She's Leaving Home (14 page)

It was three months later, and high summer, before Daniel was well enough to sit up in bed and gaze out of the window. His breathing was still laboured and painful but his lungs seemed somehow more elastic and easy. The doctor had said the lesions might heal with the right attention. The medicine had made him repeatedly nauseous and his sisters had muttered about the folly of swallowing metals, but he had persevered and was convinced that it had helped. In his estimation the taste of cod liver oil was worse, especially a whole tablespoon of it forced down his throat every morning by his mother. If he recovered he would never touch the stuff again as long as he lived.

One bright day he sat out on the pavement on a chair, bundled up in blankets, his face turned gratefully to the sun. The effort of having tottered even a few steps from his bed had exhausted him, but he slept soundly during the night and did not cough. From then onwards he sat out every day unless it rained, and spoke haltingly to passers-by. As neighbours could see he was on the mend, more came shyly forward to help. The spectre of death began to recede. The burdens on his mother eased.

It was early autumn when the after-care ladies came. This time it was a hansom cab which drew up at the end of the street. The cabby pointed to the house and to the figure seated on the step, a blanket around its knees, reading a book. Two ladies emerged: a middle-aged woman in old-fashioned black moire silk who descended, adjusted her large feathered hat, and brought the veil down over her prominent nose. Black gloves, a beaded bag and a parasol completed her ensemble. She was accompanied by a younger girl in a shorter and more modern dress with a cloche hat pulled well down over her ears and a bored expression. The senior lady told the cabby to wait and began to walk the short distance, picking up her skirts against the dusty street.

The women stopped in front of Daniel. Clearly he was expected to stand up, but though he was by now perfectly capable of the walk to the corner shop he decided to stay put. He turned his book over on his lap, his finger inside the page.

‘Good morning!’ the older woman boomed. ‘And would you be she consulted a note ‘– Mr Daniel Majinsky?’

He nodded curtly. He had a notion he knew what was coming.

‘Splendid. My name is Ivy Titchfield – the Marchioness of Titchfield. I am from the National Association for the Prevention of Tuberculosis.’

The patient appeared uninterested and certainly not impressed. Lady Titchfield sniffed and glanced at her companion who pulled a face. She ploughed on: ‘The NAPT is considering making a grant – a substantial grant – to the after-care committee of the city of Liverpool, as you have here one of the highest incidences of tuberculosis in the country. Quite dreadful.’

At ‘quite’, which she pronounced ‘kwait’, she shook her head solemnly. Daniel remained immobile.

‘So I resolved that I must come and see for myself. I have brought my assistant, Miss Arabella Simpson.’ Daniel allowed his eyes to roam briefly over the young woman’s fashionable fringed dress, her silk hose, the white kid shoes. She had thick knees; not far above them as the fabric of her frock moved he could detect the nubs of her suspenders. Her strong sweet perfume hovered about her like an expensive aura. The grander lady smelled of violets and wore too much jewellery.

Street children had gathered at the corner and peeped round. A mangy dog trotted cautiously
over from the far side of the street and sniffed from a few steps away. At home Miss Arabella probably had a pet dog, a pampered mite fed from her own plate. She looked like a dog’s dinner herself. The mongrel came closer.

Lady Titchfield pulled out a notebook. ‘So tell me: what after-care do you get, and what do you need?’

From within the house came the crash of pans. His mother must have seen the visitors and chosen to ignore them. Daniel, however, decided to explore a little: it could do no harm and for his mother’s sake, might do some good. ‘My mother looks after me. The main problem is that money is short. When I was in work I earned two pounds fifty in a good week, and –’

Lady Titchfield tittered. ‘Oh, we do not permit handouts of money, you know. It is important that the patient should be taught that, although the disease has left him with a perhaps permanently damaged life requiring constant care, self-denial and watchfulness on his part, it is still his duty to seize every opportunity of becoming a useful and self-supporting member of society. It follows that a Care Committee should restrict actual giving of financial assistance as much as possible.’

She smiled benignly. Daniel choked and raised a handkerchief to his lips, but the sputum was clear as it had been for weeks. He shaded his eyes awkwardly and avoided looking the woman directly in the eye. ‘I’m well cared for, thank you. If you can’t give money, what can you give?’

‘All life’s little necessities,’ the lady answered gaily. She waved her arms expressively and gazed around for inspiration. ‘The aim is to avoid as far as possible anything which will undermine your self-reliance. The intention is to help you help yourself, rather than to continue your dependence on others. Now: do you have a job to return to?’

‘I hope so.’ One visitor had come from Berman’s. When fully fit Daniel could expect to go back, unless trade turned bad.

‘And will you need anything in particular – tools for example?’

Daniel shook his head. His own new right-handed shears with his initials stamped on the handle were wrapped in an oilcloth in the kitchen cupboard. He observed from the corner of his eye the mongrel which, unnoticed, had sidled close behind Arabella and was taking an interest in her shoes.

A sly thought occurred to him. In his enforced idleness he had found himself devouring whatever free reading matter he could lay hands on.
The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
had greatly appealed and he could now quote much of it by heart. He was up to ‘P’ in the cherished second-hand copies of the
Home University Library
purchased in happier times. Daniel had also heard and read a great deal about the charitable ladies of the NAPT led by their renowned Scottish chairman Sir Robert Philip. Their lunches and dinners were famed, including one grand event in the Mansion House in London which had raised the staggering sum of £17,000 in a single night. He would not want them to leave disappointed.

‘One suggestion – I don’t know whether it would be possible.’

The two women smiled contentedly. The Marchioness paused, pencil in hand and nodded encouragement.

‘When I get back to work, I’m not supposed to travel on buses and that. But it’s a bit far to walk, to begin with. Also I should get exercise, the doctor says. So a new bicycle –?’

The ladies crowed and danced with delight. A bicycle! The very thing. Lady Titchfield composed herself and spoke sternly.

‘I can promise nothing, Mr Majinsky, but I will put it to the Committee. It seems like a very good idea to me. Not a new one, of course, but –’

Then a yowl of rage came from Arabella, who to that point had said not a word. She squealed and raised her left leg and shook it, then stared in horror at the dark wet stain now soiling her stocking and shoe. The smell of urine mingled with her scent. A poorly aimed kick missed the dog, which ran
off barking joyously.

Down the street children whooped and screamed as they scampered after the dog. Miss Arabella uttered a word Daniel had never heard on the lips of a woman before, which brought a sharp reprimand from the Marchioness. Daniel covered his mouth with his hand and endeavoured to keep a straight face. Arabella pulled out a handkerchief from her reticule and scrubbed ineffectually at her ankle, then burst into tears and stalked off in the direction of the cab.

He should have offered help: he should have shouted inside to find a towel and a bowl of water. But the towel would have to be thrown away afterwards and the bowl no longer used for food, all of which would incur expense which could not be afforded. Had the women been genuinely kind, it might have been worthwhile. He did not budge, and did not call his mother.

‘I am sorry, ma’am,’ was all he could manage. Then: ‘Thank you for coming. I know you mean well. You’d better get after the young lady.’

‘A bicycle…’ the Marchioness muttered. She dropped her pencil, recovered it, hesitated, looked around anxiously for the dog, then pulled herself together. Soldier on!

With a curt farewell off she swept, head held high, ostrich feathers bouncing regally, and climbed into the cab which disappeared rapidly.

That night Daniel slept uneasily and dreamed of his return to the workbench, which after a spell of convalescence by the seaside could not long be postponed. When he awoke, the pain in his chest had vanished for good.

Instead his right shoulder felt cramped and uncomfortable, though there was nothing obviously wrong. His wrist, his left wrist, the source of all his trouble, flexed with ease. No rubbing would make the phantom ache disappear. He knew then it would always be with him.

It was freezing. Goddamn England.

Sergeant Andy J. Newman trudged along, his bulletshaped head bowed against the sleet, high-laced leather boots slipping on drifts of wet snow. He could feel his uniform grow heavier as flakes on it melted and wished he had remembered his waterproof. Out in the field white hillocks had formed, their surface ruffled by the wind. Aircraft in forlorn clumps dotted the desolate turf. He peered into the gloom but their outlines were increasingly sketchy. There would be no flying today.

He reached the shelter of the mail hut and stood for a moment in its doorway. Drips fell from the snow on his cap.

No place for a Texas boy. He’d love it, he had been told; he’d find England eye-poppingly green. The moist climate’d be a relief after the aridity to which he was accustomed. But they didn’t know the desert. At home the air was dry, so high temperatures were not oppressive. Wherever he cast his eyes the horizon shimmered and beckoned. In the badlands you could ride a horse and camp for days without coming across any other sign of life except a few coneys or a sly fox but at night the air was alive. A man could find himself, there, and know what he was. A man could speak to his God without having to reach for a mackintosh.

Wet was worst. Hell on earth had been a teenage vacation to an aunt’s in Florida where the humidity had made his lungs seize up, the stifling heat had given him hives, bugs had made a meal of every square inch of exposed flesh. Excursions had brought further horrors. The beach was evacuated in short order when sharks appeared in the surf. A boat ride in the Everglades had been abandoned after he fell in. His aunt’s screams about crocodiles had been as nothing compared to the agony of the doctor’s efforts to remove a leech which had lodged itself in his crotch. Even today he shuddered at the memory.

Maybe he simply didn’t like leaving home. So? As one of Uncle Sam’s conscripts he had little choice. It’d have been different were he likely to see some action. The British military had an advertising slogan: ‘Join the army and see the world.’ Americans joked that the Limeys should add an imperial polish: ‘See lots of interesting and exciting people, and shoot ’em.’ Instead he was stuck with five square miles and two million square feet of storage at Burtonwood USAF base on the wind-swept treeless plain of south Lancashire, one of the most God-forsaken holes on earth. And one of the chilliest.

The bad weather would mean that indoor entertainment would be required to keep the men happy. That was his job. The camp was not big enough to qualify for a full ranking officer to organise events, but Andy had seen his chance. Whoever it was that tried the latest movies first and checked out nearby clubs and strip joints gained both status and opportunity. He had grabbed at both with alacrity and volunteered his help. The downside was the work involved. Tonight it’d have to be a film – possibly the new one,
Hud
, with Paul Newman, or
South Pacific
yet again so they could
wolf-whistle
Mitzi Gaynor washing her hair –
There is nuttin like a DA-AAAME
– and maybe five-a-side basketball. Inactive days like these were bad news.

He wished he’d been drafted some years earlier. Camp legend told that during the Berlin airlift crisis, Burtonwood had been a hive of activity with planes screaming overhead, landing and being refuelled; every man jack worked round the clock in a fuzz of exhaustion. Nobody needed artificial fun laid on then. As for the real alert, when Kennedy was nose to nose with the Soviets over Cuba: that stomach-churning terror was brought home whenever a red-lined memo turned up at the bottom of a forgotten tray, its capitals spelling out laconic instructions in case of nuclear war. He was glad to have missed that.

He pushed open the door and entered. As he shook feathery flakes from his arms and shoulders and stamped his feet the mail orderly handed him several items and packages. Two airmails, one from that auntie in Florida, no doubt pestering him to return, one from his mother. Nothing from his girl in Galveston. It’d serve her right if he found a replacement. Rumour had it the Lancashire mill girls were keen, especially if plied with American nylons and tales of mythical acquaintances in Hollywood.

A radio played loudly in the background. Andy Newman prided himself on his knowledge of popular music; the base had its own station where he took his turn as disc-jockey. This was new. The harmonies were harsh but effective. He stopped.

Guitar chords swept down the scale with an excited confidence. Andy whistled through his teeth.

‘What the hell’s that? What are you listening to?’

The mail man grinned. Shorty was a thirty-year-old regular from New Jersey. A tidy, squat man with his shiny scalp visible through the crew-cut, his close friendship with the landlady of a nearby pub was said to have influenced his decision to remain on this base.

‘Radio Luxembourg. Pirate station. The Limeys ain’t caught up with commercial radio yet.’

‘No – I mean that music. Wow! Not heard anything like that before. It sounds like country and western from home but all mixed up with your nigra tunes, and then some.’ Shorty shrugged. ‘Dunno. They’re Brits. It’s the new Number One here – the kids are going crazy about them. Stick around, they’ll play it again in a couple of minutes. I’m getting sick of it.’

‘Christ,’ Andy muttered. ‘Powerful stuff. They don’t believe in holding back, do they? Stiff upper lip, my arse.’

The orderly pointed. ‘You got a local lady, now?’

Andy shook his head glumly. ‘No. Though I’m considering the matter if Gloria don’ write me soon. Next thing I know I’ll get a Dear John letter from her. Why do you ask?’

‘You’ve got one with a Liverpool postmark.’

Andy turned the letters over with surprise. He had been distracted by the blizzard and his worries about Gloria, then his attention had been diverted by that song. The envelope was small and blue and addressed in a neat hand to ‘The officer in charge of Entertainments’. He reached for a paper-knife and slit it open.

‘Hey! Listen to this. Could be my big chance. “Dear Sir, we are a Jewish youth club in the heart of Liverpool. We play great music and have discos on Saturday nights. We would like to extend a welcome to any young American airmen who would like to join us.” “Young” is underlined, so that’s you out, Shorty. And an address. It’s signed “Jerry Feinstein aged nineteen”.’

‘Well now: ain’t that nice. We could send a couple of guys this weekend.’

Andy considered. ‘Plenty of nineteen-year-olds here. Place is lousy with ’em. Wouldn’t do any harm to include a couple of older guys too, to keep them in order. I s’pose they’d have to be Jewish.’

Shorty never missed an occasion to pull the rank of experience. ‘I remember a story told me by my Pa who served in Lincolnshire during the war. The Brits couldn’t get their heads round the notion that we had mixed troops. One day an invite was delivered by a butler – real old broken specimen, my Pa said, every fit man had been called up. Lady Bountiful would like to welcome six
servicemen to traditional Sunday lunch. And she’d scribbled on the bottom, “No Jews.”’

Andy parked his backside on the table. ‘What happened?’

‘It was her bad luck that the troop leader was a Brooklyn boy with a sense of humour. Come the appointed day the lady heard the butler fall down with a thump: he had fainted on the doorstep. Outside stood six of the biggest Negroes you have ever seen, all in freshly pressed US uniform, very solemn. When she said that there must have been some mistake, the sergeant answered, “No Ma’am. Cap’n Cohen, he don’t make no mistakes.’”

Andy Newman snickered. The two men swapped further stories of muddled contacts with neighbours whose culture was a mystery. Andy concentrated and re-read the letter. ‘Better get it right this time.’ He groaned. ‘Oh, mercy, does that mean I have to go through all the camp personnel records? How many men we got here – couple of thousand or more?’

For answer Shorty picked up another pile of mail and began to allocate it to the named
cubby-holes
behind him. ‘They won’t want more than half a dozen, at least to start. There’s the two Cohen brothers, a Kahan who I know is Jewish because he gets letters from Tel Aviv, three Levys and a Levison. That’d do for starters, wouldn’t it? I should try them.’

Helen found herself walking slowly against a sleety wind and huddled into the duffel coat. The sweater and skirt she had chosen for the evening gave little warmth. She was early for the session at Harold House, but since visitors were due the committee had to arrive an hour ahead. The cleaner had been requested to put in extra effort, but as a rule the woman spent more time chatting and smoking than at work. It would not do if the toilets were dirty or if the bar and dance area looked scruffy. If nobody else had swept the steps clear of snow she would do it herself. The new blood might make their club a regular venue. That’d be great. Or would it?

The youth club members, Helen realised, had precious little idea what to expect from their invitees and even less of what was desired in return. A bit of noise and colour, naturally. More money: it’d be terrific if the servicemen, who were not only paid but paid handsomely, started to splash out. Not that there was much to buy – crisps, peanuts, egg sandwiches and kosher hot dogs were the limits of the members’ virtuosity in the kitchen. The maintenance of
kashrut
, particularly keeping milk for the coffee separate from the savaloys, drove everybody mental.

After hours, however? There was an unspoken hope that following the disco the GIs might invite club members to join them downtown in an exploration of more adult pursuits. Were she asked she would be tempted though it’d be wiser to refuse. It took no imagination though to picture Jerry Feinstein enthusiastically on the razzle. He’d lead the guys on (or try to) and boast loudly about it for days.

That was jumping ahead a bit and might not happen. How might the Americans behave in the club? Perhaps they’d come laden with bottles of unfamiliar yellow beer with German brand names, or even whisky. Given the rickety fridge it might be awkward if they demanded ice. They’d been warned Harold House had no licence but it was not against the law to bring your own alcohol though that was frowned on when younger children were present. The Saturday night dance however was not an event for thirteen-year-olds. Most present would be her own age or older. They certainly did not think of themselves as children and were used to sliding into bars and lying, wide-eyed and red-faced, about their ages as a sweet cider or lager and lime was ordered. The very choice of drinks betrayed the deceit. Not that anybody would challenge them, not the publican nor the police: provided no trouble ensued, no fist fights or glassings, everyone colluded contentedly.

The boys were bound to be an improvement on what was available. Boywise, that is. Helen sighed and her walk slowed. Not that there had been so many boys in her life to date. She wrinkled her nose and tried to remember the schoolboy in the Cavern. His tie flapped against his white shirt as he danced energetically with her. She could have her pick of blokes of that sort had she wanted. What
was he called? Jack. Or Mack. Something like that – quite unmemorable. Just like him.

A point in his favour was that he came from Merchant Taylor’s, a fine school out in Crosby to the north of the city where comfortable families had begun to drift. The fact that they were no longer Liverpool citizens was seen by them as an advantage: that also avoided payment of high Liverpool rates. The subject had come up in school when Meg’s grandparents had moved there. They did not want to hand over their hard-earned money to be spent on riff-raff, Meg had explained with a toss of her head. When asked about loyalty to their home town such emigres shrugged. The drain of brains and financial power which weakened what was left behind was not their concern.

The shift of population was not yet a flood but it made Helen instinctively uneasy. When she was a small girl the city’s official population had been over 800,000. Now it was expected to fall to barely 600,000. So: 200,000 in twenty years or so was only 10,000 a year. There was probably nothing much to worry about.

Her father had told her that fears expressed post war had been exactly the opposite, of cities overflowing with people in the wake of the baby boom. With the enthusiastic concurrence of the local council, government policy encouraged removal to overspill towns in the countryside. To places like Kirkby with its ultra-modern high-rise flats, or Skelmersdale, the garden city of the future; the latest, Runcorn, had just been announced. Few voices were raised in opposition.

Helen enjoyed life in a big, vibrant city: she was an urban animal, she knew quite well. Yet if Liverpool’s population continued to slide, might it cease to be like that? Was it possible that some day it’d stop being a great seaport and turn instead into a clutch of decayed slums bedevilled by high unemployment and social problems, too far gone for the decline to be reversed? Surely that was unthinkable.

Her father had expressed his alarm. Cities die, he argued, and nobody notices soon enough to cry halt. His attitude was in part a reflection of his distrust of the municipal grandees whom he regarded as a bunch of idiots.

He had brandished the front page of the
Liverpool Echo
whose photographs showed aldermen, councillors and the Lord Mayor in velvet robe, feathered hat and chain of office at a foundation stone ceremony in Skelmersdale.

‘What they don’t realise, Helen, is that it’s the best people who leave. Those who stay behind often are the worst. The dregs of humanity.’

She was shocked at his tone. ‘Surely not. It’s going to be hard to get one of those new houses, Dad. There’ll be long waiting lists.’

‘It’ll be a question of who you know, then. The old pals act, as usual.’