

  New York is all that I hoped it would be. It is not just a tall place made of metal and glass, but it is also a place of small things. Streets are like villages, where people speak in several languages, and the stores sell the kinds of foods the immigrants are familiar with, and the New Yorkers are getting to like. Brooklyn is a sprawling, dusty place, but there are trees, some that look like umbrellas, and there are green places, and people lolling around in their doorways, hoping to pass the time of day.

  I must go now. I promised Miss Flood I would set out the tables for lunch.

  Thank you for all that you’ve done for me, in finding my escape.

  Love and plenty good wishes,

  Beatrice

  July 30, 1911

  Dear Elijah,

  I do hope you received my last letter. Mr Price who is also a guest at the Galilee tells me that new preachers are often so busy they can only pick through their mail every other week. Well, if that’s so, you’ll have an awful lot of reading to do.

  Mr Price, a retired vaudevillian, seems highly knowledgable about all things. He says that actors have to be like a sponge. He has given up the world of the theater, but he has kept a scrapbook full of cuttings from ‘my past life’, as he puts it. The pictures show him dressed in baggy suits and bowler hats (‘apprentice’) and Elizabethan costumes, with frills around his neck and black lines beneath his eyes (‘master’). He looks at these pictures fondly, but says the way of life very nearly killed him, and led him into all sorts of temptation and paths full of evil that he does not wish to revisit.

  As I wrote in my last letter, I am now a salesgirl. I started the job Monday. It is harder work than I imagined. People like flicking through the boxes and the stands, their fingertips full of frankfurter grease, and we sometimes have to be firm, because who wants to send dog-eared pictures of the beach to the folks back home? At certain times of the day the customers have to wait in line. The girls I work with are the pleasantest, friendliest girls you could wish for, and my boss, Mr Cooper, is a gentleman, though we see him very rarely as he has another booth on Surf Avenue that requires his special attention. The first card I ever sold was a picture of the Chute Tower and Lake Dreamland by Night. The lady said they were from Philadelphia, and they come to Coney every year, though they suffer with the heat something terrible. I think you would like it here, perhaps when you have finished your training, and are looking for a break away from Chicago, you could come and see it all?

  Well, Elijah, take good care of yourself,

  Much love to you,

  Beatrice

  August 6, 1911

  Dear Elijah,

  I must write and tell you about what happened here last night. I was walking home from my shift, and I have to say, after being on my feet for so many hours I was feeling somewhat exhausted, so it took me a while to figure it all out. Just as I was approaching the hotel, I could hear something of a commotion. Not a fight exactly, it was more like moans and pleading. I stopped. At the side of the hotel is a small narrow alleyway, and in this alley a young man was calling up to a window. I must say, I was feeling somewhat giddy at the prospect of listening to this Romeo calling to his Juliet. (Please don’t judge me on this, Elijah! It appeared to be a bit of harmless fun …) Anyway, I stopped in the shadows to hear a little better what this young man was saying. I can’t remember his exact words, but they went along the lines of ‘but you promised’, ‘you mean the world to me’, ‘I’ve been waiting, and hoping’, and so on. But the most thrilling thing of all was wondering who this young man’s ‘amour’ might be. There were several possibilities. There was Miss Flood herself of course, but I assumed at once that this was highly unlikely, and although everyone deserves love and romance in their lives, I couldn’t picture her entertaining this (remarkably handsome, from what I could see) young man for more than two minutes. Miss Flood is a paragon of virtue – if a little abrasive. This left Mrs Mitchell, who is still reeling since her husband left her for the beauty of the islands of Hawaii, taking their children with him, or Miss Stanley. Now, Miss Stanley is around forty years old, and I have heard that some women of this age prefer younger men … am I gossiping too much for your liking? If so, then screw the letter up right now, put it into the trash, and forgive me. You’re still with me? Then I’ll continue … Miss Stanley is tall and slim, with hair the color of chocolate, and although her teeth are somewhat crooked, she is not unattractive. The young man, with his hat in his hands swaying from one foot to the other with his head tilted toward a window on the second floor, seemed in pain with all this pleading, words of wishful thinking, and cries of broken promises. I tried to listen to the voice that was telling him in no uncertain terms to ‘get lost’, but I couldn’t quite make it out. There was a low kind of mumbling, a voice I didn’t recognize at all, but I presume it was because his ‘Juliet’ was trying her best to be discreet, and worrying about the other guests, who were probably attempting to sleep, or reading, or some such. When I saw the young man had lost all hope of a meeting, I hurried off.

  This morning when I sat with Mr Price having breakfast, I looked around the room, to see if I could perhaps detect some lovelorn expression, or exasperation on the face of Miss Flood, Mrs Mitchell, or Miss Stanley, but they appeared to be munching stealthily through their toast and sipping at their juice in just the usual manner. Mr Price kept yawning. I asked him if he’d been kept awake last night, and he seemed to redden a little, and so I asked him if he knew if any of the other guests had a beau. I made it sound like a very innocent question, and one that I wouldn’t be at all shocked or disgusted to hear if it were true, because I know that even the strictest of Methodists are allowed to have beaus, because it is only human nature after all. He seemed to choke a little. ‘Oh, I very much doubt it,’ he said, looking over his shoulder. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’ And so I told him about the very handsome young man, who’d been calling up to a window last night. ‘He looked very handsome you say?’ he asked, with a little shake of his head. ‘Oh yes,’ I told him. ‘I only saw him in the shadows, but he had the profile of a real Prince Charming, make no mistake.’ Mr Price licked his lips, smiled, and quickly drained his glass of orange juice. ‘Perhaps this young man was swooning around the wrong hotel?’ he shrugged. ‘Perhaps the object of his affection was really residing in the Somersby Hotel? It’s a very similar building and only the next block down, and in the half-light, and in such a heightened state of emotion, things can become somewhat blurred and confusing.’ And I must admit, when I looked around the room again – Miss Flood
wiping down the tables with a dishcloth drenched in disinfectant, Mrs Mitchell scratching her neck, and Miss Stanley picking out the crumbs from her rather crooked teeth, I had to admit that Mr Price was probably right, which somehow seemed a shame, and I went upstairs, feeling strangely disappointed.

  On my way to work, I thought about Normal, and it felt more than a million miles away, and that has to be good thing, hasn’t it? Do you miss it? I must admit that I sometimes wake up in the heat, listening to the traffic, to the people shouting in the street, and I think, ‘I’m tired and I want to go home,’ but then it passes, and I enjoy this new place all over again. The sights and the sounds. Really, Elijah, you wouldn’t believe the things I see on my way to the booth. Today, for example, I passed a magician picking cards from people’s ears, a camel, an opera singer in a big black cape, a man swallowing swords, and a young girl dressed as a tree, complete with initials carved into the bark, and a bird’s nest! It really is a fascinating place to work, and it beats the little streets in Normal hands down.

  Take good care of yourself, Elijah, and keep yourself safe.

  All my love, Beatrice

  August 11, 1911

  Dear Elijah,

  Last night I went out dancing for the first time in my life! My head is still spinning with it all, and you mustn’t think that I was unchaperoned because I was with half a dozen girls and even Mr Cooper came for the first half an hour. I was dressed very modestly, and did not act in any way improper. Don’t I sound pompous? Why I feel the need to assure you, I don’t know. What I do know is that I sometimes feel my minister brother sitting in judgment on my shoulder, and as I’ve no one else to look out for me, I really should be grateful, yet it can also be unnerving – do you know what I mean? Or am I babbling again?

  The dance was held at a place called the Bavarian Palace. And inside and out, it really does look like the kind of palace you might see illustrating traditional fairy tales and the like. It has cloud-topped turrets, and the walls are painted with alpine scenes that look so real you can sometimes feel quite chilly, which, let me assure you, in those crowds and at this time of year is a blessing.