Montauk

by Nicola Harrison

  I smiled; the thought of it made me warm all over. “What about the house at the light?”

  “This is a nice house and all, but if you were here and we had a family I’d want you to live in a proper house. I’d buy it, fix it up, paint it, put in a nice big bathtub and a kitchen with windows that look out toward the ocean, and a beautiful yard where the kids could play.”

  I smiled. “What color would you paint it?”

  “Well, I’d have to get your approval of course, but I think I’d keep it yellow, a happy color.”

  I closed my eyes and pictured it for a moment, the house, us, the pitter-patter of little feet, our own little castle by the sea.

  25

  The Montauk betterment committee took a beating in the paper.

  “Another article about Montauk,” Dolly said over breakfast, the same table in the corner. “Looks like we’re getting quite popular.” She read on and I felt my stomach flip with excitement again. “It’s all about the funds from the masquerade ball and how they’ll be going to the school. How fabulous.” She looked up at me. “We’ll probably get some big donations now.”

  “Wonderful.” I tried to act normal, surprised and pleased with the news without giving anything away, but once again I was dying to see the article. Dolly held on to the paper and I glanced around the room seeing who else might be reading the same thing. A few men sat sipping coffee with morning papers stiff in front of them. To think that all these people and thousands more in the city might actually read the article and maybe even feel moved by it, compelled to donate or even just to consider for a moment what I was thinking.

  I suddenly felt the need to tell Dolly the article was written by me, this one and the last one and next week’s, too. This was just too much of a secret to keep. She would be thrilled with me, I was sure; she’d think I was awfully clever.

  “Hold on a second. Oh my, you’re not going to believe this; they’ve taken Jeanie to task.”

  I gulped. I had been so careful in the piece to remain stoic, report just the facts, I’d written and rewritten many times so as not to point the finger at anyone, and I’d crossed out lines that seemed incriminating many times before I submitted it. I certainly hadn’t intended to hurt anyone.

  “‘Socialite Jeanie Barnes, head of the masquerade ball planning committee, had originally planned to pour the money, which is raised for the purpose of benefiting the Montauk community, into another tennis court, a bronze statue or another row of yachts at the yacht club, but in a close vote of thirty-five to thirty-four, fellow committee members, guests and one local, the majority ruled that the fund would be put to better use and be of far greater service to the people of Montauk if it helps renovate the school.’”

  “Oh my,” I said, picking up my teacup, then quickly setting it back down when I realized my hand was shaking. It did sound rather accusatory when Dolly read it out loud like that. “I wouldn’t say that’s slamming her, though,” I said. “That’s just telling the truth.”

  “Maybe so, but Jeanie won’t see it that way. What a fantastically sharp slap in the face.” She laughed. “It’s about time someone put that woman in her place. I wonder if we have a mole among us; the Manor staff perhaps, maybe they’re being paid off to snoop. What fun!”

  * * *

  The ladies were having a beach day and Dolly and I joined them. Dolly was particularly inspired to see Jeanie roil in her public humiliation.

  “Morning, ladies,” Dolly said, pulling up a lounge chair near the others. “Jeanie, looks like you took a beating in today’s paper.”

  Jeanie slumped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, looking miserable. “It’s good publicity for our event.” Then she looked at me. “I don’t know what you’re looking at, Beatrice; you should feel responsible for part of this.”

  “Oh, Jeanie,” I said. “I stand by my position on the funds going to the schools.” I did feel a little bad for her.

  “What about our children’s schools? Maybe they need a little paint touch-up; I don’t know why everyone’s so concerned about the local folk here,” she said. “We don’t even know them.”

  “Yes, but it was your idea to create the betterment fund,” I said; then Dolly linked her arm in mine and pulled me away.

  “Okay, ladies, we’re going for a dip,” she said.

  In my strawberry-red swimsuit, despite my straight up-and-down figure, I somehow felt more womanly than I had before, more confident. Harry crossed my mind for an instant. I wondered for a second what he was doing back in the city—it was habit to wonder—then I pushed him out of my mind.

  “You look different. Something’s happened; what is it?” Dolly asked as we took a dip in the ocean.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re quite, I don’t know, happy. And you’re not letting Jeanie boss you around like before.”

  I dove into the water and under a wave, coming out the other side of it grinning.

  “I’m just in a good mood,” I said. “Can’t a girl have a good day?”

  “Sure, she can, but I want to know what you’re having and where I can get some,” she said, and I laughed. “Beatrice Bordeaux,” she said. “Are you having an affair?”

  I dove again and swam out to the ocean away from her.

  “Beatrice.” She splashed and swam after me. “You are. You’ve found yourself a lover. Good for you. Maybe that’s just what you needed. Darling, I’m thrilled for you; this is going to be wonderful for your marriage.”

  “Dolly,” I said. “I’m just happy to be out here spending time at the beach; that’s all.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said, grinning. “Well, either way, I think it’s outstanding news.”

  Dolly was a daredevil, a breaker of rules, a pusher of buttons, but this affair, between a married woman in society and a lighthouse keeper, this one she might not be able to accept. I couldn’t reveal the truth. Instead I told her something she could really sink her teeth into.

  “There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you, Dolly.”

  “I knew it.”

  “The newspaper columns about Montauk, the ones you’ve been enjoying, the greasy pig party, the dirty diapers and today’s masquerade funds…”

  “Yes?” She seemed thrilled, as if I were going to predict what news would come next.

  “I wrote them.”

  Dolly’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, you wrote them?”

  “I write them. That’s me. Jonathon Hubert. It’s a pen name; everyone assumes the author’s a man.”

  She looked bewildered.

  “Next time you’re in my room, I’ll show you my jewelry box. I have two checks for two dollars and thirty cents each and, after seeing this morning’s paper, presumably another few in the mail. I get paid to write about Montauk; isn’t that fun?”

  “It certainly is.” She was impressed; I could tell. “My, my, you are a quiet one, Beatrice, a quiet one with tricks up your sleeve, that’s for certain.”

  “I’ve been wanting to tell you. I was just so scared that Harry would find out. He would be furious.”

  “Listen, there are quite a few women entering the world of journalism, not women of your social standing usually but women nonetheless. It’s actually quite gratifying to see some females in this business. It’s important that we are heard as well as the men.”

  “That’s what Mr. Rosen said.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Rosen, my editor.” Just being able to say such a thing made me stand a little taller, feel a little more respected, even if the only ones respecting me were myself, Dolly and Mr. Rosen.

  “Well, well, I always thought you’d be good at keeping secrets,” Dolly said, “and boy, do you have some whoppers. Now we just have to figure out a way to put this column to good use.”

  26

  Dolly was already chatting with George when I got to the car.

  “Good morning, George,” I said. “Can you take us down to the fi
shing village to pick up Elizabeth, just across the railroad tracks, then to the school?”

  Elizabeth had arranged for us to meet the principal of the school and tour the facilities so that I could have an idea of what to propose for the fundraising meeting that week. Since handling money, making estimates and conveying these types of things to a not-so-friendly audience was not my area of expertise, Dolly had agreed to come along and help me focus on the school’s most immediate needs and then figure out how to present them to the committee.

  “Turn right at the bottom of the hill, George,” I called over the purr of the engine, “and it’s this house on the right, the one with the bikes out front.”

  I had been to Elizabeth’s house, or at least in her front yard, so many times now that it had begun to feel normal, but I could see that Dolly and even George were taken aback at how comfortable I was in the village.

  “How quaint,” Dolly said. “Right on the water like that. At least the fishermen don’t have a long commute.”

  “It is pretty, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but that railroad track is literally in their backyards,” she said.

  Elizabeth was about to climb in up front with George.

  “Sit back here, honey!” Dolly called out, moving over to make room. “Cute house,” she said. And then she introduced herself and suddenly I felt relieved, remembering how Dolly was in the hat factory, treating everyone the same, whether they were a floor sweeper or a hat molder or a buyer from a luxury store. “Give us a little background on this chap before we get there, so we know what to expect.”

  “He’s a wonderful man, Carleton Farrell. He’s the principal but also teaches seventh and eighth grade,” Elizabeth said, going on to tell Dolly what she had told me about the school and its need for a revamp.

  Mr. Farrell was a short, round man with ruddy cheeks and very little hair. What he did have left he kept long and swept over the top of his head. He wore a waistcoat over a cotton shirt, a jacket with elbow patches and what looked like wool trousers, even in the heat. He looked as if he had been a teacher and principal since he came out of the womb.

  “Lovely to meet you,” he said hurriedly, opening our door as we pulled up.

  “I’ll be waiting for you right here,” George said to Dolly and me as Mr. Farrell eagerly began the tour.

  “I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you’ve chosen to raise funds for our school. It means the world, the absolute world.”

  “The problem is,” Elizabeth chimed in, “that the school is just too small. We only have three classrooms, and the space that was going to be additional classrooms is damaged.”

  He took us through the front doors and into the classrooms. They were tiny and the desks were crammed in side by side.

  “Each classroom has two grades being taught by the same teacher in the same room,” he said. “So if your child is in fifth grade, he or she will come back to the same room, same teacher and slightly different curriculum for the sixth grade.”

  He led us to the auditorium. “We do Christmas plays in here,” he said. “Every single one of our students has a role in the plays; the teachers and the mothers make the costumes. Mrs. Mulford, our fifth and sixth grade teacher, is also the music teacher, so she accompanies the students. Mrs. Parsons is our theater teacher; she’s excellent and we are really hoping that one day we can manage to set up a stage in here. That would make it very special, wouldn’t it?”

  “The children performed an operetta in June at the end of the school year,” Elizabeth said. “Can you believe it?” she said to me. “My Billy in an opera, he sung his little heart out.”

  We all nodded appreciatively, not daring to move on until Mr. Farrell was ready; it was as if he wanted us to appreciate the auditorium a little more before we saw the damaged areas.

  “Anyway,” he said finally, “along we go.” He led us out of the auditorium, through a messy, unfinished courtyard and into an adjoining building that looked nothing like the parts we had just seen. It was partially built. Doorways without doors. The making of a classroom, but windows that had no glass. In one classroom the roof was only half-done; some greenery had taken root inside.

  “What happened here?” said Dolly. “It’s like night and day.”

  “Indeed it is,” Mr. Farrell said sadly. “You know, the old school was torn down and this one was resurrected when Mr. Fisher bought Montauk. But then apparently he ran out of money or went bankrupt and the work just stopped. We were told it was temporary and that work would resume shortly, but it never did. We had a few bad storms over a few bad winters and these structures became unusable. I don’t even think they are safe to repair, they essentially need to be knocked down now, but we don’t have the means to do anything.”

  “That’s why the younger grades are being taught in the church,” Elizabeth said.

  Dolly insisted that we had seen enough to come up with a plan and she took the lead in walking us back to the car, Mr. Farrell in tow.

  “Back to the Manor please, George,” Dolly instructed as we all piled in the car, Mr. Farrell up front with the driver.

  “So, darling, tell me about your children,” Dolly said to Elizabeth. “Beatrice tells me you’ve got a whole brood of boys.”

  “Oh yes,” Elizabeth said. “Four of them, Billy’s the oldest, then Gavin, Johnny and my youngest, Jake.” She smiled. “They keep me busy.”

  Dolly kept up the banter with Elizabeth, but she mentioned nothing of the school until we were seated at a small cocktail table in the Manor barroom, close to the lobby, in full view of anyone who might come through. She ordered a round of mint juleps, despite Elizabeth’s protests that she would have water.

  “It’s important that we be seen conducting our business,” she said to me quietly. “And that we be seen and taken seriously in what we do, whatever that might be.”

  “All right,” I said, never doubting Dolly’s ease in society or her business smarts for a moment, just a little unsure if all this was necessary.

  “Cheers,” she said, raising her glass, Elizabeth and Mr. Farrell joining her a little sheepishly. “Okay, here’s what we need to do,” Dolly said, clasping her hands together. “We need to take pictures. I have a photographer friend who can come out from the city and take some pictures of these worn-down buildings. We’ll ask him to develop the pictures back in the city and make them as large as possible, so we can display them at the next planning meeting.”

  She leaned in to Mr. Farrell. “Rich folk need visuals; I’m afraid some of them can be near blind when it comes to seeing outside their own situation.” She turned back to Elizabeth and me. “Can we round up some of the school kids? Let’s bring them along for the pictures. Then we’ll get the images out there somehow.” She fixed her gaze on me and smiled. “Out to the media perhaps, if we know of any editors or columnists who might be willing to write about the cause, and we’ll generate a lot of interest and donations that way.”

  Dolly had been quiet for most of the tour, but she’d been taking it all in, absorbing, thinking, and now she was in action mode.

  “Maybe we’ll interview some of the teachers, some of the kids, just ask them a question or two about what they’re wishing for, that kind of thing.”

  I was thrilled that I had brought Dolly along and for the look of gratitude and trust that Mr. Farrell and Elizabeth had on their faces, but I felt nervous about whether we could pull it off.

  “Let’s set a target amount we want to raise and we’ll solicit donations, and perhaps promise some sort of plaque at the school with the names of the biggest donors.” She leaned into the table again. “City folk love to see their names plastered all over the place; it’s like pasting dollar bills around town with their faces on them.”

  “I know what my wish is,” Elizabeth said. “It’s for the kids to have a stage. They work so hard on those plays and concerts, I just think it would make them feel on top of the world to be able to perform on a stage like they hear about i
n the big city.”

  “Could we get them to perform at the masquerade party?” Dolly asked. “It could be our last push before everyone leaves for the city.”

  “Most of them are around here all year long,” Elizabeth said. “Some might be working, but we can round up the majority of them, don’t you think, Mr. Farrell?”

  “It would be great,” Mr. Farrell agreed. “But my wish starts small. We have half-pints of milk delivered to school every day and they are available to the kids for four cents each. Not everyone can afford that. Sometimes I see teachers buying milk for those kids. I’d like every child to be able to have milk every day, and then I’d like to get to work on these buildings so the first and second graders can get out of the church pews and sit in real desks where they belong.”

  As we chatted and sipped our cocktails a group of women walked in from the tennis courts, dressed in their whites, and headed for a table across the other side of the room.

  “Ladies,” Dolly called out, “you must meet our guests!” She introduced Mr. Farrell and Elizabeth and clued the women in on our morning, our mission and our need for donations. They all nodded and seemed open to the idea. “Great work, you two,” one woman said. “I’ll definitely get Geoffrey to donate.”

  “Oh, me too!” another called out, and then they were all chiming in, not wanting to be left out.

  “The leisure photographer is here today, Dolly,” one woman said. “Don’t forget to put on your tennis whites and get your pictures taken.”

  Within minutes the group of women were settled at a table nearby and Dolly had left and returned with the hotel photographer.

  “Right here is ideal,” she said as she led him up to our table. “He’s going to snap a picture or two for us, and perhaps we can get it in the newsletter. Remind people that there’s work to be done and money to be raised.”