Authors: Janette Jenkins
‘I’ll do the best I can.’
‘I couldn’t ask the others, they know Mother, but I know I can trust you. Tell me you’ll do it.’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘I believe you.’
Beatrice sat on the chair by the bed.
‘I’m not in any pain,’ said Mary, ‘but I can feel myself slipping, and it isn’t wholly unpleasant, so don’t think that I’m lying here in torment, because I’m not.’
Beatrice nodded. Her mouth felt dry. ‘So, you want me to tell you a story?’ she said, wondering how she would manage it.
‘Would you? It doesn’t have to be a happy story, the sort that will make me smile, and feel better. I want it to be a long story, one that will stay with me, a story I can think about, and go over all the little details when I’m lying in the dark.’
‘If that’s what you want, then I’ll tell you the story of Marta and Magda, the Hungarian Siamese twins who fell in love with the same man.’
‘Yes, tell me that story, but don’t tell me if it’s true, or if you are making it up. I want to believe in it.’
‘Oh, but you can, because Marta and Magda are real, and they’re still living on Coney Island, New York, working on the hoopla stall.’
‘Really?’
‘For sure,’ said Beatrice. ‘Even as I speak, Marta will be collecting up the hoops whilst her sister holds a box out for the dimes.’
Two days later, Mary’s bed was stripped, and the house looked empty from the outside. Beatrice took out the folded piece of paper. The address was a street in the centre of town, a crooked row of terraces with roofs the colour of ox blood.
‘Mr Fell?’ Beatrice asked.
‘That’s me,’ he said. He was fastening his collar. ‘I’m not in the mood for a talk about God. Or are you selling something?’
‘No. It’s about your daughter, Mary.’
The man stopped what he was doing. He looked frozen. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
Beatrice nodded. He leaned against the peeling door frame, looking somewhere over her head. ‘Who are you anyway?’ he asked.
‘I was Mary’s friend. I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to shock you. I thought you might have heard already.’
‘From her mother, you mean? There was never any chance of that.’
‘Can I come in? I won’t stay long; it’s just that I promised Mary that I’d speak to you.’
She followed him inside. The room was small and sooty. Toys were strewn across a large horsehair sofa and the grate was full of ashes.
‘My wife’s out with the little one,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way to work; I’m a porter, at the town hall, I’m on the afternoon shift. Can I get you a cup of tea? I’ve time for a cup of tea.’
‘I’ll make it,’ said Beatrice.
‘No, you won’t,’ he said. ‘The kitchen’s like a pigsty.’
She heard him running water and pulling out the crockery. When he came back with two small cups, she could see he’d been crying.
‘I wanted to see her,’ he said, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. ‘I know I did wrong, but it had nothing to do with Mary. I missed her so much I ended up in the hospital. Ulcers,’ he said. ‘I was all twisted up inside.’
‘She talked about you. She said she didn’t blame you, and that she would have done the same.’
‘And now she’s gone for good,’ he said, ‘and there’s not a damn thing I can do to make it up to her.’
‘There is one thing. She wants you at her funeral, and I made a solemn promise that I would get you there.’
He pulled in his lips and looked into his teacup. ‘She wouldn’t let me. She’d put her foot down. Cause trouble.’
‘Your wife?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘The other one.’
‘Not at the funeral. She’s your daughter too.’
‘When is it?’
‘Thursday. I hope you don’t mind, I’ve written down the details.’
‘You were her friend, you say? Are you a foreigner?’
‘American.’
‘Still, I’m glad she had friends. It must have been a lonely life, cooped up in that bed. Sometimes, I’d go and stand across the lane, and look up at the window. Watch the lamp going on and off. I saw her once. At least, I think it was her. She was brushing her hair. She had lovely brown hair.’
Beatrice didn’t say anything. He looked at the clock.
‘I have to be going,’ he said.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘It’s better than sitting here, thinking things that shouldn’t be thought.’
‘You will be there on Thursday?’
‘I’ll be there. I’m her dad. It’s the least I can do.’
The sun was shining on Thursday as they followed the hearse, through the village, around the scented lanes, and into Heapy where they stepped aside, and the pallbearers (three elderly men from the funeral home, and Lionel) took the small, light coffin onto their shoulders, walking behind the Reverend McNally who read the twenty-third psalm so fast, the words meant nothing. Beatrice kept her head down. Through the little crowd of black, she’d seen Mr Fell, skirting around the edges.
They gathered at the front of the church, where Mary’s mother was being supported by the doctor. The coffin, with its small sprays of flowers, was the size of a malnourished child. The Reverend McNally looked down at his notes, belching quietly into his hand.
‘Let us remember our dear departed loved one and friend, Mary Ann Fell, who lived in Anglezarke village all of her life, and was loved and cared for by many.’ He looked up at the congregation, his eyelids drooping; it was like he had run out of steam. ‘We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’ He paused. ‘Let us now sing hymn number 329.’
It was a quivering congregation who sang ‘Abide With Me’. They had no help from the choir, who were on a charity picnic, in aid of the widows and war orphans. The organist stuttered over the keys and the timing was out.
Mr Fell was noticed at the graveside. After Mary’s mother had thrown in her handful of earth, she looked across the faces to where her former husband stood with his hands cupped and his eyes lowered. She looked liked she’d been stung.
Afterwards, when the reverend had disappeared into the vestry, where he could loosen his robes and sip a little drop from his flask, and the mourners had nodded their silent prayers into the deep rectangular hole that was slowly being filled by the gravediggers, Mary’s mother lunged at him, before he could quietly slip away.
‘Who told you?’ she hissed. ‘Who said you could come?’
He shook his head, and shrugged his heavy shoulders, because words were no use; he was here and there was nothing more to be said.
‘You’ve sullied it. My own daughter’s funeral and you’ve made it something filthy.’
‘How?’ he asked, wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. ‘I’ve kept my distance. I wanted to be here. She wanted it.’
‘What do you mean, “she wanted it”? Since when have you bothered with what we ever wanted? How do you think I feel? Look at them all, staring at me and remembering my shame. Making me out as the fool you left behind.’
‘Mary wanted it. She wanted me to come, more than anything.’
‘How did you know that she wanted it?’ she asked. ‘How?’
He didn’t say anything, but he looked towards Beatrice. Mary’s mother swung round. ‘So that’s what you were plotting,’ she hissed. ‘Who are you anyway? Who are you to decide things about my life, when we don’t even know who you are?’
Shaking her head, her eyes stinging, Beatrice began to walk through
the
graveyard and out into the lane. Mr Fell followed her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he called.
‘Don’t be,’ she told him, pulling off her hat. ‘Really. You mustn’t be sorry. You did the right thing, and whatever anyone says, I only kept my promise.’
From the back-bedroom window she watched the linked throng of black filing into Mary’s cottage, where they would sip what little sherry could be found and nibble on whatever could be made with the rations. Ada had donated a tin of corned beef, a jar of raspberry jam and a box of sweet wafers.
Beatrice walked from room to room, peeling off her gloves, listening to the birds, feeling the streams and squares of sunshine melt across her face. She lay across the bed, and catching sight of her reflection in the mirror, she was startled by how black she was, like a long narrow crow.
And later, she could hear them in the distance, the cottage door banging, the shuffles on the gravel that paused outside her gate, before crunching off again. The mutterings, the talk fuelled by drinking sherry in the daytime, the bitter aftertaste from the poor bereaved mother.
Then from the kitchen table, where she was half-heartedly chopping a salad, she could hear something clicking in the hallway, and lying on the doormat was a piece of torn yellow paper telling her in no uncertain terms that she was
Nothing But A Traytor
.
LETTERS TO ELIJAH
Galilee Hotel
Renton Street
Brooklyn
New York
July 25, 1911
Dear Elijah,
I have news from New York! Not only did I arrive here safely, thanks to all your arrangements, but I have managed to find myself employment, and although it isn’t in the jewelry store that I had once imagined, it’s a respectable business, and from Monday of next week, I shall be selling postcards to the tourists who flock to Coney Island.
Miss Flood, here at the Galilee, went more than a little pale when I told her. She said that Coney was a place full of heathens and wickedness, but I assured her that it is really not the case. The resort is full of families, who are looking for a break from their regular routines, and are here simply to have fun, and who says that good healthy fun is a sin?
Talking of sin, how are the not so good people of Chicago? I hope they are listening to you, and not throwing things at you, as I have heard of some preachers being hit upon by missiles, and one young Wesleyan who ventured into the Bronx was killed when he was pushed into a butcher’s store window. Best not to think on that.
The people here at the Galilee have all been very kind, though in due course when I have earned enough, I hope to move out and into accommodation of my own. It is only right, that once you are earning, your place should be taken by someone less fortunate, though having said that, the other bed in my room has always been empty.
I often think of you in Chicago. Have you ever been back to the
zoo
? Or passed the Lemon Tree Hotel on your travels?
New York is all that I hoped it would be. It is not just a tall place made of metal and glass, but it is also a place of small things. Streets are like villages, where people speak in several languages, and the stores sell the kinds of foods the immigrants are familiar with, and the New Yorkers are getting to like. Brooklyn is a sprawling, dusty place, but there are trees, some that look like umbrellas, and there are green places, and people lolling around in their doorways, hoping to pass the time of day.
I must go now. I promised Miss Flood I would set out the tables for lunch.
Thank you for all that you’ve done for me, in finding my escape.
Love and plenty good wishes,
Beatrice
July 30, 1911
Dear Elijah,
I do hope you received my last letter. Mr Price who is also a guest at the Galilee tells me that new preachers are often so busy they can only pick through their mail every other week. Well, if that’s so, you’ll have an awful lot of reading to do.
Mr Price, a retired vaudevillian, seems highly knowledgable about all things. He says that actors have to be like a sponge. He has given up the world of the theater, but he has kept a scrapbook full of cuttings from ‘my past life’, as he puts it. The pictures show him dressed in baggy suits and bowler hats (‘apprentice’) and Elizabethan costumes, with frills around his neck and black lines beneath his eyes (‘master’). He looks at these pictures fondly, but says the way of life very nearly killed him, and led him into all sorts of temptation and paths full of evil that he does not wish to revisit.
As I wrote in my last letter, I am now a salesgirl. I started the job Monday. It is harder work than I imagined. People like flicking through the boxes and the stands, their fingertips full of frankfurter grease, and we sometimes have to be firm, because who wants to send dog-eared pictures of the beach to the folks
back
home? At certain times of the day the customers have to wait in line. The girls I work with are the pleasantest, friendliest girls you could wish for, and my boss, Mr Cooper, is a gentleman, though we see him very rarely as he has another booth on Surf Avenue that requires his special attention. The first card I ever sold was a picture of the Chute Tower and Lake Dreamland by Night. The lady said they were from Philadelphia, and they come to Coney every year, though they suffer with the heat something terrible. I think you would like it here, perhaps when you have finished your training, and are looking for a break away from Chicago, you could come and see it all?
Well, Elijah, take good care of yourself,
Much love to you,
Beatrice
August 6, 1911
Dear Elijah,
I must write and tell you about what happened here last night. I was walking home from my shift, and I have to say, after being on my feet for so many hours I was feeling somewhat exhausted, so it took me a while to figure it all out. Just as I was approaching the hotel, I could hear something of a commotion. Not a fight exactly, it was more like moans and pleading. I stopped. At the side of the hotel is a small narrow alleyway, and in this alley a young man was calling up to a window. I must say, I was feeling somewhat giddy at the prospect of listening to this Romeo calling to his Juliet. (Please don’t judge me on this, Elijah! It appeared to be a bit of harmless fun …) Anyway, I stopped in the shadows to hear a little better what this young man was saying. I can’t remember his exact words, but they went along the lines of ‘but you promised’, ‘you mean the world to me’, ‘I’ve been waiting, and hoping’, and so on. But the most thrilling thing of all was wondering who this young man’s ‘amour’ might be. There were several possibilities. There was Miss Flood herself of course, but I assumed at once that this was highly unlikely, and although everyone deserves love and romance in their lives, I couldn’t picture her entertaining this (remarkably handsome, from what I
could
see) young man for more than two minutes. Miss Flood is a paragon of virtue – if a little abrasive. This left Mrs Mitchell, who is still reeling since her husband left her for the beauty of the islands of Hawaii, taking their children with him, or Miss Stanley. Now, Miss Stanley is around forty years old, and I have heard that some women of this age prefer younger men … am I gossiping too much for your liking? If so, then screw the letter up right now, put it into the trash, and forgive me. You’re still with me? Then I’ll continue … Miss Stanley is tall and slim, with hair the color of chocolate, and although her teeth are somewhat crooked, she is not unattractive. The young man, with his hat in his hands swaying from one foot to the other with his head tilted toward a window on the second floor, seemed in pain with all this pleading, words of wishful thinking, and cries of broken promises. I tried to listen to the voice that was telling him in no uncertain terms to ‘get lost’, but I couldn’t quite make it out. There was a low kind of mumbling, a voice I didn’t recognize at all, but I presume it was because his ‘Juliet’ was trying her best to be discreet, and worrying about the other guests, who were probably attempting to sleep, or reading, or some such. When I saw the young man had lost all hope of a meeting, I hurried off.