Angel of Brooklyn

by Jenkins, Janette

  ‘There was an angel down Brooklyn way,

  She ruffled her feathers and bade you to stay,

  But when you looked up she had floated away,

  And all that was left was her halo ….’

  The others were laughing, and clapping, and although Beatrice stood listening with a small frozen smile on her face, she was white-faced and shivering, like the sea behind him, the birds following the fishing boats, the faint hollow moans of the dance hall they’d just left.

  ‘You’re more than famous,’ said Nancy, putting an arm around her.

  ‘Is it any wonder?’ said Celina with a sigh.

  ‘I wish they were singing about me,’ said Marnie. ‘What I wouldn’t give to be in a song.’

  When Nancy had walked her home later that night, Beatrice watched her shadow turn around the corner and then she grabbed her coat and walked towards the ocean. It was almost morning and the world felt at peace. The dairyman, still smelling of the fields, rolled his sloshing churns across the grey cobbled yard of the coffee house. A boy wiping sleep from his eyes had a sack full of newspapers, and he walked bent like an old man, straightening as his load lightened, reading new headlines in between deliveries. WOMAN DROWNS AT GREAT NECK. BOOKSTORE BURNS. LITTLE BOO WINS TALENT SHOW. A dog trotted towards the railings, pushing its face between the bars, staring at the water breaking gently over the stones.

  Sitting on the steps leading down to the beach she put her chin in her hands and wondered what she was doing with her life, and what it all meant anyway. If she was a bad person now, why did she feel so good about herself, and did that make her into something even worse? She sighed. Even worse than what? She was still a virgin. She hadn’t accepted the few furtive offers that had been thrown at her across the curtained room. She’d kissed a couple of boys in the corner of the dance hall, she’d held their hands and wondered if these gestures might lead into romances, but these boys were usually visitors heading home the next day, and it had been their transient state that had given them their boldness in the first place. A boy called Trey had nervously touched her breast, but she was sure that one or two fumbles with a trembling clammy hand wouldn’t lead her into damnation, though the wings might do it.

  ‘You’re out early,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Or have you not been home?’

  She turned. It was a man she’d seen at the dance hall. He’d been sitting in the corner with his sweetheart on his knee. She’d noticed him because of his laugh and the way that his girlfriend had let down her hair shaking her head like it was full of something rattling.

  ‘I went home for two minutes but I didn’t like it,’ she told him. ‘I came straight out again.’

  ‘May I?’ Nodding, she moved to give him space, rubbing her eyes and looking at the thin line of froth on the tide.

  ‘It’s hypnotic,’ she said.

  ‘My father has a yacht. Every July through August he thinks that he’s Columbus.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m not much of a sailor,’ he said.

  Beatrice pressed her hand against the weather-beaten step; she could see the neck of a bottle pushing its way through the sand, a candy wrapper, a broken shell that looked like a miniature trumpet.

  ‘So what are you doing out at this hour?’ she said. ‘Don’t you feel like sleeping it off?’

  ‘Sleeping it off? Did I look drunk to you in there? That’s terrible.’

  ‘You saw me?’

  ‘Of course I saw you,’ he said. ‘And I would have been sober if it wasn’t for the vast quantities of mediocre champagne that I’d consumed.’

  She smiled. ‘You left your girlfriend sleeping?’

  ‘Oh, it’s all very proper. My girlfriend is sleeping at her parents’ summer house. She has to be in bed before midnight or she’ll turn into a pumpkin.’

  ‘That was the carriage,’ said Beatrice. ‘The girl changes back into poor Cinderella.’

  ‘And there’s me thinking that she was about to become a vegetable. Would you like to take a walk?’

  ‘Would your girlfriend mind?’

  ‘Probably, but like I said, she’s sleeping.’

  The sky was washed orange, the sea molten, the sun quivering at the edges as if it was still making up its mind whether or not to appear. Their boots made a soft crunching sound. Beatrice stopped to pick up a seashell.

  ‘I collect them,’ she shrugged.

  ‘When I was a boy I wanted to be a collector, though I’d no idea what it was that I wanted to collect. A cousin of mine was very fond of bottle tops. And I was quite keen on stamps until I asked my father about them.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told me that the only thing really worth collecting was money.’

  Beatrice looked at her seashell. It was white with green edges. ‘In some far-flung place this seashell would be currency,’ she told him. ‘I could use this fragile, beautiful thing to buy me a ticket for the opera.’

  ‘Do you like the opera?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  They could see Ivan opening up his coffee house, lumbering over the sand with the board, the smell of coffee winding like a thin brown toffee-coloured line through the breeze, his white apron flapping.

  ‘Are you the angel?’ the man asked, holding out a chair while Ivan stood wiping his hands behind the steamy counter.

  ‘I’m Beatrice Lyle,’ she said. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Conrad Hatcher the Third.’

  ‘How very grand.’

  ‘Not really. It’s a new family thing. The other two Conrads are still living. Of course, there’s my father with the yacht, and then my grandfather with his telescope.’

  ‘So you all share a love of the ocean?’

  ‘My grandfather uses his telescope to spy on all his neighbours, my father uses his yacht to show off to his, and I just like the look of it.’

  ‘Are you on vacation?’

  ‘I’m here for the summer. So, are you?’

  ‘Here for the summer?’

  ‘The angel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They said that you were.’

  ‘They were right.’

  Ivan appeared with the coffee. ‘Early birds,’ he smiled. ‘Have it on the house.’

  She put her hands around the cup letting the heat sink into her bones. A man passed with his dog. He was looking over his shoulder.

  ‘I didn’t think it would turn out like this,’ she said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I didn’t think it would get in the way of my life.’

  ‘And how does it do that?’

  ‘Even if people don’t know who I am, then I think that they do.’

  ‘Like that man with the dog?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll bet he knew,’ he said.

  Beatrice sighed. ‘So, what do people think of me?’

  ‘That you’re the most beautiful girl in Brooklyn.’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘That you’re the most beautiful girl in Brooklyn.’

  She could feel her mouth twitching. She took a sip of coffee.

  ‘They have the wrong impression,’ she told him. ‘They must do.’

  ‘They have eyes.’

  ‘Yes, but what do they see?’

  He closed his own eyes and smiled at her. He took a lump of sugar from the small glass bowl. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you want me to tell you that they all think you’re a whore, that they think you’re a wanton type of girl to do such an immodest vulgar thing as to take off all your clothes and wear a pair of wings, and then,’ he said, ‘then you can tell me that I’m wrong.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I won’t.’

  ‘Why? Because it’s true or because you don’t want to hear of my objections?’

  ‘Because I don’t really care,’ he said. ‘You are what you are, that’s all.’ He yawned. ‘Would you like a pastry? I would love something oozing with vanilla. Or c
hocolate. It’s the champagne. Once the headache goes, then the hunger sets in.’

  ‘What were you celebrating?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m from Cos Cob, Connecticut. In Cos Cob, everyone drinks too much champagne. There’s a store that’s open all through the night just to sell its bottles of seltzer. It’s a sickening, decadent place.’

  ‘I’m from Normal, Illinois. No liquor allowed.’

  ‘So you’re all clear-headed and wise?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Perhaps I should move there?’

  ‘Oh, I think that you should,’ she said.

  They ordered a pastry, chocolate for him, and almond for her, and they ate self-consciously, pulling the flakes of yellow pastry from their lips, the sky brightening above their heads into a washed-out shade of blue.

  ‘Would you call this breakfast, or supper?’ he asked.

  ‘Breakfast,’ she said. ‘I had my supper hours ago.’

  ‘Are you going to sleep today?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Me too. Though it’s hard to sleep in the daylight.’

  A trickle of early-morning walkers had appeared, looking for newspapers, flasks of orange juice and breakfast. A red-sailed boat was bobbing on the ocean, a man was raking the sand.

  ‘I really ought to be going,’ said Conrad. ‘I’m glad I got to meet you, and you’re nothing like I thought you’d be.’

  ‘You thought I’d be what? Let me think now … Vulgar? Uncouth?’

  ‘Cold as ice,’ he smiled. ‘Aloof.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve tried aloof and it’s boring.’

  ‘Might I walk you back?’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘To wherever it is that you’re going.’

  ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘So, might I?’

  ‘If you like,’ she said.

  He took her arm over the sand. They passed a barefoot man in a dinner suit. A girl in a cheap-looking dress was chewing gum, an empty bottle of vermouth at her side.

  ‘I’ve been an insomniac all summer,’ said Conrad. ‘I have a million and one things on my mind. I don’t want to go back to Harvard, though I know that I’ll have to in the fall. It’s a requisite.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘I should have known,’ she said.

  ‘Known what?’

  ‘You look like a Harvard man.’

  ‘I do? And what does a Harvard man look like?’

  ‘He looks rich and full of the sun,’ she told him. ‘Sort of glowing from the inside.’

  He pulled a face. ‘I’ve never liked Harvard, and I like it less now.’

  ‘So what are all these other things that are playing on your mind?’ They’d reached her door. The numbers had sand sitting in their curves. The paint was flaking.

  ‘Too many things to tell you.’

  ‘Really?’ She opened the door. ‘You want to come up?’

  He hesitated. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will.’

  The room was warm. The open drapes had let in a blanket of sun. She opened a window and they could hear the clopping horse being led away to work.

  ‘I like your room.’

  ‘It’s small.’

  ‘It’s like you.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘If I have more coffee then I’ll never sleep again.’

  She looked at him. He was tall and wide-shouldered. His clothes said jaunty American, jaunty rich American. She suddenly felt poor.

  ‘Won’t somebody be wondering?’ she asked.

  ‘Where I am? No.’

  ‘Your girlfriend?’

  ‘Marianne will still be flat out. She sleeps until noon.’

  ‘So what do you want from me?’ It was a line she’d picked from a magazine. It sounded awful. She turned towards him. She could feel a nerve twitching in her neck.

  ‘What do I want from you?’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Nothing. Anything. I don’t know, I mean I like you, but I’m supposed to be in love.’

  ‘I like you too,’ she told him. ‘I’ve never been in love.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s true. I’ve never even had a beau.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ He touched her hand.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  He looked her in the eye. ‘Is it hard? Taking your clothes off in front of total strangers?’

  ‘I don’t take them off in front of them. I would never do that. Removing your clothes is far too personal. It says something.’

  He began to unbutton his shirt until she could see a long deep V of honey-coloured skin. ‘Like this?’

  ‘Yes. But you’re in love.’

  ‘I know I am,’ he said.

  It was a long, strange summer, the summer Conrad Hatcher (the Third) broke her heart, though she told herself that he didn’t mean anything at all, he was one of those experiences in life that you had to get through. She was now officially bad. She’d slept with him fifteen times. She wasn’t married. Conrad had a girlfriend, and though they weren’t yet engaged, she still saw herself as an adulterer.

  ‘So, you are in love with him?’ said Marnie.

  ‘Not at all. I like him. Liking him is more than enough.’

  ‘So why did you leave the dance hall when you saw him arrive with his party? Why didn’t you just go up to him and say a quick hello?’

  ‘He was with his girl.’

  ‘But if you aren’t in love with him then what does it matter? Hell, last season I went out with a guy from downtown. He was married. I liked him. He made me laugh and he set my heart racing, but I wasn’t in love. And I had no shame. Hell, I’d go out with him and his wife and the rest of their pals, and we’d have a high old time of it.’

  ‘I don’t like seeing him with her. I feel guilty.’

  ‘You mean jealous?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘He likes you?’

  ‘More than likes.’

  ‘So why doesn’t he leave her?’

  ‘It’s the money. The life.’

  ‘What do you mean, it’s the money? You mean you aren’t rich enough?’

  Beatrice sighed. ‘Oh, it’s fine to fall in love with the Angel of Brooklyn; let’s face it, he isn’t the first and he won’t be the last, but he knows it’s just a fantasy. I’m not the sort of girl you can slot into your real life. He has a house overlooking Long Island Sound. They have yachts. Maids. What would Papa say?’

  ‘Then he’s a beast.’

  ‘He’s a nice beast.’

  ‘You’re in love with him.’

  ‘I know I am.’

  ‘Then there’s only one thing for it. You mustn’t see him again.’

  ‘But he goes back in two weeks.’

  ‘Look, honey, two weeks is a whole relationship for some people. Celina swaps her girlfriends every weekend. Say goodbye now. The sooner the heart breaks, the sooner it will heal.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘It’s the only way to do it. Heck, he deserves it, that’s what you have to keep telling yourself. You need to toughen up.’

  ‘But I’ll miss him.’

  ‘He was never yours to miss.’

  She waited three days. She slept with him again.

  ‘You were talking in your sleep,’ he said.

  ‘I was? What did I say?’

  ‘Lots of things. I couldn’t make them out. Something about cake. Danish sultana cake and muffins. And then you told me to be careful.’

  She let him take her to the Old Russian tea rooms where they danced to the orchestra and she wore a string of pearls that Mr Cooper had lent her. ‘Just don’t tell Violet Murphy.’

  He cried when she eventually told him; blubbing into his hands, he told her that he hated what he was and everything about himself.

  ‘I wish I could leave Marianne and walk out of my own life,’ he told her. ‘I love you.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she said.

  That night she became more
daring in her wings. She felt reckless, and dirty. When a raw-faced youth appeared, shuffling through the curtains, pimpled and unsure of himself, she touched her breast for him. She could see his face redden. She licked her lips. Then she opened her legs a little wider. His jaw dropped. He put his hand to his throat. Then he smiled.

  SECRETS

  WHEN THE REVEREND Peter McNally read out Jim’s name from the roll of honour, there was a wail from the back of the church. Ada had dyed her best clothes black the day she’d received the official letter and all hope had gone. The dye had stained her hands; it had left inky coins on her elbows and shadows on her yard flags. She was wearing her aunt’s jet brooch and she’d lost so much weight it looked like she was drowning in all that dark material. Beatrice didn’t turn to look. She kept her head down as she listened to the now depleted choir. Most of the boys’ voices had broken, some had been called up, and the rest were at home because they didn’t like church any more; it was a cold depressing place even in the sunshine. The reverend often snapped at them. Arriving late, pushing on his dog collar, he’d sometimes have to hold on to the lectern just to keep from slipping down the step. Some said it was because he’d lost his nephew at the Somme, others had seen a depleted bottle of gin in the vestment wardrobe, though they hadn’t said anything, imagining what it must be like, sitting with mothers who were crying over sons they’d never see again, children the image of their fathers asking questions about God, because where did He fit into all of this? Hadn’t they been in church every week since they could remember? All those prayers and the hours spent in Sunday school crayoning pictures of Moses. Didn’t He owe them something?

  ‘I’m so very, very sorry,’ said Beatrice on her way out, because what else could she do? The women were standing huddled, arms clasped tightly around Ada, their own clothes while not exactly black were the darkest they could find in their wardrobes, their faces moist with heat. Only the children were running around as usual.

  ‘I told you it wouldn’t last,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Beatrice, ‘and I’m sorry you were right.’

  She walked home with Lionel, who’d only come to the church as a mark of respect for Ada, because he now favoured the spiritualists, and spent every Thursday and Sunday evening sitting in their small red-bricked hall waiting for a medium to bring the other world a little closer.