She's Leaving Home (28 page)

‘That’s what you call it, huh? We’re a long way from Little Italy, that’s all I can say.’

‘I’ve never been to Italy,’ Helen spoke dreamily. ‘In fact I haven’t been anywhere much.’

‘Little Italy’s in New York. They have a marvellous parade every September for the feast of San Gennaro. Everyone has a whale of a time. I’d take you to Paolucci’s or the Café Roma on Mulberry Street. Great ice cream sodas and pizzas with olives and mozzarella – oh, I forgot, you don’t have pizza here.’

‘We have spaghetti. In tins with tomato sauce. Heinz.’

Michael pulled a face but laughed. ‘Well, I’m not Italian so I won’t take offence. But I’d love to show you my native city; take you riding on the subway, sit out with you at the Verrazano Narrows bridge, swim at Fire Island: Helen, you’d adore it.’

He told her more about himself. That he was twenty-one and had graduated, but was keen to complete his compulsory military service without delay. That he was unsure what to do afterwards but might stay in the Air Force for a while. That his father held a senior post in the Justice Department which required frequent attendance in Washington. That he also had a younger brother about Helen’s age, the apple of his parents’ eye. He spoke with energy and enthusiasm, emphasising points by tracing circles on the table with his index finger. The family he described had a warmth and closeness which made her wistful.

Still she had not placed him in context. It was time to try.

‘In New York, when you’re home, do you go to a big
schul
?’

‘A big what?’

‘A
schul
. You know, a synagogue.’

He frowned. ‘I don’t go to a
schul
. Helen, I’m not Jewish.’

The air froze, and sang, and whirled away from her. Not Jewish? Her heart stopped beating and she could feel the blood drain from her face. She held her breath then slowly let it out, as if frightened ever to breathe again.

Not Jewish. Not allowed.

Forbidden
.

Somehow it had been there from the start. He had not swaggered, he had not made a speedy play for her. He was obviously used to money but didn’t chuck it around. His manners came from another culture, one less frenetic, less troubled, less persecuted, less desperate to impress. She might have guessed, had she allowed herself to consider. What instinct had suppressed a casual inquiry? Was it the same instinct which had led her to keep his existence a secret, though there was no obvious reason to do so? Had she subconsciously realised, and feared knowing? Until now.

Quietly she put down her coffee cup. He gazed at her gravely, only dimly aware of the importance of his announcement. Then he placed his hand on hers and squeezed it. She did not pull away but looked steadily into his face. Her voice was faint: it was an effort to speak.

‘You do realise that the Harold House invitation – and your surname –’

‘Sure. But not at the time. My name often throws people; my grandfather was a Jew from Poland. But we’re Episcopalian. And what’s more –’ he leaned forward anxiously and held her hand tighter ‘– I was brought up in a liberal-minded household. My parents are New York Democrats. They would tolerate no kind of prejudice, not against Negroes, or Jews, or “Polaks”, or “I-ties” or anybody. My Pa won’t allow derogatory talk in our home.’

He could see she was confused. Without pause he continued, his voice low and urgent. ‘Hey, Helen, I sure hope you feel the same way. It’s a new world for our generation. Remember what Kennedy said at his inaugural, about the new generation taking over? He meant we should look outward, put away old divisions which separated us. My Pa has campaigned for his brother Robert, our Attorney General. He’s an even finer man, my Pa says. We
are
tackling prejudice and those inequalities which have made a mockery of our constitutional freedoms. That means we too must live our lives without hatred, respecting every man as our equal. And every woman.’

He laughed lightly to soften the solemnity out of consideration for her. Helen saw that he
expected no less a declaration in return. But though at the highest level – in her reading for example – she would empathise with exactly the same sentiments, to hear them uttered as a recipe for real life was new and quite bewildering.

How he reacted in the next few moments would determine whether they could continue their friendship, deepen it to an alliance, or whether she would walk out and go home alone.

The record clicked and ended. Behind them the shiny coffee machine hissed and gurgled, coins tinkled on the counter. The neon sign winked, pink and lilac.

Helen turned her hand palm up on the table, so that Michael could grasp it more firmly. It was an invitation from her to share her dilemma, but not to belittle or ignore it. He responded at once without a word. He had not lifted his gaze from her pale face, but stared solemnly and unblinkingly at her as if he wanted to transfer to her the depth and strength of his own convictions. The power and confidence of his grip, his hand warm without being clammy, gave her overwhelming reassurance. She had her answer.

‘No Jew can be prejudiced,’ she responded at last. ‘Look at what’s happened to us over the centuries. Don’t worry, Michael. I’m not going to give you up because of that.’

A strange sound came from him, as if he were suppressing a cry. He rose, grabbed his jacket and pulled her up. ‘Come on.’

His back as he marched ahead of her out of the café and up Leece Street had a firmness of purpose about it. They came to Hope Street where he had parked the Austin car borrowed from a civilian on the base. Away from the main road it was darker; street lamps cast ineffectual pools of light into the night. In the distance she could hear a bus grinding its way up the hill, a snatch of music.

Within a few yards he stopped and pushed her gently with her back to a brick wall. They were in an alcove, protected from the street. She looked up at him, not afraid. He had kissed her before, but briefly: enough to create a nagging hunger for more. However clumsy she might be with relatives whom she barely knew, with Michael it would be easy. His jacket collar was of sheepskin, comforting, inviting. Beneath it in the hollow of his throat his skin glowed and a pulse beat, far faster than normal.

Without hurrying he took her in his arms and held her close.

‘Oh, Helen, you are so lovely, and so young. I don’t want to cause you any grief.’

‘Hush.’ She laid her cheek on his shoulder. ‘You won’t. But I’ve never met anyone like you. It takes a while to get used to.’

He smoothed her head under his hand and buried his face in her hair. ‘Your hair smells of apples. Why aren’t you like other girls – all hard-faced and made up? Everything about you is genuine and sweet. Yet you’re smart as a button. Whatever I say to you, you’re way ahead of me.’

She lifted her face to him. ‘You’re talking tosh, Michael. Now stop messing about and kiss me.’

‘Stop messing abaht…’ He imitated her accent, teasing, making her wait. Then he bent and kissed her, gently at first, then harder, and let the tip of his tongue explore, not too aggressively in case this was new to her; and she clung to him inside his unfastened jacket so he could feel her breasts against his ribcage, and she arched her back and was standing on tiptoe, and her hands were kneading the small of his back…

He broke off. ‘If I touch you, will you scream?’ he whispered. In response she lifted his hand and placed it where he most wanted, under her sweater on her left breast. He slid eager fingers under the bra and found the nipple. She sighed and half closed her eyes. He pressed her harder against the wall, aware that she would feel his erection –
‘I say. What have we ’ere?’

The policeman was right behind Michael who jumped as if shot. The law officer struggled to keep a straight face and prodded them gruffly with his truncheon.

‘It may be true love, but not in the street, if you don’t mind.’

‘Sorry, officer.’ Michael grabbed her hand as she pulled down her sweater. Both were red with embarrassment and warm with the sensations of the other’s body. In a moment they were in the car and driving furiously towards Helen’s home, giggling at the ludicrous interruption, sure that neither would tell on the other to anybody else.

Michael parked round the corner on Woolton Road where anonymity was more assured. He switched off the engine and kissed Helen again, but the little car cramped his long legs and banged his elbows.

‘It’s horribly late. I have to go in,’ she said suddenly and wriggled out of his embrace.

He leaned back, one arm still around her shoulders. She reached behind to hook up her bra once more and tugged down her top. Her skirt had remained demurely over her knees.

‘You’ve never done it, have you?’ he asked. She shook her head and turned from him. As she pulled away her hand knocked against the gear lever; she let her fingers rest lightly for a moment on the knob, as if to indicate she knew what was to come.

‘Would you like to do it with me? I’d make sure it was safe.’

A great shout came from her soul, but all she could utter was a sigh and a slight shake of the head.

He ran the back of his hand slowly down the side of her face and across the lips he had moistened only a second before, then picked up a dark curl and twirled it between finger and thumb as if committing every detail of her to memory.

‘I won’t press you. But think about it.’

She nodded, reached up and kissed him lightly one more time, then opened the door and climbed out.

Every inch of her was on fire: she could feel arteries pound in unaccustomed new places, in her neck where he had sucked a tiny love bite, across her breasts where he had squeezed her, deep in her belly, between her legs, though he had not ventured there or further. Yet his words had set her whole being to smoulder: as if she were a barrel-load of gelignite, packed, primed, and about to explode.

As she walked rapidly towards the house she listened for the car driving away. For a long time there was only the click of her own heels on the pavement. It was several minutes before the engine revved then roared off.

Nellie and Pete left the pub entwined; his swagger told his fellow drinkers all they needed to know. Catcalls and ribald suggestions followed them into the street.

Nellie, for all her intoxication, kept her wits about her. Her Pete was tall, and had worn relatively well. The money he’d stolen must have helped, but he’d been a handsome bloke in his twenties – that’s why she’d fallen for him. What a stupid berk he’d been, getting involved with that gang. Too greedy to live on a labourer’s pay, he’d sworn he’d never go to sea. Now that he’d been forced to, it seemed to suit him. Smelled of Senior Service cigarettes and Red Barrel – strong, masculine. Still handsome. And available.

At the door of the flat Pete McCauley wrinkled his nose. Nellie said nothing. Good housekeeping was not what he was after.

‘
Mia carina
,’ he whispered, and held her tightly.

‘Oh, God, Pete. It’s been such an age.’

‘You’re still a peach, Nellie.
Bella, bellissima
.’

He slid the jacket slowly off her shoulders so he could grasp the bare flesh of her upper arms. Then he bent to kiss her, but was unprepared for the ferocity of her reaction: hungrily she reached up for him, her two hands on his cheeks, and pressed her mouth and tongue wetly on to his. For a moment they clung till he broke for air. He enfolded her in his arms and rubbed her back with his thumbs, so that her breasts pressed into his own body.

Somewhere below she sniffled. He lifted her chin.

‘You won’t get any daft ideas, will you? I have to go back.’ An idea of his own appeared out of the blue. ‘But if we hit it off again you could come with me. Not a bad place, España. No extradition treaty. Lovely sunshine.’ Another sniff. He didn’t fancy her maudlin: better get on with it.

So Nellie found herself in her own rucked-up bed with the man to whom she had once been married, and, she remembered with a shock, from whom she had never formally separated. They undressed in a blur and crashed heavily down in a tangle of limbs. Fuzzily she gauged that Pete’d not learned much in his years away and was still as rough and speedy as before. He weighed a lot more, too. But he did the business with more than a little passion and it felt far better than nothing; with practice who knew what heights they might attain?

Later they smoked and talked, meanderingly, until he failed to answer and began to snore softly instead. Nellie lay back and studied the ceiling for a moment, then responsibility reasserted itself. She leaned over the supine torso, found the dying cigarette, stubbed it out and then her own. She yawned. Her mouth tasted furry but would wait till daylight. They could attend to their hangovers together. Gently, like a caress, she pulled the blankets over them both and snuggled close to her warm sweaty husband.

‘Goo’night,’ she mumbled, and turned out the bedside light.

It meant ‘son of the law’, Helen knew. The Law was
Torah
– not just the five books of Moses around which everything else was built, but Kings and Judges, Daniel and Ruth, Ezra and the Maccabees, told and retold as if their adventures happened yesterday, and Ecclesiastes and Isaiah whose texts had to be treated with such caution since the Christians had pinched so much. But never the New Testament.

As the singing below swelled into a chorus she opened her own prayer book. The Law included, in addition, the
Talmud
and the
Shulchan Aruch
from which as a girl she was excluded. To study the medieval and later texts required years at a
yeshiva
; the main one in Britain in Gateshead would have been shocked to the marrow at the notion of taking females. That seemed odd, since the Law was a comprehensive system of ethics which women were supposed to observe as well as men. How could you be expected to obey if you couldn’t investigate the sources?

Helen did not doubt that the Law was wholesome and worthy. The word
mitzvah
had various translations, all positive in implication. For example a
mitzvah
was a good deed. The road to heaven was paved with them – though in the strictest interpretation, a good deed counted only if nobody else knew about it: except God. The altruism and modesty pleased her.

But the Law was a protection and an identity, so there was little point in doubting it, or the way it was administered. At least not today.

She leaned over the balcony to gaze at the participants below. The
schul
was full, partly as a mark of respect to the two families whose boys were on the
bimah
. Only men were permitted in the body of the hall. The front row included her mother’s two younger brothers, Uncle Sammy and Uncle Abbie, both businessmen from Manchester, and Aunt Becky’s husband Leonard, who was a member of a Reform synagogue and clearly lost in the complex liturgy. The rest of her mother’s extended family was either dead, ill or dispersed. Jack Feldman and his wife had emigrated to Australia, Ruth was working in Glasgow, Rosie had a sick husband and had declined. David the pharmacist and his non-Jewish wife in London had not been invited, a matter which nobody sought to query: their presence would have been both controversial and an irrelevance.

As in every Orthodox congregation women and small children were banished upstairs. The balcony end nearest the Ark was reserved for Mrs Siegel and her brood who sat bolt upright and followed every word. Aunty Becky and the other sisters-in-law and their children sat in a well-dressed gaggle around her mother. Gertie’s transatlantic style, her choice of silvery grey for an outfit, the sweep and charm of her hat, made her the object of intense whispered curiosity. Downstairs, beside his father, Barry looked unnerved in the new suit, his head covered with a white
yarmulkah
, his shoulders with the silk prayer shawl Gertie had brought from the States as a special gift.

At the eastern end facing the worshippers, at the top of three balustraded steps, supported on carved and embellished pillars and surmounted by mottoes and exhortations in Hebrew, was the Ark of the Covenant, the
Aron Kodesh.
The doors were hidden behind a blue velvet curtain thickly embroidered in gold filigree with representations of the tablets of stone brought down the mountain by Moses. A tiny eternal flame flickered above.

The most holy moment was about to arrive.

Reverend Siegel raised his voice in a paean of praise; the congregation came to its feet and sang with full-throated enthusiasm. The elders, faces full of piety, stepped forward. The curtain was drawn aside and the Ark opened.

It was simply a cupboard set in the wall, but the sight never failed to make Helen pause in awe. Inside, it was lined in white ruched silk. Like grand eminences the holy scrolls were revealed in
their splendour, rolled up and laid vertically in coats of purple, with silver bells on the handles and engraved breastplates which twinkled in the light. Each elder touched the edge of his prayer shawl to a scroll then pressed the tassels to his lips with a murmured blessing. Both parchment script and decorations might be of great antiquity; when a
sefer Torah
was too old to use, it would be buried in consecrated ground with a complete funeral service. The chorale swelled as the appropriate scroll was selected and carried on Daniel’s shoulders to the
bimah
. There, with further incantations, it was denuded of its velvet and rolled out on the lectern ready for use.

Barry began to intone his portion of the Law, following the hieroglyphics with the silver pointer held by Reverend Siegel. His voice cracked a little with strain. Every note and inflection was sighed over by relatives both upstairs and down.

Barry made a tiny mistake and Helen winced. She could have done it perfectly. Yet in the Orthodox
schul
it could not happen. The Reform and Liberal synagogues permitted barmitzvah for girls – it was called
bat
-
mitzvah
, daughter of the Law – as they allowed many other depredations, but their approach was regarded as back-sliding rather than modern. What was the point in having a religion that was too easy?

But what was taking place below was not about religion. The barmitzvah was an initiation ceremony – an induction into manhood, an admission to the ranks of adult males who controlled the community as they had in the village or pale or ghetto from which their forefathers had come. So women took no part, and she suspected that the men might have preferred to get on with it without female chatter from upstairs. For the behaviour of the gallery during the two hours or more was to a degree disrespectful and certainly a distraction.

It was not their fault. Helen could translate the service, but since most women had not been taught Hebrew they could only chant the best-known lines with virtuous expressions. In between they caught up with family events in a buzz of gossip and showed off their best clothes and hats. Yet few had ever protested or considered their exclusion strange.

In the Roman Catholic Church the Vatican Council had denounced such parrot-fashion devotions. The Holy Mass should be in the language of the country its adherents could understand. The comprehension of the common people had also been at the heart of the Reformation: that such arguments stretched across centuries surprised Helen not a bit, accustomed as she was to quotations from second-century Rabbi Akivah in the same breath as Herzl or Chaim Weizmann. Nor was she surprised that clergy like Archbishop Lefebvre from France had denounced the proposed changes as heresy. The Church would be weakened, the Archbishop claimed, if it opened eyes and ears. Piety needed no compromises. Should the pious begin to think for themselves, there was no limit. It would end with men making their own pact with God, needing neither priests nor intervention nor churches, nor heaven and hell either.

It intrigued Helen that she could glean more from newspapers about the agonies of the monolithic Catholic church than ever was possible about her own. The
Jewish Chronicle
was not taken in her house; only one Jewish paper could be afforded and the
Liverpool Jewish Gazette
with a single reporter-cum-editor was mostly tittle-tattle and wedding photos. Since photography was not permitted on the sabbath, snaps from tomorrow’s party would appear in next Friday’s edition, with every invitee listed.

Time for the
Kadesh
, the holiest part of the service. Girls weren’t supposed to join in the responses, but she couldn’t see why not. Around her the women rose to their feet and were cowed by shushing from downstairs into comparative silence.

Below the men fell to
davening
, their prayer books held close to their noses. Their bodies swayed, heads in
yarmulkahs
or trilbies bobbed up and down with the rhythm of the language. A hum as of bees rose from the assembly. Near her, Mrs Siegel was doing the same. The interlude would take several minutes. Pages flicked over quickly as if there might be a prize for whoever could finish first.

The formalities were nearly over. Reverend Siegel, sweaty in his black robes and black velvet
couronne
hat, crooned a final verse and bowed to the now closed Ark. Men removed their prayer shawls, folded and kissed them and put them away in braided velvet bags. A man’s prayer shawl would go to his grave with him. The bags would stay in the space built under their seats till next needed along with the prayer books; it was a sin to carry anything, even religious items, on the sabbath.

Now the women could descend though they could not enter the main body of the synagogue. Everyone gathered outside in the spring sunshine. Barry was kissed many times by effusive ladies till his cheek was multi-coloured with lipstick. Daniel’s hand was seized and shaken. Annie was the target of attention also and basked in compliments.

Helen stood to one side, and did her best to feel proud.

All afternoon visitors came to the house until Helen and Annie, had they dared admit it, were exhausted. Gertie rode to the rescue – her friendliness and continued interest in the minutiae of Liverpool society were inexhaustible. Nobody protested when, once it was dark and the last visitor had gone, Daniel wearily suggested turning on the television for the news. And as the family sagged in front of the set, it seemed reasonable to watch the film afterwards, and slowly to doze.

Helen had debated going to Harold House but tonight was for familial duties and the GIs were away on a weekend exercise. More excitement was afoot. Michael had invited her to the base, an excursion planned for the following Sunday. He had spoken a great deal about his work; in fact, as she realised, he wanted to introduce her to more of his pals. The trip felt rather as, she imagined, the first contact with a lover’s family might be. Would she pass muster? Would they like her? Whether she liked them or not was immaterial – it was Michael who counted. But a fair impression made on his companions could strengthen his regard for her. That mattered.

Michael was in her mind every moment. Apart from a few casual remarks at school (not in Roseanne’s vicinity) she had instinctively kept quiet about him. Some inner sense had warned her early that Michael was not in the ordinary run of boyfriends.

For a start he was older than most of her crowd. He had completed the stage none of them had yet entered – he was a university graduate and treated her anxieties about gaining entrance with what amounted to a gentle contempt. Of course she should try, of course she would get in. This approach she found encouraging rather than the opposite: he took her abilities absolutely for granted.

And he was a foreigner. That gave their exchanges greater piquancy and verve. For whatever she disliked about her city or its inhabitants, whenever Barry or Jerry Feinstein made her despair, she could fall back on the certainty that Michael was not like that at all. He was not part of this decaying port, did not share its lackadaisical and cynical attitudes. He was honourable, educated and kind. His manners were a delight. That he was an outsider was a huge attraction for her, whereas for almost everyone else she knew – including her parents – such foreignness would rule him out at once.

It wasn’t merely that he wasn’t Jewish – as yet she dared not let herself think too deeply about that. But Michael presented a dramatic challenge which most of her family would deplore. Anything fresh or new would produce flickers of worry from her mother, hoots of derision from her brother, illogical reasons not to proceed from her father. Proposals which might lead to an altered state would be ridiculed until dropped. The presupposition was that everything should stay much as it was.

Yet the times were changing, or at least that’s what Michael declared, and what the television news showed. The Beatles’ sudden success was an example. Down in Mather Avenue, Paul’s father and brother had had to hide behind their curtains as hordes of teenage girls descended to catch a glimpse of their hero. They would not be told that the group was in London and periodically had to be removed by the police. On the screen their faces were contorted and tearful as they were lifted bodily away. A new word, ‘Beatlemania’, had been coined.

And with politics too, an election could not long be delayed. After so many years a new government might take office. The Prime Minister and Cabinet seemed to have lost their grip. The new Leader of the Labour Party sounded confident, his supporters determined and united. The old guard would be swept away. What was it Michael had referred to – Kennedy’s comment at his inaugural?
‘Let the word go forth that the torch has been passed to a new generation
’: that was it. By contrast with that superb rhetoric British Ministers’ speeches were dull and old-fashioned, but at last it felt as if some ancient blockage was being shifted. How she longed to be part of the movement. She would have to contain her impatience until she was a proper student and away from home.

The television was switched off. Helen climbed the stairs, her mind still engaged. At her bedroom door she remembered that not every one of her relatives was so hide-bound. One, indeed, was a foreigner. She undressed thoughtfully and slid into bed. Gertie entered.

‘Wow! What a day.’ Gertie began to unbutton her exquisite silvery suit  and found a hanger.

‘Big event for us. Not often our routine is disturbed so.’

Gertie smiled. ‘I guess the next time will be your wedding.’

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Helen murmured. She half sat up, her arms round her knees.

‘Why not? It would please your mother. You surely can’t think of a register office ceremony – it’d break her heart.’ Gertie pulled a lace-trimmed nightdress over her head. She cast a curious glance in Helen’s direction. ‘Or do you plan not to get married, is that it?’