She's Leaving Home (24 page)

‘You must have gone to a lot of trouble – and yes, it’s splendid. I’m very grateful.’ With that, she leaned over artlessly and kissed the aunt on the cheek.

‘I gave your Ma a bottle of Chanel No. 5 – I know she used to like perfume – but she didn’t react at all.’

‘She thinks it’s a waste of money.’

Gertie raised her eyebrows. Maybe money – her money and its obvious abundance – was at the root of the matter. But for that she refused to apologise. There was no virtue in poverty, of which she had had her share, long ago.

‘Do you agree? Here, I offered to let you try my perfumes. Would you like to?’

Helen relaxed and laughed. ‘Sure. Though they might be too sophisticated for me.’

For the next ten minutes the two bent their heads and rubbed aromatic drops on the back of hands, on the inside of wrists. Lipsticks were also brought out, and nail varnish, and tips about mascara discussed. Soon the small room was filled with delicious fragrance with a headiness that lightened Helen’s spirits. The shared cosmetics were like a conspiracy.

‘I think I prefer
Miss Dior
, though I’d only wear it to go out. Not for the Cavern,’ Helen mused. ‘It’d be wasted there.’

Gertie indicated the books and files. ‘I’m glad you’re interested in girly things as well, kid. Your Dad gives the impression you’re a bluestocking. Got a boyfriend?’

A month ago Helen might have confided. But she hardly knew the lady seated on the opposite bed. It would be foolish to assume so quickly that Gertie could be completely trusted. If Helen were desperate to discuss Michael with anyone – which she wasn’t – she’d start with her closest pals at school. Her own age, her own philosophy. Not Roseanne. Not Jewish.

So she dimpled in a show of shyness, conscious that she was deceiving her aunt who presumably merely meant well.

‘Not at the moment.’ She closed one of the files. ‘Dad’s right. I do want to concentrate on my studies for a while. Plenty of time for boys later.’ She hesitated, then: ‘I’m glad you’re here and I
hope we’ll talk some more. Lots I want to ask you. And thank you for the lipsticks and things – that’s so kind of you.’

Gertie rose. ‘Kid, you’re welcome. I forgot: I came up to tell you your Ma says tea’s on the table in half an hour, and be sure to wash your hands before coming down.’

‘She thinks I’m still nine years old,’ Helen murmured.

‘Of course. No mother can see that her children are no longer infants. What’s worse, let me warn you, is that no father ever accepts that his daughter has stopped being his little girl and become a grown woman. That’ll bring you most misery of all.’

Father Aidan O’Connor walked stiffly down the main aisle of St Mary’s and St Joseph’s, turned, genuflected as deeply as his arthritic knees would permit and with a beatific smile acknowledged the row of penitents waiting for confession.

Fourteen this time. At least an hour, even if they were quick. They came to him, he knew, because he had been there so long he had heard it all before. As they unburdened themselves of their minor peccadilloes they had no desire to sin further by shocking the priest as well.

He had noticed nevertheless, and with some relief, that several of the middle-aged female penitents, after a decent pause of several weeks to assess the new man’s demeanour, had begun to drift towards Father Gheoghan’s stall. So earnest he was, so anxious to do right. Yet the young man’s handsome looks could prove a mixed blessing. In these days of turmoil for the Church, with so many ancient certainties upside down, the demands of the flesh could too easily undermine a man’s commitment. Should the new incumbent decide eventually to abandon his vows, as many priests and nuns were now doing, Father O’Connor would not be in the least surprised. Nor would he condemn.

Father O’Connor regarded himself as fortunate. The temptations of females and the desire for family life, or indeed any kind of life outside his vocation, had never taunted him. Perhaps because there’d been no chance: into the seminary from the age of eight, destined for the priesthood by a devout mother who’d handed him over without fear from her own care to Mother Church’s. How he had been overawed at the high ceilings, the tiled walls, the running water in the ablutions area. The soaring wonder of the Mass had filled him with a joy which had never receded. The old Abbot, a revered and saintly man, had been fierce but kind; in his fellow novitiates, amongst the teacher monks he had found both brothers and parents – thus his needs both spiritual and physical had been tolerably well met. Given, moreover, the dirt floors in his mother’s cottage in County Donegal, the lack of anything recognisable as modern amenities and the absence of any possibility of employment other than through labouring or emigration, a sound choice had been made which the beneficiary had never regretted.

He upbraided himself as he opened the door and settled his bones. He was committing the sin of hubris and would have to atone for it to Father Gheoghan in due course. He would also ask permission for a cushion.

Over an hour later it was a weary confessor who barely noticed that his next supplicant was a young girl. Hardly had she started the ritual incantation when he said, ‘Say two Hail Marys,’ in the hope that she would be satisfied and scuttle out.

The girl did not move. Father O’Connor glanced up in momentary annoyance. He could not see her face; her hair was hidden under an old scarf too big for her small frame. His voice softened. ‘What is it, my child?’

It was a long time before she spoke. ‘I wanted to know, Father, whether if you’re involved in a sin, it’s still as much a sin if you don’t want to – do it?’

He peered through the grille, but her head was bent. He had to strain to catch the whispered words.

‘Well now, that depends,’ he began. ‘God gave us free will, so we can say no. If you let
something happen which you are sure is wrong, you can’t simply shrug it off by saying you don’t want to. We take responsibility for our own actions, you know.’

She was silent, but he could hear movement at the level of his knees, as if she were twisting a handkerchief in her hands. A process of elimination might help.

‘So tell me, my child. What sort of sin might we be talking about? Might it be that somebody you know is stealing – shoplifting maybe? Or perhaps you’ve been involved in some bullying at school?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

He dropped his own voice. He knew his flock. ‘Is somebody in the family being hurt – is that it? Does your Pa come home some nights and belt your Ma and you’re too scared to interfere?’

She shook her head but did not speak. Father O’Connor was tiring of the game but tried once more.

‘So it’s something you’re more directly involved in?’

That worked. ‘Yes. And I truly don’t want to be, Father, I hate it, but I can’t stop him.’

Sex. It had to be. A snuffly noise came from beyond the grille.

‘But you have to stop, my girl. Until you’re married it is mortal sin. And if he’s using some artificial means of contraception, that compounds it – much worse. You have to find a way to avoid him.’

A moan came from her as if she were in pain. ‘It’s not that easy, Father.’

‘It’s a man, isn’t it? My daughter, you must understand. Men can’t help themselves. That is their nature. But if you let him have his way you share the sin, no doubt about it.’

‘I can’t – stop him. He’s – he’s stronger than me.’ She was sobbing, her breath coming in ragged gasps, each word forced out.

‘Compose yourself, my dear.’ Father O’Connor sighed deeply and shifted his buttocks on the wooden seat. If God had any mercy on him this one would be the last for the day. He waited till the desperate sobs subsided, then said quietly, ‘I will pray for you, that the Blessed Virgin grant you the strength to resist. I suggest you go into the Lady Chapel for a few moments and do the same. Three Hail Marys and four Our Fathers. If you get completely stuck, go talk to the sisters at the convent. In the Name of the Father, the Son –’ and without further ado he made the sign of the cross.

With leaden movements the girl rose to leave. Father O’Connor wondered if he had been too brusque. ‘Wait a moment,’ he urged. ‘I meant what I said about offering a wee prayer of intercession for you. What shall I call you?’

The girl struggled to regain control and blew her nose. For a moment the priest thought she would not reply, then as she pushed open the door she turned her face to him.

‘Yes, Father, pray for me. Take pity on my soul. It’s the only thing which might help. My name’s Colette.’

Though Annie made it plain she would have preferred the visit to the Rembrandt to be postponed or forgotten entirely, neither Daniel nor Gertie would hear of it. Given the imminence of Passover it was best to go without further delay.

‘Can I wear my barmitzvah suit?’ Barry demanded.

‘You shouldn’t – it’ll be bad luck,’ Annie quickly interposed.

‘Where d’you get that nonsense?’ Daniel had come home early and bounced around giving instructions. ‘That’s fine. Then if it’s tight anywhere or needs a quick alteration there’s still time.’ He summoned his daughter. ‘Your best frock. No trousers or other foolishness or they won’t let us in.’

Up in the bedroom Gertie surveyed her niece’s lavender gingham dress with its close-fitting bodice, narrow waist and full skirt.

‘That shows off your figure beautifully. You’re a very pretty girl, Helen. Make sure you smell
good too.’ Helen dabbed as instructed from the big bottle of
Miss Dior.

The club was on the first and second floors above ground level of a fine old sandstone building in the centre of town, not far from Daniel’s workshop. The car parked, the Majinskys gathered on the pavement a little overawed before an impressive carved door. The bell push, a shiny disc of brass almost a foot across, waxed and waned as car headlights passed. Through bay windows above their heads could be glimpsed chandeliers in a rosy glow. The main decor appeared to be red – crimson flock walls and ceilings, almost as if the place were a high-class brothel. Maybe it had been, once: in Liverpool such a history was not unlikely. Its current usage was betrayed by the discreet tinkle of wine bottle against crystal, of silver cutlery on porcelain. A fine smell of roast beef floated down from an open shutter.

Helen saw her mother sniff in disgust and bury her nose in the lapel of her coat. The girl was unsettled by the animosity between mother and aunt but was determined not to let anything spoil her enjoyment. This was the way her father desired to celebrate the arrival of his sister, the first visitor ever from his far-flung tribe in America. He’d have pondered deeply how to impress. His contacts included the most refined names in the city: Helen did not doubt that in such respects his taste was impeccable. If she were to risk a future beyond the confines of home such knowledge might come in handy. Not least, it’d be easier if her first experience of a smart restaurant could be in the comparative security of her own family.

Maître d’ Mario Belloni smoothed the lapels of his tuxedo as the group approached. His face creased into a practised smile.

‘Ah, my dear Mr Majinsky! How wonderful to see you in our establishment.’ He ticked them off his list and deftly removed coats, complimented Helen on her dress and scent, then whispered confidentially to Daniel: ‘This suit you made me is superb. I must come and see you for another.’

It did not escape the women in the party that Daniel had claimed the manager, not the head waiter, as his client.

The property consisted of interconnected salons in each of which three or four tables were set. That gave privacy and cosiness though it limited the opportunity for covert examination of other diners. Mario bustled smoothly, collected menus and ushered them into the far room.

The table for five was circular, with a blush pink tablecloth which nearly reached the floor. It was laid with bone china in white with raised gold edging: the club symbol, the self-portrait of Rembrandt the painter, was on every piece. Each place had three forks and knives parallel,
silver-plated
with heavily chased handles in decreasing sizes, and another fork, small knife and spoon horizontally at the top, plus three differently shaped cut glasses. With a shiver of pleasure Helen fingered the elaborately folded linen napkin and the centrepiece with half-opened rosebuds and a red candle. Mario winked at her and hovered expectantly.

Gertie promptly ordered a Martini, though the rest could not be budged to more than orange juice. When the juice came Barry pulled a face.

‘Ugh! It’s got bits in it.’

Helen sipped hers. ‘It’s real juice, you dope, not bottled squash.’ She drank carefully to imprint the sweetly acidic tang. Never again would she accept orange-coloured cordial.

‘Wine with the meal?’ Gertie asked with a hopeful air.

Annie began to demur but Daniel laid a hand on her arm. ‘Why not? What do you recommend?’

Mario looked from one to another to assess their probable spending power. ‘Depends what you are eating of course, but we have a delicious fruity Fleurie, or if you prefer a white a Meursault –’

Daniel’s brow furrowed. To her own astonishment it was Helen who came to the rescue. More than once the girls at school had daydreamed what might be served at their weddings, just supposing they and not their mothers had the right to choose.

‘How about Mateus Rosé? Everybody likes that.’

‘And it goes with everything,’ Mario agreed hastily. He lit the candle in the centre of the table. ‘Now have you decided on your main course?’

Helen picked up the huge menu in both hands. In the dim light it was difficult to decipher. Many of the terms meant nothing to her. What were Lyonnaise potatoes? or
crème brûlée
? or tagliatelle?
Was any of this kosher
?

Her father ordered poached salmon, with tomato and herb soup as a starter. Gertie asked for Dover sole preceded by an avocado vinaigrette. Annie began to order the same, then sighed and with an apology for her small appetite asked whether a mushroom omelette might be possible. Mario bowed. ‘Certainly, signora. Whatever you want.’ And Barry after much prevarication asked for the same as his father.