To Live in Peace (9 page)

Kitty was not sure exactly when it was she realised that the shawl she was knitting for Rachel, the first stitches of which had been cast on over the Atlantic, had stopped growing. At home in the evenings, since Sydney had died, there had been little to do – while she watched the television – but knit. In the past year alone she had made cardigans for Debbie and Lisa, a sweater for Mathew (with little flaps which lifted up beneath which she had sewn buttons in the shape of elephants and giraffes), a pullover for Josh, an Arran for Alec, a stole for her sister-in-law Mirrie who was always cold, and half-
a-dozen
matinée jackets which she had started on (getting out her favourite patterns) when she had heard that she was to have three new grandchildren.

She blamed her dilatoriness, the fact that the shawl had hardly been out of the drawer, on New York, the dynamism of which, even in the enervating heat of summer had galvanised her; its sheer exuberance had liberated pent up reserves in herself. She had not been aware that since Sydney’s death she had been stagnating. She had thought, often congratulating herself, that she had been coping rather well. What had been missing in her life was a positive approach, the deficiency of which became illuminated only now by the enthusiasm with which she greeted each day. Whereas at home it had been a case of stretching what she had to do to fill the hours – with the Centre and her bridge afternoons as the highspots – it was now almost a question of there not being sufficient time in the day. Had anyone told her before she came to New York, she would not have credited
it, would not have believed that an unfinished letter to the family (this time addressed to Carol) would have lain for so long on her table.

Had anyone told her since Sydney’s death she had not been herself she would not have believed them, it was not in her nature, after the initial shock had worn off (and she had had long enough to prepare for it), to mope, to let things get her down. It was only now, when in the mornings she listened to her heart singing, when at night she could hardly sleep, her mind racing with the events of the day, that she realised that for the past two years she had been going through the motions, had been only half alive. It was like the sun breaking through an overcast sky, a breach in a dyke, an eruption of light, of bubbling energy, which transformed her view of the world.

To begin with she was needed, not only by Maurice, of whose growing attachment to her she had become increasingly aware, but by Herb and Ed and Mort, the “poker-game”, to whom she had become both confidante and friend. In the early days of her visit there had been no cards played but as the weeks progressed Kitty had been aware that on Tuesdays and Thursdays after dinner the door bell would be rung, first by Ed, then by Herb, then by Mort, and the three of them would dispose themselves around the apartment, sitting down and jumping up uneasily as if they were on hot bricks. The conversation – unlike the other occasions when they called, singly or together, when the argument (more often than not over the events in the Middle East) became heated – had been desultory and Kitty had been aware that something was amiss but had not been able to put her finger on it until the evening when Ed, looking out of the window and jingling the loose change in his pocket had said: “Remember that night you declined to see my two
pairs when you had threes, Mo? When Herb and me walked away with two hundred dollars?” and the penny had suddenly dropped. Kitty had cleared away the dinner things, taken the cards from the kitchen drawer and laid them unequivocally upon the table where they were devoured with disbelief by four pairs of hungry eyes.

Maurice had been the first to speak. “What’s that for, Kit?”

“Why don’t you have a game of poker?” she said. They advanced on the table as if mesmerised.

“Poker?” Ed said, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

“A nice game of cards.”

“What about you?” Maurice said.

“What about me?” Kitty arranged the plates in Maurice’s dishwasher which offered a choice of six programmes each with further permutations.

“What will you do?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Kitty said. “I’m going out.”

And she was, for in this fast moving, hard living city where everyone seemed always to be running and, though she spoke the language, she had felt peculiarly alien, she had found a friend. On one of her downtown shopping expeditions she had spent the morning in Bloomingdale’s, taking the elevator to acquaint herself with the floors. In London lifts nobody spoke; a self-conscious silence isolated the retracted bodies as everyone, blankly expressionless, faced the doors. New York elevators were an entertainment in themselves as between the storeys love lives were laid bare (leaving you with a
cliffhanger
as the passengers disembarked), secrets revealed, friendships renewed, rendezvous made, shopping exhibited, garments tried on, shoes changed, fast food consumed, cosmetics applied and the political
situation discussed. Having tired herself out tramping through the various departments (although she had not bought a thing) Kitty took one of these moving microcosms of life to the ground (first, she would have to remember) floor.

A southern belle, in a black bathing suit, yellow sash and high-heeled pumps stepped into the aisle and drenched her in a gratuitous cloud of something that smelled for all the world like over-ripe pineapples, and thrust a leaflet into her hand as she made her way over the black and white floor to the glitz of the Estée Lauder counter to replenish her make-up. A sour matron with a bright blonde perm and iridescent eye-shadow, who came on strong with her sales pitch urging Kitty to further extravagance for her skin’s sake, lost interest immediately when Kitty tried to pay for her purchases with a traveller’s cheque, which her bank had assured her was just like currency, and, removing an imaginary mote from her eye, demanded identification.

Opening her wallet, with its display of English credit cards, Kitty found that nothing would satisfy the gorgon short of her passport. Flustered and embarrassed she was regretting she had embarked upon the whole transaction when the Bloomingdale’s personal shopper (an American institution which saved the pampered customer time and energy, in scouring the
departments
), a pencil-slim, elegant lady dressed in ice-pink, even to her shoes, had come to her rescue. Assessing the situation she sanctioned the sale with a flick of her pencil and, taking Kitty by the elbow, whisked her up to the coffee shop where over the espressos she revealed herself as one Bette Birnstingl – to Kitty’s amazement a contemporary – grandmother of three.

Over snapshots of their respective families: Kitty’s in Godalming (Debbie and Lisa and Mathew outside Peartree Cottage which had now been sold), and Bette’s in New Jersey and Palm Springs, they found an immediate rapport. Addresses were exchanged across the laminated table top, and from that moment Bette took Kitty under her wing. Like Kitty she was a widow, having buried two husbands. She lived in a duplex high above Manhattan and her talents embraced not only the ability to select suitable outfits for Bloomingdale clients (which occupied her two days a week), but interior decoration. Apart from transforming herself (lifted face, capped teeth, silicone-filled bosom, tucked “tush” and the punishing regime of the Beverley Hills diet) she had converted what was once a few dark rooms connected by a narrow hallway into an area of unlimited space and light and had oriented her living-room, she told Kitty on her first visit, towards the sky.

Kitty followed her new friend round her apartment while she explained enthusiastically how she had opened up the entire first floor, expanding the area both vertically and horizontally, eliminated interior walls (leaving only the kitchen and the powder-room) and raised the ceiling to expose beams and add visual interest. The staircase was “floated” by tearing down the walls surrounding it and the closet underneath was made to “disappear” by covering it with mirrors. A large solarium window, which enclosed the terrace, had not only made the shape of the room more interesting
(reclaiming, Bette enthused, valuable living space and light) but was a creative tour de force.

“I wanted to break down barriers to the outside and draw the city’s best aspects into the room,” Bette said. “There’s nothing more exciting than that view!”

The cityscape, dramatic by day and magical by night, grew familiar to Kitty as Bette’s apartment (each area with its own “discrete identity”) became her second home. Sitting on Bette’s peach and green print sofa, or on her bed (walls upholstered with floral fabric – sunshine and flowers – to give a special feeling of warmth and cosiness), Kitty would reminisce about her family in England, sometimes reading aloud their letters, and talk affectionately of Maurice while Bette practised her yoga on the off-white carpet or made up her face (she had almost as many brushes as Maurice) at the lady’s writing desk, positioned strategically to catch the natural light, before the bedroom window.

As far as the city was concerned Kitty could not have had a better guide. While Maurice introduced her to its cultural delights, Bette, who had been born and bred in New York where her father had been in the rag trade, showed her where to bargain hunt in Chinatown and Little Italy, and how to find designer labels (with last year’s skirt length) on the Lower East Side. On Bette’s free days, while Maurice painted, they took the F train to Delancey or the Second Avenue bus downtown, exchanged gossip over midday salads at One/Fifth, or sat on the sidewalk with coffee and cannoli (Kitty) on Bleeker Street. In less adventurous mood they’d lunch at the Russian Tea Room where the Cossack waiter, who had known Bette for years served them Blinchiki, discreetly pointing out the whereabouts, on the red leather chairs
among the pink tablecloths, of Garson Kanin with Ruth Gordon, or Peter Shaffer or Lauren Bacall.

Kitty had always enjoyed good health and considered herself no slouch but, trying to keep up with the lithe form of Bette Birnstingl as she tapped swiftly on her impossibly high heels along Fifth or sashayed down the stairs at Bergdorf’s (scorning the elevator), she became uncomfortably aware of her years. According to Bette this was due to her negative childhood encounters with sports (common in women over thirty) and she suggested that Kitty come with her to aerobic dancing – conditioning of the heart muscles without going into oxygen debt. Egged on by Bette, Kitty bought a shimmering leotard like a green second skin (Kitty had opted for black but Bette had said she must think more positive), and now got out of bed twice a week at the crack of dawn to accompany her new friend to the bare church hall where she kept her special shoes in a plastic carrier amongst the rows of others – “Fast Feet” and “A Bagel Store & More” – on the hooks.

She had at first been apprehensive, it was so long since she had taken any exercise, had thought she was too old. The eager class of leotarded ladies (in all shapes and sizes) dispelled her fears with the warmth of their welcome. In exchange for a dollar she was given her own street door key for security reasons (once class had started the bell could not be heard), and was instructed not to leave any valuables in the dressing-room, to take her furs down to the hall in winter, and to keep her pocket book (handbag) with her at all times.

Doubting she would ever get the hang of the rapid dance routine demonstrated by what looked like a filleted Miss America in time to a hit tape, Kitty, after the initial warm-up, had stepped and stumbled, struggling to keep
up. She could scarcely believe (as she had written to Rachel) that now she moved to the music – “Clap, clap! Turn it! Shimmy! Pony-trap! Disco! Do it again! Break! Two! Inside! Outside! Heel-toe! Heel-toe! Snap! Lunge it! Break two! One more!” – counting her carotid pulse at the end of each routine as to the manner born. There was no doubt that she felt better for the classes and as she crowded round the water-cooler at the end of each session, her body damp, her hair plastered to her forehead, she felt a glow of achievement, an aura of well-being, and wished that her children could see her.

Kitty had not introduced Bette to Maurice. Although he said nothing, Kitty sensed that he was jealous of her friend. She knew that he fought shy of strangers, had difficulties trusting people, and thought it politic to keep the two of them apart. Bette, however, who despite her natural gregariousness was lonely (Kitty could detect beneath the frenzied activity the little girl), loved to hear about Maurice and thought it romantic that Kitty had crossed the Atlantic to be by his side. With her customary forthrightness she asked Kitty whether she was going to marry him and was not satisfied with the reply that the subject had not, as yet, been broached.

“You must have thought about it, honey,” Bette said over lunch at the dairy restaurant on the corner of Grand and Ludlow, but the truth was that Kitty had ignored the issue whenever it had insinuated itself into her mind. She was fond of Maurice, she would not otherwise have come to New York, but he was not Sydney with his devotion to his faith for which Maurice seemed not to have the slightest feel. She had tried to keep up her standards, to perpetuate the ritual she had followed for so many years with Sydney. It had not been easy. She had bought a white, easy-care tablecloth in Macy’s, and stainless- steel candlesticks, and set them on Maurice’s
kitchen table on Friday nights, inviting Ed and Herb and Mort to inaugurate the Sabbath.

She had blessed the candles (Ed watching with amazement) and pronounced the benediction over the wine (Maurice could not bring himself to, although once he had quoted his beloved Heine: “Komme, Freund, der Braut entgegen, lass uns den Sabbat begrüssen”) from the siddur, the mini-encyclopaedia of Jewish life she had brought with her from England. Over the traditional meal she had cooked she had tried, haltingly (Sydney would have done it so much better), to explain to Ed how the Sabbath with its many laws constituted Judaism’s attempt to create, on one day each week, a taste of the Messianic age, and that one purpose of it was to produce a state of inner peace by relying for twenty-four hours on the resources of mind and body rather than external sources of technology. It was a day for family and friends, of communication between human beings, for returning to oneself.