‘You wouldn’t argue with a woman whose mouth is taped shut,’ he explained. ‘So, don’t argue with your deaf daughter while her hands are full.’
And then something in Rushi’s eyes seemed to glint.
‘Alright, Ford,’ she said with a nod. ‘You’ve made your point.’ Abruptly, she sat on his sofa, looking around his home with interested eyes. ‘Nice sword,’ she remarked, nodding to the glass cabinet in the corner.
‘Oh. Thanks,’ he said weakly. ‘It’s a Mexican war sword.’
‘Hmm. My Guido liked the old samurai types. He kept one in the stock room of the ice creamery, you know.’ Rushi lowered her voice. ‘Unlicensed, of course. It was meant to be an item of historical interest, never a weapon. Still, it would cut your balls off if I wanted it to.’
Cohen froze, staring at her.
Rushi continued on blithely. ‘One afternoon – River must have been thirteen, maybe fourteen – some boys from the local estate came into the shop when they knew she was there. They brought a knife with them, tried to threaten her.’
Cohen felt his blood run cold. ‘Did they know she was deaf?’
Rushi nodded, her eyes black. ‘They knew. They thought we’d be an easy target, a shop run by an old man and a deaf girl. Well, my River showed them. Grabbed her papa’s samurai sword when they put a knife to Guido’s throat. Came out brandishing it like she’d been fencing all her life and sliced open one of their hands when they went for her. Well, the whole lot of them took off like scared babies, and they never came back.’ Rushi smirked. ‘That week River made a new ice cream flavoured with blood orange. We were going to call it Florida Red, but River decided to name it Red Vengeance and served it with a dash of cinnamon. She sent a message out to every would-be thief in South London.’ Rushi smiled proudly. ‘You don’t mess with my girl.’
‘I know,’ Cohen said, his voice an admiring exhale, and Rushi looked at him again, her eyes keen.
‘She still has that sword you know? I gave it to her when Guido died.’ She looked at Cohen piercingly. ‘Strange that she’s chosen a man with a sword of his own. Very strange indeed.’
Cohen didn’t know what to say to any of this. He was too busy fighting an urge to find all the boys who threatened River and slice them open with his own sword. But Rushi suddenly sat back.
‘I’ll take that cup of tea now, Ford.’
He swallowed, bringing himself back to this room and away from vengeful thoughts of justice and retribution.
‘I don’t actually, uh, have any tea.’
Rushi looked disgusted with him. ‘Good Lord, boy. No tea? Well, what do you have then?’
‘Coffee,’ he told her.
Rushi considered this. ‘I’ve been up worrying about River since around midnight. Add a splash of whisky to that coffee and I’ll take it. Make it a good whisky and I’ll consider not getting that sword of yours out and making a cut that will ensure you never sleep with my daughter again.’
Cohen meekly nodded, going into his kitchen and turning on the coffee machine. While it whirred to life he stood, his head in his hands, wondering what he was doing and how he was going to deal with this woman. How could he convince her of the sincerity of his feelings? How could he assure Rushi of his noble intentions towards her daughter?
Because his intentions were good, he realised. For the first time in his life, there was something good and pure and wonderful to look forward to. For the first time in his life, Cohen felt excited for his future.
He was smiling stupidly at his coffee machine when he felt two arms wrap themselves around his waist, a brush of hair on his skin, a kiss against his spine. River. He didn’t turn or acknowledge her, simply squeezed her fingers in his own, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles. Her arms tightened around him further, and then, just as he was going to pour the coffee, he felt it. A wet warmth on his back, River’s face damp and sticky on his skin.
Tears. She was crying.
And so, forget the damn coffee.
He turned around, wrapping River in his arms tightly, holding her now dressed form against his naked skin. He rubbed circles on her back, trying to offer what little comfort he could. He thumbed at the tears on her face, swiping them away with his fingers, while pressing light kisses to her cheeks. He looked into her eyes, silently imploring her to let him in, to tell him what might be wrong. But River only shook her head, almost laughing at herself.
It’s nothing, she gestured, and with shaking hands, she reached for the coffee to pour out three cups.
But Rushi suddenly appeared in the doorway, signing as she talked.
‘Don’t pour yourself a cup, River. You’re going home. While you—’ she pointed at Cohen, her fingers accusatory ‘—you and I, Ford, are going to go out and have a little talk about what’s been going on all these Tuesdays.’
Chapter Eleven
Coffee
Rushi took Cohen to a park near St. Paul’s Cathedral. He protested initially because the morning rain had turned into a big drift of snow, lying in white ice at their feet. From experience, he knew it was sheer misery to be outside in London on a day like this.
‘My house is warm and much more comfortable,’ he told her. His eyes drifted down to her cane. ‘And surely you aren’t so steady on your feet during weather like this?’
But Rushi was insistent, her face firm as she looked back at him. ‘We can take the tube with River to Oxford Circus, before changing onto the Central Line with her to St. Paul’s. She’ll get the DLR to Greenwich from Bank, which is only one more stop.’
And then Cohen got it, understanding dawning in his mind. Because like Cohen, Rushi had absolutely no desire to be out in the sleet and snow. But she did very much want to make sure her daughter got home safely, a sentiment Cohen shared entirely. And so, he found himself digging out boots and gloves, before helping River back into her coat, throwing one of his scarves around her neck. Her scarf, the red gingham from the previous night, he wrapped around his own neck, a point Rushi clearly noticed, her eyes narrowing in on the item. But she said nothing, remaining silent until Cohen was closing and locking his door behind him, at which point she cleared her throat.
‘Your mezuzah?’ she asked blandly, pointing to the wooden rectangle attached to his doorframe, and he blushed instantly.
‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice low.
‘Hmm.’ Rushi gave him a long look, signing while she spoke. ‘You told me you weren’t keeping the faith these days.’
‘Yeah, well.’ He looked down, before he felt River slip one of her hands into his own. She tugged on his fingers and he met her face with a soft smile, before turning back to her mother, who still looked at him expectantly. ‘I don’t know,’ he tried to explain. ‘The parchment inside the mezuzah is a work of art, in a way. Calligraphy, in ink, written on parchment. So many cultures have lost appreciation for the simple act of transcribing … but this—’ he gestured to the mezuzah again ‘—I guess it would’ve felt wrong not to have one.’
Rushi tapped the bottom of one of his legs with her cane. ‘You need to get your hanukiah up, boy. It’s Hanukkah soon.’
He shrugged, and the trio were silent as they made their way to Marylebone station and onto the tube, remaining so until the train began to pull into St. Paul’s station.
Rushi signed quickly at River, who signed back, her eyes drifting to Cohen from time to time, offering him tremulous smiles. When the doors opened at St. Paul’s station, Rushi pulled on his arm, and Cohen stood on uncertain legs. River was nodding at him, and he let Rushi lead him off the train towards the exit.
But wait. Cohen couldn’t – he simply couldn’t – leave River with so little ceremony. Not after their night together, after such fervent declarations of their love. And so, he pulled away from Rushi’s grip, rushing back to the carriage, putting a hand up to the window where River sat.
River smiled, pressing her own hand back against the glass. And the connection between them, small though it was and separa
ted by a layer of TFL-approved windowpane, warmed Cohen’s heart. He smiled, pressing his hand to his lips while River signed to him. It was a swift movement, made just as the tube doors closed and the train began to pull away from the platform, hurtling back into the black depths of underground London. A simple point to herself, before she curled both hands over her heart and pointed to him. He nodded as River was whipped away from him, because now he understood. He understood entirely; the sign having been burned into his memory and written into his heart by a pair of hazel eyes and a soft kiss, a happy smile.
I love you.
He stood for a moment, staring at the tunnel into which River disappeared, already missing her presence, aching with the loss of her body near his. He waited, slightly dumbstruck, a full two minutes going by, coming back to himself only when another train filled the station, bodies swarming the platform. A hand brushed against his and he jumped but it was only Rushi, standing beside him, leaning on her cane and looking at him thoughtfully.
‘Come on, Ford,’ she said gently. ‘You can buy me lunch.’
Thomas Simpson
Died of exhaustion after saving many lives from the breaking ice at Highgate Ponds
January 25, 1885
The tiles were sobering, hard and cool behind him.
Rushi and Cohen sat on a bench in Postman’s Park, staring out over the small green space. If he looked, Cohen could see St. Paul’s Cathedral itself, sitting high and proud against the grey skyline. They were, for the most part, entirely alone here; office workers rushed past them, umbrellas held against the sleet, heads down and feet hurried. They paid no attention to the petite elderly woman sitting next to a tall and broad man, sharing a sandwich in the snow.
Cohen sipped at his coffee, pointing to the wall behind them.
‘What is all this?’ he asked.
Rushi turned around, regarding the wall with blank eyes. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘A memorial to heroic self-sacrifice.’
‘Self-sacrifice,’ Cohen murmured, reading along the tiles.
‘Mmm.’ Rushi nodded. ‘From the Victorian era. These are the names of men, women and children who gave their lives to help others. It’s sad. I don’t like to read them. Not any more. I used to bring River here when she was little. She liked to read them. She liked to remember.’
Cohen laid a hand against one of the tiles.
Henry James Bristow
Aged eight – at Walthamstow
On December 30, 1890 – saved his little sister’s life by tearing off her flaming clothes but caught fire himself and died of burns and shock.
And then he looked at another.
Samuel Rabbeth
Medical Officer of the Free Royal Hospital
Who tried to save a child suffering from Diphtheria at the cost of his own life
October 26, 1884
A Jewish man, Cohen realised, swallowing hard. Because with a name like Samuel Rabbeth, he must have been of his people, of his faith. He probably lay buried somewhere in London, under a Star of David, or a menorah perhaps, waiting for Olam Haba, sleeping peacefully, knowing he was a righteous man.
Cohen wondered if, after death, he would sleep just as well.
These tiles made Cohen want to reach into the past, to save them all. He sighed as he laid his hand on Henry Bristow’s tile, the only legacy left of a child who burned to death to save another. Cohen was struck again by the sudden melancholy realisation that he had done nothing worthwhile with his life. He worked for a corporation that put profit before people. He’d wedded a woman who put money before marriage. He himself put anger before forgiveness and let a regretful old man die in a hospice, alone and unloved. Cohen swallowed hard again, realising that he sacrificed his father to appease his own fury.
That rankled most of all. Because Cohen knew that of all the disappointments in his life, he himself was the worst of them. Eight-year-old Cohen might have been abandoned by his father and reared by a difficult mother, but at least he lived. Had eight-year-old Henry Bristow lived he would have no doubt been a good man, Cohen realised. Was he himself a good man? Perhaps not. He’d lived without appreciating life. He’d taken advantage of the misery of others. He’d let bitterness shrivel his heart.
Well, no more. He was going to make his life count. He was going to be the kind of man who was worthy of a tile on a wall. A man who would sleep well in his grave, waiting for the world to come.
He turned back to Rushi, picking out an apple from the bag at their feet. Apple, he signed without even thinking, simply trying the word with his hands. But as he took a bite, juice trickling down his chin, he saw Rushi staring at him, her mouth slightly open.
‘Sorry, I should have asked,’ Cohen wiped his mouth. ‘Did you want the red apple?’
But Rushi shook her head. ‘No. No, I don’t want the apple.’ She cleared her throat, putting the remnants of her sandwich down, resting her hand on the top of her cane. She peered at Cohen thoughtfully, her lips pressed together.
‘I underestimated you, Ford,’ she said suddenly. ‘I underestimated everything about you.’
‘Really?’ Cohen asked, uncertain whether to feel hope or worry.
‘Mmm. Your mother calls me, she tells me about her son. The son who ignores her messages. The son who doesn’t call on birthdays. The son whose life she’s had to fight to be part of these past fifteen years. She calls, and I listen. Because that’s what good friends do, Ford. They listen.’
Rushi stopped, considering him again. ‘But parents can’t be friends with their children, not really. They must be parents first, after all. Like me and my River. She’s the best friend I ever had, you know? But she’s also my child. And lately I’ve been thinking, am I listening to River like a friend? Or am I only treating her like I would a child? For weeks, she’s been going about the house with a smile on her face and a skip in her step. And there I am, like a fool, thinking how wonderful it is to see my child happy. I’ve been a good parent to River, that I know to be true. But I haven’t been a good friend to her, maybe. Because a friend would have asked, why are you smiling? Why are you happy? And maybe if I had asked, she would’ve told me about you.’ Rushi sighed. ‘Because you are the reason she’s been so happy recently. I can see that now.’
‘And are you ...’ Cohen paused. ‘Are you happy about that?’
Rushi frowned. ‘I wasn’t at first, no. I only know of you what your mother has told me. The spoiled boy. The selfish man.’
Cohen took a deep breath, her words stinging more than he was prepared for.
‘But I’m prepared to reconsider her opinion. Because now I am thinking, has your mother been a friend to you, Ford? Or just a mother? Because maybe, just maybe, she hasn’t been your friend. Maybe she hasn’t been listening to you, the way I haven’t listened to River. Maybe there is more to you than what other people think, than what other people say. Well, I’m willing to take a chance on that.’
Cohen felt a flare of hope. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, a tremulous waver in his voice.
‘I mean that I’m willing to support your ...’ Rushi swallowed again, looking away from Cohen to the spires of St. Pauls. ‘I’m willing to let you form a relationship with my daughter. You make her happy. She seems to make you happy. And you’ve shown, on more than one occasion now, that you are willing to learn her language to be with her. And I admire that Ford, I really do. Because you know something?’ Rushi leaned closer now, prodding him with a sharp finger. ‘Because I did the same thing.’
Cohen couldn’t speak. He was lost to the excited bubbles in his stomach, the sudden knowledge that not only did Rushi know about him and River, but that she was willing to support their relationship also.
Rushi sat back, the lines of her face suddenly softening when she next spoke. ‘Everyone said the same thing about me and my Guido, you know. He was Italian, I was Chinese. Everyone told me to stay away from him, that he was trouble. And he was.’ Rushi smiled fondly. ‘He really was. I met him in my first year
here in London. He hired me as an assistant in his café, taught me everything there was to know about gelato. Everyone said, oh, you can’t marry that boy, he’s so hopeless at Chinese, and his English is not much better. They were right too. Even after fifty years with me, he couldn’t speak a word. I had to learn Italian for him, did your mother ever tell you that?’ Rushi looked off into the distance, momentarily lost in a happy past. ‘A whole new language, just to be with the one I loved.’
‘You were happy,’ Cohen said, because in the damp, grey light of London, Rushi’s face looked almost girlish when she recalled the great love of her life.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘We were happy. We couldn’t have children, but we were happy. It was my idea to foster children when we were both too old and should’ve known better. We had three children with us before River. But River ... as soon as they brought that little girl to me, I knew I would never let her go. She’d been let down so badly by her parents. So, so badly. Life played a cruel trick on that girl, taking her hearing and her family all at once. But she was resilient, anyone could see that. Within a week of arriving she was clinging to my arms like a limpet, and within a year she was signing away. Guido, the old fool, couldn’t learn Chinese for me but learned BSL for her. She brought great hope and happiness to his final years, you know?’ Rushi sighed again, reaching for her coffee.
‘I’m going to make her happy, Rushi.’ Cohen’s voice was firm, weighed down by conviction.
‘You already have.’ Rushi shrugged. ‘I only ask that you keep making her happy, every day that you have together. Which I suppose brings me to my next point: what happens now?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, what happens now? You live in New York, River lives here. And if you even suggest taking her away from me, moving her to America, so help me God, I will kill you and turn your body to gelato. You’re a big man, but I run an ice creamery and own a damn big freezer.’
Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery: A heart-warming Christmas romance full of surprises Page 13
