Angel of Brooklyn

by Jenkins, Janette

  From, Bea x

  BROKEN ENGLISH

  THE WOMEN TALKED. They sat with their hands curled around their teacups, searching Ada’s face, because she was a widow now, and presumably bereft. Did she really look any different?

  ‘I want to do something for the war effort,’ said Lizzie suddenly. ‘Beatrice is right. We need to do our bit, if we’re going to win this war.’

  Shrugging, they sat in silence for a while. They sat looking through the shop-door window. The weather had turned cold again and Lizzie’s heart contracted at the thought of not seeing Tom, and the way another year was passing by without him.

  ‘I can’t think of anything,’ said Ada. ‘What could I do?’

  ‘I know a girl who works on the trams,’ Lizzie told them.

  ‘The trams? I’d rather die than be a clippie,’ said Madge, then realising what she’d said, she covered her bright pink face with her hand. ‘What I meant is –’

  ‘What about collecting for the charities?’ Lizzie enthused. ‘I’ve seen girls in town rattling tin cans and selling paper flags.’

  ‘Who’d look after the children?’ said Madge.

  ‘We could knit,’ said Ada, pleased with her idea. ‘We could knit scarves and balaclavas and mufflers. The soldiers would be glad of them.’

  ‘I could send one to Tom,’ Lizzie smiled.

  ‘They’re for everyone,’ said Madge. ‘You can’t pick and choose.’

  ‘And we wouldn’t have far to go, we can sit knitting and chatting, and we’d still be doing something,’ said Lizzie. ‘Do you think Beatrice can knit? Do they knit in America?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Madge. ‘They buy everything from catalogues over there.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘My mam’s next-door neighbour told me. Her brother-in-law’s cousin once knew a Canadian.’

  ‘We should ask her. We’ll need to collect wool.’ Lizzie was looking through the window at the sky. It was full of dark jagged clouds and the wind was starting up. ‘We’ll need a lot of wool if we’re going to save all those soldiers from the cold.’

  They made signs and tacked them onto their windows and onto the bulletin board at church. Wool Wanted. Help Keep Our Soldiers Warm. The reverend said he thought he might have a jumper that had seen better days. He was looking well, people had noticed how his cheeks had lost their flare, his eyes looked more alive, and when he read the eulogy he didn’t slur the words. After losing her brother in Ypres, Iris had decided that she’d been right all along, and that life really was for living. She’d told the reverend (or ‘my Pete’) that if he was ever going to make an honest woman of her, he’d better start looking after himself, and she would help him do it. The vicarage was now filled with dishes of stew, calf’s-foot jelly and flasks of beef tea, brought over on trays in the guise of ‘help your neighbour’. Iris would return at nine to collect her plates and whatever else the reverend might like to give her. She’d sometimes run him a bath. Iris and the few inches of warm sudsy water helped him to relax, more than anything that came from the neck of a bottle. Sometimes she’d share it. ‘It’s all part of the war effort,’ she’d giggle. ‘Don’t look so bashful. We’re saving water, aren’t we?’

  The weather was cold and crisp. The women, wearing their thickest coats and gloves, wondered what it might be like in the trenches. They’d heard about last winter. Of how the soldiers had to break ice to wash their faces. How the frozen ground had cut them.

  The cold and black skies made people generous and scared, and Ada would find bags of wool on her doorstep, or odd socks, or jumpers that were almost worn out. Lizzie had donated a few of the children’s outgrown woollens. Beatrice had found an old green cardigan, and Ada had pored over the label stitched into the collar saying, Tobias J. Snowdon, Pure Wool, NY.

  ‘What did I say?’ she’d said. ‘Catalogues.’

  Sitting in a circle, they unravelled wool until their fingertips were raw.

  ‘It can’t last much longer,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘They’ll be worn out by Christmas,’ said Madge.

  ‘They were worn out last Christmas.’ Ada reached for another old sweater and began cutting at the sleeve.

  ‘All this fighting,’ said Lizzie. ‘All these months, years, if only they’d known.’

  ‘They still would have signed up,’ said Madge. ‘Every single one of them.’

  ‘It’s a bit cramped, but we should all fit in somehow.’

  It was the first meeting of the knitting circle and they’d arrived at Ada’s with their bags of wool and needles.

  ‘It’s cosy,’ said Beatrice.

  They looked at her. Ada pushed a broken chair against the wall. The children were playing in the yard.

  ‘Talk about elbow to elbow,’ said Madge.

  ‘I’m doing scarves,’ said Lizzie. ‘Scarves are good and quick.’

  ‘Don’t they have to be khaki?’ said Beatrice. ‘Don’t they have regulations?’

  ‘Well, you should know,’ said Ada, unravelling a hairy ball of claret-coloured wool. ‘You’re married to the boss.’

  ‘A scarf’s a scarf,’ said Madge. ‘They should be grateful for what they get.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want my Tom getting into any trouble,’ said Lizzie.

  Ada swallowed a laugh. ‘Court-martialled for wearing bright blue,’ she said. ‘He’d never hear the last of it.’

  Their needles began clicking. Beatrice knew how to knit, but she couldn’t take her eyes from what she was doing, unlike the other women who could have done it blindfold, apart from Lizzie who appeared to be struggling.

  ‘Those three young lads from the quarry are dead,’ said Madge. ‘It was in the paper last night.’

  ‘They can’t have been old enough?’ said Lizzie. ‘Can they?’

  ‘Well, it’s too late now, whatever their age, they won’t be getting any older.’

  ‘How’s your Frank’s back?’ said Ada. ‘Have you heard?’

  Madge grimaced, but then she smiled into her wool pile. ‘He knows how to suffer in silence,’ she said. ‘That’s his trouble. He doesn’t want to let all the lads down.’

  ‘That’s your Frank all right,’ said Ada. ‘He always was a martyr to the cause.’

  Their needles filled the room with their hollow clicking sound. Madge was humming. Lizzie was tapping feet.

  ‘By the way,’ said Ada suddenly, ‘did you find that place on the map?’

  Beatrice looked up. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t find it anywhere.’

  ‘What place?’ said Madge.

  ‘In Jim’s wallet there was a scrap of paper with some French words on it. It was where they were fighting. I wanted to see it on a map. I showed it to Beatrice. Are you sure it wasn’t there?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Strange,’ said Ada.

  ‘I have a map of all the battlefields,’ said Madge. ‘I got it free with the Daily Express.’

  ‘Solange Devaux,’ said Ada.

  ‘What about her?’ said Madge.

  ‘That’s the place.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s a name,’ she said. ‘Solange is a French name. I’ve seen it before. In a book. Or was it in an operetta? I used to go all the time with our Vi before she moved to Blackburn Road.’

  ‘It’s a place name,’ said Ada.

  ‘It’s a girl’s name,’ said Madge.

  ‘Since when have you been the expert in French?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Is that right?’ she asked Beatrice. ‘Is Solange really a French girl’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Beatrice, dropping another stitch. ‘I’ve really no idea.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Ada, looking pale. ‘You seemed so sure it was a place. You agreed with me.’

  ‘I thought it was a place.’

  ‘Well, it’s not,’ said Madge. ‘I could have told you that, with or without my free
map of the battlefields.’

  ‘Why did Jim have the name of a French girl in his wallet?’ said Ada, putting down her knitting. ‘Why would he?’

  The women said nothing, because they didn’t know what to say. Their needles were growing hotter in their fingers. The hard wool was scratching their skin.

  ‘It’ll be something and nothing,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Of course it will,’ said Madge.

  But Ada could already smell her cologne, and by the time the women had gone, their fingers aching, their heads ringing with the French name they’d never heard of, she could picture Solange Devaux; she could see her tiny pinched-in waist, her eyes that were deep and blue, and her small oval face that resembled Beatrice Crane’s. How could he not fall in love with her?

  Ada paced up and down. She held the piece of paper to her nose, to the light, tracing her fingertip over the words as if they might turn into an image, or into a voice that would speak to her in lilting broken English. She looked at herself in the mirror, her enormous eyes, she supposed, took up too much of her long narrow face, and then there were the tired-looking sockets, and her sharp (slightly crooked) nose. Ada wasn’t naive, she’d heard stories, she’d heard the soldiers home on leave, standing around town, lighting cigarettes and boasting of their conquests. ‘What’s a bloke to do when it’s offered on a plate?’ They were a long way from home. Who would ever know?

  ‘Did you know?’ she asked Beatrice.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will you write and ask your husband?’

  ‘Ask him?’

  ‘If he knows who this woman is. What was she to Jim? Do they all use prostitutes?’ she said, closing her eyes as the word came out of her mouth.

  Beatrice felt cold. She said nothing.

  ‘If you don’t write to him,’ said Ada, ‘I will.’

  Lizzie couldn’t sleep. She could hear the wind outside. She could see Tom in the trenches. A crunching of snow. Did he need a scarf? Or did he have his own French girl to keep him warm? Was he with her now? Rest and recuperation. That’s what Jonathan had said. Perhaps he was in a small hotel. Like the one they had stayed in on their honeymoon, two shy youngsters, who had never spent a night away from home, locked nervously together in Room 17.

  Madge didn’t go to bed. The windows were rattling. She took her limp eiderdown and wrapped herself in it, lying on the sofa. The clock ticked loudly, so she got up and wrapped a cushion round it. Looking at the empty grate, she could see another fire burning and a girl with pliant hands was rubbing Frank’s back, while he babbled on about their stinking bouillabaisse. Who had told him about bouillabaisse anyway? When had he eaten fish broth? Where? Who with? And why had he been so anxious to get back to the front? He wasn’t well enough. He wasn’t ready for it. His mind was somewhere else. It was melting.

  Beatrice had already written to Jonathan. As soon as she’d seen the name in Jim’s battered wallet, she’d written to ask him what to do. Can I tell her? Can’t you break your promise? It would be better for her. Surely you can see that? But Jonathan hadn’t replied and lying in bed she could hear his voice saying, You must never tell, you must always keep your promise.

  The women watched the sky. The clouds were thin and grey.

  ‘She must know something,’ said Ada.

  ‘Why must she?’ said Lizzie. ‘Do you think she’s heard from Jonathan?’

  ‘Probably. Captains send letters all the time. They’ve nothing else to do.’

  ‘Do you think she’d tell us?’ said Madge. ‘About those Frenchwomen?’

  ‘No,’ said Ada. ‘She’d keep her mouth shut.’

  ‘Why?’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Because captains and sergeants encourage it,’ said Ada. ‘Don’t look so shocked, because that’s what I’ve heard. The men need to – well, you know … The army pay the women a wage. Every trench has its brothel.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘It’s true all right,’ said Madge. ‘And I’ve a feeling my Frank would know his way there in the dark.’

  ‘Like my Jim.’

  ‘But not my Tom,’ said Lizzie. ‘He wouldn’t.’

  ‘He would,’ they said in unison.

  ‘You might as well face it,’ said Madge. ‘He’d be in there like a shot. They all would.’

  It snowed for a week. The ground turned to stone and the reservoir had shards of ice floating on the surface like broken stepping stones.

  Lizzie received a postcard from Tom. The women studied it, the picture, a row of khaki-clad soldiers on parade shouting, ‘Are we downhearted? No! No! No!’ The words on the back. Thanks for your letters. Hello, Martha. Hello, Harry. Hope you’re being good for your mam. Cold here. Everything white. See you all soon, I hope. Your loving husband, Tom x.

  ‘He must be cold,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘He doesn’t say much,’ said Madge.

  ‘Your loving husband?’ said Ada. ‘Why does he have to remind you?’

  ‘He doesn’t. Does he?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Don’t be cruel,’ said Madge.

  ‘What do we know about Beatrice?’ said Ada.

  ‘She’s American,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘She’s a good-looking American,’ said Madge. ‘And don’t look at me like that, because you can’t say that she isn’t.’

  ‘She used to sell postcards,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘And she ate out all the time,’ said Ada. ‘Funny. My niece works at Bradshaw’s in town selling cards and paper and such, and all she has for her dinner is a bit of bread and dripping and she’s happy with it.’

  ‘But she isn’t an American,’ said Lizzie, biting the edge of her fingernail. ‘Americans are different.’

  ‘And don’t we know it,’ said Ada. ‘She got married in a town hall. Who on earth would want to do that?’

  ‘She might have been married before,’ said Madge.

  ‘Now, there’s a thought.’ Ada could picture Beatrice with a string of husbands, and all of them still living.

  ‘She met Jonathan when he bought some of her cards,’ said Lizzie. ‘I remember that. I thought it was romantic.’

  ‘It was quick,’ said Ada. ‘That’s what it was.’

  ‘But I do like Jonathan,’ said Madge. ‘I’ve always like him.’

  ‘Why are we talking about Beatrice?’ said Lizzie. ‘It’s Tom I’m bothered about. Tom and those French girls.’

  ‘But she might know about it,’ said Madge. ‘I’ll bet Jonathan tells her everything.’

  ‘Then let’s ask her,’ said Lizzie. ‘It’s eating me up. I want to know. We should just go over there and ask her.’

  ‘No,’ said Ada. ‘We’ll wait a while. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll dig around and wait.’

  *

  Beatrice liked knitting. The feel of the wool through her fingers. The way it turned into something else. When she was knitting she had to concentrate, so it was hard to think of anything. She’d knitted as a child, scarves for her and Elijah, a pair of gloves that hadn’t quite worked, the fingers were too thin, and they wouldn’t go in, however hard you pushed.

  ‘We should give ourselves a name,’ said Lizzie. ‘We could be The Anglezarke Army, or The Warrior Ladies, what do you think?’

  Madge rolled her eyes. ‘We don’t need a name,’ she said. ‘How many times have I said this? Why do we need a name?’

  ‘Was it cold in New York?’ said Ada, looking up from her muffler. ‘When you were selling your postcards, did you ever freeze?’

  Beatrice stopped. ‘We closed the open stall in the winter,’ she said. ‘We went inside, though there were never many visitors after fall.’

  ‘You closed the stall?’ said Ada. ‘Was it yours to close?’

  ‘Of course not. I just worked behind the counter, but I liked the work all right, I liked meeting people from all walks of life.’

  ‘Like Jonathan,’ said Ada.

  ‘Yes,’ said Madge. ‘You were lucky there.�
�

  ‘Was it a very short engagement?’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘So you went and booked the town hall?’ said Madge.

  ‘That’s right,’ she nodded. ‘You see, Jonathan had to get back here to work, we didn’t have time for anything grander.’

  ‘What was it like?’ said Lizzie.

  ‘The town hall? We had a lovely big room. We filled it with hothouse flowers and a friend of ours played the piano. It was a very special day.’

  ‘So, why not a church?’ said Ada.

  ‘It would have taken too long,’ Beatrice told her. ‘Like I said, we just didn’t have the time.’

  Lizzie thought about her own wedding day. The showers of rice and rain. Her father’s arm trembling as he walked her up the aisle.

  ‘Did your family get to meet him?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘I don’t have much of a family. No one to speak of. Haven’t I told you this already? My father died in a house fire. My brother went to Chicago.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Madge, nodding. ‘So he did.’

  The snow began to fall. The windows were clogged with it. Beatrice talked with dry lips about her father’s collections of birds. She didn’t mind. They didn’t seem real any more.

  ‘The house was full of them. Beaks, claws, feathers. Their dusty eyes were everywhere.’

  Lizzie shivered. She could almost see them. They were cocking their heads and screaming at her, like the rooks at the top of the farm. She started crying – it seemed she was always crying these days. She was thinking of Tom, his shotgun over his shoulder, bringing home a pheasant. The fields were full of them.

  ‘It doesn’t seem the same without Jonathan,’ said Ada. ‘This house. Does it feel too big without him?’

  ‘It feels empty in the mornings,’ said Beatrice. ‘All that hustle and bustle, and all that English tea.’

  ‘China,’ said Madge. ‘The tea comes from China.’