‘Or Ceylon,’ said Lizzie. ‘It sometimes comes from there.’
‘Don’t you drink tea in America?’ said Madge. ‘What do you drink if you don’t drink tea?’
‘I like coffee,’ said Beatrice. ‘Good, strong coffee.’
‘Well,’ said Ada. ‘You might speak English and have the same coloured skin and everything, but it’s the little things that turn you into a foreigner.’
The snow kept falling. Beatrice waited for her letter, but even if he’d written, the postman was trapped at the top of the lane.
‘Have you heard from him yet?’ said Ada.
Beatrice shook her head.
‘Did he ever mention the name Solange?’
‘I’ve never heard that name before.’
‘Name? So you knew it was a name?’
‘A place,’ she said. ‘I thought it was a place.’
‘Did he tell you anything else? Did he say anything about the brothel?’
‘Brothel? No, of course not. He never mentioned such a thing.’
‘I just want to know,’ said Ada. ‘I don’t want you to put my mind at rest, it’s too late for that; I’d rather know the truth.’
‘Sure you do, and of course I understand,’ said Beatrice, ‘but perhaps it isn’t what you think at all? This woman could be anyone. She could be someone’s mother, a nurse, anyone.’
‘A mother?’ said Ada. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’
A few days later, the postman appeared, his face burnt crimson, his shoulders bent tight against the wind. Beatrice opened the letters in order. A bank statement. A postcard from Jeffrey. The letter from Jonathan. A coal bill.
Jeffrey had been injured. He was writing from a field hospital in Normandy. ‘It’s my right arm, so a nurse is writing this! I am cheerful, and not in any pain. The cold is worse than anything. The nurses keep our spirits up. Best wishes to you all, and hope to see you soon, from Jeffrey.’
She felt sick. She opened Jonathan’s letter. That handwriting. It made her stomach lurch.
My Dearest Beatrice,
I had no idea what was contained in Jim’s effects, but I do know this. Just days before he died, I made a solemn promise not to tell a soul about Solange Devaux, especially not to Ada, and although I had already broken the promise by talking to you, I renewed it there and then, and there is no way on earth I would like any of it divulged, and especially not to Ada!
What good will come of it? You must simply deny all knowledge. I urge you. You are in England and far away. Surely denial is an easy thing to do? We must respect the wishes of the dead. Perhaps it’s all we can do, and all they have left?
I will write again when I can.
Your Jonathan
So that was that. She folded the letter and put it with the rest, and then she changed her mind and slipped it into the drawer containing her underwear, beneath a pile of oyster-coloured camisoles.
Ada was in the shop when the postman appeared. He was panting and bitter cold. His fingers were bent. She pushed a cup of tea in front of him. A broken Bourbon biscuit.
‘Just a coal bill? Is this all you have for me? Still, I’ve had my telegram, so things can’t get any worse.’
‘That’s true enough,’ he said.
‘What about Mrs Crane?’
‘What about her? I don’t deliver telegrams,’ he said. ‘I never touch those.’
‘Did she get anything from France?’
He scratched his head. The tea had warmed him through. ‘She did,’ he told her, licking crumbs from his fingers. ‘A letter, and a postcard from Jeffrey Woodhouse. I didn’t recognise the hand. A nurse wrote it. He’s injured. It’s his right arm.’
‘And the letter?’
‘I can’t see through paper,’ he grinned. ‘Though there’s many a time I’d like to.’
‘It was definitely from France?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That letter was as French as they come.’
Late in the afternoon, Ada changed into her best grey dress and dabbed her neck and wrists with rose water. She packed a basket of things from the shop. A tin of sliced pears and a fruit cake. She found two bottles of lilac wine. A small bar of chocolate.
‘You can’t take all that,’ said Madge. ‘It’s like stealing from yourself. All those luxuries. Whatever are you doing?’
‘I have a plan,’ said Ada, tapping the side of her nose. ‘Trust me.’
‘Since when did you turn into a woman with plans?’
‘Do you think she’ll like pears? I could change them into peaches.’
‘So, you’re a magician now as well?’
‘I’ll stick with the pears. Everyone likes pears. Even Americans.’
‘All this is for her?’
‘No. It’s for all of us,’ she said.
The snowflakes were the size of sixpences as Madge watched Ada go, her basket under her arm and her blue scarf trailing. Beatrice hesitated as she opened the door, she was more than a little surprised to see Ada standing on her own, but she managed to smile. It was seven o’clock, she’d been sewing, and a needle was still pressed between her fingers.
‘I thought we’d treat ourselves,’ said Ada, holding up her basket.
‘You have snow on your eyelashes,’ laughed Beatrice. ‘You’d better come inside.’
She felt awkward. ‘All these lovely things. What about the others?’
‘I did ask,’ said Ada sitting down. ‘But they’re busy.’
Beatrice poured the wine. It smelled like summer, and with the strange light from the snow, and the small lick of a fire, Ada looked like Nancy, and the talk made her think of the old times. The wine was sweet and thick and she could hear her voice slurring as they talked about Morecambe, how it seemed far away, a lifetime away, that grey-coloured tide, ear-shaped shells, and the Sand Pilot’s landlord sipping whisky from his hip flask, doing card tricks for the children, before they fell asleep.
Ada refilled her glass. ‘Do you have any pictures?’ she asked.
‘Of Morecambe? There’s one just there, on the fireplace.’
‘Of your old life. Where you came from. America?’
She shook her head. ‘I brought nothing with me. Only my wardrobe. The basic essentials. You know, I did have pictures, but not many, and most of them were lost when I moved from Illinois.’
‘In the house fire?’
‘Yes, in the house fire.’
Ada stared down into her glass. ‘I have some pictures of Jim. Thank goodness. Mind you, he looked self-conscious standing there in his uniform. Now they’re all I have left. And I wonder how long it’ll take before I need them, because I can’t remember his face.’
‘You’ll remember.’
‘And what about you? Do you have photographs of Jonathan?’
‘Yes. He looks proud – kind of haughty. I’m not that fond of the pictures.’
‘Do you keep them with his letters?’
‘I have one framed in the bedroom. The rest are with his letters, yes.’ She nodded towards the cabinet. ‘It’s like a collection,’ she said. ‘Letters, photographs, postcards.’
‘Yes,’ said Ada. ‘We’re all collectors now.’
The fire looked hazy. The snow was filling up the windows, and the wine was making her sleepy, hungry for the pears, and the chocolate.
‘It’s like a blizzard out there,’ said Ada. ‘I’ve never seen so much snow.’
Beatrice yawned. ‘Shall we eat something?’ she said. ‘I have some boiled ham. We could have sandwiches, and then I could open the pears.’
‘Yes,’ said Ada. ‘Let’s do that.’
While Beatrice was in the kitchen cutting bread, Ada walked around the room, touching things. The candlesticks. An empty blue vase. The small smooth handles on the cabinet. She could feel her heart humming.
‘Sandwiches.’ Beatrice appeared with a tray. ‘I’m starving. It’s the wine. The wine always gives me an appetite, however much I’ve eaten.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ said Ad
a.
After they’d eaten Beatrice opened the other bottle of wine. Her head was swimming. She looked towards the window. It was a slab of cold white and the glass was swollen.
‘I can’t imagine Jonathan fighting in this weather,’ she said. ‘How can he can see what’s in front of his face?’
‘Is it snowing in France?’ said Ada. ‘What did he say in his letter?’
Beatrice stifled another yawn. ‘Nothing much. He didn’t mention the weather.’
‘Still, it must be cold.’
Beatrice held up her glass. She was giggling. ‘This wine,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this the wine that’s supposed to give you such good dreams?’
‘So they say. I don’t dream very often, and I’m grateful for it.’
‘I do like dreams,’ said Beatrice. ‘But only if they’re pleasant.’
Ada rolled her eyes. ‘I really should be going.’
The snow was so thick that the door wouldn’t open.
‘Stay here,’ said Beatrice. ‘There’s plenty of room, and I’d like you to stay. Really. Just go ahead, find a bed upstairs and sleep.’
‘All right, but we might as well finish this last bottle. It’s not ten o’clock.’
‘It isn’t? I feel like I’ve been up all night. Not ten o’clock? Gee, are you sure?’
Beatrice was drunk and she soon fell asleep, her hands underneath her head, pressed tight together, praying under her ear. Ada was wide awake.
‘Beatrice?’ she tried. Then louder. ‘Beatrice?’
Nothing. Then an incoherent muttering. Ada stopped. Listened. The words didn’t make sense; she was just talking in her sleep.
Ada went straight to the cabinet. She opened the drawer. Underneath a few tatty copies of Woman’s Weekly, she found a scarf, a bottle of cologne and an old coffee tin. The letters were inside. She read them. There was nothing about the Frenchwoman. The prostitute. She looked quickly at the dates. She closed the drawer carefully as Beatrice stirred a little in her sleep.
She went upstairs. Hadn’t Beatrice told her? Find a bed. Sleep here tonight. The walls were full of shadows and she could hear the snow sliding. A slow dripping sound.
She stopped in the doorway of what appeared to be Beatrice’s bedroom. It was such a big room. You could walk right around the bed. There were screens decorated with scallop shells and a painting of a woman lying underneath some leafy trees. All these beautiful things to look at. Two large wardrobes. A dressing table. A set of six drawers.
She sat on the edge of the mattress. She pressed her face against the eiderdown. It smelled of soap flakes and stale salty skin. She walked to the head of the bed, pushing her hand into the pillows. Which was hers? His? All those days and nights she’d walked past this house. Jonathan and his father inside. Looking for their shadows. A voice. Would he see her? See how she’d pinned up her hair. The scarf she had borrowed. Practising a smile. Her best Sunday shoes.
The room was bright with moonlight and snow. She walked slowly. The floorboards didn’t creak. There was a thick red rug to pad her feet as she instinctively chose the small drawer on the left. She put her hand inside and felt the cool shine of the silk, the rough-edged lace, and now her fingers smelled of lavender as she prised them underneath. It was easy. She waited a moment. Dug inside. Deep. She felt the rough edge of an envelope. Then a small paper package. She had found it.
FLYING
Brooklyn, New York
Winter, 1913
TOWARDS THE END of November, when the wind began to whip across the Atlantic and awnings were weighted down with sandbags, there were whisperings among the Coney crowd. Wiping off their greasepaint, drinking beer at Feltman’s, sweeping the pier, frying onions, keeping warm, whatever it was they were doing, the words were always the same. The angel is flying away. Eli the elephant keeper took bets that she’d be gone before the start of next year. Others said spring. A few of the dancers who’d had enough of the scratchy costumes and shoes that made their ankles ache, said, ‘Why should she wait? Why would anyone wait? She could be gone by the end of the week.’
The truth was, Beatrice Lyle had thought about leaving, but she still hadn’t made up her mind.
‘Just pack your bags and get out of here,’ said Magda. ‘You can’t help who you fall in love with, an American, Englishman, or a man from darkest Africa. You have to follow your heart.’
‘I’ve heard England is a wonderful place,’ said Marta. ‘It’s genteel and dignified. The people are very polite.’
‘I heard uptight,’ said Magda. ‘But who knows until you get there?’
Beatrice shrugged. It seemed so far away. What if it didn’t work out? She’d known Jonathan Crane for just a month or so, but she had seen him every day.
‘Every day, and you still get on with him?’ said Magda. ‘Some people would call that a miracle.’
‘Or do you argue?’ said Marta, her eyes flashing. ‘Do you fight like cat and dog?’
‘We argued once over a pair of theatre tickets,’ said Beatrice. ‘He wanted the stalls and I preferred the balcony.’
‘Theatre tickets?’ said Magda with a shrug. ‘Tsk. Theatre tickets are nothing.’
‘But do you really love him?’ said Marta. ‘Can you think of your life without him?’
‘It’s hard,’ said Beatrice. ‘I know I’d feel empty. Kind of lonely. I really can’t explain.’
‘So there you have it,’ said Marta. ‘You need him.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Beatrice. ‘It would be easy to run after him, but what if I want to come back?’
‘You could save up for a ticket,’ said Magda. ‘We’ll still be here, collecting up the hoops.’
‘We’d welcome you back with open arms,’ said Marta. ‘We’d never forget you. We’d be waiting here, like family.’
Night after night Beatrice thought of nothing else, lying alone in her room watching the shadows rippling over the walls, hearing the woman next door talking to her cat, and then the clopping horse going off to work, the blue in the sky, brightening, darkening to grey, and one less day to think about it.
‘What’s there to think about?’ said Jonathan.
‘I’ll have nothing over there.’
‘You’ll have me. Won’t I be enough?’
‘Truthfully? I don’t know. How do I know?’
‘You love me?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but I’m used to being busy – working, and then spending time with friends.’
‘There are women in the village. You’ll make friends. Hell, I’ll be your friend.’
‘It’s such a huge change. England.’
‘We speak the same language,’ he said. ‘Well, almost.’
‘And I like my job.’
He smiled and scratched his head. ‘Well, that’s something I can’t say you’ll be keeping. I don’t think Anglezarke village is ready for the Angel of Brooklyn, and I don’t think they ever will be.’
She never stopped thinking. Walking through the Bone Yard, eating lunch, listening to the wind whistling through the tracks. She thought about England, making her way along the cold hard stretch of dirty beach, the tide spewing all the season’s debris, the candy-bar wrappers, cigar butts, paper cups. It was as if the sea had had too much of it. Shivering in her wings with the half-smile she used (she thought the angel was looking too serious these days), she thought about keeping house again. It reminded her of Normal. She thought about the scrubbing, chopping, sweeping. She pictured Joanna, panting at the stove, her arms spattered with angry red burns, her fingernails black with grate polish. And then there had been Mrs Oh, standing at the door, grinning, smelling of soap crystals, her tight blue-black hair damp with steam. Did England have its own Mrs Ohs?
‘So, what’s the worst thing that can happen?’ said Nancy. They were sitting outside Franny’s. The air was sharp and they were the only ones braving it. ‘So hey, you might only get to Breezy Point before you change your mind, but you can always come straight back. You have money.
All that money you saved from the book.’
‘It’s for my brother,’ she said. ‘In case anything happens. I want him to find me.’
‘Find you? But does he know where you are? Where you might be going?’
‘I’ll write to him again.’ She looked into her wine glass. Did people drink wine in England? Did they sit chewing the fat, looking at the ocean? The birds above their heads were screaming. They looked like silver missiles. ‘I’ll leave word. He might turn up one day.’
‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.’
‘Me too. So, what do you think of Jonathan?’ Beatrice asked.
‘I think he’s a sweetheart, even for an Englishman. I know he’ll be good to you. Believe me, I’ve watched him very closely, and observed him from afar. He passed my test with flying colours, though there were times when I wished he would fail.’
Beatrice sighed. The waves were clapping at the wall. ‘I still don’t know.’
But then, suddenly, she did. The day began with a dark streak of sky, and most of the sideshows were closed. The hot-food stalls were doing brisk business, warming people through with their twists of fried potatoes and tubs of steaming chowder. Jonathan had travelled to Port Washington. He was meeting a man who had something to do with his father’s insurance business. He’d be gone for a couple of days. Beatrice was glad to have the time for herself.
‘More thinking time?’ smiled the tattooist. She was sitting in his ink-filled parlour, staring at the walls full of wide-mouthed snakes, mermaids and blue-edged angels, drinking hot black coffee and breathing in the steam.
‘Sometimes I want to run away,’ she told him. ‘And sometimes, I don’t.’
‘What would you be running from?’
‘I don’t know. My wings?’
The tattooist poured himself more coffee. His fingertips were stained pink and orange and blue. On the back of his hand, a swallow spread its wings from knuckle to knuckle.
‘Your job isn’t something you should be ashamed of,’ he said. ‘It’s not something to run from. What you do, it isn’t bad. It’s merely – unusual.’
‘I could only do it in Coney. And I keep thinking. I might be nothing without it.’
‘I’ll tell you this,’ he said, ‘I’m from Glasgow, and it’s not so different there. On Saturday nights you’d think you were in the back end of Coney. We drink and brawl and sing with the best of them. Or the worst, whichever way you look at it. But, you know, if you have the right person by your side, it doesn’t matter where you are in the world, you’ll still feel at home.’
Angel of Brooklyn Page 36
