Cable Car
Michèle McGrath
Cable Car
Out of the swirling San Francisco fog, the light loomed, an orb glowing in the darkness. A clanking grew in the distance, muffled and distorted by the mist. I stood shivering at the tram stop, huddling my thin shawl tightly around my shoulders, drops of dew mottling the silky skirts of my party dress. My anger was cooling fast in the darkness and the cold. I began to regret following my first impulse and running out of the hotel without thinking of the consequences. Acting on impulse has always been my besetting sin and I was just too cross to think. Matt was a jerk - how dared he speak to me like that! I should have called a cab, but I didn’t think of it. So here I was, stuck, with very little money in my purse. I shivered, not only from the chill. Nob hill at night is no place for a woman to be alone. All I wanted to do was go home, bury my head under the pillow and forget I had ever hoped that Matt was in love with me.
With a clattering roar, the cable car stopped. I swung myself thankfully into the cab. The car was crowded and there was only one empty seat, beside a tall man wearing fancy dress. I didn’t want to stand, tottering about in my high heeled shoes. They were too flimsy to cope with all the jolts, which could easily snap a heel. So I made my way forward and flopped down in the empty seat. The man moved over obligingly, to give me more room. I shivered and thanked him.
“Cold, isn’t it?” he said with a smile.
“Definitely not a night to be out without a coat,” I agreed. He glanced at me and I caught a gleam of admiration in his eyes.
“Did you have a good time at your party?” He had a pleasant voice, with a laugh in it. I have always liked deep Southern voices. Both my father’s parents came from the South and hearing Southerners always makes me think of them.
“It was very good, but I had to leave early.” I hesitated, not wanting to discuss Matt with a total stranger, so I hurriedly changed the subject.
“Are you going to a party or just leaving?” I asked, glancing at his costume, but he seemed not to understand my question.
“My party? I’m not going to a party.” He looked at me with a puzzled frown.
“Then why are you wearing those clothes?” He was dressed in a full World War II naval uniform, complete with gold braided cap. The uniform was a pretty good copy too, just like the old one that had belonged to my grandfather. Grandpa’s jacket had the same sort of stripes and medal ribbons, though his braid was tarnished, not bright like this stranger’s. I used to enjoy dressing up in it when Nanna let me, which was rare. She cherished that old uniform. Grandpa left it behind him, when he was suddenly recalled to join his last ship. Nanna said it was too important for me to knock about. She had very little left that had belonged to him. So I was always very careful and it was a treat when she let me put it on. The material was scratchy and smelled a little musty, but it was a happy childhood memory.
Clang! With a jerk, the cable car stopped.
“Grant Avenue! Anyone for Grant Avenue?” The driver’s voice sounded hoarse. Shadowy figures left and others climbed aboard, Chinese mostly. The streetlights gleamed on their rich silks and neatly plaited pigtails. How unusual to see people wearing national costume when Chinese New Year was months away. There must have been some parade or event on tonight, which I had missed hearing about.
I felt my companion’s eyes on me and I turned back to him. He was smiling. “It’s not very late. Would you like to come and have a drink with me? There’s a nice place near the terminus right on Market Street and I don’t have to be back for a while yet.”
I’m usually more cautious in accepting invitations from strangers, but I thought fleetingly of Matt. I was still angry with him and this man was young and handsome. Market Street is one of the main streets in San Francisco and there is always lots of people around, so I should be safe enough there. I felt a strong compunction to say ‘yes’.
“Why not?” I heard myself saying, “Which place do you mean?”
“It’s called the ‘Firebird’. Usually it’s crowded, but it might be quieter tonight with the fog around.”
It was my turn now to be puzzled. I’d been to most of the nightclubs on Market Street, but I had never heard of one called the ‘Firebird’. It must be new.
“Here we are now.” The car stopped at the terminus and everyone got off. We watched as the car was pushed onto the turntable and reversed, always a fascinating sight.
Then my companion led me along the street, past The Emporium. I had a moment of cold panic, wondering where we were going, until I saw a red and gold flickering sign saying, ‘The Firebird’. Funny, I couldn’t remember ever seeing it before, although I must have walked past the spot many times. As we got nearer, I could hear dance band music. It was faint, but I recognised the song as ‘In the Mood’. My grandmother had the record, an old 78, and often played it on her gramophone. It was scratchy and tinny but I always liked the catchy beat.
The door stood wide open, with its name repeated in chipped gold letters that looked very old and damaged. They couldn’t be, of course, if the place was new. Something must have been wrong with the paint, unless they meant it to look distressed. A short hallway led us to an uncarpeted staircase going down. The music became louder, throbbing, almost painful. I picked up my long skirt and my companion put his hand under my elbow to steady me. His touch felt like ice. It chilled me suddenly and I shivered.
“Goodness, you’re cold,” I gasped. “You’re worse than me and I’m freezing.”
“We’ll be warmer downstairs,” he replied.
The room was hazy with cigarette smoke and it was much larger than I expected, stretching away on all sides. The light was dim and candles flickered on small round tables. At one end, I could just make out a dance band, wearing white jackets that shone under the spotlights. As we went towards them, I could see that, oddly, they were all elderly; none of them looked younger than sixty. They were all white too, not a black face among them. I had never seen such a group, but they could play! It made you want to dance and dance and never stop.
We sat at a table beside the dance floor and my companion ordered drinks. When he asked me what I wanted, the waiter didn’t seem to understand what I meant by ‘a spritzer’. Surprised, I had to explain that it was white wine mixed with soda water. Both men pulled faces at my description. The waiter gave me a very strange look when he brought my drink and placed it in front of me. My companion had ordered bourbon, but he left it untouched.
The band was now playing something I recognised as a quickstep. Dad had tried to teach it to me once, not very successfully.
“Shall we dance?” my companion asked, noticing my interest.
“I don’t know whether I can,” I said, looking at the whirling couples, “I’m more used to disco music.”
“Disco? What’s that?” I thought he said. I must have misheard him. The music was exciting, but so loud it was hard to hear each other properly. I decided that, if we couldn’t talk, it would be better to dance rather than sit there in silence. So I laughed and got up, thinking I might as well try. It didn’t matter if I made a mess of the steps. After all, no one knew me here.
“Follow me,” my companion said, taking me firmly in his arms, “let me lead you.” He was still freezing, although the room was stuffy and I was beginning to warm up at last. His touch made me tingle, as if I had just put my hand into newly fallen snow. The dance was lively and I had enough to do just following his lead. I had no time to think of other things. We had only gone around the floor once, before I realised what an excellent dancer he was. He made everything easy for me.
When the quickstep ended, the band switched to a waltz and my companion changed tempo. I found the waltz easier, because it was slower, and I had danced it a fe
w times before. The music was also quieter. We could talk to each other, without shouting.
“I don’t even know your name,” I said.
“Joe,” he replied.
“That was my grandfather’s name,” I exclaimed.
He laughed. “It’s common enough.”
“I suppose it is, but, how odd - I’m Jo too. I was called Josephine after my grandfather.”
Joe ran a finger gently down my cheek. “Josephine...” he murmured dreamily. “A lovely name for a lovely girl. It suits you.”
We continued to waltz until the dance ended and then Joe led me back to our table. The band stopped playing for a few moments and we could hear the chatter of other people for the first time. Joe kept looking at me.
“You know, you remind me of someone,” he said.
“Who’s that?”
“There’s a girl I know, back home in Plains, Georgia. You have the same dimples when you smile.”
My hands flew to my face.
“My grandparents used to live in Plains, Georgia,” I whispered, my grandmother still does. What is her name?”
“Who?”
“The girl from Plains I remind you of. Perhaps I know her.”
“Her name is Mary but everyone calls her Mollie.”
“That’s my grandmother’s name,” I whispered. “I get my dimples from her.” Icy fingers crept down my spine and, for the first time, I felt afraid, yet I didn’t know why. There seemed to be too many coincidences. At the moment the band started playing again and I couldn’t hear what he said. He held out his hand to me and led me back onto the dance floor.
We danced faster and faster as I found the steps becoming easier. Again I had no time to think of anything else. It was wonderful to be able to dance like that.
At the end of the dance, I needed to catch my breath, so we sat down and I sipped my drink and listened to the music, which was softer now, almost melancholy. It was only later that I realised Joe had never touched his drink at all. An elderly lady came up to us at the table, carrying a basket of flowers. Joe examined them carefully and bought a single, perfect, white rose. With a little bow, he presented it to me.
“For the loveliest lady in the room,” he said, smiling.
“Oh, but I have an advantage. I’m the only one who isn’t in fancy dress and uniforms never flattered anybody,” I said, feeling shy. The suddenly I realised that I was, indeed, the only one who was not wearing a uniform. Women, as well as men, were dressed in 1940’s style military costumes. Most were naval, but all of the forces were represented. Only the band, in their white tuxedos, and the waiters, wearing black tailcoats, were different. I had wandered unexpectedly into a theme party and did not look the part. I began to feel uncomfortable.
“I’m out of place,” I said to Joe, “in a dance dress rather than in a costume. If I’d planned to come here tonight, I would have hired fancy dress.”
“Hired fancy dress? What do you mean?” He looked puzzled, which was odd.
“A Second World War uniform like everybody else. They’re excellent, wherever you got them from. They look so authentic.”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Look around you. This room looks like a set in an old war movie, the music, the atmosphere and everyone in costume.”
“If only this was a movie,” he sighed.
The music suddenly stopped and the bandleader stepped up to the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a message for the crew of the USS Franklin D. Roosevelt. Recall has been brought forward to midnight. The time is now fifteen after eleven. Will all members of the crew please report on board immediately? Thank you. Good luck and may God bless you all in the coming weeks.”
With a flourish, the band stuck up the National Anthem and everybody jumped to their feet. We stood at attention, while it was played, though nobody sang the words. I started to, but then my voice died as I realised I was singing alone. When the music ceased, a sort of groan rose from the dance floor and Joe cursed softly under his breath.
“That means me, I’m afraid.” He looked at his watch. “It will take me at least twenty minutes to get to the ship and we’ll be sailing almost at once.”
“Where are you off to? Anywhere nice?” I asked lightly, playing along, trying to lighten the tension that had suddenly filled the room.
He shot me a suspicious look. “I can’t tell you that; let’s just say out into the Pacific.”
“Warmth, sunshine, palm trees and no fog, I envy you!” I smiled, but his face was like a mask; as if he was staring at something so dreadful, it made him quail inside.
“It’ll be hot all right – too hot! Smoke and noise and fumes and fear! Fear! Terrifying, paralysing fear. Fear that one day the Jap will have you in his sights. Fear of being below decks when the bomb hits and you’re fried alive. Fear that the bullet won’t kill you cleanly and you’ll drag yourself round half a man for the rest of your life.”
He shivered and his eyes were dark haunted pools. My thoughts flashed to the faded picture of my grandfather, so proud in his new uniform, his baby son cradled in his arms. He had the same wavy hair as the man beside me, his namesake, but his face was much younger and had no lines. My dad was only four months old, when my grandfather died, after a kamikaze hit his ship.
I seized Joe’s shoulders and shook him. “What are you talking about?” I screamed at him. “The war’s been over for nearly fifty years. This silly place has got to you. You dress up and play at nostalgia and you start to think it’s real!”
He looked at me and his face was grim. He started to answer me, when a tall man with a lot of gold braid on his jacket, came over to us and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Come on, Scotty, time to go. Call a cab for the lady. Sorry to interrupt your evening, Ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat to me.
“Coming, sir. I’ll catch you up.” Wearily, Joe picked up his own hat and put it on. I looked into his face. His were dark and still full of fear, but what did he have to be frightened of? Where was he going that was so terrible?
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” he said. “For a little while you made me forget. Shall I ever see you again, I wonder?”
“Perhaps. You could ring me when you come to San Francisco again.”
He gave me a pen and I scribbled my number onto the menu. He folded it carefully and put it into his wallet. Then he wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and handed me my rose. The stem felt clammy.
“I’ll call you a cab.”
“No need. I can use BART. The station’s not far from here.”
“Bart?” he asked a strange tone in his voice, almost like jealousy.
“Bay Area Rapid Transit...”
“Scotty are you coming?” The officer was watching us from the doorway and he looked impatient. The rest of the room was almost empty.
We hurried up the stairs and out into the street. When we got there, Joe bent and kissed my cheek. “Goodbye, my dear.” His lips, like his hand were icy. He had never warmed up at all.
“Goodbye, Joe...Joe...Jo!” My eyes were misty and I could not see, because I was suddenly sure I would never see Joe again.
“Jo! Jo!” The fog swirled around me and I could see a figure coming towards me out of the mist. For a moment I thought that Joe had come back but he had not. It was Matt’s voice calling to me, not his. For a moment a pang shot through me. Next thing, Matt had caught me up in his arms.
“Jo! I’ve been so frightened. If something had happened to you, it would have been all my fault. I’m sorry. I should never have said those things to you. I didn’t mean any of them. I’ve been searching and searching for you. If I hadn’t seen you get on the cable car, I wouldn’t have known where to look. Say you forgive me!”
“I forgive you,” I said mechanically, too cold and numb to respond to the heat of his emotion. I shuddered.
“Look at you; you’re drenched with the fog. You’ll catch your death stan
ding out here.”
“It’s not the fog. I’ve just said goodbye to a friend...” my voice trailed off as a familiar clanking sounded ahead of us.
“We’ll take the cable car back to the hotel, and then you can warm up.” He held his hand out to me but I hesitated. So much seemed to have changed in such a short time. I stared at the empty street. No red and gold sign flashed out into the darkness, there was only the light of the cable car coming towards us out of the fog. My hand tightened convulsively around the stem of the perfect white rose and a thorn pricked my finger. A drop of blood fell to the ground and I watched it fall.
“I don’t think I will ever be warm again,” I said softly.
Copyright © 2011 by Michèle McGrath
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the author.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
My books are fiction set in history.
Written in English (UK)
Published by Riverscourt Publishing
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About Michèle McGrath
Award winning author, Michele McGrath, was born on the beautiful Isle of Man in the middle of the Irish Sea. She has lived in California, Liverpool, France and Lancashire before returning home. Living in Paris and Grenoble taught her to make a mean ratatouille and she learned the hula in Hawaii.
Michele is a qualified swimming teacher and manager, writing self help books on these subjects. Although she writes in many genres, her real loves are historical romance and fantasy. She has won numerous writing competitions, had second places and been short-listed many times. She has had tens of thousands of sales and downloads.
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