Angel of Brooklyn (25 page)

‘How’s the jewellery business?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t like it,’ she told him, shading her eyes. ‘Truth is, I didn’t even ask.’

‘Never mind, never mind, something will turn up; meanwhile, there’s always the Galilee.’

Lydia smirked. ‘I’ll be out of here by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, if not before.’

‘I’ll miss you,’ said Elliot.

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Of course I will. I mention you every single night in my prayers.’

‘Why?’ she said, stepping over him. ‘Are you praying I won’t blab?’

‘I don’t know what it is you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘I pray for all the lost souls inside this hotel, always have done, always will.’

‘Do I look lost to you?’ she said, heading for the stairs. ‘I’m here; I know exactly where I am and exactly where I’m going. I’ve never been lost in my life.’

‘Oh, she’s a live one all right,’ said Elliot, unhooking his thumb from the book and opening out the pages. ‘Don’t let her lead you astray.’

‘Talking of being led astray, what happened to Miss Brownlow?’ asked Beatrice.

‘Oh Miss Brownlow,’ he said, dropping his head. ‘Miss Brownlow disgraced herself.’

‘How?’

‘Oh, the usual things; liquor, a good-looking boy, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

She stretched out on top of her bed. It was late and the walls were patched with shadows. She could hear a man shouting in Yiddish in the street, it sounded fast and furious and the words more interesting than English, the way they worked around his tongue like he could taste them. A door slammed. Then silence.

Lydia had been quiet all evening. She’d worked through her meal (corned beef, potatoes and carrots) without relish, but left nothing behind, not one speck of beef, not a single dot of carrot. She’d sulked with her arms folded when Miss Stanley had said that the place simply wouldn’t be the same without her, and she’d gone to bed early, leaving her bag in the hall, a dusty-looking carpet bag with a mended leather handle.

Beatrice had walked around the block, watching the sky change from blue to orange to something that looked like a bruise. She’d seen Miss Flood and the others marching down the street with their banners, dodging dried beans and insults. A man had been sitting on the pavement eating a bowl of spaghetti. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up. His arms were the colour of caramel. He’d looked up from his bowl and nodded. ‘
Questo un la sera bella
.’ And she’d nodded back, because whatever it was he was saying, he sounded as if he were right.

The hotel was quiet. A dog was barking somewhere around the back. She closed her eyes. ‘This is my home, this is where I live, this is my home,
this really is my home
.’ The words were a mantra she didn’t quite believe, and she felt panicked when she remembered that everything in Normal had gone. The furniture auctioned, the house – eventually sold to a family called Robinson, who had come from Carbondale and didn’t know the details, and didn’t seem to mind the charred square of garden, and the rumours. Her aunt in Springfield
had
sent a note of condolence, and said she understood that after three long years it was only right that Beatrice should move on.
I don’t know how you lived in that place for so long
, she wrote,
you are right to want to leave it
. But she offered no kind of help or accommodation. Her brother had fled to the Church, and to the Reverend Malcolm Henderson who had prayed with him, talking of salvation, finding Elijah a place in Chicago where crime and insobriety were rife, where they needed the enthusiasm and the energy of the youngest, fittest preachers to set the godless onto the path of true light.

Eventually, she fell asleep. She dreamed fitfully. She was eating spaghetti, wearing silk ballet slippers and standing on a horse. The tattooed man appeared. He unbuttoned his shirt. He smiled at her. Then, shaking out his collar, he started setting free the birds.

Lydia had gone before breakfast. After the prayer and the plate of toast and shrivelled eggs, Miss Flood announced that Miss Lydia Shields from Missouri was no longer a guest at the Galilee, and that she should not be allowed inside the premises if she reappeared. ‘Under any circumstances.’ Beatrice suddenly felt sick.

‘Why?’ she asked. ‘What has she done?’

Miss Flood cleared her throat a little. ‘In a word,’ she said, ‘absconded.’

A large black fly was dancing on the tablecloth, which Miss Flood eyed suspiciously before banging down her fist.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ shrugged Beatrice, ‘wasn’t she supposed to be leaving this morning anyway?’

‘She was supposed to be leaving at 10 a.m.,’ said Miss Flood. ‘She was supposed to have been collected by her father, a Mr Henry Shields. She was not supposed to be leaving at 1 a.m., collected by some unknown shadow loitering about in the yard.’

Elliot Price pushed his plate to one side. ‘Well, there we have it,’ he said, producing a crumpled handkerchief from his pants pocket, and dramatically blowing his nose. ‘Another one bites the dust.’

‘But what will her father think?’ said Beatrice. ‘He’ll be devastated.’

‘Miss Lyle,’ said Miss Flood, slowly shaking her head, ‘don’t you see?’

‘See what?’

‘There is no such person as Henry Shields from Missouri. Never has been. Who knows who Miss Shields really is, where she comes
from
, or what she might be called. Thanks to the protection of the good Lord Himself, we were not robbed, or murdered in our beds, though I must urge you all to check through your belongings, and report what is missing.’

‘Lydia wasn’t a thief,’ said Beatrice. ‘I’m sure she wasn’t a thief.’

‘Who knows who or what she is?’ said Miss Stanley, with her arms folded. ‘I agree with Miss Flood. That girl could be anything.’

‘Of course, the Galilee Hotel is not a prison,’ Miss Flood added quickly. ‘We took her in. We took nothing. The least she owes us is her honesty.’

‘But are you sure her father won’t be coming here to get her?’

Miss Flood rubbed and twisted her hands, like she was washing something out. ‘I am positive,’ she said. ‘Henry Shields is a fictional character.’

Beatrice went outside, breathing hard in the freedom, the large expanse of blue and white sky. No one else had appeared the slightest bit concerned for Lydia’s safety. They’d tutted, shaking their heads with a knowing smile here and there, as if they’d expected something like this was going to happen all along, and that the alias Lydia Shields was now somewhere being sinful.

‘I’ve heard about girls like Lydia Shields,’ Miss Flood had said. ‘The things they get up to are enough to send them dancing all the way down to the Devil.’

‘It’s Miss Brownlow all over again,’ said Miss Stanley, and there had been something of a smile sitting in the corners of her narrow colourless lips.

Beatrice walked without knowing where she was going. Every so often she thought she might have seen Lydia, laughing on the corner, pushing back her curls.

She took the ferry to Coney Island, because it was the only place she could think of, and one of the few places she knew how to get to. The ferry was already crowded. Children danced on the spot, squashed between bodies in their best Coney clothes. There was no sign of Lydia, but she might be there already, eating fried chicken, or queuing for the elephant boy.

Her head was full of colour. Crowds pushed together speaking in languages that Beatrice didn’t recognise. The scent of horses mingled with salt, the perspiration, the coils of smoke winding in the air, snakelike and smelling of charred beef and spices. Beatrice, pummelled by
elbows
and shoulders, passed plaster minarets, bands with dancing monkeys, a woman playing a polished gold harp, the Pavilion of Fun, bronze-lipped fish, tail-to-tail elephants, the Ferris wheel, and people, old and young, rich and poor, sniffing the air, eyes wide, lips trembling, because what they’d heard was true, this place really was heaven on earth, the sun was shining, and they were strolling in it.

Her eyes ached with looking for Lydia and she could feel the sweat sticking underneath her arms. So many girls had round smiling faces, dark curls and green summer dresses. A stall selling cheap souvenirs said
Help Wanted
. She hesitated. She watched the girl behind the counter in a pink-and-white striped apron selling kaleidoscopes. A boy kicked his mother’s shin.
I want one of those. I want one, I want to get one now!
She walked away. She could always walk back.

By the time she’d reached the heart of the park, cricking her neck at the revolving airship tower, she’d been sung to by a man from Bombay (he was also carrying a snake), shouted at by a woman selling paper concertinas, whistled at by a group of boys, followed by a man with a glass of Turkish coffee, and squashed against a child with a pink marshmallow cupcake. She couldn’t stand a moment longer. Her feet were throbbing. She found a quiet dark corner in the Memsahib Tea Parlor. Here the air rustled. She ordered iced tea, pressing her hands against the cool wooden table, pressing them back to her forehead, transferring the change in temperature. An English accent said, ‘Like the old days, only cleaner.’ A waitress moaned, ‘Juss leave me alone, willya? I’ve got no change, I’ve got no change, I’m tellingya.’

The frozen tea brought a sharp pain to her forehead. Sitting behind her eyelids were points of reddish light and she rubbed them into blurs.

‘Are you waiting for someone?’ said a voice. Beatrice looked up, shaking her head. It was a woman. ‘Mind if I join you? I’m looking for the darkest corner, and you’re in it. I shouldn’t be here, I should be standing in my booth, but I haven’t felt right all morning, and now I’m starting to swoon.’

The woman sat down. She was a little older than Beatrice. She was wearing a blouse that had
Nancy
embroidered on the collar.

‘I’m baking,’ she said, stirring the fat slice of lemon that was sitting in her soda. ‘Truly. This heat is killing me off.’

‘Do you work here?’ asked Beatrice. ‘Here at Coney?’

‘For my sins.’

Beatrice looked into her tea. She took a sip. The woman smiled.

‘Are you here like the rest of them, for pleasure?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Funny answer.’

‘I sort of came looking for somebody.’

‘Find him?’

‘It was a girl. We were staying in the same hotel, then she disappeared.’

‘This place, it sucks you up,’ the woman said. ‘Some people come here for an hour, and they’re never seen again. I’m Nancy, by the way. Nancy Karlinsky.’

‘Beatrice.’

‘You look the smart type,’ said Nancy. ‘You work in Manhattan?’

‘No,’ Beatrice told her. ‘I only just got here. I’m looking for a job.’

‘Are you fussy?’

‘Depends.’

‘How would you like a job selling postcards? My boss will have to see you first, he’ll have to give you the once-over, but he’s been moaning about wanting someone else since the start of the season. How about it?’

‘Postcards?’

‘Views of Coney. Luna Park by night. People like postcards.’

Beatrice didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Selling postcards. I could do that.’

BRINGING BACK THE PAST

‘MARY’S ASKING FOR
you,’ said Lizzie. She was covering her head with her coat, sheltering from the rain. ‘I’ve just been there. Have you heard? She’s on death’s door. I know she’s been there a few times before, but this time she’s almost inside it.’

‘She’s asking for me?’ Beatrice had been cleaning all day. Her apron was grey; her hands were sore and her nails were full of silver polish. ‘Do you think I should go?’

‘Yes.’

She pulled off her apron. ‘Should I change?’

Lizzie shook her head.

‘Then I’ll just wash my hands and brush my hair a little.’

‘I don’t think there’s time,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

They ran through the warm, fine rain. In the parlour, the doctor was sitting with his coat off, his waistcoat unbuttoned, sipping a large glass of port. ‘Just to keep out the weather,’ he explained, nodding at the window. ‘This summer rain’s worse. It’s the change, you see; it gets into the bones.’

Mary’s mother offered Lizzie a chair. ‘Oh no,’ the doctor waved. ‘Elizabeth can sit here with me. How are those two little rascals of yours? Harry and George?’

‘Harry and Martha,’ said Lizzie, shyly perching down on the sofa with a cushion in between them. ‘I have a girl and a boy.’

‘Ah yes,’ the doctor twitched, pushing his glasses further up his nose with his finger. ‘One of each, how thrilling.’

‘And Mary?’ asked Beatrice.

Her mother looked down at Beatrice’s boots, and then slowly raised her red eyes. ‘She’s waiting for you,’ she said, rummaging up her sleeve for a handkerchief. ‘Can’t speak of anything else.’

‘Might I go up?’

The doctor cleared his throat. ‘I must warn you,’ he said, taking a slurp from his glass, ‘she has little time left with us.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I never thought it would come to this,’ said her mother. ‘Don’t upset her. Be careful what you say, and if she starts rambling …’

‘It’s the morphine,’ said the doctor. ‘That’s all it is, the morphine.’

Beatrice felt more than a little nervous walking up the stairs. The cottage felt different, the small deep-set windows looked smaller and there was a creaking as she knocked at Mary’s door and walked straight in.

Mary was almost invisible. It seemed like her eyes had slipped to the back of her head. Her hair had been wrapped in a thin muslin towel.

‘I’m here,’ said Beatrice.

‘I wanted you to come,’ said Mary. ‘I’ve been asking all day. Is the door properly closed?’

Beatrice looked behind her. It was slightly ajar. She closed it.

‘Two things,’ said Mary. ‘I want you to tell me another story. I want to be able to think about something other than this world when I’m slipping away. And I want you to find my father. It’s important to me,’ she said. ‘I want to know he’ll be there at my funeral. I know where he lives, I’ve always known. I have his address. Here.’ She took a slip of paper from underneath the blanket. ‘Will you promise?’