Alice-Miranda In New York 5

by Jacqueline Harvey

  ‘It’s rather lovely for a subway,’ Alice-Miranda remarked.

  ‘There ain’t nothing lovely about the subway,’ Quincy said, frowning.

  ‘But look at all those mosaic tiles. Someone spent a lot of time creating that 77th Street sign,’ Alice-Miranda observed. ‘And the columns give the whole place a sense of grandeur.’

  ‘I think you’re crazy.’ Quincy looked up. ‘But you know, I’ve never really noticed either of those things.’

  ‘And those mosaics are pretty,’ Ava added. ‘I like that blue.’

  ‘Hey, this isn’t fair,’ Quincy remarked.

  ‘What’s not fair?’ Alice-Miranda asked.

  ‘You’re coming home with me and I’m supposed to be showing you things you’ve never seen in New York and you’ve just pointed out things I’ve never paid any attention to in my life,’ Quincy grinned.

  A rattling hum far off in the distance grew to a soft howl as the train approached through the tunnel. Metal on metal screeched as the carriages ground to a halt in front of the three girls. The doors slid back and they hopped on board. Quincy guided Alice-Miranda and Ava to sit together. Two rows of seats faced inwards along the exterior walls, with stainless steel handrails attached to the ceiling for commuters to hold onto when all the seats were taken. At this time of day the carriage was only about half full.

  An electronic sign indicating where they were and which stations were coming up blinked its messages from above the doors. Alice-Miranda thought this was terribly clever. They would be alighting at 42nd Street, Grand Central Station, and then catching another train across to Times Square before walking three blocks to Quincy’s place.

  Alice-Miranda looked around the carriage at all of the people who were going about their daily business. Some gripped shopping bags, there was a young couple holding hands, and three tourists with day packs and cameras were studying a small map. She noticed a young man sitting along from her at the end of the row, wearing far more clothing than would seem necessary for the day and clutching a flat black bag, a bit like a skinny suitcase. He wore a battered pork-pie hat and seemed to be shivering.

  Quincy and Ava were chatting and didn’t notice Alice-Miranda stand up and walk towards him.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, are you all right?’ she asked.

  The man looked up. Frown lines like railway tracks ran from the top of his forehead to the tip of his nose.

  ‘You’re shivering and I thought perhaps you might not be feeling well,’ Alice-Miranda tried again.

  The man seemed unable to speak.

  Quincy looked over at her friend. ‘Hey, Alice-Miranda. What are you doing?’

  Alice-Miranda turned to face her. ‘I’m just checking to see if this gentleman is all right. He’s got an awful lot of clothing on and he’s shivering.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Quincy urged, barely louder than a whisper. ‘He’s been here every day this week.’

  ‘Well then, if he’s always on the train, why don’t you know him?’ Alice-Miranda asked.

  ‘Because unlike you I don’t go around talking to homeless strangers.’ Quincy had stood up and was now standing close behind Alice-Miranda, tugging at her blazer sleeve.

  ‘That’s silly. If you travel together on the same train every day, you should at least know the man’s name.’

  Alice-Miranda turned back around and stepped closer to the man. She looked into his grey eyes.

  ‘My name is Alice-Miranda Highton-Smith-Kennington-Jones.’ The tiny child held out her hand. ‘And I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr . . .’

  The man stared at her. He gulped and ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth.

  ‘Come on, Alice-Miranda,’ Ava hissed. ‘You don’t know anything about him.’

  The man’s hand, half-covered by a grubby fingerless glove, reached up and made contact with Alice-Miranda’s. Finally he spoke. ‘I’m Callum, Callum Preston.’

  ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Mr Preston.’ Alice-Miranda smiled at him. ‘Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘A little cold,’ he replied.

  ‘I hope you haven’t caught a fever.’ The child reached out and placed the back of her hand on Callum’s forehead.

  He flinched and she withdrew her hand. ‘I don’t think you’re running a temperature,’ Alice-Miranda concluded. ‘Would you like a drink?’ She pulled a bottle from her backpack and offered it to him. ‘I’m afraid it’s only water.’

  He nodded, hurriedly unscrewed the cap and proceeded to gulp the entire contents.

  ‘It looks like you needed that.’

  He offered the bottle back to Alice-Miranda.

  ‘Why don’t you keep it?’ she suggested. ‘You can fill it up again.’

  ‘Thank . . . thank you, miss,’ Callum replied. ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘This is my first time travelling on the subway,’ Alice-Miranda blurted, ‘and it’s wonderful.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,’ Callum nodded.

  ‘Do you catch the train often yourself, Mr Preston?’ Alice-Miranda asked.

  Ava had shuffled as close as she could and together with Quincy she was intently watching Alice-Miranda’s interaction with the man.

  ‘I’m here so often lately, it feels a bit like home,’ the man replied.

  ‘Really? You must be very busy then, travelling all over the place.’ Alice-Miranda sat down beside him. ‘What do you do?’

  Callum Preston fingered the handle of the expensive-looking black folio he was holding onto. ‘I’m, I’m an artist.’

  ‘Is that your work in there?’ Alice-Miranda looked at the case.

  Callum nodded.

  ‘I’d love to see it. May I, please?’ she asked.

  Callum Preston slowly began to unzip the bag. He flapped it open across his lap revealing two watercolour paintings, one of a polar bear and the other of the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park, covered in children.

  Quincy and Ava had both stood up to get a better look and were now standing right in front of Callum, staring.

  ‘Wow!’ Quincy gasped. ‘Those are awesome.’

  Callum Preston looked up at the girl with the black plaits. ‘Thanks,’ he whispered.

  ‘Mr Preston, these paintings are extraordinary. Is that Gus from the zoo?’ Alice-Miranda pointed at the polar bear.

  Callum Preston nodded. He shuffled through several more paintings that were hidden behind the larger works, pulling out a smaller pencil drawing of a small child with long curls gazing up at a strange-looking creature.

  Alice-Miranda studied it. ‘Oh, that’s that funny old lazy tamandua that Daddy told me lets off rather nasty smells.’

  Ava leaned over and took a closer look. ‘Hey, Alice-Miranda, look at that girl in the picture!’

  ‘Mr Preston, do you remember when you drew this?’ Alice-Miranda asked.

  ‘Sunday, a couple of weeks back, I think,’ he whispered.

  Callum Preston held the picture up so that all three girls could see. Other passengers in the carriage were watching this rough-looking young man and the three school girls, wondering what to make of it all.

  ‘Mr Preston, do you know, I think that child there might be me,’ Alice-Miranda smiled.

  He turned the page around and looked at it, then glanced back at Alice-Miranda. ‘Would you spin around for a second, miss,’ he asked her.

  He held the picture aloft and looked at Alice-Miranda’s back.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s just the funniest coincidence, isn’t it?’ Alice-Miranda giggled. ‘Mummy and Daddy took me to the zoo on the first Sunday we were in town and that tamandua was my favourite animal. And fancy that you drew a picture of her and me.’

  Quincy glanced up a
t the electronic noticeboard.

  ‘Come on, we’ve got to go. Our stop’s next,’ she told Ava and Alice-Miranda.

  ‘It’s been very nice to meet you, Mr Preston,’ Alice-Miranda smiled. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you again soon.’

  ‘Here.’ He handed her the picture of the tamandua. ‘Please take it. It was meant to be.’

  ‘That’s awfully kind. Are you sure?’

  The train ground to a halt at Grand Central Station. Quincy and Ava had picked up their backpacks and were already heading for the door.

  ‘Alice-Miranda, hurry up,’ Quincy called as a crowd began to push into the carriage.

  ‘You’d better go,’ Callum urged as he pressed the picture into Alice-Miranda’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Preston.’ The tiny child turned and swung her satchel over her shoulder. ‘See you again soon.’ Holding tightly to the sketch, Alice-Miranda raced through the crowd and onto the platform where the girls were waiting.

  Ava hugged her friend. ‘Thank goodness. We thought we’d lost you in there.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Alice-Miranda replied. ‘And look, Mr Preston insisted that I have this.’ She held up the picture, which both girls admired.

  ‘He’s really talented.’ Quincy spoke first. ‘I thought he was just some random homeless guy but he’s clever. I wonder why he’s always on the train.’

  ‘Of course he’s homeless,’ Ava observed. ‘He looked as though he hadn’t eaten for days and I bet he was wearing every piece of clothing he owned.’

  ‘Do you really think that he has nowhere to live?’ Alice-Miranda was shocked. ‘But he’s an artist. Surely he doesn’t live on the streets.’

  ‘It doesn’t take much to become homeless in New York City, Alice-Miranda. Who knows what happened to him but I’d guess that he’s riding the trains to stay off the streets. Although he had a lot of pictures of the park – maybe he sleeps there,’ Quincy added.

  ‘That’s terrible.’ Alice-Miranda looked closely at her picture. The level of detail was quite extraordinary, right down to the spots on her skirt. ‘I wish I could help him.’

  ‘You can’t save everyone, you know,’ Ava frowned.

  Alice-Miranda opened her satchel and carefully placed the sketch inside her favourite notebook for safekeeping.

  ‘Come on, we’ve got to get to the other platform,’ said Quincy. She took Alice-Miranda by the hand and together the three girls scurried to meet their connecting train.

  Alice-Miranda had never felt quite so instantly at home as she did when she arrived at the Armstrongs’ that afternoon. Granma Clarrie, a tiny round woman who was dwarfed by her great-granddaughter Quincy, had greeted Alice-Miranda as if she were longlost family.

  ‘Why, you must be Quincy’s little friend that we been hearing so much about. Ain’t you the cutest little miss? Come here and give Granma Clarrie a hug,’ she had commanded.

  Alice-Miranda adored her from the minute she locked eyes with the silver-haired woman whose hug was as warm as hot buttered toast on a frosty morning.

  Ava and Quincy were greeted with similar enthusiasm.

  ‘Your mama’s downstairs, Quincy,’ said Granma Clarrie, ‘so I’m on duty for now. I already been down there once this afternoon to check on Harry – make sure he’s cooking my recipes the way the good Lord intended.’

  Harry Poke was in charge of the kitchen in the club. But everyone knew that Granma Clarrie was there every night on ‘quality control’. Everything on the club’s menu came from her family and she was very proud of their authentic Southern cuisine.

  Alice-Miranda raised her nose in the air and drew in a deep breath. ‘Well, something up here smells delicious,’ the child observed.

  Granma Clarrie opened the oven door and removed an enormous pie. ‘Apple and rhubarb and I’ve got a key lime in the refrigerator,’ she informed the girls.

  ‘Yes, please!’ Alice-Miranda bubbled.

  ‘Yes, please – which one?’ Ava asked.

  ‘May I try a small slice of both?’ Alice-Miranda asked.

  ‘Alice-Miranda, I’d be positively offended if you didn’t.’ Granma Clarrie removed the second pie from the fridge and placed it beside the steaming pastry mound on the island bench in the middle of the kitchen. She pulled a knife from the block by the sink and began to cut into the sweet confections.

  Quincy’s family lived above their jazz club in a large apartment set over three floors. An eat-in kitchen, living room and Granma Clarrie’s quarters occupied the first floor while Quincy’s parents had a bedroom, ensuite and office on the second. Quincy and her brother Isaac’s rooms and bathroom were on the third floor. The club occupied the street level and a basement below. Quincy’s father Eldred had played jazz trumpet since he was a boy when his father owned the club and his father before that. Armstrong’s was part of New York City history. It had operated from the same building in Hell’s Kitchen for over fifty years and before that it was in another building just down the street.

  After the girls had consumed their afternoon feast, Quincy took Alice-Miranda and Ava on a tour of the house and then the club downstairs. Of course Ava had been there before but she loved watching Alice-Miranda’s reactions as they explored the dressing rooms, the kitchen and even the cellar.

  Alice-Miranda adored the burr walnut panelling that enveloped the club like a wooden cocoon. The luxurious furnishings harked back to a time when men in tuxedos and women in cocktail gowns ventured out every evening and glamour was a way of life. She could imagine what it must have been like: full to the brim with celebrities, many of whose signed photographs hung along the wall in the entrance.

  ‘Look at all the stars up there. Ella Fitzgerald and Marilyn Monroe and President Kennedy and there’s Mohammed Ali and Elizabeth Taylor. Your family has hosted some very famous people,’ Alice-Miranda said excitedly to Quincy.

  ‘I’ve never paid much attention to those old photos. Granma’s always saying this and that about those people but they don’t mean much to me,’ Quincy said with a shrug. ‘She knows everyone.’

  Alice-Miranda leaned in close to get a better look at one of the photographs. Two men and an extraordinarily beautiful woman between them stood shoulder to shoulder, smiling broadly.

  ‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you see who that is?’

  ‘No,’ Ava and Quincy replied together.

  Each of the photographs was signed or had small engraved plaques at the bottom, identifying the patrons.

  ‘Look, it says Mr Horace Highton, Miss Ruby Winters and Mr Abe Finkelstein. That’s my great-great-grandfather – the one who started Highton’s. Goodness, that must be Lucinda’s great-greatgrandfather with him,’ Alice-Miranda declared.

  ‘I wonder who that lady is.’ Ava peered at the photo. ‘She sure is pretty.’

  ‘They all look so happy. I wonder what happened. Mummy said that they were meant to start a store together and at the last minute they went their separate ways. Something came between them.’

  ‘Or someone?’ Quincy raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Alice-Miranda asked. ‘Maybe that would make sense. But I don’t think my great-great grandmother was ever called Ruby. I’ll have to ask Mummy.’

  ‘Come on,’ Quincy beckoned. ‘Come and meet everyone.’

  Quincy introduced Alice-Miranda to her parents Eldred and Maryanne and their white-haired bartender Alfie, who had been at Armstrong’s as long as anyone could remember. He whipped up three raspberry ice-cream spiders and the girls sat at the bar like three little ladies to drink them. Alice-Miranda and Ava were thrilled to learn that they weren’t being picked up at 7 pm after all. Their parents had been invited to the club for dinner and the early show. The girls finished their frosty treats then headed back upstairs to play games.

  Granma Clarrie had long gone dow
n to the club to supervise the kitchen. As it was a family affair, Quincy’s parents and her brother were downstairs too, getting ready for the Friday night crowd. During the week, Armstrong’s played host to a variety of guest performers, but Friday nights belonged to Eldred and his band, which now included Isaac on the drums.

  Just before 6.45 pm, as a long queue formed on the pavement outside the club, Quincy led her friends downstairs. Their table was front and centre and they were soon joined by Hugh and Cecelia and Ava’s mum Dee Dee.

  The group was now sitting enjoying the music and an array of Southern dishes that had been delivered to the table. Quincy and her mother had joined them and there were three spare seats awaiting the arrival of Granma Clarrie, Eldred and Isaac.

  Alice-Miranda’s chocolate curls bounced up and down in time with the beat of the snare drum as she wiggled in her seat. Quincy’s father licked his lips, and then raised his trumpet in the air, making contact with the mouthpiece and blasting a noisy tune. A ginger-haired man on piano joined in and finally the saxophone player added his own smooth sounds to the quartet. Alice-Miranda stared at the group, wondering what was going to happen next. They had been playing non-stop for almost half an hour, taking it in turns to have solo spots. Three final notes exploded from the stage and the audience erupted into applause.

  ‘Thank you very much, folks,’ Eldred Armstrong’s deep voice oozed into the microphone, as smooth and rich as golden syrup. ‘We’re going to take a short break and be back with you in just a little while. In the meantime, you enjoy that Southern fried chicken, young lady.’ He pointed towards Alice-Miranda as a huge plate of food was deposited in front of her. ‘Or you’ll be in a mess of trouble with Granma Clarrie.’

  Alice-Miranda beamed. ‘Mr Armstrong is so talented, Daddy.’

  ‘He sure is, sweetheart,’ Hugh Kennington-Jones replied.

  ‘That’s why I was thinking, Daddy . . .’ Alice-Miranda began.

  ‘Uh oh.’ Her father used a toothpick to pry out a piece of Louisiana crab cake that was stuck in his teeth. ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘Of course not. I just thought perhaps Mr Armstrong and his band could play at the opening of the store. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?’ Alice-Miranda enthused.