‘Been out with many?’
‘Forty-five.’
‘Including me?’
‘I’ve known you twenty minutes so that would be presumptuous.’
‘You’re a gentleman?’
‘Of course. Isn’t that why you came out with me?’
‘No. I particularly liked your handwriting.’
‘Most women do.’
‘Shall we go and look at the ocean?’
‘Why not? Where I’m from the ocean is called the sea, and it’s only ever blue three times a year, usually in August.’
‘The New York Atlantic isn’t always blue. You might be heading for disappointment. It’s more like oil and ink. So, how do you like America?’
‘I’m in love with America. Really. I don’t want to go home, but I’ll have to eventually. Freddy is staying. He’s the lucky one. He’s going to California to manage an orange farm for his uncle.’
‘Oranges? Sweet. Can’t you go with him?’
‘No. I have to go back to England. I have work. A house. A life that I’m happy with.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘England? It rains a lot. Especially in Lancashire, which is where I’m from, and where I’ll stay, though I would like to travel, I’d like to see the world.’
‘Me too. I’d like to see China, and India. And England. You see, I’m crazy about the rain. I like walking in it. It makes me feel alive.’
‘You’d be full of life in Lancashire, there’d be no stopping you, and look, there’s your wonderful ocean, which today is the colour of curaçao, apart from the ferry which has an unhealthy look of the chimney about it.’
‘Would you like to get a drink and talk about the ocean?’
‘A drink? Yes, I’d like a drink, though the ocean talk I can do without, too many people have tried talking about the ocean and they’ve all failed miserably, apart from Mr Herman Melville who did a most spectacular job.’
‘So what shall we talk about?’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I’m sure we’ll think of something.’
‘So what did you talk about?’ said Nancy.
‘Everything. I don’t know why, I couldn’t stop. He knows everything already. The birds. Elijah. Everything.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Jonathan,’ said Beatrice. ‘And doesn’t it sound so … well, English?’
‘Sure. So when’s he heading home?’
‘A couple of weeks. He’s supposed to be heading over to Boston, then onto California.’
‘Supposed to be?’
‘He wants to stay here.’
‘Oh my,’ said Nancy. ‘It’s Conrad all over again.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Tell him to go to California. That way, he can’t blame you when it all goes wrong.’
‘How do you know it’ll all go wrong?’
‘He’s a tourist. He’s English. It has to.’
‘I can do without California,’ he said. ‘What’s it to me? I’ve already had enough of Freddy. He laughs like a crazed hyena. Have you noticed that? And the girls. He seems to have lost all his pious inhibitions somewhere over the Atlantic. The girls are worse than him. I swear the last one he went out with was a donkey in a party frock.’
‘California sounds exciting.’
‘Does it? Sounds like a dreary desert to me.’
‘But you have a ticket?’
‘I can afford to lose a train ticket. I’ll have you know, Miss Lyle, that I’m a man of independent means.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That I’m fairly well off and I don’t have to rely on my father, which is a jolly good thing, seeing as he died last January.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
They walked for a while. The breeze was cool. He pulled his scarf around her.
‘It’s the end of the season here,’ she said, ‘but it’ll still be warm in California, hence all the oranges.’
‘I’m not overly fond of citrus fruit. Unless it’s in marmalade. I am missing marmalade.’
‘What else do you miss?’
‘By that look in your eye, Miss Lyle, I take it you mean, who do you miss? Well, no one,’ he said. ‘Two years ago I was in love with a girl called Jean Hebb. I was smitten for a while, but then I called it all off.’
‘Why?’
He looked sad for a moment, rubbing his eyes and pulling on his lashes.
‘I put up my hands. I let her down badly. I simply wasn’t bothered enough any more. And for a lifetime together, you have to be bothered. After all the flirting, she was dull. Her conversation was nothing more than gossip, needlepoint and her brother’s cricket scores.’
‘Were they good scores?’
He smiled. ‘I really can’t remember. Other people’s cricket makes me yawn. So, you see, it was entirely my fault. I fell for the pretty exterior, the coy flutter of her big brown eyes, but under all that there was nothing.’
‘Nothing? Well, I hate to disappoint you, but there’s not a lot to me.’
‘You’ve already given me enough to think about to last me half a lifetime.’
‘Only half?’
‘I need something to look forward to. I’ll save half a lifetime for a little more conversation.’
‘Mr Crane,’ she said, ‘you do know that half of Coney Island is in love with the Angel of Brooklyn?’
‘Are they really?’
‘Why act so surprised?’
‘Is this the flirting part of our acquaintance?’ he said. ‘Shall we have done with it? Shall we just be ourselves?’
‘Flirting can be exhausting.’
‘So what shall we have for lunch?’ he said. ‘Take me to Franny’s. I’ve heard so much about it. Let’s go and eat, I’m starving.’
The day that Freddy set out for Boston he left two snivelling girls at the railroad track, both unaware of the other’s existence. He’d told one to sit in the waiting room, and one to wait on the platform, and then he kept flitting between them, until the train began to move and they both ran up to the window, beating their chests and wailing. Jonathan and Beatrice stood and watched it all while Freddy waved and gave a helpless kind of shrug, safely in his carriage.
‘Look out, California,’ said Jonathan. ‘Here comes the new Casanova.’
‘Was he like this in England?’
‘In England he’d never been kissed.’
The girls appeared to be cat-fighting, one of them was spitting.
‘Charming,’ said Jonathan.
‘That’s American girls for you,’ said Beatrice. ‘Haven’t you noticed? We’re altogether an uncouth bunch when it comes to love and war.’
‘Uncouth is better than boring, but only just,’ he smirked.
It was Saturday, and still the busiest night of the week at Coney. Beatrice was working until past ten o’clock.
‘I don’t feel right,’ she told Nancy.
‘He doesn’t want you to do this any more?’
‘He hasn’t said that. It’s me. I’ve started feeling like I’m dirty.’
‘You don’t look dirty,’ said Nancy. ‘You look cleaner than Ivory soap. Don’t let him change you; you’ve known him how long? Ten minutes. And he’ll soon be on that ship crossing the Atlantic. Do you like him better than Conrad?’
‘I think so. Yes, I’m sure of it. It feels like the danger has gone. I feel like I’ve known him for years, and that he’s part of me. Now I’m sounding trite.’
‘He doesn’t have a girl back in England? A wife?’
‘He says not.’
‘He can say what he likes, he’s a long way from home.’
‘I believe him.’
‘Of course you do,’ she said. ‘Anyway, tonight we’re going to the Alabama Hotel, we’re all going, and I know you bought a new dress, so you can’t change your mind. It’s the biggest night of the season. Bring lover boy along. I’d like to get to know him. I’m
a very good barometer when it comes to Englishmen. I’ve kissed a few, and to tell you the honest truth, I wasn’t all that keen.’
The Alabama Hotel was a tall pink building full of shiny glass baubles, an orchestra which had made several phonograph records and bedrooms with balconies overlooking the ocean that could be rented by the hour. The staff were used to guests arriving incognito, and at least once a week they’d see men in false moustaches and women with wide paper fans and fat-brimmed hats called Mrs Betty Jones (Wisconsin). Tonight the guests were wide open and ready to party, invited every year by Rudy Catelli, the owner, who’d been born and bred on Coney and not in Alabama, and he saw it as his way of saying thank you to the people out there who made it what it was.
They arrived late. Nancy, Marnie and Celina were already in a crush of champagne in a room full of washed-off greasepaint, booming voices and pinched feet. The dance floor was tight with couples shuffling around to the music, more talking than dancing, the clowns pressing tight to the Russian trapeze girls, the lion-tamer crying over the one they had to shoot, Marta and Magda in white tulle dresses dancing with Riccardo and Milo, the juggling trampolinists, their small hands crushed against the warm black felt of their jackets.
‘It’s so chaotic,’ said Jonathan, pushing his way through the crowd.
‘Yes, isn’t it wonderful?’ said Beatrice. ‘I know everyone in the room, including the man with the tray of dirty glasses, that’s Mauro, he wants to work with racehorses, it’s a big dream of his.’
Jonathan looked at her as if she’d gone mad. ‘Waiters? Racehorses? How do you know all these people? Have they seen you in your wings?’
‘Of course not. Take Mauro over there. I eat in his father’s restaurant all the time, and sometimes we stay there for hours, drinking wine and talking.’
‘You drink a lot of wine?’
‘No more than most,’ she said, taking another glass of champagne. ‘Thank you, Paul,’ she said. ‘You should sneak off outside and grab one for yourself.’
‘I might do that later on,’ said the waiter. ‘Look at me, Bea, I’m red hot and parched.’
‘You really do know all these people,’ said Jonathan.
‘I told you that already.’
They made their way over to Nancy. She was eating shrimp rolls and pulling off her shoes.
‘They cost a week’s wages and they’re killing me already.’
‘Where’s Mr Cooper?’
‘Out with his lady friend. They’re taking in an opera. Something to do with a ring.’
They danced. They held hands. They picked at the table with its plates of prawn mousse and crackers, spicy bologna, balls of sticky rice.
‘I’ve eaten the strangest things since I got here,’ said Jonathan. ‘Food from China and India, and some salty Russian things.’
‘What do you eat back in England? Hot roast beef?’
‘Yes, of course, and steak and kidney pudding, lamb pie, cow heel, and all made at home in the kitchen. Have you ever rolled a piece of pastry?’
‘What? Are you kidding me?’ she said.
Their throats were raw from the shouting. In a corner Marta and Magda were sleeping under a coat made of silver-fox fur. It belonged to Rochelle Baker, the girl who sang the songs that broke men’s hearts every night at eight at the Gala Show Theatre; she didn’t need her coat, she was wrapped in Solomon Rox the ringmaster up in Room 63.
‘We’re going up top,’ shouted Marnie. ‘Are you coming?’
Jonathan looked worried.
‘She means the roof,’ said Beatrice. ‘There’s a garden up there. It’s sure to be quieter than this.’
They followed Nancy up the rickety fire escape, holding bottles of wine under their arms. They passed girls rubbing their eyes and crying into serviettes, couples kissing, a waiter with a plate of lobster tails, and a skinny crying cat. The rooftop was empty and the quiet made their heads ring. They leaned over the balcony and looked down at the boardwalk and the blue-black ocean with its lines of shivering foam.
Marnie pulled out the musty daybeds and set them into a circle. ‘We should have come up here hours ago.’
‘But then we would have missed Lottie singing and who would have guessed that she couldn’t hold a note?’
They lay flat on the beds. There was a faint hum of voices, the hiss of a fountain, and the ghostly rise and fall of a piano. Celina started humming. Then she turned onto her front, propping her small boyish chin in her hands.
‘So you’re in love with our Beatrice?’ she said.
Jonathan was looking at the fountain. ‘Is that all right with you?’
‘Of course it is,’ said Celina. ‘Though it’s hardly surprising because everyone she meets falls in love with her a little, and one day she’s going to be swept right out of here and we’ll miss her.’
‘Oh, have another drink,’ said Beatrice. ‘You’re starting to sound maudlin.’
‘Maudlin always comes after a party,’ said Jonathan.
‘What are English parties like?’ asked Nancy.
Jonathan laughed. ‘I can’t speak for the nation, but the parties I’ve attended have been sedate affairs, where the occasional youth will have one too many to drink and he’ll throw it back up on the doorstep. Someone will play the piano very stiffly and the men will talk about the girls in their lives who don’t exist and never will, and there might be a dance, but nothing too daring.’
‘And that’s as good as it gets?’ yawned Celina. ‘I thought the English were decadent?’
‘Only in London,’ said Jonathan. ‘It never quite hit Lancashire.’
‘It will,’ said Nancy. ‘It will.’
‘The world is spinning,’ said Beatrice. ‘Can you feel it?’ Marnie giggled. ‘Definitely.’
‘We should have more men up here,’ said Nancy. ‘How come we only have Jonathan?’
‘Because you’re all unlucky in love,’ said Beatrice.
‘And you’re not?’ said Nancy.
‘Not any more,’ said Jonathan, who gripped tight onto Beatrice’s hand.
‘Oh, we’ll see how it ends,’ said Celina. ‘I thought I’d found true happiness with little Martha Frupp, but then she went and got herself engaged to that giant Irish navvy, can you believe that?’
‘I’ve seen him,’ said Beatrice. ‘He looks like he’s made out of steel.’
‘And she bangs that piece of metal three times a day.’
The stars above their heads were soft-looking, though it might have been the wine, making the world felt-edged and fuzzy. Marnie was sleeping, or rather she’d passed out, her mouth open a little, as if she was just about to say something.
‘Like a baby,’ said Nancy.
Below them, the party was winding its way home, with its yawning trails of laughter, jilted shouts and scuffles. An automobile backfired.
‘Like a gunshot,’ said Celina.
Beatrice looked hard at the great expanse of sky; a cloud appeared, it was shaped like a wishing bone.
‘I’m going to find a girl to kiss,’ said Celina, touching Beatrice’s forehead. ‘Any girl, and I’ll pretend I’m kissing you.’
Beatrice closed her eyes. She could feel Jonathan moving at her side. The fountain stopped, a door slammed, and through an open window a girl was shouting in Spanish.
10. Letter
November 1, 1913
Dear Elijah,
I don’t know why I’m writing to you, but I have decided to send this to your old address in Chicago. Time has passed and they might have heard something. Firstly, I want you to know that whatever you’ve done and wherever you’ve been I’m not here to judge you. We’re human beings, we make mistakes, we branch out, and we want to feel alive. Believe me when I tell you, I’m none too perfect myself.
I’ve been working at Coney this past couple of years, where I have the greatest friends, and I’d never been happier until I came home from work last weekend and I wondered how long it was all going to last, what the futu
re held, and what if I was still here when I was thirty, or forty, or worse? What kind of life will I have? I’ve seen some of the showgirls turn their nose up at marriage. They say they’re not ready, but secretly they’re thinking, ‘You’re still a waiter/a baker/a sausage vendor.’ You see, they’re dreaming of bigger, better things, because they’ve read stories about Broadway, and closets full of mink, and men with long automobiles, and diamonds in their pockets. I want to shake them; I want to say, ‘Since when have those guys ever bought tickets for a half-hour show in Brooklyn?’ But I know. They just wouldn’t listen. They’d be hurt.
I want to move on, but I’d be letting people down. Mr Cooper has been good to me. He’s given me everything. And the girls. The girls are my sisters. And the people who come to the stall – well, I might as well be honest with you, it’s not a stall anymore, it’s a sideshow – they’d be disappointed too. I’ve talked about it with a man who might be my chance to leave it all behind, and he says, ‘Would they miss you? Is it really you they’re coming to see? Or is it just a girl, standing there. Any girl. Would they even notice that you’d gone? Even those that have been three or four times. Would they really be looking so hard at your face? And the girls. If they are your sisters, wouldn’t they want you to be happy, to get ahead, and make something better of your life? You can write to them. Even visit them one day. America is staying where it is. We’ll know where to find them.’ Oh Elijah, he goes on, and on. He’s English. They don’t say much. But when they do …
I’m going to think about it. Really I am. I lie in bed at night trying to block out the world that I’m living in, and the one I’ve left behind (only because it hurts), and I think about the future. Sometimes I want it badly. Sometimes I feel I’d be leaving you.
Wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, be it preaching in a small church or chapel, mending boots, or loving lots of girls, dancing girls, or otherwise, I want you to know that I love you. I have never forgotten you. You are part of me. Part of what we lived. I am always here (wherever that might be), and waiting for you, and hoping.
Let me know how it goes.
Your loving sister,
Beatrice x
PS Due to my success at work, I have managed to save a great deal from my wages. I want you to know that I have put it into a bank account, and if I do go to England and you would like to make the trip to see me at some later date, I will be able to buy you a good return ticket. You mustn’t protest! Seeing you again is what I want most in the world, so in taking the money, you’d be doing your little sister a favor! I live in hope.
Angel of Brooklyn Page 34