Authors: Janette Jenkins
‘It’s so chaotic,’ said Jonathan, pushing his way through the crowd.
‘Yes, isn’t it wonderful?’ said Beatrice. ‘I know everyone in the room, including the man with the tray of dirty glasses, that’s Mauro, he wants to work with racehorses, it’s a big dream of his.’
Jonathan looked at her as if she’d gone mad. ‘Waiters? Racehorses? How do you know all these people? Have they seen you in your wings?’
‘Of course not. Take Mauro over there. I eat in his father’s restaurant all the time, and sometimes we stay there for hours, drinking wine and talking.’
‘You drink a lot of wine?’
‘No more than most,’ she said, taking another glass of champagne. ‘Thank you, Paul,’ she said. ‘You should sneak off outside and grab one for yourself.’
‘I might do that later on,’ said the waiter. ‘Look at me, Bea, I’m red hot and parched.’
‘You really do know all these people,’ said Jonathan.
‘I told you that already.’
They made their way over to Nancy. She was eating shrimp rolls and pulling off her shoes.
‘They cost a week’s wages and they’re killing me already.’
‘Where’s Mr Cooper?’
‘Out with his lady friend. They’re taking in an opera. Something to do with a ring.’
They danced. They held hands. They picked at the table with its plates of prawn mousse and crackers, spicy bologna, balls of sticky rice.
‘I’ve eaten the strangest things since I got here,’ said Jonathan. ‘Food from China and India, and some salty Russian things.’
‘What do you eat back in England? Hot roast beef?’
‘Yes, of course, and steak and kidney pudding, lamb pie, cow heel, and all made at home in the kitchen. Have you ever rolled a piece of pastry?’
‘What? Are you kidding me?’ she said.
Their throats were raw from the shouting. In a corner Marta and Magda were sleeping under a coat made of silver-fox fur. It belonged to Rochelle Baker, the girl who sang the songs that broke men’s hearts every night at eight at the Gala Show Theatre; she didn’t need her coat, she was wrapped in Solomon Rox the ringmaster up in Room 63.
‘We’re going up top,’ shouted Marnie. ‘Are you coming?’
Jonathan looked worried.
‘She means the roof,’ said Beatrice. ‘There’s a garden up there. It’s sure to be quieter than this.’
They followed Nancy up the rickety fire escape, holding bottles of wine under their arms. They passed girls rubbing their eyes and crying into serviettes, couples kissing, a waiter with a plate of lobster tails, and a skinny crying cat. The rooftop was empty and the quiet made their heads ring. They leaned over the balcony and looked down at the boardwalk and the blue-black ocean with its lines of shivering foam.
Marnie pulled out the musty daybeds and set them into a circle. ‘We should have come up here hours ago.’
‘But then we would have missed Lottie singing and who would have guessed that she couldn’t hold a note?’
They lay flat on the beds. There was a faint hum of voices, the hiss of a fountain, and the ghostly rise and fall of a piano. Celina started humming. Then she turned onto her front, propping her small boyish chin in her hands.
‘So you’re in love with our Beatrice?’ she said.
Jonathan was looking at the fountain. ‘Is that all right with you?’
‘Of course it is,’ said Celina. ‘Though it’s hardly surprising because everyone she meets falls in love with her a little, and one day she’s going to be swept right out of here and we’ll miss her.’
‘Oh, have another drink,’ said Beatrice. ‘You’re starting to sound maudlin.’
‘Maudlin always comes after a party,’ said Jonathan.
‘What are English parties like?’ asked Nancy.
Jonathan laughed. ‘I can’t speak for the nation, but the parties I’ve attended have been sedate affairs, where the occasional youth will have one too many to drink and he’ll throw it back up on the doorstep. Someone will play the piano very stiffly and the men will talk about the girls in their lives who don’t exist and never will, and there might be a dance, but nothing too daring.’
‘And that’s as good as it gets?’ yawned Celina. ‘I thought the English were decadent?’
‘Only in London,’ said Jonathan. ‘It never quite hit Lancashire.’
‘It will,’ said Nancy. ‘It will.’
‘The world is spinning,’ said Beatrice. ‘Can you feel it?’ Marnie giggled. ‘Definitely.’
‘We should have more men up here,’ said Nancy. ‘How come we only have Jonathan?’
‘Because you’re all unlucky in love,’ said Beatrice.
‘And you’re not?’ said Nancy.
‘Not any more,’ said Jonathan, who gripped tight onto Beatrice’s hand.
‘Oh, we’ll see how it ends,’ said Celina. ‘I thought I’d found true happiness with little Martha Frupp, but then she went and got herself engaged to that giant Irish navvy, can you believe that?’
‘I’ve seen him,’ said Beatrice. ‘He looks like he’s made out of steel.’
‘And she bangs that piece of metal three times a day.’
The stars above their heads were soft-looking, though it might have been the wine, making the world felt-edged and fuzzy. Marnie was sleeping, or rather she’d passed out, her mouth open a little, as if she was just about to say something.
‘Like a baby,’ said Nancy.
Below them, the party was winding its way home, with its yawning trails of laughter, jilted shouts and scuffles. An automobile backfired.
‘Like a gunshot,’ said Celina.
Beatrice looked hard at the great expanse of sky; a cloud appeared, it was shaped like a wishing bone.
‘I’m going to find a girl to kiss,’ said Celina, touching Beatrice’s forehead. ‘Any girl, and I’ll pretend I’m kissing you.’
Beatrice closed her eyes. She could feel Jonathan moving at her side. The fountain stopped, a door slammed, and through an open window a girl was shouting in Spanish.
10. Letter
November 1, 1913
Dear Elijah,
I don’t know why I’m writing to you, but I have decided to send this to your old address in Chicago. Time has passed and they might have heard something. Firstly, I want you to know that whatever you’ve done and wherever you’ve been I’m not here to judge you. We’re human beings, we make mistakes, we branch out, and we want to feel alive. Believe me when I tell you, I’m none too perfect myself.
I’ve been working at Coney this past couple of years, where I have the greatest friends, and I’d never been happier until I came home from work last weekend and I wondered how long it was all going to last, what the future held, and what if I was still here when I was thirty, or forty, or worse? What kind of life will I have? I’ve seen some of the showgirls turn their nose up at marriage. They say they’re not ready, but secretly they’re thinking, ‘You’re still a waiter/a baker/a sausage vendor.’ You see, they’re dreaming of bigger, better things, because they’ve read stories about Broadway, and closets full of mink, and men with long automobiles, and diamonds in their pockets. I want to shake them; I want to say, ‘Since when have those guys ever bought tickets for a half-hour show in Brooklyn?’ But I know. They just wouldn’t listen. They’d be hurt.
I want to move on, but I’d be letting people down. Mr Cooper has been good to me. He’s given me everything. And the girls. The girls are my sisters. And the people who come to the stall – well, I might as well be honest with you, it’s not a stall anymore, it’s a sideshow – they’d be disappointed too. I’ve talked about it with a man who might be my chance to leave it all behind, and he says, ‘Would they miss you? Is it really you they’re coming to see? Or is it just a girl, standing there. Any girl. Would they even notice that you’d gone? Even those that have been three or four times. Would they really be looking so hard at your face? And the girls. If they are your sisters, wouldn’t they want you to be happy, to get ahead, and make something better of your life? You can write to them. Even visit them one day. America is staying where
it
is. We’ll know where to find them.’ Oh Elijah, he goes on, and on. He’s English. They don’t say much. But when they do …
I’m going to think about it. Really I am. I lie in bed at night trying to block out the world that I’m living in, and the one I’ve left behind (only because it hurts), and I think about the future. Sometimes I want it badly. Sometimes I feel I’d be leaving you.
Wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, be it preaching in a small church or chapel, mending boots, or loving lots of girls, dancing girls, or otherwise, I want you to know that I love you. I have never forgotten you. You are part of me. Part of what we lived. I am always here (wherever that might be), and waiting for you, and hoping.
Let me know how it goes.
Your loving sister,
Beatrice x
PS Due to my success at work, I have managed to save a great deal from my wages. I want you to know that I have put it into a bank account, and if I do go to England and you would like to make the trip to see me at some later date, I will be able to buy you a good return ticket. You mustn’t protest! Seeing you again is what I want most in the world, so in taking the money, you’d be doing your little sister a favor! I live in hope.
From, Bea x
BROKEN ENGLISH
THE WOMEN TALKED
. They sat with their hands curled around their teacups, searching Ada’s face, because she was a widow now, and presumably bereft. Did she really look any different?
‘I want to do something for the war effort,’ said Lizzie suddenly. ‘Beatrice is right. We need to do our bit, if we’re going to win this war.’
Shrugging, they sat in silence for a while. They sat looking through the shop-door window. The weather had turned cold again and Lizzie’s heart contracted at the thought of not seeing Tom, and the way another year was passing by without him.
‘I can’t think of anything,’ said Ada. ‘What could I do?’
‘I know a girl who works on the trams,’ Lizzie told them.
‘The trams? I’d rather die than be a clippie,’ said Madge, then realising what she’d said, she covered her bright pink face with her hand. ‘What I meant is –’
‘What about collecting for the charities?’ Lizzie enthused. ‘I’ve seen girls in town rattling tin cans and selling paper flags.’
‘Who’d look after the children?’ said Madge.
‘We could knit,’ said Ada, pleased with her idea. ‘We could knit scarves and balaclavas and mufflers. The soldiers would be glad of them.’
‘I could send one to Tom,’ Lizzie smiled.
‘They’re for everyone,’ said Madge. ‘You can’t pick and choose.’
‘And we wouldn’t have far to go, we can sit knitting and chatting, and we’d still be doing something,’ said Lizzie. ‘Do you think Beatrice can knit? Do they knit in America?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Madge. ‘They buy everything from catalogues over there.’
‘How do you know?’
‘My mam’s next-door neighbour told me. Her brother-in-law’s cousin once knew a Canadian.’
‘We should ask her. We’ll need to collect wool.’ Lizzie was looking through the window at the sky. It was full of dark jagged clouds and
the
wind was starting up. ‘We’ll need a lot of wool if we’re going to save all those soldiers from the cold.’
They made signs and tacked them onto their windows and onto the bulletin board at church.
Wool Wanted. Help Keep Our Soldiers Warm
. The reverend said he thought he might have a jumper that had seen better days. He was looking well, people had noticed how his cheeks had lost their flare, his eyes looked more alive, and when he read the eulogy he didn’t slur the words. After losing her brother in Ypres, Iris had decided that she’d been right all along, and that life really was for living. She’d told the reverend (or ‘my Pete’) that if he was ever going to make an honest woman of her, he’d better start looking after himself, and she would help him do it. The vicarage was now filled with dishes of stew, calf’s-foot jelly and flasks of beef tea, brought over on trays in the guise of ‘help your neighbour’. Iris would return at nine to collect her plates and whatever else the reverend might like to give her. She’d sometimes run him a bath. Iris and the few inches of warm sudsy water helped him to relax, more than anything that came from the neck of a bottle. Sometimes she’d share it. ‘It’s all part of the war effort,’ she’d giggle. ‘Don’t look so bashful. We’re saving water, aren’t we?’
The weather was cold and crisp. The women, wearing their thickest coats and gloves, wondered what it might be like in the trenches. They’d heard about last winter. Of how the soldiers had to break ice to wash their faces. How the frozen ground had cut them.
The cold and black skies made people generous and scared, and Ada would find bags of wool on her doorstep, or odd socks, or jumpers that were almost worn out. Lizzie had donated a few of the children’s outgrown woollens. Beatrice had found an old green cardigan, and Ada had pored over the label stitched into the collar saying,
Tobias J. Snowdon, Pure Wool, NY
.
‘What did I say?’ she’d said. ‘Catalogues.’
Sitting in a circle, they unravelled wool until their fingertips were raw.
‘It can’t last much longer,’ said Lizzie.
‘They’ll be worn out by Christmas,’ said Madge.
‘They were worn out last Christmas.’ Ada reached for another old sweater and began cutting at the sleeve.
‘All this fighting,’ said Lizzie. ‘All these months, years, if only they’d known.’
‘They still would have signed up,’ said Madge. ‘Every single one of them.’
‘It’s a bit cramped, but we should all fit in somehow.’
It was the first meeting of the knitting circle and they’d arrived at Ada’s with their bags of wool and needles.
‘It’s cosy,’ said Beatrice.
They looked at her. Ada pushed a broken chair against the wall. The children were playing in the yard.
‘Talk about elbow to elbow,’ said Madge.
‘I’m doing scarves,’ said Lizzie. ‘Scarves are good and quick.’
‘Don’t they have to be khaki?’ said Beatrice. ‘Don’t they have regulations?’
‘Well, you should know,’ said Ada, unravelling a hairy ball of claret-coloured wool. ‘You’re married to the boss.’
‘A scarf’s a scarf,’ said Madge. ‘They should be grateful for what they get.’