She's Leaving Home (18 page)

At the front door her sister helped her into the black wool coat with the astrakhan collar. Sylvia laughed suddenly. ‘I doubt if we’ll ever hear the truth of this Profumo business, and I’m not sure I want to. It won’t do poor Mr Macmillan any good.’

Rita concurred. ‘It’ll help Harold Wilson, true or no. Ugh! I hate that ’orrible Yorkshire accent. The notion of him actually becoming Prime Minister! Really puts me off.’

On that the sisters were as one. Sylvia kissed Rita on the cheek, promised to phone, pulled on her gloves and was gone.

The post landed with a plop on the hall rug. Barry was first to reach it, though seldom did any arrive addressed to him. The pile appeared to be larger than usual. He brought the envelopes into the dining room and tossed them one by one on the table, deftly avoiding his father’s breakfast cigarette.

‘A bill – another bill – a brochure of some kind for you, Dad – ooh!’

He stopped. The envelope was pale blue with stripes of red and darker blue around the edge. ‘Airmail,’ he announced portentously. ‘From the United States of America.’

‘Give it to me, Barry. Go get ready for school.’ Annie snatched it away before her son could read out the addressee’s name. It would have felt like sacrilege had anybody else opened an airmail letter first: that was her duty, and pleasure.

In the doorway Helen pulled on her blazer, a half-eaten piece of toast held in her teeth. Mouth full she mumbled, ‘Who’s it from, Mum?’

Annie turned the missive this way and that, examining its exterior as if its contents might be revealed by telepathy, but in reality enjoying the postponement of knowledge in case of
disappointment. “‘Mrs G. Ahrens”,’ she read. ‘Who’s that? Oh, it must be Gertie. Haven’t heard from her in ages.’

‘Who’s Gertie?’ Barry did not want to know about his far-flung relatives, but contrariwise hated being left in the dark.

‘Gertie? What’s she up to now?’ Daniel’s curiosity was equally aroused. ‘Born lucky, that one – always landed on her feet, whatever she got up to.’

‘Hush, Daniel. Gertie may have been wilder than us, but…’ Annie cast a veiled glance at the two youngsters. ‘Of course she’s a lot older.’ She reached for a clean knife. The envelope produced two rustling sheets of thin blue paper. Annie read in silence, her lips moving slightly, and ignored the chunter of impatience from her children. Then she yelped.

‘Oh, heavens. Dramatic’s not in it. She’s coming – here.’

Daniel stood up. The chair fell over behind him with a clatter on the lino. ‘She’s what?’

Slowly but with a tremor in her voice Annie began to read out loud. ‘“It is much too long since I have seen any of you and it doesn’t look likely that you’ll have the chance to come across here to visit for the time being. So the family on this side of the Atlantic had a confab and we decided one of us should represent the rest at the forthcoming barmitzvah in May of your son Barry,
kinnenhorror
, which you wrote us about. As I have fewest commitments it’ll be me. I propose to make a long stay of it if you’ll have me.” Oh, no!’

‘What is it?’ the others chorused in unison. Annie had gone white and now held the pages by her fingertips as if they had grown hot. Her voice dropped to a whisper. She looked up at Daniel with mournful eyes.

‘Your sister is proposing to come for two
months
and wants to stay – here. The whole time. Except for a few days in London to see the sights. She’s taking the Cunarder
Sylvania
next week and will arrive in time for
Pesach
. Oh, my God.’ With trembling hand she reached for the fallen chair, set it upright, sat down heavily and used the letter to fan herself. ‘Gertie! But how will we cope – on top of everything else?’

A startled silence had descended as the momentous news sank in. A relative from the States, instead of remaining incorporeal if glamorous, had decided to materialise in the flesh.

To Barry, excluded by his age from contact with the GIs at Harold House, the news felt like heaven-borne revenge on his sister. A pukka American, not the celluloid version he and his friends envied at the cinema and aped outside. A rich person, of that one had no doubt.
Very
rich: all Americans were. The boy was the first to recover.

‘Will she bring us presents? Will she take us out? What’ll I get for my barmitzvah? Can we ask her to bring us some records?’

But it was Helen who had spotted the dilemma posed by the arrival. From her mother’s face she was not alone.

‘Mum,’ she said slowly, ‘this is only a three-bedroom house. Where is she going to sleep?’

Her mother looked helplessly from one to another. Then she squared her shoulders, glanced upwards as if she could see through the ceiling to the cramped bedroom beyond, and back to the girl.

‘Well, she can’t stay in a hotel for weeks, I’d never hear the last of it. I’m sorry, Helen. You’ll have to move your books and papers off the spare bed. She’s hardly the companion I’d choose for you but your Auntie Gertie’ll be sharing your room.’

The author of the airmail letter smiled to herself as she emerged from the mirrored walk-in wardrobe of the master bedroom in Little Neck Parkway, Queens, New York, her arms full of folded garments. It would have arrived by now. A transatlantic phone call could have been booked, but in the flurry details might have been misheard or forgotten. It had been better to write and set out dates, times, dock number.

Methodically she began to compile a list for her packing. Senior citizenship was not a problem except when it came to her immediate memory. Toothpaste, cleanser, two flannels. Ten pairs of stockings – no, double that at least, they’d be great for gifts. Two months’ stay would justify the expense, especially if her sister-in-law Annie agreed to let her stay with them. Funds simply did not run to a hotel for the whole trip, though no doubt the Brits were convinced she was loaded.

Lucky that Joe trusted her to come alone. Sweet Joe, husband and distant kin. Same stock, same history, nothing to explain. Not that he had much choice: he didn’t travel well and would bid her
bon voyage
quite happily. On the quay he’d wave her off with a fluttering white handkerchief and a tear in his eye. Their next-door neighbours Marty and Lil would look after him. In her absence he’d have a fine old time. He and Marty would go to the game and play golf to their hearts’ content. They’d sit around the American Legion Club, swap a few tales, drink a few Budweisers and roll home late, to Lil’s pursed lips and curlers, but no harm would result. She hoped the two oldies would not overdo it. Nursing duties on her return would not be to her taste.

It was funny when you thought about it, that Joe was so keen on the Legion. He’d avoided the first war, as she knew, and spent the second entirely as a storesman on a base in New Jersey, from which he escaped frequently back to New York. Such a contrast to the family’s experiences in Britain which were described in terse censored letters, but which could be pictured with chilling clarity against the background of Ed Morrow’s London broadcasts. It remained to be seen to what extent the damage, psychological and physical, which the bombing must have wrought in her old home town had been eradicated.

Life stateside had been good to her and Joe, what with their sons set up in their own homes, and money in the bank, and their own detached property in one of the smarter suburbs of New York City. Her only regret was not having had a daughter. But leaving Liverpool had been the best thing they’d ever done. So many shackles had been thrown off, so many restrictions abandoned. In middle age she’d enrolled at City College of New York and taken a Bachelor of Arts degree in social history: ah, the satisfaction of that graduation day, as she held in her hand the proof of her endeavour and ability! None of that had been possible, or would have been, had they stayed in Europe. She had no regrets, and was certain Joe hadn’t either.

The two of them had willingly acted as sponsors for so many friends and for her cousins. They’d have done the same for Daniel, but his abrupt refusal to leave had been a puzzle. Gertie as the elder harboured a sense of responsibility, though that had not extended to staying at home to help her mother any longer than necessary. That episode when she was sixteen – but that was before Joe, and such a long time ago. It made her blush still to remember, and to sigh quietly whenever she heard a Scots accent.

For those days it was a modestly sized family. Gertie was the eldest, born at the turn of the century. A brother born in 1906 had died in adulthood – Izzy, short for Israel, so Daniel was her only sibling now. The girls – the two cousins, Miriam and Eva – had been in and out of their home so frequently they were almost like sisters. There must have been more, for mothers became pregnant every couple of years as the last child was weaned, but babies were miscarried or didn’t survive. That was how women had to live. Their mother had had a terribly hard time. God rest her soul.

Gertie hesitated before the dressing table. Was all the jewellery to come? She felt torn – in American terms they were far from wealthy and had had to withdraw savings for her trip. On the other hand, it would be grand to show off a bit to the folks back home and watch their eyes widen. All the jewellery it was, then, and maybe Miriam and Eva could also lend her a brooch or bracelet.

Daniel had been the brainiest. If he’d had the chances, he could have gone to college. It was out of the question then for a working man, especially one in poor health. As she mused Gertie felt slightly anxious. She had emigrated while Danny was a boy. The two had not been close, and now he was all of fifty.

He had once dreamed of change, or so she’d heard second-hand. That Annie had not been his great love nor his first was a whispered tale – hardly surprising as he’d been in his mid-thirties before he married. The cousins had nothing positive to say of Annie, who was too reserved for their taste and who had disapproved of their capture of American airmen as husbands. The conflict between old world and new world values had made sparks fly then but had softened with time and distance. It meant however that Gertie was unsure what she would encounter, while Daniel and Annie could have precious little notion of her. It was to be hoped that no new sources of conflict would emerge.

What might she find? Gertie pulled out a photograph album and scrolled through the pages. Her brother didn’t send many pictures; perhaps he didn’t have a camera, for everything here was taken by somebody else, mostly at
simchas
. One showed Daniel and Annie at somebody’s wedding a few years ago with the children. The adults probably wouldn’t have altered much but these small ones would have grown a bit. Barry would be nearly as tall as his mother, though that cheeky manner would still be present. Miniature charmer, in all probability, and soon with an eye for the girls. He did not attract her.

The daughter, though. Helen. Where did that name come from? Greek, wasn’t it? Their mother, her grandmother had been Edith or
Itah
in Hebrew; the plan must have been to name the child for her as was customary but in a more up-to-date version. Edith, Elaine, Eleanor, Helen. That was it. So in their search for modernity they’d chosen a name far older than Edith, which was itself an assimilation to the Victorian taste of their contemporaries. Jewish people liked camouflage. So the baby girl was named, probably by mistake, after the whore of ancient times whose beauty launched a thousand ships and destroyed a nation.

Helen might have inherited her father’s wits. From Annie’s letters it sounded so, and the pictures suggested she was not a plain girl. Maybe she had a measure of the Majinsky spirit of adventure, at least as it had manifested itself in its women. As Gertie put away the photographs she found herself looking forward to meeting her niece for the first time.

Gertie chuckled. Getting to know Helen could be the best part of the whole trip.

‘So! How did the night out go? Make progress?’

Sergeant Andy Newman carried his tray into the canteen, found the man he had been seeking and sat himself down at Mike Levison’s side. ‘I was asking for professional reasons. Helps to know if the invite was worth while.’

‘Sure.’ Levison pushed his plate away. Was it his fancy or was the food getting worse? ‘We were made real welcome. Funny old place, bit like a fraternity house, but respectable. No booze.’ He grinned.

‘Wouldn’t suit everybody then?’

‘No-o. Not the wildest joint in Liverpool, but I liked it. Couple of us have promised to go again. Members are a bit young, I think. The oldest can’t be more than nineteen or so.’

The sergeant blinked. Michael tried to explain. ‘It’s a youth club. Mostly they run it themselves – real fine kids, don’t get me wrong, and not dull. More like a church group, but the music’s great. The girls are cute and smart. But if any of our guys wanted “cigareets and whiskey and wild, wild women”, they’d be best advised to go elsewhere.’

Camp rules were strict. Nobody wanted trouble. Andy was satisfied. As he rose, Michael Levison laid a hand on his arm.

‘Say: it’s a Jewish club. How did you decide to send me?’

The sergeant shrugged and pointed. ‘Your name.’

‘Just that? Not that I mind. I was brought up not to have any prejudice, and I don’t expect folks to have any against me. I wondered, that’s all.’

The square brick building was tacked on to the side of the synagogue, a cheap fifties design with a flat roof which in due course would cost the congregation far more than they expected to refurbish. The big hall with its expensive parquet floor where barmitzvahs and wedding parties took place was at the back, furthest from nearby residents who had objected strenuously to its construction. Next to it were four classrooms. Each, like the Marcus Liversham Hall, was named after its donor.

Helen pushed open the door of the
cheder
and went in. A shimmer of warm air enfolded her from the big radiator inside the entrance. At five o’clock on a quiet Tuesday only two of the classrooms, the Bertha Morris and the Lionel Blumsky, were in use. Through the glass window of one she could see Mrs Siegel, a tubby solemn woman with scraped-back black hair, in front of a class of seven- and eight-year-olds. On the blackboard Hebrew letters were written out neatly from right to left. The class appeared to have reached about halfway through the alphabet, to
mem
and
nun
, the precursors of modern M and N. In the other room Yehudah Siegel, the Reverend’s intense older son, had pinned up a map of Israel. He was gesticulating and pointing to it, his mouth moving, as barmitzvah candidates and a few girls learned about their putative homeland. Helen craned her neck but could not see whether Barry was present. His attendance at best was unreliable.