Angel of Brooklyn (6 page)

Twenty minutes later, Jonathan reappeared. ‘Come on, ladies, drink up your sherry, the driver wants to be moving along.’

‘It isn’t sherry,’ Lizzie blushed. ‘It’s only sarsaparilla.’

‘He’s just having you on,’ said Madge. ‘That means he’s teasing, Beatrice, and never mind being an American, we’ll soon have you talking like us.’

‘Aye,’ said Beatrice, affecting their accent. ‘And that’ll be right grand, that will.’

‘Get away with you! We don’t talk daft like that,’ said Lizzie. ‘Do we?’

They arrived in Morecambe an hour later, pulling in beside Happy Mount Park. Beatrice stepped from the bus, shook out her skirt and listened to the low familiar shushing that could only be the sea, while above their heads seagulls moaned and voices drifted down the wide promenade reminding her of home.

‘The boardwalk,’ said Jonathan. ‘Morecambe style.’

‘It isn’t all that different.’

‘Surely everything’s smaller?’ Jeffrey took an advertisement from a girl in a badly fitting tutu. ‘Especially the costumes,’ he whispered.

Beatrice blushed and looked at Jonathan, who was looking somewhere else, but the girl in the tutu had already vanished, as had most of their crowd. Beatrice could see Ada and Jim, arm in arm, looking through the window of a rock shop. Madge and Frank were being pulled towards the beach, their boys jumping up and down at the sight of the waves and the small bobbing fishing boats.

‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ said Beatrice. ‘All this life?’

‘What can I say? It’s teeming.’ Jeffrey brushed past a man with a cone of fried fish. ‘Is it lunchtime?’

‘It’s just gone one o’clock,’ said Jonathan. ‘Shall we find an hotel?’

They made their way through the straggling lines of people, their cheeks already red from the sun. Beatrice smiled at a boy in a paper hat. She hovered outside a gypsy caravan, a large wooden hand propped against the steps said: FORTUNES.

‘I can see into the future,’ said Jeffrey. ‘It says, three-course set lunch and half a bottle of wine.’

‘Do you believe in all that?’ Jonathan had caught a glimpse of the gypsy through a gap in the curtained door. She was wearing a gold-coloured headscarf and scowling.

‘Sure I do,’ said Beatrice. ‘All those little lines etched into your hand must mean something, and those gypsies have been reading palms forever.’

Jonathan shivered. ‘I don’t want to know the future, not a bit of it, I want to be surprised.’

The Crest Hotel was bright, with light white walls and shiny blue floor tiles, and its ‘world-famous’ orchestra played dance tunes in the Palm Room. Beatrice liked the restaurant. It felt very English to her, with its potted ferns, lazy wooden fans and the low murmuring voices of the other diners. A waiter appeared, and after showing them to a table by the window, he offered them a menu.

‘The set lunch,’ said Jeffrey, ordering for them all. ‘Oxtail soup, roast chicken, fruit tart and a reasonable bottle of claret.’

The waiter nodded and moved away. In the far corner, a woman in a lace-trimmed dress was sending back her fish.

‘She looks the fussy type,’ said Jeffrey, lighting a cigarette.

Through the window Beatrice watched couples strolling in the sunshine, their hands full of sticky buns, melting ice-cream cones and gaudy souvenirs. The wine was brought and Jeffrey started telling them about a friend who had mistakenly left his wife in Florence.

‘He only realised when he arrived back in London and her parents were there to meet them off the boat train.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Beatrice. ‘How could he just forget her? Were they on vacation?’

‘They’d been travelling,’ Jeffrey told her, taking another sip of his wine. ‘Venice, Florence, the usual little tour.’

‘And he just left her?’

‘He always was forgetful,’ said Jeffrey with a smile. ‘Probably had his head stuck inside a guidebook or something.’

The waiter arrived with three plates of soup.

‘Gravy,’ Beatrice said. ‘This tastes exactly like gravy.’

‘Don’t you have soup in New York?’

‘Of course they have soup,’ said Jonathan.

‘Oxtail?’

‘Probably. They have everything in America.’

‘Apart from potted shrimp,’ said Beatrice.

All through the meal, Jeffrey regaled them with stories about his family.

‘My sister Agnes kept a very large hatpin by her bed in case Burglar Bill ever paid us a visit. She planned to jab him with it. We were never burgled, thank God, but the pin made her feel better, and she dreamed of sending him running in a great deal of pain.’

He spoke of his great-uncle Titus who had a glass eye and a fondness for maps; his grandmother and all her extravagant bonnets.

‘What a great cast you have there.’ Beatrice smiled into her coffee cup. ‘Really, Jeffrey, you should turn them into a play.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that,’ he frowned. ‘You see, I might hurt someone’s feelings.’

Outside, the crowds were still pushing their way down the promenade and they were swept along briefly until Jonathan stopped at a rifle range, persuading Jeffrey to shoot alongside him. Their shoulders jerked in unison as they shot at apples and dented tin cans. Jeffrey won a whistle on a piece of red string.

‘I’m extremely jealous,’ said Jonathan. ‘I only missed because I was thinking about my wife, and how bored she must be, watching grown men shooting apples.’

They strolled towards the pier, where the Salvation Army band pounded their tambourines, singing songs of hope, swaying in the heat. A man appeared with a camera. He had a sign around his neck.
I Am Deaf and Dumb. Holiday Pictures. 2s
. He gestured with his fingers. He smiled at Beatrice and held up his camera. The photographer was young and nervous-looking as he handed her a card advertising his studio on Bare Promenade.

‘I don’t know …’ said Jonathan.

‘Oh, I think we should have one,’ said Jeffrey. ‘An official souvenir.’

So they grouped themselves together, Beatrice in the middle, Jonathan and Jeffrey with an arm each draped across her shoulders. They smiled. The sun was in their eyes, then the flash; it made them look surprised.

‘Ticket,’ said the man.

‘I thought he couldn’t speak,’ whispered Jonathan.

Leaning against the railings they could see the end-of-pier show, the low-slung heads of people in deckchairs, laughing, clapping and joining in some of the songs. Beatrice looked towards the sea and shivered at the size and cheek of the seagulls; they looked dangerous, the way they came swooping. Bonaparte’s Gull, she remembered from one of her father’s large textbooks.
Larus philadelphia
. Length 11 inches. Wingspan 32 inches. Black head. Adult plumage reached in second year.

‘Oh, do let’s watch the show,’ said Jeffrey. ‘I think they have Pierrots.’

‘All right,’ said Jonathan. ‘I like a good show, and the wine has made me sleepy. If they do a few quiet numbers, I might even get a snooze in.’

‘I’m going for a walk,’ said Beatrice suddenly.

‘In this heat?’ Jeffrey loosened his collar.

‘I’ll survive.’

‘But what about the Pierrots?’

‘I don’t want to sit still. I want to keep moving.’

One hour of freedom. She bounced. She disappeared between the crowds, weaving her way across the road and heading for the fairground where Union Jacks fluttered and a man played a barrel
organ
. Beatrice stood by the Ferris wheel, neck cricked, looking up at the chairs tipping in the sky. The boy helped her on with his warm greasy hand, calling her Goldie, rubbing her penny between his fingers and sucking on his lips. From her creaking chair she could see the dance hall, a fried fish cart, boys running around with catapults. Her eyes drifted towards the horizon and the world felt very small; and when the ride stopped her legs felt like giving way as she stepped onto the ground. The boy held her hand for a second, blushing, before she moved away to the Magic of Italy, where the water had been coloured with a bright blue dye and the boats were made like gondolas. The man pushing the boats into the tunnel with his boot was dressed like a shabby gondolier.

‘My name is Antonio,’ he said to a bunch of giggling ladies, in a thick Italian accent. ‘And I’m sure my ride will please you.’

He was handsome and olive-skinned and all the girls fell for it, though they half remembered him from last year as Tony, ripping tickets at the skating rink. From the mouth of the dark tunnel, a scratched gramophone record played Verdi.

‘
Si?
’ he said to Beatrice, holding out his hand. ‘Is very beautiful Italy.’

‘Oh, sure it is.’

‘I will take you there myself.’

Throwing his money bag into the booth, where the other operator was sleeping, he took hold of her elbow, guiding her into the boat, before jumping in beside her.

‘Hey, get yourself out of here,’ she told him. ‘I don’t need you sitting beside me, I’m perfectly fine on my own.’

‘I give you a tour,’ he said, as they were swallowed by the darkness. ‘We will see lemon trees, Pisa, the Colosseum in Rome.’

‘OK, but no hanky-panky. One straying hand and I’ll swing for you.’

‘No hands,’ he said, sitting on them. ‘I promise.’

The tunnel was filled with a strange pinkish light. Badly painted murals showed gladiators, men drinking wine, an opera house.

‘See. We have much culture. We have fighting, drinking and many loud singing on very high notes.’

‘So whereabouts in Italy do you come from?’

‘The part that looks like a heel.’

‘Oh, a heel,’ she smiled. ‘Interesting.’

‘And you are not English?’ he said. ‘Look at Venice now. The man in the stripes, he looks a little like me, no?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m an American.’

‘Do you know the Ziegfeld Follies?’

‘Gee, let me think … Only one or two.’

The boat stopped. She could hear the chains creaking.

‘Look at the lovely lady, eating her spaghetti.’

The woman in the picture had silver-coloured eyes and two pink circles for cheeks. She was flaking. Her large red mouth was wide, waiting for the spaghetti that was dripping from her fork.

‘Are we stranded?’ Beatrice asked. She could hear the girls in the first boat laughing like ghosts.

‘Not really. Jimmy needs to crank up the chains.’

‘He was snoring back there.’

‘Let me assure you, signorina, that if I am allowed to remove my hands from underneath my persons, I can push us on to the next tableaux.’

‘Just get us moving,’ she said.

The boat jerked forwards and she could see the way out. There was a half-moon of sunlight as strands of coloured paper brushed across their faces.

‘The seaweed,’ he said. ‘Is very wonderful? No?’

By the time they emerged, she was laughing, her head bent to her knees, as he told her all in one breath that his real name was Anthony, he was really from Silverdale, though spending the summer in Morecambe, and could he take her dancing later on.

‘Sorry,’ she told him. ‘I’m married. My husband would never approve.’

‘I’m heartbroken. But what the heck? It was worth a try.’

She smiled as he leaped onto the side, helping her out, taking her hand and kissing it. Madge walked by with a red-faced Frank and they waved.

The Pierrots were taking a long final curtain call. Jeffrey and Jonathan were whistling and stamping their feet. Beatrice couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them.

‘Look at you two,’ she said.

‘You’re like a couple of kids.’ ‘I’ll have you know,’ said Jonathan, ‘they were the best bunch of Pierrots that Morecambe’s ever seen. You should have stayed, my
darling
. You missed Mamie Adams the soubrette, Juggling Jimmy Jest, and Smoky Joe, song-and-dance man, who’ll be snapped up by the West End before the season’s out.’

‘So where’ve you been?’ Jeffrey asked.

‘Italy.’

‘I thought you’d one glass too many at lunchtime,’ said Jonathan.

They walked slowly now, pausing outside a confectioners while Jeffrey went inside to buy some sticks of rock. Jonathan squeezed her hand tight, saying, ‘You were right to want to come.’

Outside a tattoo parlour, Beatrice stood for a moment, as the green-tailed mermaids combed out their hair and snakes curled around initials and sharp-looking daggers.
I could be back there
, she thought with a pang.
This place smells like Coney
.

Determined to snap out of this sudden feeling of homesickness, she grabbed hold of Jeffrey. ‘Remember the fortune teller? Let’s go find her.’

‘But she’ll hate me. She’ll know that I’m a sceptic.’

‘Of course she won’t hate you, you’ll be giving her a sixpence.’

‘Sixpence?’ said Jonathan. ‘She’ll charge you more than that.’

Jeffrey went in first. ‘Here, hold my rock,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know if she’s any good before you cross her palm with silver.’

Five minutes later he reappeared through the curtains looking slightly perplexed.

‘Well …?’

‘The great gypsy Iva knew I had a sister, said I was artistic, then said all these things about bonfires, on and on, she went.’ He shrugged. ‘Bonfires? I don’t know what to think.’

As Beatrice went through the curtain, she could feel her heart racing. The caravan was small, the curtains pulled, a small oil lamp was lit on the table. It was like stepping into night-time.

‘You may sit,’ the woman smiled as she took Beatrice’s money and slipped it into a small velvet pouch. The lamp cast shadows on the walls; the room smelled of coffee and jasmine oil. ‘Now, please uncurl your hand.’

Beatrice did as she was told and the woman looked at it for a long time, before she closed it up again.

‘You have lived a wonderful life,’ she said.

‘Is that all?’ said Beatrice. ‘For a shilling?’

‘You want your money back?’ The woman shrugged and began undoing the pouch. ‘Here. I don’t mind. Take it.’

‘But what about the future?’

The woman smiled carefully and pushed the shilling towards her. ‘I read palms, but I don’t have all the answers. I’m honest. If I can’t see, then I won’t charge for it. The lines on your hand make no sense to me.’

Beatrice left the shilling on the table. It was a bad-luck coin. She felt troubled as she went outside, blinking in the sunshine.