She's Leaving Home (52 page)

‘But I have faith,’ answered Helen simply, as she moved to go. ‘More than my father, I suspect. It simply doesn’t involve choosing my friends on the basis of
their
parentage. And if that means that eventually I have to part company with the people I love, who raised me –’

Her mentor, his face grey and drained, leaned on the door as if physically to prevent her exit.

‘You will do Hitler’s work for him,’ he repeated sombrely. ‘After what we have gone through, you can simply turn your back on us? You can deny your heritage? What is it – you are ashamed of being a Jew? I hoped never to hear it, Helen. Not from you.’

‘I am not ashamed. But you must not try to – to blackmail me, sir. What Germany did was terrible. But it cannot be undone. Nothing I do with my future can bring six million murdered people back. But they mustn’t be – be resurrected from the grave, to prevent the next generation living a normal life. Otherwise we are all victims and it’ll never end. Mr Mannheim wouldn’t want that, nor would his dead wife, I am certain.’

She had no idea where the words came from; words of an unfamiliar maturity which drew on some unknown inner source. Her absorption of Michael’s attitudes which so chimed with her own, and of the vocabulary that helped her articulate them, accounted for some part. Or perhaps, she pondered later, they originated from the faintest of spirits, which floated in the synagogue’s dusty air and whispered through her.

‘You must not allow the dead to imprison us,’ she said softly but stubbornly. ‘You must not permit our enemies and those who would exterminate us to make us hate in the same way. We forget how many other men and women sacrificed their lives to make this world free. And in my freedom, sir, I prefer to live in friendship with others – all of them, as far as they will allow: Jews and non-Jews alike.’

With a quietly determined move she reached past Reverend Siegel for the door handle, turned it, and went out.

He sat for a long time in the unlit chamber, a tubby man in a black silk robe, his head bowed and eye-sockets dark. Helen was not the first, nor would she be the last, to express such sentiments. If the rumours he had heard were true, her father Daniel Majinsky must once have felt the same. The difference was that persuasion had brought the one back into the flock, but the other, he feared, was rapidly moving away, beyond redemption or return.

‘See, the geese are flying.’

Annie dried her hands on her pinny and pointed out of the kitchen window. It was Friday morning, early, a crisp bright day, with the pink flush of dawn still in the sky. She turned to her daughter. ‘Canada geese. You see them in Calderstones Park. Savage creatures – they’ll bite your arm if you get too close. They’re off home.’

Helen stood with her mother for a moment, munched a piece of toast and watched the arrowhead formation winging its way west. ‘Thank goodness we don’t have to do that.’

‘It’s in their natures. Every autumn I watch them and each year I’m reminded of when I was carrying you. You were such a big baby, and so reluctant to come into the world. Now look at you.’

Helen stopped in mid-bite and blinked at her mother. So seldom were expressions of affection uttered in the Majinsky household that Annie’s remark was startling, yet it created a moment of danger. Helen sensed that if she stayed the conversation would revert quickly to the unwisdom of her leaving. She would rather not put up with it any more; the tension and pain of the bitter argument with Reverend Siegel was sufficient.

She swallowed and quickly washed her buttery fingers under the kitchen tap. ‘Must run, or I’ll be late, if there’s any post for me, don’t open it, will you?’

‘Would I do that?’ Annie called after her, as Helen pulled on her duffel coat.

‘Wouldn’t you just, Mum,’ Helen murmured but kept the reflection to herself. ‘You’d apologise afterwards and say it was a mistake, that you thought it was for you. You still don’t see your children as separate people, entitled to a life of their own. And to their own secrets.’

It was to prove a strange morning. Though outwardly composed she was restless and unhappy. After the confrontation with Siegel she felt drained; so many questions remained unasked, yet the Minister, good man that he was, had answered her all too effectively.

Nor could she get Colette out of her mind. Her heart yearned to find a way to cheer and support her, but first her friend had to want that too. Colette appeared briefly at school but did not speak to Helen. The visit to the O’Brien flat had not worked; instead of
rapprochement
Helen felt estranged and a little cross. Out of her depth, she had said, and it was apparent from Colette’s stony expression that whatever murky world the Irish girl moved in now, Helen’s presence was not desired. To be rejected when she was trying to be kind was hurtful. She would not be so bold again.

For months Helen had envisaged a parting of the ways as still to come – a crossroads to be approached with the greatest care, but not as yet reached. It had to be faced, however, that her own journey had already taken a unique direction, whatever might happen about the university places.

She, Helen, was not the same person as her three friends. In fact, apart from attending the same school they did not have much in common. She and Colette had been closest; both came from immigrant families, both knew themselves to be outsiders. Both had emerged from an intense, erratic religious environment laced with arbitrary rules – whether ‘fish on Friday’, or ‘no milk and meat together’ – outside the English mainstream. Whereas Brenda, Meg and Miss Plumb could assert that
of course
they were British, for Colette and herself that identity was something to ponder. And if they stayed in Britain, it would be a matter of choice, not a matter of course.

She had met very little prejudice in her life. There had been the occasional remark – Brenda’s casual pity of her at the beginning of the year, Miss Plumb’s description of her religion last month as inconvenient. But the headmistress had obviously regretted the sneer immediately and would guard her tongue in future. Most of the barriers Helen would face would not be over her faith or race but over her gender. It would be far tougher to make progress as an ambitious woman than as a Jew. There hovered in the recesses of her mind the suspicion that coming from Liverpool might also prove a handicap, but for the moment it was hard to judge in what circumstances.

If her parents and the Minister were to be believed, the absence of anti-semitism she had met
was sheer luck and could reverse at any time. Her riposte to Siegel had been that it was not luck but the culture of a Christian country which advocated tolerance and compassion. She had offended him sorely by her implication that any philosophy could be finer than his own, but that could not be helped.

The person to whom she felt closest was Michael: how bizarre, for he was a foreigner in every sense. Her community would never accept him: never. As she set up apparatus in the lab for the afternoon’s double lesson her scientist’s mind turned the issue over, and she smiled quietly to herself.

Scientific method, as followed since Isaac Newton’s day, was to fix as many variables as possible then systematically change one and measure what resulted in the others. That enabled the identification of the basic laws of nature – the relationship between heat and volume, between pressure and boiling points, the regular stuff she had absorbed for her exams and could reproduce virtually in her sleep.

So what were the variables for Michael? A father might object to his daughter’s choice on the grounds that the man was unsuitable. A layabout, for example. Or unlikely to earn a living. Or unstable, one who might leave her in the lurch holding a baby with no visible means of support. Or a drinker, or gambler. Even she might hesitate if a boyfriend revealed such weaknesses.

As far as she knew, however, those variables were not in play in the case of Michael R. Levison. Indeed his prospects financially and socially were, as far as she knew, far better than her own family’s.

That made him more, not less, of a challenge. Her father could not object to him on any grounds that might be persuasive. Had any such been present, she would not have met Michael again, nor fallen in love with him. Perhaps she had inherited some of her mother’s cautious nature. There were similarities between the two men – their independent pattern of thought, their directness, their strong characters and dignified sense of justice. Were Daniel to permit himself to meet Michael properly and get to know him, he’d recognise those fine qualities which Helen had originally learned to respect in her father. The comparison made the rejection much more painful. For only one characteristic remained on which her father could or would try to deny her her choice: Michael was a Christian, and therefore taboo.

‘A full-blooded Christian, no less,’ she reminded herself. ‘And strong enough not to be deterred by opposition. Not one jot.’

It was wise to stay well in with her parents. Not merely out of self-interest, for the time being, but because it was the right thing to do. Michael would approve; had she had a row with her family without good cause he would have rebuked her, even if sympathetic. The self-discipline of holding her tongue applied as much to herself as it did to Miss Plumb. Reverend Siegel was different, because he was a serious thinker and equipped to respond to the heart-searching of his flock. But her family she should treat as she wished to be treated by them, at any rate for as long as it was possible.

She resolved to spend her brief lunchtime with Daniel in his workshop. A little courtesy never went amiss and she still loved her father even though she increasingly felt distanced from him. As she climbed the stairs to the showroom she heard voices; Daniel was in the throes of measuring a customer.

It was Maurice Feinstein. Helen stared from one to another. Maurice turned away shyly, clearly embarrassed.

‘Arm up, Morrie,’ her father urged. ‘Bend it at right-angles. That’s it, then I can get the outside arm measurement. Now relax – don’t hold yourself in. Your trousers need to be comfortable. That’s better. Belt or braces? I recommend both –’

‘The only spare time I could get,’ Maurice justified, too loudly. He must have left Nellie McCauley in charge.

Helen grinned at him. ‘New suit?’

‘Correct,’ Daniel answered for his client. ‘At last one of my bridge partners has realised that Burton the Tailors’ off-the-peg outfits do not satisfy every need. He’s chosen a splendid piece of worsted. Suitable for a wedding, hey, Morrie?’

Daniel bent to measure the inside leg and took rather long about it while Maurice wriggled and blushed. Helen’s grin widened. ‘Mazeltov. Is it the lady we saw on Rosh Hashanah in
schul
? I loved her hat. She was certainly making eyes at you.’

‘Nothing’s settled yet,’ Maurice grunted defensively. ‘I simply needed a decent suit. Vera nags me about what I wear.’

The two Majinskys exchanged amused glances. Helen strolled about pretending to admire while the hapless grocer was held and twirled by her father.

‘It wouldn’t have bothered Nellie,’ Helen commented mischievously.

‘Nellie?’

‘Nellie. At the delicatessen. Don’t you see her mooning over you sometimes? She adores you for what you are, Mr Feinstein sir, not for what you wear.’

Feinstein gulped and opened his mouth to reply, but Daniel swished at his daughter with the tape measure. ‘Don’t be cheeky. If you want a sandwich they’re in the box on my desk. And if you’re free at four-thirty I can give you a lift.’

Helen complied, pleased that the teasing had lifted her own spirits somewhat. As she walked back to school she saw she had gone a trifle too far: but she had worked in the shop on Sundays now for several years, and concluded that it would do no harm if Mr Feinstein realised someone else held a candle for him. It might make him less hasty about this Vera, who seemed a great deal more artificial than the dependable and friendly Nellie.

Though perhaps Mr Feinstein already knew, more than he might be willing to admit.

Later that day and back at the shop Nellie McCauley could be found grumbling angrily to herself. She had so chewed the end of her pencil that bits of sodden wood had disintegrated from it into her mouth. With a sigh she spat them out and wiped her lips on the back of her hand.

The accounts were a nuclear disaster zone. It had not been her intention to spend Friday afternoon after Mr Feinstein had vanished and the shop closed in a titanic struggle to disentangle them, but her conscience would not permit the disarray to continue.

An element of self-protection drove her. She it was who took the brunt of rows over money. It was all very well Mr Feinstein being so distracted. Bills had not been paid for ages; creditors had begun to show up furiously waving bits of paper. Some were genuine, some not. When he couldn’t hide he’d pay the most persistent, who might not be the most needy or urgent. Nellie feared the message’d get round. Soon the demands would come from the Inland Revenue: then where would they be?

She had provided herself with a half-bottle of Polish vodka and a tin of Jaffa juice out of the shop to keep her going, but the first taste of the strong liquor had brought Pete vividly to mind and she had put it to one side. What she had meant to do was pack. The air tickets lay in their glossy blue folder before her on the table, a reminder of the wonderful fresh start which awaited her. Which she had chosen, and which soon would be hers.

It was getting dark; Nellie rose and switched on the lights, then cut herself a hunk of cheese. This job could take all night.

The Spanish sunshine alone would make the move worthwhile. She loved the sun, on her shoulders, on her bare back. The sun didn’t shine much in Britain so resorts were full of things to do and places indoors to eat. In Spain people ate outside, even in the evening. During daytime in summer it was so hot everyone stopped what they were doing and curled up for a snooze. Siesta, the Spanish word. Would she have to learn the language? But it sounded like heaven.

Nellie grunted. That was probably precisely what Mr Feinstein was up to right now: curled up in bed. Not upstairs in his own bed, where he had a right to be. He was with his snooty lady friend in Queen’s Drive, the house he’d probably move to when the pair of them were wed. The mother was away. He’d been dropping boyish hints this morning about how he was to spend the weekend. ‘Sorting things out’, he called it, with a roguish wink to the male customers present. The atmosphere at times had been like one of those French farces. Nudge, nudge. God, what schoolboys they were. Ridiculous, grown men fooling around like that. Then he’d gone off to town, and not reappeared since.

Nellie began to add up a long column of numbers, her lips moving. Halfway down the pencil lead broke and with an oath she resharpened it and tried again. Three times she computed and three times a fresh answer emerged. For a long few seconds Nellie stared at the paper without seeing a single digit.

Then she pushed away the unfinished orange juice, folded her arms on the untidy piles of paper and pencil shavings, laid down her peroxide head, and wept.

In the car on the way home Helen and her father were quiet but companionable. Daniel switched on the heater and their eet soon gently toasted. The low roar allowed them to sit silent but content when conversation languished.

‘D’you think Maurice Feinstein will marry this lady, Dad?’

‘God knows. If she has her way, yes, from what I hear of her. It was set up by the matchmaker, you know, so he must be intending to get hitched again.’

‘Crikey. But she doesn’t strike me as right for him.’

Daniel shrugged. ‘Not for us to say. Who knows what attracts a man to a woman or vice versa? But you houldn’t have mentioned his shop assistant. That wasn’t fair.’

The car had stopped at traffic lights. Helen snuggled down into her duffel coat. ‘Not suitable because she’s a
shikse
, I suppose.’ But her tone was wistful rather than strident.

‘People have to be compatible. They should share the same values. All you’ve seen of – what’sername – Nellie – is the few hours you’ve spent helping out there. You’ve no idea what she gets up to, say, tonight. And neither has he.’

Above their heads the traffic lights winked. It occurred dimly to Helen that she might not get another chance of a private conversation with her father in this old amicable mode they used to take for granted. There was something she wanted to know.