Angel of Brooklyn (42 page)

She hadn’t told Mr Cooper or the other girls about Hoff’s proposition. She’d said no, so why should she mention it? It made her feel uncomfortable and it would make them feel worse.

Nancy appeared, walking slowly. ‘Thanks,’ she said, limping behind the counter. ‘I’ll just sit with you for the last half-hour. I needed to get out of my room, it was like the walls were throbbing, I felt terrible just lying there waiting for it all to subside.’

‘I won’t mention clams,’ said Beatrice. ‘Or seafood in general.’

Nancy put her head in her hands. ‘And they looked so good,’ she groaned. ‘Mind you, it could have been the wine, we drank an awful lot of wine, and I danced with a boy with hair the colour of carrots, and he reminded me of home.’

‘But you hated it at home.’

‘The nostalgic, fictional home,’ she said. ‘The home where Papa’s a good man, Mamma makes biscuits, and there’s a piece of fancy lace sitting at the window.’

That night, hooking herself into her wings, she thought about her own lost home. She pictured another family living in the rooms, holding hands, saying grace, eating at the big kitchen table that had been sold with the house, her own and Elijah’s initials carved underneath with a whittle knife – had they discovered them yet? She wondered who might be sleeping in her room, with the window looking out onto the scorched piece of garden where the grass had never regrown. What were they dreaming in there? What would they be thinking, looking up at the cracked plaster ceiling? And when the house was quiet, could they hear the gentle fluttering of wings, could
they
feel a small draught moving over their faces, a twitching whirr of feathers, softer than a bat?

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked Nancy, who was helping her with her wings.

‘Shaky.’

‘Are you seeing the carrot boy again?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I really can’t remember. I’d better ask someone. I’ll ask Celina, she’s out there looking unacceptably healthy, selling pictures to two Englishmen. We managed to get them in tonight, and by the looks on their faces you would have thought it was just turning Christmas.’

Beatrice blushed. ‘I know those men,’ she said.

‘And they’re not half bad-looking,’ said Nancy. ‘But you know what the English are like.’

‘Like what?’

‘Cold fish. They’re all soft soaking lips and cold sweaty palms and no real substance, so be warned.’

‘I’m warned,’ said Beatrice. ‘Who’s first on the list tonight?’

‘An old guy,’ said Nancy. ‘Says his name is Mr Finnegan, but I know better. I remember him from the old days, his name is Mr Ronald Penn and he’s a headmaster, a naughty headmaster who was struck off for something seedy and unspoken, so there.’

‘Oh, there’s no fooling you,’ said Beatrice.

She stood looking at the nickel, feeling her ankles tremble; she could hear the headmaster sniffing and licking his lips, then she could hear voices outside the booth, all the chattering and laughter, and she tried to make them out. Who was it talking to Nancy? She wished she was out there, instead of up on her podium, voiceless, like a statue, because tonight, it seemed, she really felt like talking.

‘What are they saying?’

‘They’ll be talking about nothing,’ said Billy.

‘But can you hear them?’

‘Sure I can hear them, I hear them every night, they’re standing around just passing the time of day, flirting a little and pouting, keeping the men smiling, reminding them of the no-talking, no-touching rule, which has to be a good thing, and then they sell them all the cards, which is an even better thing. What’s gotten into you tonight?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Nothing.’

Towards the end of the night, the first Englishman appeared. It was the one with the straw-coloured hair who’d asked about the pictures.

‘Oh my,’ he’d said, then, ‘Sorry.’

She didn’t look at him. She could feel her heart beating, and she wondered if he could see it, pumping at her breast. When Billy lifted the drape at the end of four long minutes, he said, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

There was a small break. Half a cigarette for Billy and a sip of water for her. Then the other man appeared. She glanced at him. He’d changed into a pale linen suit, the Englishman abroad. He put his fingers to his lips, he looked embarrassed, but then he was smiling, and somehow she couldn’t help but smile with him. He had something over his knees, and when half his time had gone he held it up. She looked. On a crumpled piece of paper he’d written,
Will You Go Out With Me?

She shrugged.

He turned the paper round. On the other side he’d written,
Please?

She smiled. Shook her head. Then she nodded.

He blinked his wet eyes.

He was smiling like a cat.

What else could she do?

9. Walking Out

‘You’re not clanging. I’m very disappointed.’

‘I left all my change in a bowl. I don’t think clanging’s dignified.’

‘I suppose not. Unless you’re a bell?’

‘A good bell has to clang at least every hour, that’s true.’

They had arranged to meet the next afternoon. They were strolling along the boardwalk, the sun warm; all the clouds had vanished.

‘So where’s your friend today? The one who doesn’t clang at all.’

‘Freddy is out with a girl he met last night. He seems particularly smitten, for Freddy.’

‘He’s not the impressible type?’

‘He’s very hard to please. At least he used to be.’

‘And you?’

‘Oh, I’m easy, always have been, though I do have a penchant for girls who wear wings.’

‘Been out with many?’

‘Forty-five.’

‘Including me?’

‘I’ve known you twenty minutes so that would be presumptuous.’

‘You’re a gentleman?’

‘Of course. Isn’t that why you came out with me?’

‘No. I particularly liked your handwriting.’

‘Most women do.’

‘Shall we go and look at the ocean?’

‘Why not? Where I’m from the ocean is called the sea, and it’s only ever blue three times a year, usually in August.’

‘The New York Atlantic isn’t always blue. You might be heading for disappointment. It’s more like oil and ink. So, how do you like America?’

‘I’m in love with America. Really. I don’t want to go home, but I’ll have to eventually. Freddy is staying. He’s the lucky one. He’s going to California to manage an orange farm for his uncle.’

‘Oranges? Sweet. Can’t you go with him?’

‘No. I have to go back to England. I have work. A house. A life that I’m happy with.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘England? It rains a lot. Especially in Lancashire, which is where I’m from, and where I’ll stay, though I would like to travel, I’d like to see the world.’

‘Me too. I’d like to see China, and India. And England. You see, I’m crazy about the rain. I like walking in it. It makes me feel alive.’

‘You’d be full of life in Lancashire, there’d be no stopping you, and look, there’s your wonderful ocean, which today is the colour of curaçao, apart from the ferry which has an unhealthy look of the chimney about it.’

‘Would you like to get a drink and talk about the ocean?’

‘A drink? Yes, I’d like a drink, though the ocean talk I can do without, too many people have tried talking about the ocean and they’ve all failed miserably, apart from Mr Herman Melville who did a most spectacular job.’

‘So what shall we talk about?’

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I’m sure we’ll think of something.’

‘So what did you talk about?’ said Nancy.

‘Everything. I don’t know why, I couldn’t stop. He knows everything already. The birds. Elijah. Everything.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Jonathan,’ said Beatrice. ‘And doesn’t it sound so … well, English?’

‘Sure. So when’s he heading home?’

‘A couple of weeks. He’s supposed to be heading over to Boston, then onto California.’

‘Supposed to be?’

‘He wants to stay here.’

‘Oh my,’ said Nancy. ‘It’s Conrad all over again.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Tell him to go to California. That way, he can’t blame you when it all goes wrong.’

‘How do you know it’ll all go wrong?’

‘He’s a tourist. He’s English. It has to.’

‘I can do without California,’ he said. ‘What’s it to me? I’ve already had enough of Freddy. He laughs like a crazed hyena. Have you noticed that? And the girls. He seems to have lost all his pious inhibitions somewhere over the Atlantic. The girls are worse than him. I swear the last one he went out with was a donkey in a party frock.’

‘California sounds exciting.’

‘Does it? Sounds like a dreary desert to me.’

‘But you have a ticket?’

‘I can afford to lose a train ticket. I’ll have you know, Miss Lyle, that I’m a man of independent means.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That I’m fairly well off and I don’t have to rely on my father, which is a jolly good thing, seeing as he died last January.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

They walked for a while. The breeze was cool. He pulled his scarf around her.

‘It’s the end of the season here,’ she said, ‘but it’ll still be warm in California, hence all the oranges.’

‘I’m not overly fond of citrus fruit. Unless it’s in marmalade. I am missing marmalade.’

‘What else do you miss?’

‘By that look in your eye, Miss Lyle, I take it you mean,
who
do you miss? Well, no one,’ he said. ‘Two years ago I was in love with a girl called Jean Hebb. I was smitten for a while, but then I called it all off.’

‘Why?’

He looked sad for a moment, rubbing his eyes and pulling on his lashes.

‘I put up my hands. I let her down badly. I simply wasn’t bothered enough any more. And for a lifetime together, you have to be bothered. After all the flirting, she was dull. Her conversation was nothing more than gossip, needlepoint and her brother’s cricket scores.’

‘Were they good scores?’

He smiled. ‘I really can’t remember. Other people’s cricket makes me yawn. So, you see, it was entirely my fault. I fell for the pretty exterior, the coy flutter of her big brown eyes, but under all that there was nothing.’

‘Nothing? Well, I hate to disappoint you, but there’s not a lot to me.’

‘You’ve already given me enough to think about to last me half a lifetime.’

‘Only half?’

‘I need something to look forward to. I’ll save half a lifetime for a little more conversation.’

‘Mr Crane,’ she said, ‘you do know that half of Coney Island is in love with the Angel of Brooklyn?’

‘Are they really?’

‘Why act so surprised?’

‘Is this the flirting part of our acquaintance?’ he said. ‘Shall we have done with it? Shall we just be ourselves?’

‘Flirting can be exhausting.’

‘So what shall we have for lunch?’ he said. ‘Take me to Franny’s. I’ve heard so much about it. Let’s go and eat, I’m starving.’

The day that Freddy set out for Boston he left two snivelling girls at the railroad track, both unaware of the other’s existence. He’d told one to sit in the waiting room, and one to wait on the platform, and then he kept flitting between them, until the train began to move and they both ran up to the window, beating their chests and wailing. Jonathan and Beatrice stood and watched it all while Freddy waved and gave a helpless kind of shrug, safely in his carriage.

‘Look out, California,’ said Jonathan. ‘Here comes the new Casanova.’

‘Was he like this in England?’

‘In England he’d never been kissed.’

The girls appeared to be cat-fighting, one of them was spitting.

‘Charming,’ said Jonathan.

‘That’s American girls for you,’ said Beatrice. ‘Haven’t you noticed? We’re altogether an uncouth bunch when it comes to love and war.’

‘Uncouth is better than boring, but only just,’ he smirked.

It was Saturday, and still the busiest night of the week at Coney. Beatrice was working until past ten o’clock.

‘I don’t feel right,’ she told Nancy.

‘He doesn’t want you to do this any more?’

‘He hasn’t said that. It’s me. I’ve started feeling like I’m dirty.’

‘You don’t look dirty,’ said Nancy. ‘You look cleaner than Ivory soap. Don’t let him change you; you’ve known him how long? Ten minutes. And he’ll soon be on that ship crossing the Atlantic. Do you like him better than Conrad?’

‘I think so. Yes, I’m sure of it. It feels like the danger has gone. I feel like I’ve known him for years, and that he’s part of me. Now I’m sounding trite.’

‘He doesn’t have a girl back in England? A wife?’

‘He says not.’

‘He can say what he likes, he’s a long way from home.’

‘I believe him.’

‘Of course you do,’ she said. ‘Anyway, tonight we’re going to the Alabama Hotel, we’re all going, and I know you bought a new dress, so you can’t change your mind. It’s the biggest night of the season. Bring lover boy along. I’d like to get to know him. I’m a very good barometer when it comes to Englishmen. I’ve kissed a few, and to tell you the honest truth, I wasn’t all that keen.’

The Alabama Hotel was a tall pink building full of shiny glass baubles, an orchestra which had made several phonograph records and bedrooms with balconies overlooking the ocean that could be rented by the hour. The staff were used to guests arriving incognito, and at least once a week they’d see men in false moustaches and women with wide paper fans and fat-brimmed hats called Mrs Betty Jones (Wisconsin). Tonight the guests were wide open and ready
to
party, invited every year by Rudy Catelli, the owner, who’d been born and bred on Coney and not in Alabama, and he saw it as his way of saying thank you to the people out there who made it what it was.

They arrived late. Nancy, Marnie and Celina were already in a crush of champagne in a room full of washed-off greasepaint, booming voices and pinched feet. The dance floor was tight with couples shuffling around to the music, more talking than dancing, the clowns pressing tight to the Russian trapeze girls, the lion-tamer crying over the one they had to shoot, Marta and Magda in white tulle dresses dancing with Riccardo and Milo, the juggling trampolinists, their small hands crushed against the warm black felt of their jackets.