She's Leaving Home (7 page)

He was not a relative but her father’s oldest friend. The squat, solidly built figure in the camel-hair overcoat came towards her, a rolled-up newspaper in one hand, car keys in the other. Despite living barely a quarter of a mile away he would usually drive, though he handled the big car with difficulty and could not park straight. He did it, as everyone knew, to show off: but so
good-natured
and beguiling a character was he that none but the most spiteful would criticise.

‘And how’s my gorgeous girl this morning?’ He came to the corner of the counter and gave her a hug, then held her back to examine her. ‘So tall. And beautiful, like your mother.’

Only Simon Rotblatt had ever called Annie ‘beautiful’ and it had more than once made Helen ponder; she took it that there was no adverse intention in the remark, only an oblique compliment to herself.

‘I’m fine, Uncle Simon. You look well. What would you like?’

Simon considered. ‘You got a new delivery of schmaltz herring? Yes? I’ll have two small ones, there’s a good girl.’

He turned to a neighbour and began to swap comments on the previous day’s football game. Although nobody in the shop would admit it had a rabbi challenged them, several had witnessed Everton’s defeat of Manchester City at Goodison Park and revelled in the fact.

Helen retreated into the chilly yard. Fetching herring from the barrel was the one task she loathed, for the fish were pickled deep in brine with oil which in this cold weather became a horrible caustic mush. Yet intelligent people like Simon Rotblatt adored the result. She pulled on rubber gloves turned brown and brittle by contact with the liquid and manfully wielded the wooden tongues, but still it was an effort to entrap the slippery silver bodies and remove them into the plastic bowl at her side.

‘Need a hand, Helen?’

She ignored him. Jerry had not arrived to assist her; he must have seen her struggles through their kitchen window. In an ideal world it would be he balancing a dead fish between barrel and
bucket and not herself. Instead he stood in the way with an amused smirk on his pimply face, hands on his hips.

The youth had other ideas, as his flushed cheeks indicated. Casually he sloped closer as Helen was forced to bend over the barrel for the second herring. Standing behind her, he moved to put his hands around her waist. She glanced over her shoulder in annoyance and with her free elbow gave him a dig in the ribs but he was only momentarily dislodged. He was dressed warmly in jeans and sweater but had moccasins on bare feet. Without meaning to she slopped a little brine on his foot.

‘Damn!’ Jerry rubbed ineffectually at the stain, then yelped as the salt found microscopic cuts in the skin of his fingers.

Helen had completed her task and was heading back inside.

‘Sorry, Jerry. If you really want to help, come and put an apron on and cut up some cheese.’

‘You’ve got to be bloody joking,’ the youth muttered, sucking angrily at a cut in his palm. He slouched in after her but slipped back upstairs. He had no intention of becoming a grocer; nor did he like being humiliated by a girl, even if nobody had witnessed it.

In the tiny bathroom Jerry ran his hand under the cold tap and winced with pain. He’d bide his time. What a stuck-up minx that Helen Majinsky was. Every Sunday he tried, and each time she slipped from his clutches. Her resistance didn’t make her more sexually attractive but did increase his determination to have it off with her, sooner or later. Then he could boast about it, and that alone would pay her back. If the opportunity came to show Miss H a thing or two, he’d grab it. And hang the consequences.

Sunday. January. If I don’t talk to somebody I’ll go mad.

Throughout Liverpool the day of rest slid by with the afternoon spent reading the newspapers and
sleeping off the week. The weather was predicted to worsen. By four it was dark and snow flurries drove people home. Teatime – a high tea of tinned Canadian salmon with a garnish of lettuce leaves, a sliced tomato and half a boiled egg – was eaten throughout the city, followed by jelly and fruit cocktail if there were visitors, or a sliced banana with custard otherwise. None but the most intrepid would venture out after seven o’clock.

Or the young and foolish, who recognise no risk. Jerry parked his father’s Ford under a street light, climbed out, forgot to lock it, walked half a block across brown slush, remembered, and with an oath returned to ensure its security. His father may be an easy touch but the use of the car was a privilege not to be abused.

The streets around the neglected square were gloomy and deserted. Dirty snow still lay underfoot, uncleared and neglected. Nobody much lived in the neighbourhood, though once these great Georgian houses with their porticoes and pillars had rung to the sound of balls and splendid dinners. Some had been bomb damaged; others were shored up and awaiting demolition. Jerry skirted the wooden stanchions which kept one frontage upright and kicked litter out of the way. A cat yowled in the distance.

The expanding university had purchased the land and as many leases as it could lay hands on. All it required was the wherewithal to rebuild. A veterinary laboratory and graduate school were planned for the site, it was rumoured. That left Harold House on the corner as an oasis of former grandeur, and perfect to be wrecked in its turn, albeit more slowly, by the coterie of Jewish teenagers whose parents had clubbed together to buy it. Lost in the mists of time was the ‘Harold’ whose name was thus commemorated.

The main door at the top of the imposing steps was shut fast; nobody knew when it had been opened. Probably for the funeral of the last occupant, Jerry supposed. The steps were covered in
rain-pitted
snow disfigured by the footprints of a couple of dogs. Nobody had bothered to sweep or salt the pavement. He went around the side and clattered down a metal staircase to the former tradesman’s entrance and pushed open the door.

To his irritation Helen was already there, at her post. He had to hand it to her: she was reliable. Since she was smart at figures she had been appointed as assistant honorary treasurer – the real ‘hon treas’ was somebody’s father who did not like coming out on a cold Sunday night. Her job was to check membership cards and collect the evening’s half-crown entrance fee from each arrival. At the night’s end she totted up the whole takings, plus receipts for crisps and soft drinks, signed for the total, and sent the small sums off to the nearest night safe with one or two of the biggest lads. No one minded that she was the brains of the operation, but carrying money was a man’s job.

For two years Jerry Feinstein had been secretary of the club. That was because nobody else was willing to volunteer, and Jerry liked to feel important. The duties were unclear but hardly onerous. They included, when he felt like it, imposing his choice of music. He headed for the main room where the record player was as yet silent, rifled through a pile of singles, chose six and put them on the automatic turntable. In a moment the pure country sound of Connie Francis warbled through the building.

A hand touched his sleeve. ‘Hi, Jerry. Howya doin’?’

The mock Atlantic accent heralded his girlfriend, Roseanne Nixon. Sweet sixteen. She was short and pretty, her nose turned up, a smaller version of her formidable mother Rita. Her brown hair was sleek and firmly controlled by lacquer. Had Jerry touched it, it would have felt like spun sugar, hard and brittle.

‘It’ll be quiet tonight, I reckon,’ he offered by way of reply.

‘Yeah, we could do with some life here, y’know?’ she grumbled as she traced the title on a record cover with a pink varnished fingernail. The record ended, clicked; the next one fell neatly on top and began to play Eddie Cochran, King of rock’n’roll with ‘C’mon Ev’rybody’. The beat rhythm
set his pulse a-tingle.

‘Wanna dance?’ he asked, and without answer took her hand and whirled her into the middle of the floor. Another two couples followed their lead. Jerry and Roseanne were the best jivers and enjoyed showing off their skills. That didn’t stop him talking at the same time.

‘The problem is,’ he pointed out between twirls, ‘we don’t have a drinks licence. Not likely to get one either as there’s no adult here, mostly. And that’s how we like it. So anybody who wants booze has to go elsewhere.’

‘We’ve debated that in committee a dozen times,’ puffed Roseanne. She was neither as lean nor as fit as her partner. ‘Alcohol’d bring in the wrong sort. Rough area, this. We’re lucky we’ve had no trouble.’

Jerry concentrated for a moment as he grasped both her hands and conducted a complicated movement which required both dancers with split-second timing to pass under the arch of their arms.

‘And we only want Jewish kids, remember that.’ As she spoke Jerry recalled his promise to himself that he would go out with her officially for only six months. Otherwise Mrs Nixon would have him a marked man, and would be planning the ceremony.

‘My Dad had some American customers the other day,’ he answered. The tune ended and was replaced by Chubby Checker singing ‘The Twist’. Jerry had picked it though he regarded the silly dance as suitable only for simpletons: but the younger members loved it. The floor filled as he moved a disappointed Roseanne over to the bar and opened a Coke for her.

‘So? Where were they from?’

‘Dunno exactly. New York, I think. From that air force base on the East Lancs Road. But they were chuffed to find what they called a real deli in Liverpool. Dad hopes they’ll come again.’

‘Were they young? Did you see them?’

Jerry noted sourly that Roseanne’s eyes were shining at the faint possibility of James Dean lookalikes in his father’s shop. He affected indifference.

‘Haven’t the foggiest. American national servicemen are usually a bit older than us, though not much.’ He had reached the limit of his knowledge. He recognised the first chords of his favourite, ‘Peggy Sue’, and held out his hand. ‘C’mon – we’re wasting good music. Tell you what. If they come in again we’ll invite them here. If they’re Jewish, that is. That’ll make the place jump.’

The Majinskys’ bell rang, once, then again. Outside could be heard stamped feet then a muffled shout: ‘Danny! Hurry up. It’s effing freezing.’

Annie untied her pinafore, hastened to the door and opened it wide. Two figures stood on the doorstep, shuffling their feet and breathing gusts of white breath into the night air. A vast silver car, parked askew, blocked the drive; beyond it another vehicle drew up, headlights ablaze. Annie peered into the gloom.

‘Hello, Simon, Mr Mannheim. Come in, come in.’

Old Mr Mannheim entered first, shown respect by the others, a bowed, slight man with a gaunt face. He worked upstairs from Daniel and was, strictly speaking, his tenant. He smiled and shook Annie’s hand as he spoke: ‘Good evening.’
Gut efening
.

‘Annie, my dear.’ Simon Rotblatt was the same age as her husband. As genial as ever, it was a puzzle that he had never married, though his courtesy with women was legendary. He placed big hands firmly on her shoulders, looked her full in the face and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You look adorable as usual.’

Embarrassed but flattered she moved deftly away and helped Mr Mannheim with his coat. Daniel came into the hallway and ushered his guests inside the living room. The dining table flaps had been folded down and it had then been pushed aside. On it cups and saucers waited, and a bottle of whisky, glasses and a plastic ice bucket on a tray. Pride of place was reserved for the square
baize-covered
card table. In its centre stood the big cut-glass ashtray and two packs of new cards with a sharpened pencil and bridge notepad at each place. With so many occupants the modest room soon became overcrowded and stuffy.

The last to arrive, in a flurry as ever, was Maurice Feinstein. He too kissed his hostess but with a noisy smack, a brotherly greeting which made Annie dimple. ‘Go on in, they’re waiting.’

It would not have occurred to the players to ask the lady of the house to join them. Women did play bridge just as they played golf, but Annie was reckoned not one of those fearsome viragos with nothing better to do than muscle in on men’s pleasures. Instead she would sit in the adjoining room in front of the television and would regard herself as clever if she guessed most of the occupations on
What’s my Line?
. At about nine-thirty she would intervene with tea and home-made madeira cake. Soon after she would go to bed; the boys would tidy up, after a fashion, and kindly leave the dishes for her in the sink.