‘She wasn’t a whore,’ said Beatrice.
‘So, who was she?’
‘I can’t tell you. I promised.’
‘More lies,’ said Madge.
‘No, it’s in the letter,’ Lizzie blurted. Then she blushed. ‘We read the letter. It said she made a promise. They both did.’
‘I don’t care about promises,’ said Ada. ‘I want to know about the whore my husband was lying with before the Germans got him. Is that so much to ask?’
Beatrice licked her lips. Her teaspoon was rattling. When she looked down at her hands she was surprised to see them looking so still. It felt like they were jumping.
‘He didn’t lie with her,’ she said. ‘None of them did.’
‘So, enlighten us,’ said Madge.
Beatrice looked around the kitchen. The jars of rice and flour. The empty marmalade pot. Everything the same. She looked at the women and took a deep breath. They were only women. That’s all they were. She spoke carefully, and slowly. It was becoming hard to think straight.
‘You took the letter and read it, so you know I made a solemn promise, and I won’t break that promise, but still, I want to say that Solange Devaux was a good woman, and she did not take advantage of your husbands.’
‘What about you?’ said Ada.
‘What about me?’
‘Did you take advantage?’
She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Of course not. However could you think it?’
Ada snorted. ‘Because we’ve seen the pictures,’ she said, banging down her hand and making Lizzie jump. ‘They’re here on the table. We have proof.’
Suddenly, Beatrice felt stronger. She took a deep breath. ‘Just because I posed for some photographs once upon a time, it doesn’t mean to say that I prostituted myself.’
‘Listen to her,’ said Ada. ‘All airs and graces, and a fancy way of talking, when underneath those clothes she’s nothing but a trollop.’
Lizzie began crying, softly into her hand. ‘You’re beautiful, so beautiful, and they’re all in love with you, aren’t they? My Tom. He could never take his eyes off you.’
‘That isn’t true.’ Beatrice reached towards her. ‘No.’
‘And you never tell lies,’ said Ada. ‘Do you?’
Beatrice shook her head. ‘I don’t. These pictures belong to me,’ she told them. ‘They’re private. I never meant for you to see them. For anyone here to see them.’
‘So, who has seen them?’ said Madge.
Beatrice shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Lots of people.’
‘Who?’ Lizzie looked like she was going to be sick.
‘Customers in America. People who came to the stall.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Lizzie moaned. ‘How could you do such a thing, Beatrice? All those eyes on you? It just isn’t right.’
‘But who’s to say it isn’t right?’ said Beatrice. She felt cold. She wanted to snatch up the pictures and stuff them into the packet because they were hers and they meant something to her.
‘Well, of course it isn’t right,’ said Madge. ‘What decent Christian woman would want to take off all her clothes and parade around in a pair of angel wings pretending that she’s holy.’
‘Not holy,’ said Beatrice. ‘I never meant to look holy.’
‘It’s a sin,’ Lizzie breathed.
‘It’s a picture,’ said Beatrice. ‘That’s all they are, they’re pictures.’
‘Just tell me,’ said Lizzie, her wet chin quivering. ‘With your hand on your heart, did you touch my Tom?’
‘No. Of course not. Never. I didn’t touch any of them. I promise you. On Jonathan’s life, I promise you.’
‘Then we should go,’ said Lizzie, getting up. ‘I believe her.’
‘You just want to believe her,’ said Madge.
‘Look, I am truly sorry if the pictures offended you,’ said Beatrice. ‘You were never meant to find them.’
Ada reddened. ‘I came across them by mistake,’ she said. ‘And I’m bloody glad I did.’
‘So, there you have it,’ said Beatrice quietly.
Madge moved in closer to where Beatrice was sitting. She’d been thinking about Frank. His talk of floating angels and the twins. Had he seen these pictures? Had he touched them?
‘So, there we have what?’ said Ada. ‘A liar? A traitor? Who do you think you are? Flouncing around. Ruining our lives. Look what you did to poor Mary’s mother. You broke her heart, and at her own daughter’s funeral; you gave her the shock of her life, how could you?’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Beatrice.
‘It was,’ said Ada. ‘I saw it. I was there.’
‘Then I’m sorry.’
‘Did you hear that?’ said Ada. ‘If she’s saying sorry, she must have done something to be sorry about.’
‘No. I didn’t mean –’ She rubbed the back of her neck. All these words. All this talking; it was never going to make any difference. She wanted them to go.
‘Mean what?’ said Madge. ‘What didn’t you mean?’
‘Anything,’ said Beatrice.
There was a sharp gust of wind and the door blew open, suddenly filling the room with an icy blast of air.
‘You always looked so pure,’ said Madge, shivering. ‘But you’re dirty. Filthy dirty.’
Lizzie had her eyes closed. She could feel the snow flying through the kitchen; all at once she could see Tom, her Tom, and he was laughing at her, and perhaps they were right about Beatrice?
‘Look,’ said Beatrice, walking towards the open door. ‘Let me close this and we’ll have some more tea, and I’ll tell you how it was. About my life in New York. About my life before New York. You’ll know everything, and it won’t seem so bad after that.’
But now Lizzie was on her feet, the blood had drained from her face, she could still see Tom, and now his trousers had dropped around his ankles, his hands were on Beatrice’s perfect-looking breasts; they were all over her.
‘They were right,’ Lizzie said, walking across the room, suddenly finding a voice. ‘You don’t belong here. This is Jonathan Crane’s house, and you don’t belong. Get out!’ She gave Beatrice a push and her bare feet went sliding onto the ice as Lizzie slammed the door behind her. Standing with her back to it, she looked exhilarated. Exhausted. The women were breathing heavily. They were panting, open-mouthed. The kitchen was silent after that.
Sitting at the table they watched the clock, the black hands shuddering towards the next number. The package was still on the table. The teapot was warm.
‘She’ll be knocking in a minute,’ said Madge.
‘We’ll have to let her in,’ said Lizzie.
‘I suppose so,’ said Madge.
‘She’ll be freezing,’ said Lizzie, calm now, and worried. ‘She didn’t have a coat, or her boots.’
‘She’ll have run off somewhere,’ said Ada. ‘She’ll be sitting with Lionel, drinking his tea and telling more lies.’
Lizzie looked relieved. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Ada. ‘Definitely.’
For half an hour they sat at the table and waited. Ada started humming. They didn’t know what else to do.
‘I don’t feel right,’ said Lizzie. ‘My head hurts.’
‘She’ll be packing her things tomorrow,’ said Ada. ‘She can’t stay here.’
‘Not now,’ said Madge. ‘Not now we’ve seen what she is.’
Eventually Ada opened the back door. The wind caught her off guard, the air was white, dizzying, and so thick it was hard to see your hand in front of your face. Taking a step back, she wiped her eyes and peered into the ice. Silence. She opened her mouth, she was going to call out, but the snow tasted bitter on her tongue and her voice was lost in the fug of it. Through the shifting white she could just make out the wide clumping shape of the house on the opposite corner, and the tall crooked trees. Already numb with cold, she took a step down and stopped as the air suddenly cleared and the wind tugged the mound at
the bottom of the steps, revealing a hand, a piece of blue sleeve and a startling red bloom. Ada closed her eyes to it. She felt faint. Perhaps the snow was playing tricks? The harsh light. The cold. But Lizzie had come up behind her crying out, ‘No! Oh my God, just look at her.’
Madge was there. She was gripping hard on the doorframe. ‘She must have fallen on the ice. Hit her head.’
‘But I pushed her,’ Lizzie trembled.
‘No, Lizzie,’ said Ada, watching a new fall of snow wrapping up the fingers. ‘Poor Mrs Crane must have slipped.’
The women tidied up the kitchen and left the back door open. They took the package. The letters. They went out the front way, checking that no one else was about. Arm in arm, they looked towards the sky. It was snowing again. It was dropping thick and fast. It was treacherous.
‘Look at it,’ said Ada, pulling up her collar. ‘It’s coming down in feathers.’
That night they burned the package. They sat and watched the flames licking around the wings, her face, her small outstretched hands, until there was nothing in the grate, but a fine grey powder that was still warm when Ada swept it up, into her pan, throwing it out into the yard, where the wind quickly took it.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank Mum, Simon and Emily. Jon Glover. My agent David Miller. All the team at Chatto, with special thanks to Poppy Hampson and Alison Samuel.
And to my dad, the late Harry Jenkins, who taught me that all things were possible.
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Copyright © Janette Jenkins 2008
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Angel of Brooklyn Page 38