The Leaving Of Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  He and Tamara had made themselves familiar with the history of the land in which they now lived, knew the structure of its government, had studied its constitution, taken the Oath of Allegiance, and were now American citizens. But Levon didn’t feel the glow he had expected. Once he’d found life exciting, now it was boring. Each day was the same as the one before and there was nothing new to find. What’s more, his hair was turning grey at the temples and he felt old.

  One day, two years after the move to Brooklyn, Ollie Blinker telephoned Levon in his office. They hadn’t seen each other for months. ‘You got any stocks and shares, Lev, old pal?’ Ollie enquired.

  ‘No, I don’t trust my money anywhere but in a bank,’ Levon said primly.

  ‘In that case, drop everything, go to the bank, and withdraw every single cent.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it, pal.’ There was a click. Ollie had rung off.

  Levon sat at his desk, staring at his hands. He didn’t have an enormous sum in his account: the mortgage on the house took a huge chunk of his earnings and he’d recently bought a car, an old Maxwell, but there was enough put away for the garage Tamara wanted and to see them through should times ever get hard.

  He got slowly to his feet. Somehow, despite his conviction that Ollie Blinker was a crook, he trusted the man. If he removed the money, he’d lose some interest, but it would be better than losing the lot. The Stock Market had been very volatile lately and millions of shares were being traded each day, but he couldn’t visualize the banks going broke.

  Nevertheless, Levon withdrew his savings. Two days later, the Stock Market crashed, the banks ran out of cash, and thousands of Americans had their entire life savings completely wiped out.

  The safe in Levon’s office was comfortably full of dollars, but he felt sorry for his fellow citizens. It was if a giant boot had stamped down on the city of New York, squeezing all the life out of it and grinding its heel on Wall Street.

  Anne rang late on the day of the crash. Emily had already gone home, and he was trying to think of a reason for delaying his own departure. ‘Are you all right, Lev?’ she asked. ‘I mean financially.’

  ‘I’m fine, darling.’

  ‘Ollie promised to warn you. I don’t understand how he knows about these things.’

  ‘Are you at Ollie’s now?’ Something plucked at his heart at the idea she might only be a taxi ride away.

  ‘We just got back from Boston. Oh, Lev, let’s go to dinner! At the Plaza! It’ll be my treat. I’ve never bought you a meal before, but me and Herbie - Herbie and I - just performed at this big political event, a dinner for Boston’s finest, and they paid us a small fortune. Will seven suit you?’

  ‘Seven will suit me fine.’

  ‘See you then, Lev.’

  ‘See you, darling,’ Levon said, though Anne had already rung off. He immediately dialled his home number. Tamara answered, her voice crisp and businesslike. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to be late tonight,’ he informed her. ‘Something’s come up, an emergency. I need to go see a client who’s in desperate trouble, threatening suicide, according to his wife.’

  ‘But you knew we were having the Di Marcos to dinner tonight,’ she said crossly.

  ‘Is dinner with the Di Marcos more important than a man killing himself?’ he asked unctuously. He felt, unreasonably, he had right on his side, even though he was lying through his teeth.

  ‘Well, no,’ she conceded grudgingly. ‘But what am I going to tell them?’

  ‘The truth?’

  She sighed. ‘Try not to be too late, Lev.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he promised, though it was another lie.

  Chapter 7

  1930

  ‘Hello.’

  The man opened his eyes and struggled to a sitting position on the bench. ‘Hello, young lady,’ he said politely.

  ‘I’ve brought you some breakfast: coffee and a couple of hot dogs.’

  ‘That’s mighty kind of you. Thank you very much.’ His hands shook as he reached for the food. The fingernails were broken and full of dirt.

  ‘I asked the man on the stall to put sugar and cream in the coffee. Is that all right?’ She sat on the bench where his feet had been. There was a hand-painted placard underneath which said ‘Need work - will do anything’, and a grey fedora that looked as if it had been trodden on. He’d been using a khaki knapsack for a pillow.

  ‘That’s more than all right: sugar gives you energy, so they say.’ One hot dog had already gone. ‘What’s your name, young lady?’ he asked with his mouth half-full of the other.

  ‘Anne Murray. What’s yours?’

  ‘Robert Edgar Gifford: known as Bobby to my friends. I expect you’re still at college, Miss Murray.’

  ‘I’ve never been to college. I’m a dancer. Please call me Anne.’

  ‘A dancer, eh!’ He seemed impressed. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a real dancer before. I was junior manager in a bank - in charge of the loans department - but the bank went bust and we all lost our jobs. The owner shot himself.’ He gave a dry smile. ‘Thought about doing it myself for a while, but changed my mind.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad you did. You’re only young and you’re quite good-looking.’ He was about twenty-five and badly in need of a wash and a shave - she could smell the dirt on him and the odour of stale perspiration. The suit he wore had been a good one, but now the collar was curled and the pockets torn. His shirt was filthy, but nothing could disguise the fact that he was handsome, if painfully thin. The look in his brown eyes wasn’t quite as hopeless as some she’d seen since New York had fallen apart and the streets were full of the hungry and the homeless, mainly men like Bobby Gifford who’d lost not just their jobs, but everything.

  He smiled again. ‘Are you real, Anne Murray?’

  Anne took the question seriously - she sometimes doubted if she were real. ‘Yes, I think so,’ she replied.

  ‘Do you do this often - feed the down-and-outs?’ The hot dogs gone, he was noisily sipping the coffee out of the cardboard cup. A dog bounded up and sniffed the hot dog wrappings. Its owner, an elderly man, smiled at Anne and stared with some surprise at her companion. It was a glorious June morning and there were already quite a few people about in Central Park. Two horse riders could be seen in the distance. She wondered if, on a day like this, Bobby Gifford felt slightly less wretched, or if he was too far gone to notice the weather.

  ‘Only if I see someone sleeping on this bench. I can see from my bedroom window. It’s over there.’ She pointed to the Blinkers’ apartment across the park. ‘My bedroom’s the second from the corner on the top floor. I always look the minute I wake up.’

  ‘That’s a real fancy place to live,’ her new friend said enviously. ‘Does it mean if I sleep on this bench tonight, I’ll get another breakfast?’

  ‘Yes,’ she promised. ‘What will you do with yourself today?’

  He put the coffee on his knee and said thoughtfully. ‘I might go to Saks and buy a new suit, have lunch at the Amber Room - they do great salmon, so I’m told - and take in a movie afterwards. Maybe The Wind with Lillian Gish, I missed it when it came out. Then I’ll meet some old pals for dinner, before heading for Broadway to see a show.’ He gave another dry smile. ‘Alternatively, I might just look for work.’

  ‘I hope you find some soon,’ she said fervently.

  ‘What I’d really like to do is hitch to California - Los Angeles,’ he said, creasing his eyes as if he could already see the Pacific Ocean rippling on to the golden sands. ‘At least it would be warm. I’m not looking forward to sleeping outside in another New York winter.’

  ‘Why don’t you? Go to California, that is.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m scared. I was born here, Newark, and it’s all I’ve ever known. Los Angeles is a couple of thousand miles away.’

  ‘I’d do it if I were you. You could get a job in the movies.’

  He laughed curtly. ‘That’s easier said than done.’

>   ‘Everything’s easier to say than to do.’ She fished in the pocket of her pink jacket. ‘I’ve got eight dollars you can have. You could get a bus part of the way.’

  ‘I don’t want charity.’ He scowled and turned away. ‘You can keep your money.’

  ‘You ate the breakfast,’ Anne gently pointed out. ‘That was charity.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t now,’ he said churlishly. ‘Don’t bother looking for me in the morning. I won’t be here.’

  ‘It’s up to you. I’ll look for you all the same. Goodbye, Bobby, and good luck.’ She put the eight dollars on the bench and shoved it towards him. She’d hurt his pride, but it was good that he still had some left.

  ‘I’ve been watching you,’ Lizzie Blinker said when Anne went in. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that, pet. One of these days you might come to some harm.’

  ‘Did he pick up the money?’ Anne asked. ‘I gave him money, but he refused to take it, so I left it on the bench.’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Once I saw you come away, I stopped watching. Have you had any breakfast?’ Breakfast was the only meal Lizzie prepared - servants made the others - but it kept her in touch with her roots, she claimed. ‘When I was a kid in Manchester, most of the time there wasn’t anything for breakfast. When there was, it was only bread and dripping.’

  ‘What was bread and dripping like?’ Anne had asked.

  ‘In those days, it tasted delicious, but I doubt if it would now.’ Now, she made pancakes and cinnamon toast, scrambled eggs and hash browns. There was always loads of fruit on the table and jugs of juice. ‘What would you like this morning, pet?’ she asked.

  ‘Everything,’ Anne replied. ‘I’m starving.’

  Together, they walked into the long kitchen with its black tiled floor and white marble tops. There were yellow, slatted blinds on the windows, making the room appear sunny on the dullest of days, and a stove with six black rings that turned bright red when the electricity was switched on. In her worst nightmares, Anne sometimes dreamed that someone was pressing her arm against one of the rings: she could even smell her flesh burning. The table was a round slab of marble supported by a single black support; it always reminded her of a mushroom.

  ‘My friends would like to know how you manage to eat so much, but still stay as thin as a beggar’s broomstick.’ Although Lizzie had been in America for nearly thirty years, she hadn’t lost her Manchester accent.

  ‘She dances the fat off, Ma, that’s how.’ Herbie came into the kitchen wearing a bright yellow sweater and white pants. He was perfectly turned out, but his room would be in a terrible state, littered with all the clothes that had been rejected. He kissed them both.

  ‘Then I’d better suggest my friends take up tap-dancing. ’

  ‘What are we doing today?’ Anne asked Herbie. She often forgot.

  ‘Silly girl!’ Herbie said fondly. ‘We’ve an audition in two hours, haven’t we? It’s for that new Broadway show, Roses are Red . . . ’

  ‘And violets are blue,’ Anne sang.

  ‘Sugar is sweet,’ said Lizzie, smiling.

  ‘And so are you,’ Herbie finished. ‘Both of you,’ he added with a brilliant smile. ‘I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.’

  Lizzie put a pot of coffee on the table, two cups and saucers, a sugar bowl and a jug of cream. The china was eggshell-thin with a gold rim and had a pattern of tiny rosebuds. Herbie poured two cups: black for him; four sugar lumps and a dash of cream for Anne.

  ‘Today’s the twenty-first of June,’ Lizzie remarked as she made the pancakes, looking slightly incongruous in the exquisite lace negligeée that had probably cost the earth in Bloomingdale’s or one of the other expensive shops she frequented. ‘That means it’s Midsummer, the longest day. When I was little it always made me feel a bit sad, knowing that from then on the nights would get darker and before you knew it, we’d all be sitting in candlelight and there’d be nothing else to do but go to bed.’

  Herbie pretended to yawn, something he always did when his mother reminisced about her childhood. She saw the yawn and told him he didn’t know how lucky he was. ‘You and your sister have never wanted for anything. It’d do you good to go short now’n again.’ Herbie’s sister, Mabel, was married with two children and lived in Washington where Kurt, her husband, did something very important in the White House.

  Breakfast finished, Herbie decided it was time they practised for the audition. He and Anne danced out of the room, along the corridor, past the paintings that had so intrigued Levon and into the mirrored foyer where their whirling, dazzling figures were endlessly reflected, as if they were in a ballroom as big as the world, full of dancing couples identical to themselves. On their way back, Christina, the maid, came out of Herbie’s bedroom and told him he should be ashamed of the mess he’d made. Christina, who was black, had been with the Blinkers for a quarter of a century and never hesitated to speak her mind. Herbie just waved and danced by, and Christina smiled. Despite the fact he’d been dreadfully spoiled, he had such a sunny personality that everybody loved him.

  ‘You’ll wake the master,’ Christina called after them. She always referred to Mr Blinker as ‘the master’ in a terribly sarcastic voice that really annoyed him. ‘He’s still in bed.’

  ‘Who cares?’ Herbie shouted back.

  They finished the dance with double outward pirouettes back in the kitchen where, having kept in touch with her roots by making breakfast, Lizzie had left the dirty dishes for Christina.

  Anne went to her room to get changed for the audition. Through the window, she saw the bench that Bobby Gifford had occupied was empty. She hoped he was already on his way to Los Angeles. Further down the park, well out of sight, were the Hoovervilles, the hastily built shacks that housed the unemployed and their families, named after President Hoover who’d done nothing to help them. She’d only seen them once and they made her want to cry.

  Shall I call Lev and tell him about the audition? she wondered. Or wait and see what happened? Wait and see, she decided, though it would be lovely to hear his voice warmly wish her luck. Trouble was, it was something else that made her want to cry because she missed him so much. It was all right living with the Blinkers, but it didn’t compare with the months she’d spent with Lev and Tamara before the baby had come along, spoiling everything, reminding her of a time that she mostly managed to forget.

  Since she’d met Lev, she’d felt no need to retreat to a world of her own and felt perfectly safe. But she’d found the presence of the baby in the apartment disturbing. She hadn’t wanted to look at him, was scared to see whom he might resemble. It had been a relief when the Zarians had moved to Brooklyn and she’d come to live with the Blinkers, though she hadn’t dreamed it would hurt so much to be separated from Lev.

  It was the third time they’d been to the same theatre to audition for the same show. First there’d been about thirty couples, next fifteen. Now there were only five and a final decision would be made that day. Herbie had been touching wood all week in the hope they’d be hired. Their names would go on the posters after the two main stars: Eric Carrington, who was British, and Patricia Peters. It was Herbie’s dream to see their names in lights one day. Anne hoped for the same thing, but mainly for his sake. All she wanted to do was dance and it didn’t matter where. When she was dancing, she forgot everything. She just allowed herself to be swallowed up in the music and the mesmerizing sound of their feet tapping on the floor.

  As usual, Herbie managed to arrange it so they went on last, a position he insisted was an advantage. After the other four couples had had their turn, a young, rather harassed young man called Jerry, who seemed to be in charge of things, took them on to the stage and shouted, ‘Herbie Blinker and Anne Murray, Mr Abel.’ Conrad Abel was the producer. He was sitting five rows back in the darkened theatre, a small hunched figure, his face merely a white blur.

  ‘What key do you want, darlings?’ the pianist enquired when the music, ‘Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye’, was plac
ed in front of him. He had beautiful silver hair and was dressed entirely in purple.

  ‘C,’ said Herbie. ‘We’ve marked where we’re going to sing and where to speed up towards the end.’

  Herbie squeezed her hand, the pianist began to play, and they danced like two people possessed, putting everything they had into the routine they’d been practising for weeks. Anne was never happier than when she danced and it showed in her radiant face and sparkling eyes. She didn’t worry that she would take a false step, and her confidence was communicated to Herbie, who often felt nervous on such occasions.

  ‘Thanks,’ Jerry said when they’d finished, only slightly breathless. ‘If you’d like to sit in the green room with the others, I’ll let you know Mr Abel’s decision.’

  They waited in the green room with the other four couples for what seemed like hours, but was no more than a few minutes, Anne discovered later. Fingernails were chewed, feet studied, legs crossed and uncrossed. No one spoke. One young man rushed out to be sick. Two lives would change for ever as a result of Conrad Abel’s decision. They’d come so far and might never come this far again. The man who’d been sick returned. He reminded Anne a bit of Bobby Gifford with his thin face and haunted eyes, and she traitorously hoped he and his partner would be picked.

  The door opened to admit Jerry and everyone tensed. ‘Mr Abel would like Herbie Blinker and Anne Murray to stay,’ he announced. ‘The rest of you can go home. Thanks for coming.’

  A young woman jumped to her feet. ‘But that’s not fair.’ She was more than averagely pretty with smooth brown hair and blue eyes. ‘Mr Abel promised us we’d get the parts.’

  Jerry groaned. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Rosalind Raines and this is my partner, Flip Ungar.’ She indicated the young man who’d reminded Anne of Bobby Gifford. ‘He promised me, last night, he promised.’