She's Leaving Home (16 page)

‘Oh, Nellie. It is good to see you. A human face, for a change.’

Nellie grinned with more reassurance than she felt and was glad she had worn her boldest earrings. She kept hold of the bag of grapefruit she had brought. They seemed suddenly to have been a tactless gift and she wondered whether it would be too obvious if she took them back. She tugged off her gloves.

‘You must have loads of visitors, Mr Feinstein. Lots of people in the shop asking after you. Mr Rotblatt, and…’ She reeled off several names.

‘Yes, but nobody likes coming to see an invalid. They’re scared they’ll catch something. My Jerry’s only been once; the moment he saw a nurse carrying a full bedpan he turned green and skedaddled.’ His voice was mournful. ‘I’m stuck here another three weeks in concrete from my chin to my hips. Can’t move. If I read I give myself a crick in the neck. If I listen to the radio that bloody pop music drives me mad – why can’t we have
Rose Marie
? Nothing to think about but the shop. Nothing to do but worry.’

A strange ache overcame her which she could not resist; Nellie patted his hand then quickly withdrew her fingers.

‘Shop’s fine. No need to worry. I am managing, honestly.’

She was, too. Once she had realised that the proprietor would be out of action for at least a month then was unlikely to be able to lift heavy weights, Nellie had set about a clearance operation. With huge energy she had checked every box upstairs and down, inside and out and thrown out or sold off cheaply all the slowest lines. Those tinned kippers Mr Jacobs liked – but he’d died two years ago. The
matzos
from Poland which smelled musty. Jars of olives from before the war. A part case of oily Moscow vodka which had given rise to jokes about spies – disgusting stuff. And the peach brandy. From here onwards deliveries of perishables would be more frequent. As word got about over the bargains to be had, business had been very brisk. Feinstein’s Famous Deli had had its best couple of weeks in years, and the fresher goods and brighter packages now making their way on to the shop shelves bode well to continue the trend.

‘We’re making money, Mr Feinstein,’ she added and quoted him the totals.

Morrie Feinstein twisted his head as far as he could and gazed at her in surprise. She had a solid grasp of the business: he had always known that, but here she was, turning over far more than he had imagined the shop could produce. He questioned her gruffly and was delighted at her answers. She found herself reading his expression with pleasure, then saw his anxiety return.

‘You’re a great asset to the business, Nellie,’ he began. ‘You know I appreciate it. You are important to me too – it helps to know I have someone there I can trust.’ She blushed and did not reply. Emboldened, Mr Feinstein warmed to his theme. ‘If my Jerry was in charge I’d have reason to worry myself sick. As for our Jewish people, if I’d asked any of them to help out: to be honest I can think of one or two who’d have had their fingers in the till and I couldn’t complain, could I? Have to be loyal to them, couldn’t make a fuss.’ He paused. ‘So how many years have you worked for me, Nellie?’

‘Too many,’ she joked, then spotted an anxious flicker. He might infer from that a threat to leave or a demand for more money. ‘I mean, ten years since you took over, and I was there before that. I’ve grown up in that shop, you might say.’

‘We’ve grown old together, you mean.’ He sighed deeply.

‘Nonsense.’ Nellie was brusque. ‘Don’t talk like that. You’re not old. You’re quite young – about my age, in fact.’

Feinstein turned his head and looked at her again, full in the face as far as he was able. Nellie felt herself colour and kept chatting. His eyes seemed to rest on her earrings. She touched them gaily. ‘I bought these down the market. Thought they might cheer you up. D’you like them?’

Her boss appeared to be weighing her up. ‘Yes,’ he answered slowly. ‘I hadn’t noticed before, but you always brighten the place, Nellie. And I like that lipstick too –’

‘
Well
! What have we here?’

Nellie sat up rigid. Her grip slackened and the concealed grapefruit escaped from the bag on her lap. The two yellow globes rolled away, one under the bed and the other towards Sister’s desk. With a little cry Nellie jumped up to retrieve them. By the time she returned, panting and confused, the chair had been taken by the beaver lamb-coated figure of Sylvia Bloom.

Sylvia smiled coldly at the shop assistant.

‘You’ve just about finished, haven’t you, Nellie? I should throw those away. The floor in here may be spotless, but…’ The suggestion was left to float in the air that in the shop the fruit in Nellie’s hands might have been returned to its display.

Mr Feinstein opened his mouth once then closed it. If a slight sigh came from his direction perhaps it was merely a movement of the sheet. Nellie dumped the unwanted grapefruit in the bin by the side of the bed, bade a curt goodbye and stalked off to the exit. Both sets of eyes followed her.

‘Well!’ Sylvia said again. The syllable conveyed an infinity of affront at the cheek of the woman and at Morrie Feinstein’s foolish tolerance of it. Her meaning was not lost on the patient.

‘Hello, Sylvia.’

He did not add, ‘Nice of you to come.’ Sylvia unfastened her coat and arranged its folds to show the moire silk lining. She crossed her legs at the ankle. There was no time to lose.

‘She has designs on you, that woman. I saw the way she was leaning over you. It’s not right, Morrie.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he protested weakly. ‘Nellie? She has a boyfriend – I think.’ He realised he had no idea what Nellie did with her spare time. She had been married, of that he was fairly sure, but no name of a lover or spouse was ever bandied around. He had put that down to natural discretion, but now began to wonder.

‘It’s not right,’ Sylvia repeated. ‘And I’ll say this, Morrie Feinstein. You’ll be the gossip of the community if you let it continue. So I tell you what I’ll do. Once you’re out of here, I’ll fix up a couple of dates for you – nice women of the faith. I’d have you myself but I don’t think I’m your type.’

Her target winced at the thought. ‘I’ve told you before already, I am not interested. Why don’t you fix somebody up for –’ he hunted for a name ‘– Simon Rotblatt? Wealthy man, on his own, lovely catch…’

‘Too old. But I’ll keep him in mind.’ Sylvia itched to take out her little book and read out a few choice details. She glared down balefully, a mother quelling a difficult child. ‘I will find the perfect match for you. That’s my job. On the way you’ll enjoy yourself. It’s you I’m after, Maurice Feinstein: you’ll be perfect for one of my selected lady clients. You’re not going to escape.’

With a proprietorial air Jerry gazed around the noisy room. It had to be admitted that the addition of the Americans was a great success. He wondered whether their style was exportable and if by observation he could learn anything. Nevertheless he felt slightly apprehensive, almost naked, before their magnificence. He wished he had a cigar to wave. That might impress Roseanne even if it had no
effect on the USAF.

Was it their appearance, these clean-cut young men in their tailored pale blue, the flashes on their shoulders neatly sewn, their identical black boots hard and shiny, their crewcuts blunt and close like the stiff pile on a clothesbrush? And those accents, straight from the silver screen, enough to blow your mind, however courteously they spoke. It fair took your breath away.

Several airmen were on the dance floor gyrating happily with the bolder girls. Determined competition came from the better jivers amongst the club members. The floor had been crowded with whirling bodies for over half an hour. It was hot and the windows had steamed up. The joint, he had to say it, was jumping. Next to him the group leader, his sleeves adorned with three upside-down stripes, drank Coke politely and tapped his feet.

‘You didn’t have to wear uniform,’ Jerry gestured, Coke in hand. It was like a conversation with John Wayne, he realised, or with Robert Mitchum in one of those war movies. A dream come true, almost. His heart beat faster than usual and not just to the rhythm of the music.

Senior Airman Caspar Cohen, known as ‘CC’, shrugged easily. ‘First time, see. Regulations. If we come again we can wear what we like.’ He was a mid-height, swarthy man from a Chassidic family. A black
yarmulkah
was carefully pinned to his stubby hair. For his taste the club was not nearly observant enough: two kitchens were necessary, not one.

Airman Buzz Cohen was his younger brother, a smaller, more wiry version with a ready grin. There were ten children in all: their parents felt this was the surest way to increase the number of adherents of the Lubavicher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneurson of New York. Buzz’s attitudes were a mite slacker than his brother’s – for example he did not grieve for the loss of his
payers
, his side-locks, when he was drafted. Nor did the intensity of his religion stop him seeking out the most important item in short supply in the camp: female company.

Buzz had approached Roseanne, who was delighted to show off her laboriously acquired skills. Jerry wished he had the nerve to break in, but his role was to act as host. As he watched they joined hands and twirled expertly. He tried not to frown: he was too tall to do that movement with her.

The record ended. Couples stood around, chests heaving, ready for the next one. Jerry bit his lip. In Liverpool it was considered forward to hold hands between dances unless you were going out together but Buzz didn’t seem to know and Roseanne apparently had forgotten. He could feel his pride become tainted with jealousy but there was nothing he could do. At last came a click. The clear voice of The Springfields and the ‘Island of Dreams’ filled the ether.

For several minutes CC had had his eye on one young woman in a group as he and Jerry had chatted. Now he headed towards her. In an instance the two were energetically prancing as if they had been an item all their lives. Jerry, alone, puzzled furiously. Not every one of the newcomers was handsome. In fact only one or two were taller than himself: in most surrounds the Cohen brothers would have made an unprepossessing pair. The fact that there were another half dozen Cohen siblings at home, each one born a year or two after the other, all ‘very alike’ according to CC, made Jerry think of a collection of Russian dolls in descending sizes. The other GIs, not related though several shared surnames, were
equally ordinary once their attributes were closely analysed. Yet there was not a shred of doubt that the whole club was bowled over, and not only the girls.

Jerry groaned in frustration. The sheer dominance of American culture overwhelmed him. It gave no room to the home-grown kind. There was Dusty Springfield, a stunner if ever he saw one, with her candy-floss hairdo and black-rimmed eyes and that terrific voice: but to get anywhere solo she’d have to make cover versions of US songs and was reported to be considering a move to California. Petula Clark was under pressure to do the same. In the States the Limeys were adored – how else could you explain the appeal of David Niven and Richard Burton, for God’s sake, the one a quintessential Brit, the other a smouldering Welshman? Even Elizabeth Taylor was proud of her birth. Everyone admired the British. They had won the war. So why didn’t the British admire themselves – why did they allow the Americans to take over?

‘You do look solemn, Jerry.’

It was Helen Majinsky. Her pink sweater and full skirt drew attention to her slim figure. For a moment Jerry recalled that he was not supposed to like Helen and had vowed to get even with her for her rejection of him, but with Roseanne almost out of sight with Buzz on the far side of the room, her company was welcome.

‘They’ve taken over. I was trying to see how they do it.’

Helen laughed. ‘Money. Glamour. Strangers. This is a sea-port. We aren’t suspicious of strangers – we adore them. Open arms, you might say.’

Jerry’s heart sank. The next record he had chosen was a slow number, ideal for a gentle smooch: Pat Boone’s ‘Love Letters in the Sand’. He felt certain Buzz and Roseanne would stay together for it. ‘Let’s dance,’ he said, and before she could resist he put his left arm firmly round Helen’s waist and swung her away.

She was trim, a neater shape than Roseanne. The gentle resistance she put up when he tried to get closer excited him. He was glad he had splashed on some ‘Old Spice’ before he left home. He nuzzled into her neck and hoped Roseanne was paying attention. Helen kept her face turned away so he could not kiss her.

‘Can’t stand him,’ Helen confessed.

‘Who?’ Jerry pulled back to stare at her.

‘Pat Boone. Haven’t we got the Beatles record?’

‘Oh, that. Yes, but we’ve played it twice already. The Americans will think we’re barmy.’

‘They’ll think like us before long. The record’s been issued in the States. Maybe if they enthuse about the Beatles when they go home it’ll help make them famous.’

‘What do you think of them? The Americans, I mean?’

Helen pondered. ‘I’ve not talked to them really. They got whisked away by – the others.’ She meant Roseanne, but did not say so to spare Jerry’s sensitivities.

The ruse worked. As soon as was decent Roseanne marched across the room with an annoyed expression on her pert face. She stepped smartly between Jerry and Helen.

‘Thanks for taking care of him for me. Jerry, my dance.’

Jerry gestured helplessly but left Helen alone. CC was at her elbow and shrugged politely.
‘Lover’s tiff, I’d say. I’d ask you myself but I gotta find the john. Why don’t you try Mike over there? He’s a bit shy, only posted last week. Go look after him for me.’