She's Leaving Home (38 page)

Fifteen minutes left. She began to doodle on the back of the exam paper. It would not do to
leave, for that would disturb entrants still scribbling furiously nearby. Brenda never managed to finish since she would be too engrossed in the first two questions. Meg would answer as necessary, but a slapdash approach and unreadable calligraphy would cut her marks. Colette was staring straight to the front, pen between her teeth, brow furrowed. As Helen watched, the Irish girl described a six-sided polygon before her eyes, then appeared to grasp what had eluded her and started to write busily once more. Helen loved to discuss the answers afterwards with Colette who could always analyse them more clearly than the others and whose quick brain made mincemeat of the calculations. In the right circumstances Colette would make a superb specialist.

What might she herself achieve? It was not arrogant to want her name up in lights and not vain to assume it was possible. As she had outlined to Mr Mannheim, her preference was to be associated with the development of some commodity which might have future science students learning her name – a wonder drug, or a dramatic new fabric. How wonderful it would be if the ‘Majinsky method’, a technical breakthrough as yet undreamed of, should some day make her famous, like the Salk vaccine or Fleming and penicillin. Along with Mr Mannheim she would shy from research into weaponry of any kind, though staff in such laboratories were well paid. Not that she was a pacifist – but others would do it, and she would leave it to them. The odds were, however, that she’d end up in Port Sunlight, buried in the endless search for a soap powder to wash whiter.

Her doodles had synthesised into two columns. At the top of one she had squiggled ‘Don’t’, and the other was headed ‘Do’. Seven minutes till the bell. She began to put into each column the first notions that came into her head in no particular order.

‘Do’ soon had a long list.
Hard work, politeness, fulfil potential. Keep hair nice, nails clean, stockings free of ladders, polish shoes. Save money,
followed by (!)
Read more, especially novels. Get more sleep. Give essays in on time. Go to dentist before it hurts. Learn to love Miss Plumb. Love Michael.

The ‘Don’t’ list was shorter, mainly because her natural turn of mind was positive.
Don’t be rotten to Barry even if you hate him. Ditto Jerry Feinstein
. (She then wrote ‘Make friends with Roseanne Nixon’ under ‘Do’, pondered, and crossed it out.) Don’t interrupt.
Don’t snap at your mother.

What a peculiar collection, she realised. All the ‘Don’ts’ but one were to do with other people. The only ‘Do’s’ with people were for her headmistress and her American boyfriend and both used the word
love
. And two of the most important individuals in her life, her father and Reverend Siegel, did not feature at all.

‘One minute left,’ came the supervisor’s call. Helen drew a line with ‘Don’t know’ above. Under she wrote two words, then hesitated and wrote two more. After the latter two she put a large question mark. The list then read:
1. Dad 2. Rev Siegel 3. America
?
4. Israel
?

‘I have more research to do yet,’ she murmured to herself. ‘And I think I know who might help.’ The bell sounded, short and sharp. Pens were laid down, sighs echoed around the room. Helen collected her answer sheets and held them up for collection. The exam paper, obliterated by doodles intelligible only to herself, she put in her pocket.

Roseanne Nixon returned to the solidly respectable detached house in Menlove Gardens with its pebble-dash exterior and paved drive she shared with her parents, and plonked her satchel on the kitchen table with her beret.

‘Don’t do that, dear,’ responded her mother automatically. Mrs Rita Nixon was talking on the phone which had been newly installed on the kitchen wall. The girl opened the fridge door and took out a bottle of Coca-Cola and a slice of blackcurrant cheesecake. She sat at the table and began to eat.

Her mother said goodbye and replaced the phone on the hook.

‘Heavens, Roseanne, have you never heard of a plate? Look at the mess. Crumbs everywhere.
And couldn’t you have made a cup of tea instead of drinking that rubbish?’

Roseanne responded with as much dignity and self-control as she could muster.

‘Mum. I’ve been in the house five minutes and all you’ve done is moan. Don’t you want to know about the exams?’

Mrs Nixon paid attention as bid. ‘Of course, dear. How did you get on?’

‘Dunno yet.’ Roseanne was gloomy about her prospects. ‘It would’ve helped if I’d read
Bleak House
, I suppose. And the history – I get so mixed up between Charles I and Charles II. I swotted up the Restoration so I wrote about that, but the question mentioned the Long Parliament. I think I got it wrong.’

‘Never mind, dear. I’m sure you’ll pass.’

Roseanne flashed her mother a withering look and went on with her snack.

Mrs Nixon wiped her hands on her apron and sat down sympathetically beside her daughter. ‘These don’t count, though, do they? It’s next summer which matters. Plenty of time between now and then.’

‘Yeah, but they won’t get any easier. I don’t think my grades will be exactly brilliant. Don’t expect too much, you and Dad.’

Mrs Nixon gave Roseanne a hug and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Whatever you do you’ll still be our lovely daughter.’

Roseanne deduced correctly that her mother must have been reading women’s magazine articles about bonding with wayward teenagers. At times she felt quite murderous towards her parents.

‘No, Mum, listen. If I don’t do well, we have to decide what’s next. I think university or whatever is out. I’m not sure I want to be a student anyway – especially when I look at the kind of girls who do want to go. The thought of another three years kowtowing to the likes of Helen Majinsky and Brenda Jones makes me want to puke.’

‘Roseanne: language.’ Her mother swept the crumbs off the table with one hand into the other. The bits were dropped into the sink. ‘Fancy the College of Commerce? No? Then we could have a word with Uncle Solly and you can go work in his dress shop on London Road. You won’t be without a job, anyway.’

The girl brightened. ‘Would I get a discount? He’s got some smashing stuff.’

‘You’d have to ask.’

‘And, Mum –’ Roseanne stopped until she was sure she had her mother’s full attention. ‘What about getting engaged? You said I’d have to wait till I finished my exams. Then I’d have something to show those others. They’d be jealous as cats if I had an engagement ring.’

That was a point in favour of action. ‘It’d be my dream to see you married. The best day of my life that’ll be, your
chuppah
. Still on with Jerry, is it? What does he think?’

Roseanne had not broached the subject recently. Jerry was weak enough, however, to give in to relentless pressure. The only effective opposition could come from her parents.

‘Well,’ she began diplomatically, ‘he feels he ought to be ready in a year or two. If I’m bringing in some money, that’d be sufficient to get by. You’d help us out with a mortgage, wouldn’t you, Mum?’

Rita blenched. ‘With the deposit, anyway. I’d have to talk to your father about it.’

Roseanne knew with enormous precision how to blackmail her mother. She leaned her chin on her hand and gazed airily upwards. ‘I’d like four children – two boys and two girls. Boys first. We could have the whole family to the
bris
. Just visualise how Dad would be congratulated.’ Tears pricked at Rita Nixon’s eyes. ‘You’d make us both very happy, Roseanne. A proper
yiddishe
wedding, and a
bris
, and then barmitzvahs, and more weddings.’

Roseanne pushed home her advantage. ‘And you could come to my house for second
seder
night, and listen to your little grandchildren asking the four questions.’ She spoke in a high lisp:
‘
Mah nishtanoh, halayloh hazeh, mikol haleylos
?’

‘“Why is this night different to all other nights?’” translated her mother. She gazed proudly at Roseanne. ‘Why is this daughter different to all other daughters? Other daughters cause their parents grief. They want to forget their
yiddishkeit
and marry a
goy
. They’ll change their names to Johnson and pretend they were never Jews. Oy! They deserve everything they’ll get. But not you. A
balaboster
you’ll be, a source of joy to everyone. Thank God.’

Roseanne smiled sweetly. ‘You won’t mind if I fail a few silly exams, then. And I’ll choose the right moment to tell Jerry everything’s settled.’

They had decided to make a day of it. Helen had agreed with Mr Feinstein to miss one Sunday morning and told her mother she would meet friends in town then go in a crowd across to the Wirral. She was not sure where they’d end up but would be home around eleven. Since it was virtually the end of term with no further pressure of study, Annie was reassured that the girl could afford the time off, deserved it almost.

Helen pretended not to hear her mother’s inquisition about her companions’ identities. To avoid argument she accepted the offer of a packed lunch and so set off with cheese sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, a banana and a bottle of lemonade. It suited them both to see the excursion as a children’s picnic.

Town was quiet. The meeting point was obvious – under the Epstein sculpture of ‘Man at the Helm’ atop the main doors of Lewis’s opposite the Adelphi. Michael was already there, lounging against the wall. In the open they did not embrace, but walked quickly to the Jeep parked behind the hotel.

Ten minutes in the Mersey Tunnel brought them out into daylight amid the grimy bulk of Birkenhead warehouses. ‘Dismal spot, this,’ was Michael’s comment. He consulted a map and written instructions obtained from Andy Newman, then threaded his way straight through the town and out the far side. Within half an hour he had picked up the National Trust sign for Thurstaston and found a spot in the shade to leave the vehicle.

Helen watched in delight as he reached into the back and took out a large tartan blanket and an enormous wicker basket. ‘That puts my little packet of sandwiches firmly in its place.’

‘Gotta impress. This is what the US Army is for. Here, can you carry this?’ He handed her the blanket. ‘It’s to sit on,’ he added quickly when he saw a flicker of anxiety in her face.

She had debated whether to wear jeans, or a skirt. Trousers would be easier to scramble about in on the rocks at Thurstaston, and more modern. A skirt would be cooler, and better if he wanted anything… She made herself stop thinking like that. But she had chosen a cotton skirt, in blue with a flower pattern, and had tied her hair back with a ribbon to match.

He wore his Levis as if accustomed to them, as if he never thought twice what to wear when not in uniform. The check shirt had short sleeves. How practical Americans were. When her father could be persuaded to venture on to a beach his sole concession was to remove his shoes and socks. His white bony feet and toes would wriggle about shyly in the sand. A jacket would be worn, however hot the day; short sleeves were unheard of. Like many of his generation he kept his hat on. The contrast made her laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ Michael had begun to climb ahead of her, to find a vantage point. The broad flat red rocks were already warm in the sun. Between the stones was fine dry sand, with tufts of sea-pinks and rye grass. The wind whistled softly around the point. Above their heads gan-nets and terns wheeled and cried, endlessly argumentative and busy.

Helen explained. ‘Michael, to us you seem to have arrived from another planet. You’re an alien creature in my world. And I love it.’

They settled near the top where both shade and shelter could be had. He spread out the blanket and sat, his back against an outcrop. They looked towards the south west.

‘Now that’s the river Dee, not the Mersey? I need to get my bearings.’

‘Yes. That’s north Wales over there. Chester is off to our left. Liverpool is directly behind us.’

He shaded his eyes then pointed across the estuary. ‘Is that some kinda castle?’ He consulted the map. ‘Yeah, Flint, it says.’

‘There’s a whole string of castles down there. Queensferry, and Caergwrie. That’s how we used to keep strangers out.’

‘Ah, the Welsh! But strangers can be smart. “I can call spirits from the vasty deep,” as Owen Glendower put it.
Henry IV Part I
, yes?’

She responded instantly with Hotspur’s quip. “‘Why, so can I, or so can any man. But will they come?”’

‘Clever clogs.’ For several moments they allowed the sibilant whisper of the reeds to take the place of speech. Michael stretched out his long legs. ‘Come close. I want to talk.’ She snuggled near him. He put an arm around her and kissed her almost absent-mindedly. ‘We don’t live in separate worlds, Helen. I don’t want to be a stranger to you.’

‘You’re not,’ she murmured. ‘I feel as if I have known you my whole life. It’s as if I have been waiting for you.’

‘The Chinese believe that when a child is born a single soul is split in two. When he or she finds the other half, the result is perfect happiness. If the two halves never find each other then they’ll seek for ever and never rest content with what they’ve got. That’s how they explained love, I guess.’

‘I know what they mean.’ She avoided looking at him directly.

‘I’ll be off home soon for a month. I wanna tell my parents about you. Would you mind?’

‘Of course not. But what on earth will you say?’

‘You’re fishing. I shall tell them I’ve met a tricky, awkward young lady, with big dark eyes, an old head on her young shoulders, a very rich American auntie and an ogre for a Daddy.’

‘He’s not an ogre. He’s simply stuck in a medieval time-warp. At least, that’s how it feels.’ She turned her face to Michael. How natural it was to be near him. ‘He wants what’s best for me, as he sees it.’

‘And that wouldn’t include little ol’ me, would it? D’you see how bewildered that leaves me? As for my folks – well, my mother would be aghast that anyone could reject her perfect son. I gotta figure out exactly how to broach the subject.’