Ellis Island (15 page)

I saw that Sheila had not been asked to pay, so I put out my hand and attempted a smile. But, looking round, I became even more afraid that we should not be here—that we would bump into somebody who knew us as Isobel’s maids, a friend of hers who would recognize that we were wearing her clothes. This was, after all, her world, not ours.

The woman pumped the wide, gold air bag and the cold shock of syrupy water flooded out onto my wrist. It smelled like nothing I had ever smelt before by man or nature. No roses or lavender, like you might find in an ordinary perfume, but sweet in a decadent way, like chocolate or oranges, or the smell of a man’s skin when you are hungry for love.

“Sheila, at last!”

By the time I turned in a panic to see who had spoken, Sheila was already standing next to him, grabbing his arm, grinning like she was fit to burst, barely able to push the words out for excitement. “Ellie, this is Alex.”

Alex was wearing an impeccable dove-gray, three-piece suit. At once I decided that a man who was so impeccably turned out was surely suspicious. Everything about him—the starched white shirt and pink tie, the trimmed mustache and the gold cuff links—told me that here was a cur who was taking my innocent friend for a ride. Sheila was obviously blinded by love, but I couldn’t be fooled by that kind of expensive charm.

Alex blanched slightly when we were introduced. He was clearly taken aback to see another woman with Sheila, which was further evidence of his bad intentions, surely. “Hello, Ellie, how delightful to meet you,” he said, poking out his hand toward me quickly as if it might drop off in the effort of tearing it away from Sheila, then returning it immediately to her after one swift shake. “Will we go in for tea?”

“Let’s!” she said, and I followed them both into the Palm Lounge as Ellie steadied herself on her lover’s arm, all but legless with love. This was worse than I had feared.

Tables and chairs were arranged around a sunken dance floor, set with crisp white linen and silver for afternoon tea. Couples danced to a slow waltz, muted by the sounds of polite conversation and clinking china. Alex guided us to a table at the edge of the dance floor. As the waiter removed the reserved sign, he said, “I hope this is to your satisfaction, Mr. Ward.”

Alex said, “Thank you,” and allowed the waiter to pull back the chair for me as he looked after Sheila. He sought our approval to order us a jug of iced mint tea and sandwiches. “Charge them to my account, please.”

Despite myself, I felt a thrill at being in a place like this in the care of such a capable, and seemingly perfect, gentleman. But when I looked across at Sheila, my fear for her flooded back. I could see love so clearly in her face. It was in the open warmth of the smile that spread across her flat, made-up features, and the pools of childish wonder that her eyes had become—she no longer cared about the glamour, or the money, or the cuff links, or the fuss the staff were making; all she really cared about was him. Her pretensions had melted away the instant he arrived. She was looking at Alex Ward not as a rich man, but just as a man—as if he belonged to her; as if this was the real thing for her.

It was my duty to protect her. When Sheila announced, “I am going to powder my nose,” I stayed behind and grabbed my opportunity. “So tell me about your family, Alex?”

“Well, Ellie, my father’s business is manufacturing windows, which, as you can imagine in a city with so many windows, has turned into something of a successful—”

“He can’t be very happy about you going about with a servant girl, then?” I didn’t have time for niceties. I wanted to get the conversation over before Sheila came back.

A shadow of anger swept across his face. “I can see that you are concerned for your friend, Ellie . . .”

“I most certainly am.”

“. . . but I can assure you my intentions are honorable.”

I tried to talk over him, but he continued on.

“It’s true that my parents will be taken aback by Sheila’s current lack of status, but mostly because they will see, as I do, that she was not reared to be a servant.”

This infuriated me. “Neither of us were reared to be ser-vants, Mr. Ward, but nevertheless . . .”

“Please,” he urged, and his expression softened. “Let me explain, Ellie. My grandparents were Irish emigrants. They came during the famine. Half of the family died on the way over, but my Grandfather Pat survived. He was a carpenter, and he managed to get a job building tenements up around Harlem. He was lucky—he fell in with some other Irishmen and they started out working on their own. My grandmother had six kids, but she worked in bars down at the docks to make extra money. She was a tough cookie, broke up fights with her bare hands. Those were hard times, but by the time my father was born they had their own house, which was a big deal. My pop was one of the youngest, so he got an education and took over the family firm. Ellie, my family worked hard to make a life in America, and America rewarded them with wealth. They did pretty well for themselves, and we were always taught never to forget where we came from. It’s true, my parents move in different circles now that they are wealthy, but I know they will be happy that I have found the woman I love. They will love her too, I am certain of that, but if it isn’t the case—”

“If what isn’t the case?” Sheila had appeared behind Alex. She said, “Come on, Alex—let’s go up for a dance before the tea arrives. You don’t mind, Ellie, do you?” She ran to the floor, but Alex held back, anxious to finish explaining himself. When Sheila returned instantly to grab his arm, he bowed slightly to me in apology.

I watched them slow dance, appearing and disappearing behind other elegant couples. Sheila’s yellow chiffon train shimmered, as her hero in his dove-gray suit held her waist and whispered sweet nothings. I could not help but feel, watching him, that perhaps he was genuine—but somehow, to my shame, I didn’t feel comfort in that, either. I only felt a bitter sadness that John was not there. There was self-pity in my heart at the thought that we had never danced together in such an assured, elegant way—and, in all likelihood, now never would. At one point, as the two of them came into my view again, Sheila had her arms about Alex’s neck, and they were kissing so deeply and with such passion that I had to look away.

When the music stopped, Sheila ran up to me at the table, almost knocking back the waiter who had just arrived with the sandwiches. “Alex has asked me to marry him—and I said ‘Yes’!”

“Oh, darling Sheila,” I said, taking her hands. “I am so pleased for you.”

Alex was beaming at us both. “We should have champagne, not tea!” he exclaimed.

“Ssh, keep your voice down,” Sheila whispered anxiously.

“But champagne we must have,” he insisted. “If you ladies would care to join me upstairs, I have a suite booked and a bottle of something special hidden away.” Prohibition was one thing, but if you had money there was always a hotel manager willing to turn a blind eye, once you were out of public view.

Sheila said, “Say you’ll stay, Ellie,” but I knew she hoped I wouldn’t.

“No, Sheila, I have to get back.” This was Sheila’s day—her victory, her engagement, her fairy-tale ending.

Sheila embraced me in the lobby, and Alex shook my hands warmly. “Are you sure you won’t join us, Ellie? You are more than welcome.” The expression was strangely Irish.

I shook my head and smiled, then walked through the revolving door and back into the real world.

I walked slowly back through Central Park. The day had lost its angry heat and it had turned into a temperate afternoon. I stopped under the tree we had passed on the way to the Plaza, and closed my eyes, and amazingly the song thrush sang for me again.

My friend had found her Prince Charming. It still seemed nearly impossible to me that her fairy tale could have a long-term happy ending—but then, I thought suddenly, why should she not take the risk? Let her enjoy the happiness she had found—all the trinkets and riches. Alex was a handsome, sweet-natured man with money, who seemed to love my friend for all that she was.

It was an unlikely scenario—as unlikely as a song thrush taking up residence in the center of New York City. In America, it seemed anything was possible after all.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Sheila left service and moved into an apartment on Third Avenue that Alex had rented for her. It had a little scullery kitchen, a bedroom and a boxroom, and was on the top floor of a narrow brownstone. It was small, but it was Sheila’s palace and she wasted no time in spending the allowance Alex had given her on fripperies for it. Two days after she moved in, I made my first visit and found her sitting on the dusty tiled floor surrounded by packages and purchases.

“Look what I bought, Ellie—isn’t it adorable!” she said, handing me a blue glass cat, which by the tag I could see had cost her five dollars—half a week’s wages. I put the cat on a table by the window and the sun caught it, sending dainty sparkles across the wall. Sheila gasped. “See how pretty it is?” The sun went in and the cat instantly became plain again, but Sheila didn’t notice, just carried on unwrapping her treasures: an embroidered tablecloth; a pottery vase; a set of butter knives; a delicate teacup and saucer, made from china as thin as butterfly wings. “Did you ever see anything more precious? I thought I would get one before deciding to buy the whole set,” she cooed.

I was irritated by her showing off her new wealth. She had not even bothered to clean the apartment properly before filling it with showy trinkets. There was dust everywhere, and a squirt of anger shot through my veins as I imagined perhaps she thought I might clean it for her—being still a humble servant. Then I pushed my anger to one side and reminded myself that I was glad for my friend’s luck, and just worried for her that she was spending Alex’s money so easily and at such an early stage in their engagement.

Alex had struck me as a sensible man, who understood the restrictions of marrying beneath his station and was taking pragmatic steps in getting round any reservations his parents might have. He planned to introduce Sheila into his family slowly, while distancing her from her role as lady’s maid and inventing a new identity for her as lady about town. The less charitable part of me feared that if my friend showed herself to be the grasping, lazy girl I knew she was capable of being, the engagement might falter—and I didn’t want that for her. If, for any reason, the marriage didn’t go ahead, Sheila would have nothing and nobody to fall back on.

“Have you thought about getting another job, Sheila?”

Sheila let out a derisive laugh.

“You could do a typing course,” I continued. “A good typist can earn up to twenty dollars a week.”

“Why would I do that? In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a lady of leisure now.” And she waved the exquisite china teacup at me. It seemed that her intention was to make the transition from lady’s maid to rich lady overnight, by simply leaving her job to lounge about and look pretty full time.

I was sufficiently annoyed to point out: “Alex hasn’t still introduced you to his parents yet, and—”

“For your information, Ellie,” she snapped back, “that’s
my
choice.” She put down the cup and pouted, then widened her eyes in her girlish, dramatic way. “Oh, Ellie—they’re
so
rich. They’re not going to want their son to marry a
servant.
”

While her laziness infuriated me, I could see underneath the spoiled bravado that my friend was terrified her fairy tale might come to a premature end. “So why not do the typing course, Sheila? Then Alex can give you a job in his firm and introduce you to his family as a respectable working woman?”

“Well, maybe . . .”

I could see she wasn’t enamored of taking a route that involved work and study, but I made her promise to discuss it with Alex. As I was leaving, Sheila ran to her purse and took out the gold, spherical compact she used for her rouge. It was one of her most treasured items.

“Here,” she said. “You have this.”

“Oh . . . Shelia,” I faltered. I didn’t want to deprive her of it.

“Go on, Ellie—I bought a new one today.”

I took the castoff and put it in my pocket.

“Thank you for being such a good friend,” she said, and kissed me.

As I walked away, my gloved hand wrapped around the gold egg, I wondered if I would ever be in the lucky position of giving charity rather than taking it.

As Sheila took up her new life, I fell into her old one.

It became my place to attend to Isobel as her personal maid. Isobel never rose before ten, and in the few early hours before she woke I completed the essential housework chores. Mrs. Flannery allowed Precious to help me, and together we cleared out grates, prepared the few rooms that would be occupied during the day, removing dead flowers and putting fresh water in the vases, straightening tablecloths and plumping cushions. Precious was easy company and delighted to be away from her corner of the kitchen and involved in the adventure of life “upstairs.”

Isobel did not like to sleep late. “I hate to wake with wrinkles,” she said about the folds that entrenched themselves in her cheeks if she had fallen into one of her frequent immovable drunken comas. So I would bring in her breakfast tray at ten, on the dot, every day, pulling back the elaborate silk curtains with a deliberate swish and arranging them into their heavy tasseled tiebacks while she stretched and gathered herself out of sleep. Then I would bring over the exquisite tortoiseshell tray, placing its legs at either side of her lap.

Isobel never ate the breakfast I brought her. Sometimes she complained that it was because the egg was too soft, or too hard, and the toast too generously, or too meagerly, buttered. More often she did not even remove the silver lid from the dish. The only thing I ever saw her consume with eagerness was the boiled, thick black coffee, which she poured from its tall silver pot into a cup the size of an eggcup and knocked back in one gulp, as if taking a dose of medicine.

I often wondered why Mrs. Flannery never seemed offended by the mistress’s refusal to eat the breakfast that she had gone to such trouble to prepare, but I knew enough of both of them not to pass on Isobel’s complaints to the kitchen. Then one morning, while running an unexpected errand after breakfast, I nearly tripped over Precious sitting on the back stairs, with the tray on her lap polishing off Isobel’s untouched bacon and eggs. She had the starched napkin spread across her lap, and her thumb and forefinger precariously pinched the tiny triangular handle of a gold wafer-thin china teacup, which she nervously held to her lips as if it were so light that she was unsure it was really there at all.

She almost leapt to her feet when I caught her, and I quickly put my hands on her shoulders to save the priceless tray and china from tumbling down the narrow flight of stairs. “The missus gets upset if the plate comes back full—that’s the only reason I . . .” The poor child was mortified, close to tears.

“Good for you, Precious,” I said, “it would be a sin to let that good food go to waste.” I grabbed a piece of toast to keep her company and carried on down the stairs.

A strange intimacy developed between Isobel and me. I was the person who woke her each morning and the one who bid her good night, often having to undress her as I had done that first night with Sheila. Within a few weeks I knew more about Isobel than any other person had the right to know about another. I knew every item in her expensive wardrobe, and I knew the color of her blood from the congealed rags she left for me to clean up in her toilet. I knew the brands of perfume she used and the acrid smell of her breath before, and after, she drank her morning coffee. While dressing and undressing her, I became more familiar with the juts and curves of her body than I was with my own. I came to know her completely and, while I may not have liked her so much as a person, I was exposed to her humanity—her physical and emotional needs. Isobel was lonely and she needed to be close to somebody. That person had been Sheila and now it was me; but where Sheila had idolized and flattered her, I took a stronger stance with my mistress, which placed me on a more equal footing with her.

It began one afternoon when Precious was helping me to clean Isobel’s dressing room. The mistress was out having tea and I took the opportunity to spring-clean her wardrobe. I had decided to clear out a dressing-room shelf that had been bothering me for some time. It was a high shelf, containing hats that had been mysteriously separated from their boxes and were sitting in this ignored corner fading and gathering dust. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on them and was excited at the idea of restoring them to their former glory. I was up on the ladder inside the cupboard and, as I handed each one down to Precious, she placed them on a white sheet, which we had spread out on the bedroom carpet so that we could clean them without disturbing the other clothes with dust. We were not expecting Isobel back for hours, and when Precious didn’t come after my calling her, I struggled down from the ladder muttering my annoyance. When I came out to the bedroom, Precious was standing with her head right down on her chest and her hands clasped together tightly like she did when Mrs. Flannery was giving her a roasting. Isobel was standing opposite her, looking with astonishment at the white sheet and the scattered hats.

“What on earth is going on here?” Isobel asked me as soon as I came in.

“Precious and I were clearing out a top shelf and—”

Isobel interrupted. “Precious—would you leave us, please.” There was a disapproving tone to her voice that at once made my hackles rise.

Precious shuffled out with a “Thank you, m’lady, sorry, m’lady.”

“Ellie,” she said, as soon as Precious was out of earshot, “I would really prefer it if you would not let the Negro girl touch my things.”

“Why not, Ma’am?”

She put down her clutch bag and adjusted her collar. “Well, Ellie, it just isn’t—isn’t—
seemly
.” Isobel often seemed to have a limited number of words available to her; on this occasion, delighted to have found the right one, she raised her eyebrows at me in triumphant conclusion.

“Oh, I see,” I said. But I could not let it go. I was aware that Negroes were not considered equals to us pale-skinned Irish, and certainly nothing I had ever learned in school had suggested that they were anything but poor souls in need of the white man’s support and guidance. But New York had opened my eyes. The kind stranger who had guided me when I fell had been a Negro; the jazz musicians and dancers Isobel readily employed as entertainment for her parties were all black skinned. On the one hand, Isobel was happy to dance in drunken abandon to jazz music, tripping over furniture and grinding her bony hips in a poor imitation of Josephine Baker; yet she considered the careful touch of an innocent Negro girl on her clothes to be “not seemly.” I looked my employer square in the face. “If I am to attend to you properly, I need help around the apartment.”

“That is fine, Ellie, but I simply would prefer it if Precious did not touch my personal things.”

“It’s a great shame you didn’t tell me that earlier, Ma’am, as Precious has been responsible for washing and pressing your silks and undergarments for some time now.” That was a lie, but it clearly worked, as Isobel’s eyes widened. I continued, “And with respect, Ma’am, in my time here I have found that Precious is a dear and charming person, helpful to the core and meticulous in both her work and her personal habits.”

“Really?” Isobel said, not entirely without amusement.

“Yes, Ma’am, and it is my opinion that she is more suited to the position of parlor maid than scullery maid—in her presentation as much as her capabilities. As far as I can see, Precious is a good, decent person and I cannot see, with the greatest of respect, Ma’am, why a person should be judged good or bad, dirty or clean, by the color of their skin.”

Isobel studied my face and I felt my cheeks grow hot. Had I thrown away my livelihood, my future? Then I noticed that Isobel herself was reddening. As the red reached her eyes, they filled with water and I feared, dreadfully, that I had made my mistress cry. I would be dismissed surely! Except that she said, very gently, “Well, that is just fine, Ellie,” then turned and walked out the door.