He emerged hours later at the end of the afternoon as the short day dwindled into indigo and the lights over the stalls flared into the sky and those from the windows of the antique shops on the other side of the main road spilled out to make elegant patterns on the sidewalk, feeling great. He’d bought a crazy sweater in patchwork which he now wore knotted by its sleeves across his shoulders over his denim windcheater, and he’d eaten a bagful of crisp falaffel as good as any he’d ever had at home in Manhattan, and was content. But he was thirsty and stopped to buy a can of lager at a stall, then stood on the edge of the road dreamily watching the last people drift away homewards as he drank it.
Now what? It was too early to go home, too late to do any further sightseeing. In Manhattan he’d have called a friend maybe, gone to a movie or an off-Broadway show or found a good jazz bar to end the evening there, but who was there in London he could call? No one at all; and now a vein of melancholy threaded itself into his sense of well-being, but it wasn’t a disagreeable sensation. It fitted the colours of the darkening sky and the increasing chill in the evening air. He was alone and lonely in a great city, and there was an elegiac element in his awareness of it that he enjoyed.
He dropped the empty lager can into a bin and turned and began to walk, not really caring in which direction; until he lifted his eyes to look across the road and saw the underground station and stopped. Chalk Farm. A great name for a station, that, and he tried to imagine what sort of place had been here before to leave such a label behind, and then blinked; for into the frame of his vision a memory had drifted up, a clear visual image. He could see the map of the Underground, that angled, diagramatic and curiously satisfying pattern, superimposed on the reality of the station across the street, and his eyes seemed to travel along the lines until they reached the Northern Line. His home station, Camden Town, was behind him. This was the next one along — and further up, going north, he read off the other station labels; Belsize Park and Hampstead and Golders Green, Brent Cross and Hendon Central and Colindale. And then he blinked and shook his head and the image vanished, but not before he had identified the next station down the line, and he grinned at the logo of London Underground sitting so perkily over the entrance and went plunging across. The next station up the line after Colindale was Burnt Oak, and that was where he would go. He’d go buy some more supper for Cyril Etting. They’d talk and he’d end the day as such a day should be ended. In the company of a good old guy. And he went whistling into the station to buy a ticket and push his way into the malodorous depths, delighted with himself, and not least because he had regained for a moment at least that goddammed photographic memory that he’d been so afraid he’d lost.
He bought plenty of Chinese food at the restaurant near Burnt Oak station, remembering the old man’s tastes; spring rolls and prawn chow mein, and added this time a quarter of Peking duck, hoping the pancakes that went with it would survive the walk to Silkstream Close, and added lavish quantities of chilli beef and noodles and bean sprouts. They would have a lovely greedy evening and they’d talk and relax and share; exactly what Abner needed, and what Cyril was certain to enjoy too. And he carried his carefully packed paper carrier, feeling the heat of the little foil containers in it comforting against his leg and stepped out sharply through the now frosty evening to Etting’s house.
There was a light burning over the porch of the little house and he grinned at the sight of it. There was no way, he was sure, that the old man wouldn’t be in; where would he go on a cold winter’s evening, after all? But it was comforting to see for himself that the house was occupied; and he used the knocker over the letter box to make a cheerful ‘rattattat’ sound that wouldn’t alarm the old guy, but would bring him out of curiosity. He might be shy about answering the door after dark; a lot of old people were. But Abner would get him out; and he stood there on the step whistling softly between his teeth and waiting.
He didn’t have long to wait; the square of the glass in the middle of the door sprang into soft multicoloured light as the lamp in the hall was switched on and Abner could hear heavy footsteps thudding over the carpet, and grinned again. Vast old Cyril, no way could his progress be silent.
Then the door opened and almost at the same moment the hall light went out, and a bulky figure came out and pulled the door almost closed.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming already! So what’s the hurry? You said half-past six and it’s not quite that yet — what’s the rush?’
‘Cyril?’ Abner said and reached forwards to stop him closing the door. ‘You’re not going out, are you?’
The old man peered at him over his shoulder. He was wearing an old homburg hat, and a thick yellow muffler was wound round his neck over a heavy rusty black coat, which was cut on generous lines but which still bulged over his back.
‘Why shouldn’t I go out?’ he said pugnaciously. ‘Where is it written I can’t go out? And what are you doing here? They sent you to fetch me?’
‘Of course you can go out,’ Abner said. ‘I just never thought that you — someone’s coming to fetch you?’
‘Sure they are! You think I can get there on my own? Half-past six, they said, they’d send one of the ladies, and I heard the knocker and I think, silly cow, she knows I’m not deaf and — ’
Behind them a car drew noisily into the kerb with a crash of gears, and someone wound down a window. ‘Oh, Mr Etting!’ The voice was high and commanding. ‘You shouldn’t have come out yet, you’ll freeze! It’s a dreadfully cold night. Do come along, the car’s all warmed up for you.’
‘Ah, shit!’ Abner said, his voice full of disgust. ‘It never occurred to me you’d want to go out, for Chrissakes! I got Peking duck in here, too!’ And he held out the bag from the Chinese restaurant.
Etting looked sharply at the bag, and then at Abner’s face, and then over his shoulder at the car outside the gate, in one sharp bright eyed movement.
‘So give it here,’ he commanded and seized the carrier bag from Abner’s hand. ‘I’ll put it in the fridge. It’ll do me nicely for tomorrow.’ And he went back into the house in a rapid shuffle leaving Abner standing on the step and the woman in the car calling plaintively, ‘Mr Etting? Are you coming, Mr Etting?’
The old man was back remarkably quickly and again he pulled on the door, closing it this time, and shoved one thickly gloved hand into the crook of Abner’s elbow. ‘Come on,’ he said briefly and made his way ponderously down the path and Abner shortened his step to match and went with him, too bemused to do otherwise.
‘Who is it? So, Mrs Lipman? Oh, yes, Mrs Thing — ’
‘Greener, Mrs Greener,’ the woman at the wheel of the car said brightly, reaching to open the car door. ‘Cynthia Greener. Remember? Can you manage to get in on your own, or shall I — ’
‘My friend here, he’ll help me. He’s coming too.’ Cyril took hold of the top of the car in both hands as the rear door swung open, and prepared to insert himself into it. ‘He’s Abner Wiseman, from America. He’s making a film for the telly. He wants he should come with me tonight, I said you wouldn’t mind.’ And with a grunt he shoved himself into the car, disappearing into it rather suddenly as Abner held the door and pushed at his back to aid him.
‘Wants to come with?’ Mrs Greener said, clearly confused and excited at the same time. ‘For the telly? What sort of — I really don’t know, Mr Etting. I mean, I’m on the committee, but I can’t speak for everyone, I really can’t say.’
‘Abner,’ the throaty old voice commanded from the depths of the car. ‘Come round the other door. I can’t get over. Come round already. It’s getting cold in here.’ And Abner, ignoring Mrs Greener’s fluttering, obeyed him. He felt as bewildered as the woman at the wheel of the car, but there was no gainsaying the masterful Cyril, it seemed, and he settled himself in the car at his side, noticing as he did so that it was a handsome Jaguar, smelling of expensive leather upholstery as well as Mrs Greener’s even more expensive perfume.
‘U
h, good evening, Mrs Greener,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to impose, of course, but Mr Etting here seems rather — ’
‘Listen, I told you Abner, for research for your telly, the ladies at the schul, they’ll be glad to help. They take care of me, you take care of me, we all take care of each other, eh, Mrs Greener? So, are we going already?’
Mrs Greener, who had been staring helplessly at the two of them in the back of her car looked startled and muttered, ‘Oh, yes. Yes. Of course.’ And with another crash of the gears put the car in motion. And beside him Abner felt Cyril Etting give him a sharp dig in the ribs with his elbow.
‘You see?’ he said serenely. ‘Like I told you, Abner, any friend of mine is welcome. Our schul, they take good care of people. So, Mrs Greener, the ladies are keeping well, hey? Doing a lot of good work, hey? It’s good, the dinners they bring me.’
‘Oh, I’m glad you enjoy them, Mr Etting. We do work hard to make sure you all get the sort of meals on wheels you need.’
‘The soup could be a bit thicker, you know?’ the old man said judiciously. ‘It’s not bad, you understand, but for my part, a bit more barley would’ve been better, yesterday. Maybe tonight’ll be good, hey?’
‘Well, I’m sure it will be, Mr Etting,’ the woman said, clearly nettled. And then went on. ‘I mean, we don’t get that many complaints about the food we provide.’
‘From Jewish people you’re giving to, you don’t get no complaints?’ the old man said in astonishment, and then laughed thickly in his throat, a wicked little sound. ‘So who do you think this is, Mrs Greener? Another greener, hey? Sure they complain! They all complain. Me, I don’t complain. I just make useful comments. Like the soup could do with a bissel more barley in it. But it’s good soup, very good.’ And again he nudged Abner’s ribs. ‘Me, I don’t complain.’
Abner was beginning to enjoy himself. He had no idea where he was going or why, but the old man’s clear delight in his machinations had communicated itself to him, and he looked sideways at his companion in the dimness of the car, as its now thoroughly demoralised driver manoeuvred it past a set of traffic lights and then left into a large car park in front of a red brick building, and again the old man winked at him in the dimness.
‘Right,’ Mrs Greener said with extremely artificial cheerfulness. ‘Here we are! Almost the last, I see!’ And she looked out at the almost-full car park. ‘The ladies have all been out for all their people and I’ve still one more to fetch! You’ll have to hurry a little, I’m afraid, Mr Etting!’ And she got out of the car to bustle around it to help him out.
‘It’s all right, Mrs Greener,’ Abner said hastily and shot out of his side of the car. ‘Please, do let me — I can manage fine. Come along now, Cyril — that’s it — hold on to me — great — out you come.’
With a good deal of grunting and shoving Cyril Etting emerged from the car like an unwilling cork from a wine bottle and Mrs Greener came round to his other side.
‘Well, here we are!’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll just see you inside and then I’ll go and get Mrs Snyder and we can start things going for everyone.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry, Mrs Greener,’ Abner said hurriedly. ‘I’ll see him in, as long as Mr Etting knows the way and — ’
‘Know the way?’ rumbled Etting. ‘Does a bird have wings?’
‘Not all of ’em use ’em,’ Abner said and firmly tucked his hand into Etting’s elbow. ‘I’ll take over, don’t you worry, Mrs Greener — and, uh — who should I talk to about staying to — uh, as Mr Etting said, my research.’ Why not? he was thinking. The old boy’s just having fun stringing her along, but why not? If the place is full of old people like him, who knows what else I might pick up?
Mrs Greener seemed to relax. ‘Oh! Well, that’s very kind of you, Mr — er — Mr — and if you just have a word with Marilyn Cowan — she’s our Chairman this year, you know, it’ll be me next year, but this year she’s in charge, you just have a word with her. I’m sure she’ll — er — do all she can to help. Tell her I’ve gone for Mrs Snyder, would you? She’ll be wondering.’
She went away gratefully and Abner, with Cyril Etting holding on to his arm with fingers that were hard and almost painful against his biceps set out to cross the car park in the direction to which the old man steered him, looking round to see what he could in the darkness.
It seemed an ordinary enough building, like every synagogue hall he’d ever seen at home, the sort of nondescript place that seemed to grow out of the ground without benefit of architect and that slowly degraded into shabbiness from the day it collected its last roof tile. There was a familiar smell too, of dust and old sports shoes and sick children inside it, as they came through a large pair of double doors into a dusty cream and green painted corridor. Just like the schul at home.
The old man was laughing beside him, a slow agreeable rumble deep inside him, and Abner said, ‘You can be a bit of a bastard, can’t you?’ And Etting laughed even more.
‘So what else is there to enjoy these days? You think I look forward to these silly Saturday evenings they give us once a month? Them and their Friendship Club! I come for the food, not for the company, take it from me. A bunch of grizzling, old — who needs such friends? — Pfui!’ And he gave a comprehensively dismissive noise with his tongue behind his teeth. ‘All they can talk about is the way their feet hurt and how they’re their doctor’s sickest patients, he tells ’em so all the time, and seein’ they all go to that same doctor, the man has to be one hell of a good liar. Listen, you stay with me. We’ll eat what they offer — and it’s all right, believe me — and then see if there’s one or two of the more interesting ones here. They’re not all stupid — just most of ’em. And if there ain’t, then you can take me into the town in a cab and we’ll have a coffee an’ cake at one of the places there.’
‘Town?’ Abner said, startled. ‘That’s a bit of a way — ’
‘Nah, just up the road! Edgware! That’s the shopping centre and they’ve got these places you can get coffee and cake and why not? You can’t afford it for me? After all the talking we’ve done? And still will do?’ And he looked sideways at Abner with a very intelligent glitter in his eyes.
‘After buying all that Chinese?’ Abner was amused again.
‘So you grudge me? That I’ll have tomorrow, and very nice too. Only don’t say nothing about it to these yachners here. They think it matters, kosher. You can tell they never went hungry, the fuss they make about kosher — this way. Push the door there. That’s it.’
They came into a big open hall full of people and arranged with carefully set supper tables round which groups of elderly people sat glowering at each other in deep hostility, while large numbers of extremely well-dressed women rushed around from one to the other, bearing dishes and baskets of bread and shouting loudly to each other all the time. And Abner stood there with old Etting on his arm, and grinned from ear to ear. He couldn’t help it. He was three thousand miles away from home, and here he stood in precisely the same sort of room and with precisely the sort of people he knew best. This might be Edgware, a London suburb, but it was also Newark, New Jersey. In every possible way.
Sixteen
The sense oi being at home in a foreign place persisted, rather to his surprise, for in his experience hitherto nostalgia was a fleeting thing. No sooner are you aware of it than the experience has gone.
But that didn’t happen, and he sat and watched and listened, having been given gracious permission to do so by the loudest and busiest of the bustling ladies, and wallowed in it all.
They had organised their evening well, he thought. At each of the big round tables there were half a dozen or so elderly people, for whom the supper was ostensibly being held, but in addition to them there were also middle-aged and younger people, members, Abner discovered, of the Ladies’ Guild of the synagogue, and their relations. Husbands had been brought along (some of the clearly unwillingly), and sisters and brothers too, and even a few teenagers, who
looked very sulky in spite of maternal prodding, and Abner grinned sympathetically at one boy who looked thunderous as his mother urged him to ‘Hand round the chopped herring. Simon, you’re here to help, not to look like a lost weekend!’
‘Here,’ he said to the boy quietly. ‘Let me. If you slip away I’ll tell your Mom you had to go to the phone.’ And the boy lit up and handed over the plate and fled, and Abner took himself round the table ‘being useful’ and thinking how pleased with him his teacher, Mrs Coburg, would have been. She liked her pupils to take care of their elders.
The food was good and plentiful, massive plates of salads and rolls, pickled cucumber and olives, smoked fish and cheeses, and then platters laden with cakes and biscuits. Little changes among Jews, wherever they live, Abner thought, as his plate of chopped herring was emptied with dispatch; he replaced it with a bowl of coleslaw and made his way round the table again with that. Give them masses of food and they feel safe and right. No alcohol in sight anywhere — orange juice and coffee, tea and Coca-Cola, of course, but alcohol? Who needs alcohol when there’s nosh? In fact, food enough for twice the number of people who were here. And Abner looked across the table at Cyril Etting who was steadily chomping his way through a plate piled so high it was almost spilling off the edge on to the flower-printed paper tablecloth, and could have laughed aloud. The old guy had all he needed to make him happy; clearly it was no wonder he was so willing to come here, even though he plainly despised the conversation around the table.
Abner couldn’t blame him for that. There were three large middle-aged men, obviously husbands of the ladies of the Guild, talking loudly over each other about business and working hard at proving they were the sharpest and most successful of the lot of them. Abner dismissed them as classic bores and looked at the others; three old women, with their heads together, gossiping as hard as they could about everyone they knew; and Abner dismissed them too. They were having a great time, but it wasn’t one in which he could share. That left, apart from Cyril and himself, just two others and he looked at them with covert interest.
Postscripts Page 17
