Before Rachel announced that she would marry into the Klopman family. Kitty thought often about this irony, the unfairness of the trick played by fate on Rachel’s father and pondered, when she did so, on Sydney’s whereabouts and the ‘world to come’ in which she could not whole-heartedly believe. If it existed, to be sure, Sydney would be there, ‘a ministering angel’ among the ‘disembodied souls of the righteous’.
Unable to convince herself of any independent existence of the spirit, Kitty had taken her doubts to Rabbi Magnus. In an attempt to explain how the body, while of use on earth, was dispensable in the hereafter, he had employed the analogy of the moon traveller. ‘While on the moon man is totally dependent on his space-suit. If it is damaged he will die. But once he returns to earth he can throw off its restrictions to move about as he pleases.’ Kitty prayed nightly that released from the space-suit of his body, in which during his last months he had suffered so miserably, Sydney would have heard the good news about Rachel’s wedding. There were, it was true, irregularities of which he would not have approved but then he had never been one for compromise. Toeing the line of his religious beliefs Sydney did not deny the importance of sex – the Torah (where the subject was dealt with frankly) spoke to real people with real passions – but considered that it had no place outside the marriage bed. More pragmatic in her approach, Kitty was able to turn a blind eye to the fact that Rachel and Patrick, though not yet married, had set up home together in a borrowed council flat. When she saw that he not only loved, but seemed able to curb her headstrong Rachel, she had taken Patrick to her heart and was able, although she did not condone it, to put the irregularity into context. It was not the same world. By holding rigidly to his beliefs Sydney had tried to make it stand still.
When the time came for her to meet Patrick’s parents, Kitty should, she knew, have invited them to her flat. Sydney, a stickler for protocol, would have insisted. Not yet at ease however in the mantle of her widowhood, she had become so agitated at the thought of the hospitality she would have to provide, that when Hettie Klopman had telephoned her she had gladly accepted the invitation for dinner at the house in Winnington Road. Apart from her sister-in-law Dolly’s funeral, when she had unwillingly returned to the cemetery whose ethos stirred the embers of fires she strove daily to douse, it was the first family occasion she had had to face on her own. She stood in front of her wardrobe. Since Sydney had died she had bought no new clothes. There had seemed no need. Sydney had left her comfortably off but it seemed profligate to spend money unnecessarily when none was being earned. There was the outfit she had had for Sydney’s last Ladies’ Night which had come out again for Josh’s wedding; the black crêpe, which went on for ever but reminded her of the mourning she had left. She reached for the fine wool two-piece, which she had worn all winter, when her eye fell on the dress she had bought on the morning that Sydney had died and which she had vowed she would not wear. She had never got rid of it. Had let it hang there like a talisman.
It was light and coloured, like the spring, a breath of the year to come, an augury; a breach of faith. She took it out and held it in front of her. She had not put on any weight. She let the pleats swing. It was part of her life with Sydney although he had never seen it. If she wore it he would be there with her. And yet it was a new start. She could not explain the paradox.
The evening had gone well. Kitty was glad she had worn the dress with the pleats although it was no match for Hettie Klopman’s olive silk (the initials of the designer woven into its threads), the matching shoes, the cabochon bracelet from which she extended her pink-tipped hand. From the moment Kitty had rung the bell at the side of the double oak front door and felt the eye of the security camera above her head she knew that she would be looking at the evening through Sydney’s eyes, measuring her responses by his standards.
The welcome had been warm. Herbert Klopman, cigar in hand had opened the door wide.
“Mrs Shelton!”
“Kitty.” She corrected him.
He hung her coat with care in a panelled closet on a hanger bordered with antiqued studs, took her arm – as if they were old friends – as he led her towards the drawing-room which opened off the hall, its heavy curtains embracing a room warmed by the glow of a gas-log fire.
“I can see where Rachel gets her looks!…” Hettie Klopman enveloped Kitty in a perfumed cloud, kissing her and appraising her at the same moment. “Patrick’s told us so much about you.”
An elderly woman in a black dress, her head angled unnaturally towards the floor, sat with a newspaper and magnifying glass beneath a lamp.
“This is my mother,” Herbert said, pinching her cheek. “Mrs Klopman.”
Mrs Klopman’s head stayed where it was as she raised her eyes to Kitty’s, took Kitty’s hand in both hers.
“Rachel’s a grand girl. She’ll make Patrick a grand wife.”
Kitty hadn’t thought of it like that and realised that she was in ‘their’ territory when she was used to being on her own.
A bookcase, with books whose spines seemed all to be bound in tooled leather, covered one wall. At some signal from Herbert a section of it swung open to reveal a bar. He listed a choice of spirits in their jewelled bottles.
“Something soft,” Kitty said, “…tomato juice.”
“Ice and lemon?”
She could see the slices, concentric on a plate, speared, like a hedgehog, with cocktail sticks.
“It’s a beautiful house…” Kitty said, while Herbert busied himself with the Worcester sauce, watching the drops like some dispensing chemist, and Hettie hovered with a silver hors d’œuvres tray, its cut glass dishes filled with olives and pickled cucumbers and with nuts. Kitty was not a great conversationalist. Sydney had always done the talking. “We used to have a house,” she said. “In Hendon…”
She had gone back to it recently thinking to resurrect her early life with Sydney. The monkey-puzzle tree in the front garden, with its spiny, evergreen tentacles, which had obliterated the light in the dining-room and which Sydney would never cut down, had been summarily ripped out, and red asphalt – providing hard-standing for two cars – had replaced the grass and the roses. The friendly face of the house – between-the-wars stucco – had been masked by a timber façade and the windows were swathed in pink nylon.
“Now we live… I live…in a flat.”
“I’ll show you round, if you like,” Hettie said, obviously dying to, “after dinner.”
“If we ever get any dinner…” Herbert looked at his watch. “Where are the children?”
“Sure they’re enjoying themselves,” Mrs Klopman said holding out her glass. “You can give me another little drop of whisky, Herbert. It wasn’t enough to fill a thimble!”
Kitty wondered if they ate like that every night. The table on its own was something to see, its mirrored top like an oblong lake on which floated silver and crystal and posies of flowers and a dish of fruit with cherries hanging down like ribbons and foil wrapped mints and crystallised ginger and pastel coloured sugar-coated almonds. She was glad that on the first occasion she hadn’t invited Herbert and Hettie to her flat. She sat on the high-backed, tapestry covered chair on Herbert’s right, opposite Patrick, who looked exhausted from his day on the wards, and Rachel who hadn’t bothered to change from her jeans or brush her hair, and next to Mrs Klopman who had brought the whisky decanter to the table with her.
Hettie served kreplach soup from a Rosenthal tureen which matched the china.
“Do you realise there’s no singular for kreplach?” Herbert said as two of the small, meat filled dumplings were ladled into Kitty’s plate. “Probably because nobody ever eats one. Did you hear the story of the American tourist who staggered into Blooms’ and said to the waiter: ‘I’m tired and I’m hungry. I never knew London was such a filthy place. The stores are crowded, the streets are filthy and I got off the bus at the wrong stop. So bring me a nice plate of soup with kreplach and just one kind word for a visitor.’ The
waiter brought the soup, put it down and was about to leave. ‘What about the kind word?’ the American said. The waiter bent over and whispered: ‘Don’t eat the kreplach!’
Kitty saw Patrick and Rachel exchange glances and realised that the story was not new and had been repeated for her benefit.
A roast chicken and accompanying vegetables were brought in by a maid.
Herbert poured wine into the glasses with the twisted stems and picked up his own.
“L’chayim,” he said, looking at Kitty. “To our new mechutanista.”
Kitty raised her glass to the family who were to become her relatives by marriage.
“Patrick!” His grandmother hissed leaning across the table. “Patrick!”
“What is it?” Patrick took his eyes from Rachel.
“Will you give her the ring?”
Patrick took a box from his pocket. Inside was a solitaire diamond flanked by diamond baguettes.
“It was my own engagement ring,” Mrs Klopman confided to Kitty. “Patrick’s grandfather, God rest his soul – Patrick never knew him – brought it over to Dublin from South Africa.”
“I hope it doesn’t have the Lipshitz curse,” Herbert said. Kitty looked at him.
“A lady at a charity ball was wearing this enormous diamond. ‘It’s the most famous diamond in the whole world,’ she boasted. ‘The first is the Hope diamond, then comes the Koh-i-noor, and then comes this one which is called “the Lipshitz”.’ ‘It’s magnificent,’ its admirers said. ‘How lucky you are!’ The lady shrugged. ‘Nothing in life is all mazel. Unfortunately, with the famous Lipshitz diamond you must take the famous Lipshitz curse!’ Her friends buzzed round her. ‘And what is the Lipshitz curse?’ The lady sighed. ‘Lipshitz.’”
“Herbert!” Hettie said.
Herbert lifted his glass. “Rachel and Patrick!” He looked at Kitty. “You can’t imagine how happy we are with our new daughter, we couldn’t have asked for better.”
“Bits of nurses from the hospital he was after taking out!” Mrs Klopman muttered.
There were tears in Hettie’s eyes as she drank the toast, Kitty knew, because Rachel had told her, that after Patrick was born his mother had given birth to a second son who was brain-damaged and was spending his life in an institution which Herbert had funded. She had been unable to have more children.
Hettie got up to kiss Rachel, resting her cheek against hers for some moments, then Patrick who looked embarrassed at the whole thing.
“Mazeltov!” Mrs Klopman said, toasting Rachel and Patrick but looking at the chicken. “Will you give me the parson’s nose, Hettie?”
Over coffee they discussed the wedding which was to take place the following summer when Rachel, hopefully, had graduated.
“You don’t have to worry about the reception,” Herbert said, lighting a cigar, “I’ll take care of it.”
“I’m not worried,” Kitty said, “Rachel’s father…”
“We’ll have it in the King Solomon Suite.” Herbert puffed intently.
“As long as the ceremony is in Sydney’s shul,” Kitty said. “Rabbi Magnus…”
The cigar was glowing. Herbert examined its lighted end and Kitty was aware of a frisson of tension making its way through the clouds of goodwill.
“It’s better to have the chuppah and the reception in the same place,” Herbert said reasonably. “It saves having to park twice…”
“It was Sydney’s second home,” Kitty said, meaning Rabbi Magnus’ synagogue to which he had worn a path over the years.
“It’s a lovely shul, Herbert’s,” said Patrick’s grandmother, leaning towards her. “And Patrick’s my eldest grandson. They’ll make a grand couple!”
Kitty felt the ground shifting beneath her and called inwardly for Sydney who would not have given way. She looked for help to Rachel who with supreme indifference was reaching for a chocolate. Patrick was digging her in the ribs with his elbow.
Rachel looked at him. She removed the silver paper and took a bite from the bittermint to give her strength.
“As a matter of fact…” she said.
“The King Solomon Suite takes about four hundred,” Herbert said. “We can have Unterman to cater if we book him early enough.”
“As a matter of fact…” Rachel tried again.
“Let the child speak, Herbert,” Mrs Klopman said.
Herbert took no notice. “Patrick finishes at the hospital at the end of June so what about the first Sunday in July?…” He took his diary from his pocket and removed the gold pencil. “No, wait a minute, that’s the ‘three weeks’.” He meant the period before the Fast of Av which commemorated the destruction of the two Temples in Jerusalem during which time no marriages could be solemnised. “It will have to be the second Sunday.” He made a note.
Sydney had favoured Tuesday weddings because on that day, in the account of the Creation in the book of Genesis, God concluded his handiwork saying ‘It was good’ not once but twice. Kitty held her peace.
“Wedon’twantabigwedding!” Rachel said into the silence.
“Unterman doesn’t cater under four hundred,” Hettie said. “It’s not worth his while.”
“Rachel and I will just get married quietly,” Patrick said. “We’ll marry in a synagogue if that’s what you want, but no jamboree. Lunch here if you like.”
Hettie stared at him. “For four hundred people!”
“Mother, we don’t want four hundred people! Just…” he looked round the table, “…us.”
“Meshugger,” Mrs Klopman said. “Did you put anything in the coffee, Herbert?”
Herbert stood up and took the apricot brandy from the sideboard.
Kitty did not protest when he poured some into her coffee cup. She had the feeling she was going to need it.
“Listen son,” Herbert said to Patrick when he’d sat down again. “There are certain things one has to do in this life to please other people. You’re our only child…” His eyes met Hettie’s across the table, “…who’ll be getting married, at least allow us some koved!”
“We’re not having a big wedding,” Patrick said. “Forget it!”
“What a way to talk to your father, Patrick,” Mrs Klopman said. “Don’t you think I’d like to enjoy myself before…”
“You’re upsetting your grandmother,” Herbert said.
“Look,” Patrick said, “I’m absolutely serious. Both Rachel and I…”
“Sure he’s talking like a bridegroom already,” Mrs Klopman said.
“…Both Rachel and I greatly appreciate what you want to do for us but we’re simply not interested. As I said we’re willing to marry in synagogue and come back here for a drink, or lunch if you insist, but other than that…” He took Rachel’s hand and looked round the table. “…I’m afraid it will have to be the Registrar’s when no one’s looking.”
“What about a tour,” Hettie Klopman said pointedly, looking at Kitty, “round the house?”
Kitty had not seen anything like it. Deep pile carpets, specially woven, swallowed their footsteps and muted their voices. Paintings, bought astutely by Herbert at auction sales, glowed beneath their lights on every wall. She admired the kitchen into which you could have almost put her entire flat, and the hi-tech, third reception room with its deep leather chairs. On the first landing Hettie opened a door.
This is my mother-in-law’s suite,” Hettie said. “It’s self-contained.”
“Does she live with you?”
Hettie looked surprised. “Ever since we’ve been married. Herbert wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The master-bedroom was, Kitty thought, large enough to house the wedding reception – never mind the King Solomon Suite – and Herbert and Hettie had a bathroom each. Herbert’s was lined with wood – incorporating a sauna and mini-gym, complete with rowing machine and exercise bicycle – and Hettie’s with rose marble, with rose silk blinds which Kitty would not have liked to keep clean. When she saw Patrick’s bedroom, with its cedarwoo
d fitments housing his books and his trophies, she couldn’t imagine how he could be happy with the peeling walls and chill discomfort of the council flat.
At Hettie’s suggestion, Kitty availed herself of the facilities, hardly liking to dirty one of the tiny, initialled guest towels laid out on the wash-basin. When she went downstairs again Rachel and Patrick had gone.
“Headstrong!” Mrs Klopman said. “Takes after his grandfather.”
“He’ll come round,” Hettie said confidently, patting the sofa next to her for Kitty to sit down.
“He won’t get a penny from me if he doesn’t,” Herbert said.
Rose of Jericho Page 2