Read She's Leaving Home Online
Authors: Edwina Currie
She's Leaving Home (63 page)
She needed to think it through more, but both mind and body were drained. Those queries she had fluffed came hazily into her head and were batted half-heartedly away. There would be no re-run. So it would be Liverpool and her parents’ house, or Manchester and an uncle’s, depending on her grades. The door to freedom had slammed firmly shut.
If she stayed put alone she would have a restless and miserable night. Wearily she rose, tidied herself and made her way along the hall to the lounge used as a junior common room. Inside, a kettle was boiling merrily and coffee was being spooned into mugs. A group of young women sat on the rug in front of the electric fire, or lounged on armchairs. The television in the corner was switched on, though nobody was paying much attention.
‘Hi! You’re one of the candidates, aren’t you? How do you like your coffee?’
NEWSFLASH
. What was this? The newscaster appeared, his face solemn. He began to speak. A hush fell.
Everyone froze. A little cry came from one girl, a sob from another. An empty mug fell to the floor with a crash and broke but was ignored.
‘We have the latest news from Dallas, Texas. President Kennedy has been shot. He has been rushed to hospital but doctors fear for his life. We will bring you more news as it comes in. I repeat, President Kennedy has been shot in Dallas…’
‘Oh, God, Pa. What’s happening? What’s happening to us?’
Michael fought back the tears. Had he been with his father instead of in a chilly corner of the postroom with the telephone receiver pressed tightly to his ear, he would have wept openly.
The crackly voice at the other end was sombre. ‘I don’t know, kid. None of us knows. One minute you’re planning the re-election campaign and tossing around next year’s legislative programme. Next you’re on a windswept airfield as a coffin is brought out with a dead President inside. Forty-six years old. Everything yet to come.’
‘Ma said you were over the Pacific when you heard?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. A big crowd of us – on a delegation to Japan, trade, security, that sort of thing. Six members of the Cabinet including Dean Rusk, Dillon and Stewart Udall. Turned that aircraft straight round and came back. The atmosphere was real jittery. Nobody knew whether there wasn’t a bomb on the plane too. Boy, were we glad when we touched down.’
‘I was in my bunk, waiting for supper. The base went berserk – everybody running around, completely crazy. Except for one Louisiana guy who hates him. Had to be put in the cooler for his own safety.’
‘He was dead on arrival, I reckon. The surgeon claimed they found a pulse but Senator Yarborough told me half his head was blown away. The bits of bone flew up into the sunlight. What you saw splattered on Jackie’s couture jacket were his brains. He never had a chance.’
‘They’re talking about conspiracy, Dad.’
Colonel Levison sighed. ‘Yeah, they’re talking about nothing else. I dunno. Oswald was crazy but his schoolmates on TV say he was a loner. That stuff about him going to Russia and his Russian wife. If he’d really been an assassin under orders he’d have kept his head down, stayed inconspicuous – yet he popped up in official files all over the place. Got court-martialled twice in the Marines and discharged. Cleared off to the Soviet Union and couldn’t make a go of things there either. D’you know State Department had to lend him $435 to get home? Then he finishes off his big day by killing a patrolman – so he was gonna land on Death Row one way or another. Doesn’t sound like a
professional conspirator to me. A mediocrity his entire life I reckon, until its spectacular conclusion.’
‘Christ! Why couldn’t he have gone and shot somebody else? Why Kennedy? Why?’
‘Because JFK was President, that’s why. Because the President was a success and handsome and rich, and a war hero – everything Lee Harvey Oswald was not. Because this was a man to look up to. If you mean, why was Kennedy taken from us: well, son, I have no answer. That’s a matter for priests and pundits, not for mere foot-soldiers like us.’
There was silence for a moment. Michael sagged against the wall and passed a hand over his brow. He desperately wanted Helen and wondered if he dared phone her. Behind him a small queue had formed: only one overseas call per man was allowed and the other phone was equally busy. The airmen waited patiently, faces tinged with grief. One boy blew his nose and snuffled softly.
‘It scares me, though, Dad. Oswald was arrested barely two hours after the shots and now he’s dead too. So he can’t talk.’
‘He never admitted he did it. Not a word. But think, Michael. Who benefits from Kennedy’s death? Nobody. The Soviets know our system isn’t undermined: Khrushchev’s not stupid. Kennedy’s not the first – we’ve had four Presidents assassinated. Johnson was sworn in before the corpse was cold. We have a new President. Continuity is assured. Life goes on.’
‘But what about the Cuba connection? The papers are full of it here. Oswald called himself a Marxist and was secretary of the Fair Play for Cuba committee. Don’t you think Castro might have been involved?’
His father grunted. ‘Huh. They’re wild enough, I grant you. But the only people who’d have slit Kennedy’s throat were some of the guys abandoned in the Bay of Pigs – anti-Castro, not the other way round. Anyway there was no chapter of the Fair Play committee in that area, so Oswald was fantasising. And that, in my view, is what he was doing all along.’
‘Till it became reality. And Ruby got him.’
‘Yes. And I tell you what worries me. Let’s hope this sort of thing ain’t catching. We don’t want any more lunatics on the sidewalks of America gaining fame for five minutes by shootin’ up whoever momentarily excites their jealousy.’ Michael turned his back on the line which had begun to murmur and shuffle its feet. ‘Tell Mom I love her, and you too, Pa. Be careful. D’you think Johnson’ll make a good President?’
‘Can’t tell. Heart in the right place. But he knows bugger all about foreign policy – never took any interest. His passion is the poverty programme: he wants to be the new Roosevelt. Sharecropping white southerners, Appalachians, urban poor. So South East Asia’ll be left to the generals. Could get nasty.’
‘No more Bay of Pigs, though.’
His father snorted, with a hint of bitterness. Michael could hear the tiredness in his voice. ‘No, and Castro’ll be around for ages yet. Let’s hope we do a better job in Viet Nam. So long, son. Keep in touch.’
Daniel had declined to go but Annie was keen, and Helen at the last minute volunteered to accompany her mother. Hastily concocted prayers had already been offered during the sabbath service on the Saturday morning for the President and his family, but the congregation was invited to the synagogue hall on the Sunday afternoon. The men, assuming at least ten turned up, would
daven
a
kiddush
for the dead. A short eulogy would be preached. Then the Ladies’ Guild, of which Annie was a member, would serve tea and cakes.
Attendance, despite wet weather, was far greater than anyone anticipated. The mourning was genuine, the desire to pay their respects deeply instinctive. A Book of Remembrance was opened and dedicated. It would be illuminated in gold script and delivered later to the US Vice-Consul in Water Street. Yet it was not for the repose of the murdered President’s soul that they prayed, but for their
own.
Though Kennedy had not shown himself particularly close to the Jewish people he had many Jews in his administration and had given unstinting financial and political support to the state of Israel. The position of Jewish people in America was secure. Why, a Jew would even be the next Republican candidate – Barry Goldwater whose family came from Konin in Poland, the same strain as many British Jews. America had welcomed the world’s persecuted: it was right and proper to honour the memory of its dead chief. And in so doing, to ease the ache in every breast at his dreadful demise.
‘So young, so young.’ Sylvia dabbed her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. ‘What a tragedy. May God rest his soul.’
Annie bent her head and busied herself with the Madeira cake. ‘They take such risks when they go into politics,’ she murmured. ‘Do take a piece, Sylvia. I baked it myself. I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Made me feel a little better.’
Sylvia chose the largest slice and crumbled it on to her plate. ‘A strange, dangerous world they live in, the famous. I mean, we could get run over by a bus but it’s not the same, is it? We wouldn’t be on the front pages. Nobody’s likely to come searching for us with a gun. It’s as if the gods are wilful – on a whim they cut down the finest in their prime. If I remember my schooldays it’s because they don’t care for the competition. So pride goes before a fall, et cetera.’
‘Hush – that’s pagan. We’re in
schul
,’ Annie reminded her.
Sylvia shrugged. ‘Still, I suppose we can be proud that the murderer Oswald was done away with by a Jewish man – Jack Rubinstein, wasn’t that his proper name? Even if he was a night club owner. Murky. I’m not sure I believe an ounce of what I’ve heard. Terrible business.’
They were joined by her sister, cup of tea in hand, a home-made biscuit balanced in her saucer. Helen had made herself useful on the far side in the cloakroom among the damp coats. In the background the hubbub was subdued. Everyone spoke in hushed tones.
‘I hear the American bases are on full alert,’ Rita remarked. ‘World war three, it could be. Just like the Cuba missile crisis.’
‘No. Honestly?’ Annie put down the plate anxiously. ‘How do you know?’
‘Well, there’ll be no youth club at Harold House tonight. It’s closed partly as a mark of respect, but Roseanne told me that when Jerry phoned around the boys at Burtonwood told him they couldn’t come anyway.’
Sylvia and Rita exchanged glances. Both waited for Annie to react but she did not. Rita raised her voice. ‘Pity. Those lads from the US Air Force have made a wonderful difference to our young people. Don’t you agree, Annie?’
Their companion looked bewildered. ‘I suppose so. We met a couple of them in a restaurant when Gertie was over. I didn’t know they were still going to the club. You’d think they’d have plenty of other places to go – more sophisticated, perhaps.’
‘They fancy our girls, I believe.’ Sylvia tilted her head inquiringly.
It was obvious that Annie was unable to rise to their bait. Her brow furrowed as she struggled to keep up with the conversation. Then she laughed. ‘History repeats itself, doesn’t it? That camp used to be a hotbed for young girls desperate for a way out of Liverpool. Why, my husband’s two cousins met their future husbands there, though I must say they seem to have been happy stateside. Years ago, of course.’
‘Hotbed is the right word.’ Rita placed her cup and saucer carefully on the table and folded gloved hands across her ample middle. Annie flushed. ‘It’s still going on. I’m surprised you’ve not heard.’
‘Oh? Are we expecting a
simchah
? Somebody getting engaged?’ Annie was flustered but polite. She had never had the same taste for gossip as the two matrons before her, who were notorious.
Rita satisfied herself that Helen was out of earshot then laid a hand on Annie’s arm. ‘We
thought
you
might be telling
us
. Your daughter, Helen. So pretty, so brilliant. Still waters run deep, my dear. She’s been seen around a few times with an American.’
‘What, our Helen? You sure?’
Both women nodded, smirks playing around their mouths.
‘My Roseanne told me,’ Rita continued. ‘Quite a nice boy he is. Man, rather. Quite a bit older, I shouldn’t be surprised. You mean to say she’s not mentioned it?’
Annie pursed her lips but laughed again as lightly as she could. ‘Dark horse, my daughter. She doesn’t say much.’
‘Roseanne thinks they’re quite smitten with each other. But Helen was hoping to go to university, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes. She’s had an offer from Liverpool but we are waiting to hear from last week’s interview. I’m sure she’ll be sensible. Her education comes first.’ Annie began to clatter plates together. She had a sudden urge to bring the conversation to a close. The priorities she had just expressed were not her own but her daughter’s. Or were they? Doubts assailed her, but it was not wise to display them before Sylvia and Rita. Otherwise the chatter would be around town in no time.
Rita turned away with a shrug. ‘My Roseanne can’t wait till the end of school,’ she commented over her shoulder. ‘We’ll have the engagement party at the Adelphi. You should have a heart-to-heart with your Helen and find out what’s up. Maybe hers’ll be on board a ship, out in the Atlantic on its way to New York.’
To Rita’s satisfaction Annie’s mouth dropped open, then was quickly snapped shut. A parting shot could not be resisted.
‘She’s always had big ideas, your daughter. You brought her up a bit hoity toity, if you don’t mind my saying so, Annie. Liverpool never satisfied her. Nor Liverpool boys neither.’
*
The head of the household was asleep. Daniel had pottered about till the women were gone from the house then put on his slippers and settled in an armchair with the previous night’s
Echo
. It had not been long before the pages slipped from his grasp and he had slumbered. The shrill ring of the phone, when it came, startled him.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ he grumbled as he lurched out of his seat. His calf had cramp and he pinched it to bring back the blood flow. In the hallway he could hear pop music from Barry’s bedroom. ‘
Roll over Beethoven
– That boy could live through a revolution and neither hear it nor care. Answering the phone was not in his repertoire.
‘Childwall three six one nine.’
‘Hallo?’ The voice was male, masculine, American. ‘Yes? Who is it?’ It must be a wrong number.
‘Ah – good afternoon. I’m sorry to trouble you. Is that the Majinsky household?’
Daniel took the earpiece away from his ear and gazed unfocused at it, as if it would identify the caller by itself. Some faint memory stirred then slipped away. He spoke again, testily. ‘This is Daniel Majinsky. Who’s that?’
The caller did not enlighten him. ‘I’m trying to contact Miss Helen Majinsky. Is she available, please?’
‘No, she’s not. She’s out. At the synagogue. A do for President Kennedy. Who wants her?’
‘What time might she be home, sir?’
Sir?
‘Look – who the hell is this? Who wants Helen? Is this some kind of joke?’ The memory jangled again. Didn’t he know that voice? His mind was still fuzzy from sleep. Not a customer. But where from? When?
‘No. No – I’m sorry to have bothered you. Good-day to you.’
‘What? D’you want me to tell Helen you telephoned? What name –?’
The line had gone dead.
With a grunt Daniel replaced the handset and padded back to his armchair. People these days acted so oddly. Not leaving a name, even. His arches teased him with pins and needles. He bent and massaged his toes, then stretched and pointed his foot, but the effort brought no improvement. Circulation was so poor, the doctor said. Best to rest it. But his sleep from that point onwards, though resumed for a further forty minutes, was fitful and disturbed, and plagued by snatches of voices with accents from far away.
My Dad found the exercise book.
I’d heard him scrabbling about for another bottle of whisky. Money’s been short the last few weeks, with no overtime as the nights draw in. He kept muttering he was sure he’d had a spare bottle hidden, in the back of the cupboard. That’s where he went with an old torch. The miracle was that the torch worked. So he found his liquor, and my diary nearby.
Nobody’s around. Not any more. My brothers have cleared off, probably permanently. They’ve got themselves a couple of girlfriends. Floozies, more like. They meet up on the ferry, on those riverboat shuffles. Late night cruises, in a wide circle round the estuary. The decks are awash with beer and vomit. The men piss over the sides and don’t care who they splash. Hardly a romantic moonlit night like in films. The O’Brien boys love it, but it’s horrible.
‘What’ve we got ’ere?’ Dad asked, and sat down on the floor. He unscrewed the cap on the bottle and took a swig, didn’t bother with a glass. It’ll all be gone by this evening. He takes his time drinking, not too fast. That way he seldom gets sick. Only drunk. Then he’ll hit out at anything that crosses him.
My Mum used to hide. In the house we had then, there was a cupboard under the stairs. She’d shove me in and tell me to stay put till it had gone quiet. Sometimes she’d hide there herself. Once she whispered in the dark, ‘It’s not that he drinks a lot. He’s not a bad man. But he can’t hold it when he does.’ Her voice was very sad.
But my Dad knows what drink does to him. He knows it makes him aggressive and belligerent. That’s what he wants. Underneath he’s timid – he’s frightened of the loose cranes on the dockside, terrified of an accident. When his mate Jimmy – the one who was kind to me – fell into the ship’s hold, or if a ganger gets smashed up at work, the bloke who comes home white as a sheet with his hands shaking is Joseph O’Brien. He drinks to give himself courage. He’s a coward underneath. But really he drinks to make himself a man. That’s what the booze does for him. And it always works.
So my Dad said, ‘What ’ave we ’ere? You been writin’, our Colette? Whatcha gonna be, then – a lady novelist or sum’pn?’
And he cackled, and took another swallow, and began to read bits out loud.
I felt myself go panicky inside. My breath came in short bursts. He was sprawled in the hallway so I could not get out without stepping over him. His eyesight isn’t too perfect so he misread some words – luckily. He thought at first it was merely random scribbles and chuckled boozily to himself.
I went into the kitchen. I was scared and in a muddle. On the table sat the remains of stew for Sunday dinner; he’d been quite complimentary about my cooking. I was wearing what are now my everyday clothes, a loose skirt with the top button left unfastened hitched over my bump and a big sloppy sweater on top. That hides my condition pretty well. I kept nudging against corners of furniture with my belly and it hurt.
I tried to wash the pots and ignore him but I couldn’t concentrate. I was so tired, and his chunter and grunts were a distraction. I needed a clear mind, but instead a faintness came over me. I stepped on to the balcony to get some air. It was cold and drizzly out, the atmosphere acrid and full of soot from the power station. In this damp weather it’ll be going full blast.
A bird was singing sweetly somewhere. That was unusual. I leaned over the balcony and tried to see it. One bird with not much to sing about, I dare say. The notes came from a ledge above my head – there’s an old lady on the twelfth floor feeds the birds with a few spare crumbs. They’re mostly scavengers: crows, a couple of magpies, or pigeons, dirty things with twisted red legs, and gannets which scream and peck at her. The old woman doesn’t seem to mind. Lonely, probably. Sometimes I hear her talking to the birds and telling them her woes. Bit like me.
Then I saw it – it flew quickly down and past, and on to the roof opposite. A tiny brown scrap with a perky stance, its short tail held smartly, and a high trilled song. I stared at it fascinated. Then I recognised it. It was the bird on the old farthing. A wren, that is. The smallest British bird for the smallest coin. They’re permanent residents in Britain, they don’t fly off for the winter. They stay. They could leave, but they don’t. They stay.
The birdsong lifted my spirits a bit. I could breathe more easily, though my heart pounded at the least noise from inside. Baby kicked me, hard. I put my hand to the bump to soothe him. Darling baby: is it a sin to bring him into such a dread, unhappy world? I don’t believe so, even if it was a sin that created him to begin with. But he can grow up as good and pure as anyone. I’m certain of that.
I realised I was hungry. Must keep up my strength. I tiptoed back into the kitchen, cut off a hunk of bread and nibbled a piece. Another slice I broke into bits and scattered on the lip of the balcony. The wren must have a nest nearby. Maybe it’ll come and whistle for me, as it does for lady upstairs.
Beyond the door it was quiet. I peeked into the hall. He’d dozed off, the half-full open bottle clutched tightly in one hand. The blue exercise book was on his knee. He hadn’t got very far. But I guessed if I tried to retrieve it or squeeze past he’d be awake in an instant. No chance. No escape there.
So now I’m in the living room. The panicky sensation has subsided and all I feel now is a weary listlessness. The sofa stinks of chips and vinegar from last night’s supper. Empty beer bottles are stacked up in a corner. Both the curtains are torn. No wonder my brothers have done a bunk. No wonder, come to that, my friend Helen wrinkled her nose. What a pigsty we live in. After baby is born I won’t come back. I’ll consider my options, as they say: but afterwards.
The TV is on and the sound turned down. That’s safe, and comforting. A weekly news review, extended. From the hallway I can hear the rumble of intermittent snores. An unwelcome commentary.
They are showing pictures of the funeral. The President’s been lying in state two days since the coffin arrived in Washington, but this morning he was buried in the military cemetery at Arlington. A horse draped in black walks alone, stirrups crossed over the empty saddle. A single drum, so mournful: no music. Young cadets line the route. And thousands of people. I couldn’t see Jackie’s face beneath her heavy veil, but the small boy, John, stood to attention. Three years old and lost his Daddy.
Ah, the children. Once the President was making a speech out on the terrace of the White House and his daughter Caroline emerged behind him, clumping around in her mother’s high heels. The child stole the show as the international leaders fell about in
stitches. Kennedy was a loving father. He wanted more children but their babies died. It made the two of them more human: Jack and Jackie, such important people yet they couldn’t have things exactly as they wished. But they had the daughter and the little boy, and as his Daddy’s coffin passed he saluted and tried to be brave.
I cried then, I did. I expect everybody cried who saw him. That brought it home. A life has been snuffed out, prematurely: hope, too, possibly. Millions of people, grief-stricken throughout the world. The future will never be as bright, not after this, not with the young leader gone. We weep together tonight.
Our Prime Minister was present, and Prince Philip. I think the Queen should have gone: kings and queens from Europe, Greece, Belgium were there, on parade with grim faces. And President de Gaulle, upright, proud and rigid. Algerian refugees have tried to assassinate him too. The Americans had warned his safety couldn’t be guaranteed but he insisted on attending. That’s courage.
Then the news showed the other man, the assassin. I itched to turn it up but didn’t dare. Yet you could see what was going on. The killer had been killed in his turn, but the TV could not let it go, and showed the clips of both murders, of Kennedy and Oswald, over and over. The crush came out of the narrow doorway – it was an underground passage, a car park maybe. The police were trying to get him out quickly, I suppose. They wore white Stetson hats, but the man Oswald was bare-headed. He had on a black sweater and a shirt, no tie. He had a weird expression on his face – almost pleased with himself. He stared straight at the camera. As if he were saying,
Remember me.
There was a lot of pushing and shoving.
Then somebody elbowed a space so that a hefty shoulder obscured the camera. A thick-set man in a dark suit, with an everyday hat with a dark-coloured band. But you could see his hands. He prodded Oswald as if to make sure he’d got the right guy, and then shot him. Just like that, quickly, so no one could intervene. You could see the flash and the gun, the gleam of light on the metal barrel. Oswald opened his mouth to scream but with the volume off nothing came out, only this dreadful silent shriek from a gaping mouth. The entrance to hell. Like that picture by Edvard Munch. Exactly like that. And he fell down.
I pressed my fingers to my eyes. To see a man shot like that – it was awful, ghastly. I felt exhausted. I put my head hack on the smelly cushions and tried to rest a while.
In a minute I’ll slip out and check if Dad’s properly asleep. If he is, I’ll take my chance. Baby’s been kicking again while I’ve been sat here. The doctor says I’m small for dates. She means the baby is, but he’s lively enough. My bag is packed, under my bed. If I can reach it, and creep past Dad without waking him up, I could get out. I could go to the nuns tonight.
It won’t be wise to stay in the flat a moment longer, not when my Dad’s got the hang of what I’ve written.
He’s no idiot. He will know it could put him behind bars for ever.