She's Leaving Home (17 page)

As she walked in the direction indicated Helen was buffeted by a triumphant Roseanne in a particularly flashy move. Cautiously she edged out of the way. Thus she did not examine the partner to whom she had in effect been allocated until she was right next to him.

‘Hi, Mick, is it? I’m Helen.’

The flash on his uniform pocket announced
Michael R. Levison
.

‘Hi, Helen. My name’s Michael. I’m glad to meet you.’

She had to look up, startled. His voice was deep and came from far above her head. He must have been about twenty or so and was broad shouldered and regular featured, with a square jaw and well-defined almost aquiline nose which indicated that, unlike most of the boys she had met to date, he had almost finished growing. His skin was smooth, acne-free and he was smooth-shaven, with a slight uplift about the corners of his mouth. He smelled faintly of soap. CC had said he was shy, but he did not twitch or fidget, just stood there, quietly.

She took a small step back and scrutinised him more thoroughly. His neck was wide. He seemed to fill his shirt as if he carried muscle there, biceps and such, instead of the weedy teenage tendons and ribcage of a Jerry or Jack. His wristwatch was large with an expansible gold bracelet. The belt of his trousers was on a level with her ribcage; his shoulders were on a par with the top of her head. Yet he gave the impression not so much of being tall – though he was that, certainly – but of being
big
.

Not a schoolboy, not a pimply youth. No deadbeat, this one. Not like anything she had ever been as close to before.

Not a boy at all. A man.

She should answer lightly but the devil seemed to have grabbed her tongue. With an amused lop-sided smile he held out his hand to shake hers formally. She felt almost faint. This could not be real. Was it her fancy, or did he really take her hand in his own and look into her eyes? And was it for a little longer than was absolutely necessary? She swallowed hard. If so, she was not about to object.

‘I think,’ Michael said gravely, though his own eyes were lively, ‘that we are supposed to dance. Will you do me the honour?’

Helen tried to get a grip, to shake herself out of her stupor. She could not speak, only nodded. She, so ready with easy talk as a rule, knew that if she opened her mouth she would make a complete fool of herself. The right approach was a light disdain but she dared not try anything of the sort. Playing hard to get would be
impossible
. But after the dance she would get him to sit down in the side room and talk. Where did he come from? What were his family like? Did he have a girlfriend? Suppose he was intelligent and – nice? It did not bear thinking about. If for a mere half an hour, provided she hung on to him, she might well be in the company of somebody quite extraordinary.

Together they took hands and swept out on to the dance floor to the next record.

‘Sweet little sixteen –

She’s just gotta have –’

Another Sunday afternoon. Still frozen outside: the snowy winter seemed set to last for ever. The garden looked forlorn under a grubby white blanket though the apple tree was struggling into bud. A coal fire burned smokily in the grate. Lunch had been cleared and her mother had waved Helen out of the kitchen. Barry had disappeared to a pal’s.

She needed to talk. She still felt dazed after the encounter of the night before.

At the end of the evening to Jerry’s chagrin the GIs had elected to return straight to Burtonwood. Those
en route
had been offered a lift and dropped off at their doors. The sheer luxury of personal transport had left the British youngsters thrilled and breathless. The GIs would return to the club provided they were not on duty. Michael had said he would make a point of it.

They had not kissed. Not on the first night – that would have been unseemly and excessive. As she climbed out of the back doors of the van he had squeezed her hand and said, ‘See you soon.’ That was all; he had not followed her nor insisted on a doorstep tryst, an omission for which she was grateful. As it was, she had had to explain repeatedly to her mother about the boys, the unheralded vehicle and the lift. She was glad it had vanished before Annie could start the ritual of inviting its occupants inside to check them and their credentials. It was enough that the boys were Jewish, she told her mother firmly. For herself she felt relieved that the first boy who had made a positive impact on her might meet with her family’s approval.

Not a boy: Michael R. Levison. She had forgotten to ask what the ‘R’ stood for. He would have told her. He practised an easy old-fashioned courtesy which captivated her. In bed alone past midnight she had tried to repeat his style of speech, not only the slurred ‘r’ and the longer vowels but his manner, and was still murmuring as she drifted off to sleep. How lucky that she had been pushed in his direction – friendly as the other GIs were they didn’t hold a candle to Michael. No doubt about it, he was the best of a fabulous bunch. In fact, so far, with as yet no evidence to the contrary, she had to admit it: he was
wonderful
.

After a couple of dances they had retired into a quieter room and sipped Coke. He told her briefly that he came from a military background. His older brother was a pilot stationed in West Germany. His father worked in Washington as an adviser of some kind – on that Michael had been vague. Helen had not known what further questions to ask or whether to do so would have been rude. Perhaps he did not know much about his father’s job. Or perhaps it was secret. Then she rebuked herself: it was enough that he was terrific without inventing an enigmatic history.

Helen let her imagination wander downwards from his face. The smooth curves of his chest and shoulder muscles had been visible under the well-pressed shirt. Underneath he probably wore a tee shirt, regulation issue, again more close-fitting than most locals would dare: men and boys were not supposed to show off their figures in tight clothes but to hide undistinguished torsos under shapelessness. She wanted to touch that flesh, and flushed hotly as she thought about it.

But such a man would expect to be taken seriously, whether they saw each other regularly or not. Helen swallowed hard. She wanted to dally with visions of him taking her in those strong arms, but felt apprehensive. He would not mess about, such a man. He would expect her to keep up with him. He might rapidly get to the stage where he would not take ‘no’ for an answer.

She frowned. He was big enough to be a bit frightening, if she crossed him. With the gawky boys of her acquaintance Helen was sure she could take care of herself and felt reasonably street-wise – you had to be, in Liverpool. This stranger was an unknown quantity even with those impeccable antecedents. If she meant to go further with him she must keep her wits about her.

Meanwhile she had had to endure an extended Sunday mealtime during which her brother and
parents began to plan the celebration of his thirteenth birthday in May. The whole subject irked her, wicked though she felt her reaction to be. She played no part in the discussion, just as she would have virtually no role in the event itself. It was assumed she’d attend alongside her mother in proud support of Barry and Daniel Majinsky, the chief participants. Money for a new outfit was the likely limit to her involvement. The exclusion rankled obscurely, but it troubled nobody but herself.

The barmitzvah festivities would stretch through an entire weekend. On the Saturday morning the Majinskys in their glad rags would attend synagogue. Barry would swagger about in his first adult suit, made by his father. He’d demanded in addition a waistcoat faced in a bright fabric.

In the synagogue males and females would be separated. The women would climb upstairs into the gallery; they could join in the prayers but most ladies did not read Hebrew. Her brother would be called up to read his portion of the law in a sing-song voice, an initiation for which he was being prepared with other candidates by Reverend Siegel the Minister. After the boys were done and congratulated their fathers would be called up too. For that privilege a substantial donation to the coffers was expected. Daniel’s grunt indicated his resentment at this form of compulsory levy.

Wealthy parents were expected to share their joy with the rest of the congregation and invite the lot into the hall immediately afterwards for a
kiddush
, a glass of sherry and a piece of sponge cake before everyone went home for dinner. Annie fretted that the Majinsky budget did not run to such generosity but another boy, Stuart Freeman, was to be processed in the synagogue the same sabbath morning. His family had a mail-order company and boasted of their wealth, so they’d do it. That solved the problem nicely.

Then on the Sunday – Helen sighed and felt almost murderous. You couldn’t have the main party on the sabbath. Too much cooking, carting, washing-up. It had to be the Sunday. At three o’clock the Majinskys would take over the synagogue hall (the Freemans had already booked the Adelphi for their Sunday splash, so poor Reverend Siegel would have to scuttle between the two). A sit-down meal would be served. Speeches would be made, wine poured and blessings uttered. Telegrams read, the works. The barmitzvah boy would be permitted to get mildly drunk.

Then the four-piece band would strike up. It could play both standards and pop, its leader had assured Annie. Two hundred people including all Barry’s pals were to be invited. Helen could name five of her own, including a couple of school friends. Non-Jewish friends, that was. Quite a concession.

It dawned on her that the American servicemen might be suitable guests. Their presence would liven up the occasion tremendously, bring her some attention and provide someone to dance with other than Jerry Feinstein. But the dinner dance was a couple of months away yet. The GIs might have been posted home or elsewhere by then. Better to wait.

For the moment her frustration expressed itself in half-hearted efforts to badger her father. She suspected he wanted merely to settle down in an armchair and fall asleep till tea-time. If she had to behave impeccably on the great day, she could still make herself felt
now
.

‘Dad. Why does Barry have a barmitzvah when girls don’t?’

It was not Helen’s intention to sound peevish. She genuinely wanted an answer which would satisfy her and which she could quote to others who posed the same query.

Daniel shrugged. ‘That’s the law. It’s always been the law. If we were members of a Reform
schul
you could have a
bat-mitzvah
. That’s common in Israel too, I’m told. But we’re Orthodox and we don’t. It wouldn’t feel right to me to challenge that. To be honest I’m more worried about being called up to read from the
Sefer Torah
. My Hebrew’s rusty. Could you give me a quick lesson? Reverend Siegel will tell you which chapter. If I ask him myself he’ll nag me about attending every week.’

‘Why don’t you?’

He shot her a look. Helen sensed that he wanted to avoid the interrogation but she persisted
out of an obscure sense of injustice. She was attention-seeking and knew it.

‘Don’t believe in it.’

Helen was surprised. Her father could have countered that as a businessman he had too much to do on Saturdays. That would have been both true and fair. Yet he had as a rule treated her to the truth, if not the whole truth. Something warned her to be cautious, but her response came out fiercer than she intended.

‘What don’t you believe in, Dad? You believe in spending pots of money on this great event.’

He reached for his newspaper with an aggressive movement. ‘I’m not sure I believe in any of it. But that won’t stop me doing what’s right for my son. And for you too. For a girl it’s her wedding, so find yourself a suitable boy and it’ll be your turn. Now I’m going to have my rest. A working man’s entitled.’

The answer baffled her. Maybe her father had been irritated by her mother’s enthusiasm and desire to splash out, or by Barry’s excitement. The purpose and meaning of the ceremony seemed to have got lost in the scramble. She had half hoped her father might recover it for her. Yet his response hinted at a frustration as profound as her own, though from what cause she could not fathom.

Helen backed away and headed upstairs. With a heavy schedule of school work and, out of the blue, Michael, she had enough on her plate. That tricky essay on the nature of aldehydes and ketones had to be written tonight and submitted in the morning. Miss Plumb had also insisted that the potential Oxbridge candidates commence a programme of reading: Plato’s
Republic
lay unopened in her satchel alongside
Emma
.

For the moment she wanted to do no more than think quietly. Her father’s brusqueness disturbed her. If she could not figure out what he meant, then she would switch off and luxuriate in daydreams about Michael. Maybe he could be the ‘suitable boy’ her father had idly referred to. If so, he might bring her closer to her family. She lay back on her bed, arranged the pillows under her head, and stared at the ceiling.

‘Time for the six o’clock news. Nix’ll be home soon. Bring your cup in with you.’

Monday. Rita Nixon and her sister Sylvia had spent the entire afternoon at Rita’s Menlove Gardens house in a most satisfying gossip. The reputations of many acquaintances had been taken out, dusted off and restored to the cupboard of memory gloriously dismembered. Various friends’ ailments had been analysed and their chances of survival clucked over; a medical dictionary was consulted twice. A former pillar of society had died, permitting delicious speculation over the subsequent appearance of unknown children. The cemetery had as a result been the scene of a disgraceful row. A memorial stone was due to be erected on the first anniversary of a death as was customary but the deceased’s legitimate offspring, disappointed in their inheritance, had started a fight; brothers-in-law had come to blows and the Rebbe, whom everyone blamed, had ended up in Casualty. No less trivial, the allegation that the Jewish retirement home’s new cook had used lard by mistake in her pastry had fortunately proved groundless. Then of course there was the question of the new boys – the GIs. For both sisters their arrival at Harold House brought intermingled concern and hope but club members had been reticent. The
coup de grace
was saved for the end – Sylvia confided that society nuptials would soon take place at which she would be a discreet but welcome guest: another success. Business was good. After a moment’s hesitation she decided not to mention her visit to the hospital to see Morrie Feinstein, or the peroxide blonde in the damp fake fur and vulgar earrings whom she had found already present.

Sylvia picked up her cup and plate, selected one more
small
piece of ginger cake and followed her sister into the front lounge. There, as Rita had hoped, she halted, mouth agape.

‘You have a new set! Oh, very nice. Will it get the new BBC channel when it starts?’

‘Yes, though personally I think two are quite enough.’ Rita had resisted the temptation to
bring a duster in with her but ran her fingers proudly over the fine walnut veneer before opening the two neatly fitted doors at the front. ‘Twenty-two inches,’ she added proudly, as if boasting about a new-born child. Which, in a sense, she was.

The television took a moment to warm up then BBC News flashed on to the screen. Rita could not quite work out what the newscaster was talking about and glanced at her sister in puzzlement. She started to ask but Sylvia, listening intently and munching cake, hushed her.

At last the item was finished. Sylvia sat back, a smirk of unalloyed malice on her face.

‘I don’t believe it. Do you?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Rita answered cautiously. The newsreader had moved on to bloody events in Mississippi which seemed even more abstruse.

‘He’s lying. I am sure of it. My job, you know.’ Her sister looked blank so she took a final sip of tea, put down the cup and expounded. ‘Mr Profumo says he had nothing to do with this girl Christine Keeler. Yet George Wigg keeps on. Horrible man, but he doesn’t usually get things wrong. No smoke without fire. She’s a tart, I tell you.’

Rita sat down slowly. Though both were paid-up Tories in a city where nine of the twelve parliamentary seats were held by the government she considered that she was more unswervingly loyal than her sister whose profession made her a bit cynical.

‘But that can’t be. It’d mean Mr Profumo lied to the House of Commons. And to the Prime Minister. To everybody, in fact.’

‘He’s probably started with his wife, if you think about it. Couldn’t ever figure out what she saw in him. Looks like an emaciated beetle in my opinion. And those tiny frightened eyes. Don’t trust him.’

‘I liked Valerie Hobson when she was on the stage,’ Rita mused. ‘D’you remember her at the Liverpool Playhouse? Lovely, she was.’

‘Well, it appears our esteemed Secretary of State for War has a taste for actresses. Some as are, and some as aren’t.’ Sylvia glanced at the green marble clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Heavens – is that the time? I must go.’