She's Leaving Home (19 page)

She headed for the office. As she paused at the half-open door she could hear a voice within. Its cadences and central European accent were unmistakable, and made her smile.

‘I don’t care what Princes Road
schul
say. Here we bring our old people together for second night
seder
. They like it, and it brings in a bit of money.’

A pause. Reverend Siegel appeared to be arguing testily with the voice on the other end of the phone. Although he was invisible to his interlocutor, he danced around and waved his free hand expressively. He spotted Helen and motioned her inside.

‘I agree it’s a
mitzvah
that their families should do it. That’s for first night
seder
. But some of the families don’t bother with the second night, and some want to go away. Not every home will make welcome Auntie Sadie and Cousin Millie. And heaven knows whether they’re eating kosher when they get to Bournemouth or wherever. Selfish lot, the next generation.’

The altercation continued a few moments longer. At last it seemed that the Reverend may not have convinced his opponent but had mollified him. He bid goodbye and replaced the phone.

‘Ach! I could swear at times, Helen. Sit, sit. Some minion in the Chief Rabbi’s office has raised an objection to our communal
seder
. Can you believe it? It’ll detract from family life, they say. Much they know.’

‘I think the old people enjoy it,’ Helen concurred. ‘They’re conscious of being a burden, some of them. And you do it right, the way they were brought up. I’d offer to assist but I think my mother would expect me at home.’

‘Naturally.’

It was warm in the office. He was still in his black silk vestment; perhaps he had been conducting an afternoon service for a few keen adherents. He removed the garment and hung it up behind the door, and ran a finger inside the white dog-collar which seemed a tad tighter than a few months earlier. The Reverend, so well cared for by his efficient and loving wife, was putting on weight.

Reverend Siegel, Minister and cantor of the relatively new Childwall congregation, was in his early forties. He had arrived in Britain as a small child and could speak perfect English when he chose; but in his world it cut more of a dash to emphasise his impeccable cultural origins. His short figure was both comfortable and muscular and he had a tendency to bustle. He was smooth-shaven but struggled unsuccessfully against a dark shadow of persistent beard over almost his whole face except for a small patch round the eyes, which would begin to appear about an hour after his ablutions each morning. The effect was to make him resemble a benevolent panda, an impression enhanced by his short-sightedness.

He was not a full rabbi. The congregation could not afford one – or at least, that was their excuse. In reality those learned and pious scholars who had presented themselves for interview had intimidated or alarmed the committee. There had been the consideration, unspoken but widely recognised, that a full rabbi would be a law unto himself and could make life very difficult, whether on a ruling of
Torah
or interpretation of
Talmud
. A real rabbi, in short, however pliant his manner at the start, could turn out to be a fanatic. A lesser qualified man might be more beholden to those who had chosen to ignore his lack of key certificates. The word ‘malleable’ was never used. But it was clearly given to the new appointee to understand that he’d be expected to conform to the easy-going standards and style of his principal employers and not to any higher authority.

‘Now then!
Purim
. You will help with the babies, won’t you?’ That was his term for the under-sevens. ‘Bit special this year as it’s twenty-five years since this
scbul
was founded, and fifteen since the establishment of
Eretz Yisroel
.’ He half bowed towards another map of the State of Israel which adorned the wall, surrounded by framed photographs of events held in the hall and synagogue. A flicker of doubt must have shown on Helen’s face for he added hastily, ‘I know the tale of Queen Esther hasn’t a lot to do with the spread of your parents’ generation from the slums to the suburbs nor with the War of Independence in 1948, but I want everything to be splendid this year. First
Purim
, then
Pesacb
after. Call it pride, if you like.’

Helen nodded. ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’

‘Well, there’ll be the reading of the
Megilla
, and the singing. The children need to know when to boo and when to cheer, and that means drumming into them everything about King Ahasuerus and Queen Vashti, and Mordechai and his beautiful ward Esther and how she became Queen in Vashti’s place and saved her people.’ This last phrase was uttered with a note of triumph. ‘And then the fancy dress competition. Some of their parents will have bright ideas but one or two always get left out. Or get it horribly wrong. Last year little Francine Lewis came as Queen Vashti because her mother didn’t know the difference. Poor kid was in floods of tears when everybody laughed. Of course if Francine’s mother had ever brought
her
as a child to
cheder
– but never mind. No mistakes this time if we can avoid it.’

‘I think there are some old costumes in the cupboard. Shall I get them out and tidy them up? Then we can be sure everyone has something suitable to wear, even if we end up with six Esthers.’

‘We always end up with six Esthers. Conventional lot, our
yiddishe
people.’

He rose and scrutinised the framed photographs, then gently lifted one down and placed it in her hands. ‘Remember when you won the competition? You must have been about eleven.’

Helen tilted the picture to capture the light. It showed the raised catwalk installed in front of the Ark, the better to permit the parade of hopefuls. Underneath were only a couple of planks on barrels covered in an old blue carpet, but the effect was quite grand.

Ten young faces stared back at her. The photographer had stood in the well of the synagogue and looked up, so the perspective was of a row of towering statues. Several girls as Reverend Siegel had intimated were swathed in the regulation sheet or curtain complete with yashmak, which symbolised the modest purity of the young virgin queen. Others were draped in gaily striped bathtowels as wicked Hainan or benign Mordechai; local imagination was restricted to the fashion of the Old Testament prophets rather than the glamour of the Persian court.

On the end Jerry Feinstein, then a fat boy, was dressed incongruously as an insect. The costume had been left over from a primary school play and was all that came to hand in that motherless household. His face was painted in yellow and black stripes and antennae wobbled from his forehead. But his grin was broad: he had won a consolation prize for the placard he carried, inspired at the last minute by Nellie, which claimed he was a bee from Ahasuerus’s garden.

The winner had been Helen herself. That year she had been determined, conscious that it might be her last entry. Puberty was already interfering and she would soon become too embarrassed,
as would her friends, to pose in public. She stood proudly, her costume nothing to do with the
Purim
legend. Instead she had recalled the tale of another woman who had ignored the instructions of her husband not to look back at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, the great revenge of a wrathful God, and had shared their fate.

Helen’s arms, legs and head protruded from a large cardboard box painted white. Every scrap of visible skin had been dusted with talcum powder and her hair stood out in white tendrils. Painted on the front of the box was the legend: ‘Lot’s Wife.’

‘Turned into a block of salt. Inspired,’ sighed Reverend Siegel. ‘Got you into the
Liverpool Echo
that year.’ The possibilities of press coverage were never far from his mind.

‘What do I answer if the children ask me if the
Purim
story is true?’ Helen queried, as he replaced the picture.

‘Oh, but it is. Ahasuerus was King Xerxes. He was King of the Persians in – let me see – the fifth century BCE. The modern version is a bit coy at times – for example, Queen Vashti is alleged to have been put away for having refused to dance for the king, but in reality she angered him by mutilating the mother of one of his mistresses.’ He stopped, confused. ‘Shouldn’t tell you that – you’re a bit young for the juicier details of Herodotus.’

Helen blushed. ‘Go on. I’m old enough.’

The teacher needed no encouragement. ‘Anyway, there’s no doubt from internal evidence that it’s authentic, and written by somebody who knew the court well. Maybe Mordechai himself who’s raised to the highest office at the end. And there’s something very curious about the whole Book of Esther, you know. It never mentions God, or prayer, and has no religious teaching nor direct moralising. That suggests it was written for the Jews of the Persian empire as an account which could be circulated without offence to other religions. It’s authentic, all right, Helen, as most of our holy books are.’

She had gone quiet. Reverend Siegel, who loved each of his charges but retained a particular affection for the darkhaired girl seated opposite on whom the marks of womanhood were clearly apparent, felt a sudden unease.

‘You do believe, don’t you? The latest discoveries, the Dead Sea Scrolls, the cuneiform tablets, show the Old Testament’s not merely a collection of myths. We were the first to work out that God is one and indivisible, and to stick to that throughout centuries of persecution. Through divine intervention, nothing less, we were given the finest set of ethics ever known, and charged never to forget or abandon them. That is our law; that is why we are the chosen people.’

She raised her head, her expression anxious. ‘Do you think so? Do you think Abraham, Isaac and Jacob were factual? Do you believe our father Jacob wrestled with an angel? Honestly?’

He responded in a sober, slow tone. ‘I believe those three men existed and that they are our blood ancestors. And yes, I do hold from the bottom of my heart that the knowledge imparted on that terrible night, of which we are the custodians – however symbolic Jacob’s ladder might be – has set us apart for ever.’

‘I wonder sometimes.’ Helen spoke as slowly. She could not get out of her mind her father’s remarks. Perhaps he was speaking through her; maybe it was simply that the two of them, father and daughter, were so alike that their thoughts might run uncannily along the same grooves. ‘We deride the Christians who set so much store on a man who may never have lived. He’s not mentioned in any records of the Roman Empire, anywhere. We even avoid using his name – that’s why you said “BCE” – Before the Common Era – instead of, well, you know. Yet we base the whole of
our
philosophy on a collection of ancient fables which probably didn’t happen. Or else are a folk memory. And however useful those endless rules of
kashrut
were for survival in a hot desert, they’re a bit shaky and pointless for today’s world.’

She stopped. Silence hung heavy in the room. Reverend Siegel rose and folded his arms,
slowly. ‘I hope you don’t start saying that to the babies, Helen. Otherwise I’ll have to get somebody else to help, and I’d much rather have you.’

He came to her side of the desk and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s good, I suppose, that you should ask. Seek knowledge and ye shall find. Better than blind acceptance any day. Zangwill wrote that we are not merely a chosen people, we are a
choosing
people. So, think hard, ask your questions, then choose. In time you will pass on your love of our traditions to your own children. You’re one of the best, Helen. You’re intelligent, principled, and kind. A modern
balaboster
. You’ll be the type of Jewish woman everyone will be proud to know.’

From a nearby room came the clatter of a class being dismissed. He moved to go, but could not stop himself from quickly wagging an affectionate finger.

‘You may well have a point about our forefathers, though you’d be foolish to dismiss our way of life. There is nothing better, should you seek from hell to high water. Only make sure you don’t search too hard in the wrong direction.’

He pointed to the photograph he had replaced on the wall.

‘Or you too could end up like Lot’s Wife: turned by God from a human being into a pillar of salt – cold, dead, and lost for ever.’

‘Six-thirty! Docking in half an hour!’

Gertie Ahrens had not slept. The steward’s call was a relief: she could rise, shower and dress with no further guilt or debates over whether it was wise or dangerous to take another sleeping pill. She slipped her feet over the edge of the bunk and cautiously hunted around with her toes for her slippers. Across the cramped cabin her cabin mate snored rhythmically, a sound remarkably close to the throaty rumble of the ship’s engines. The two noises, combined with the swell and heave of the Atlantic, had nearly driven Gertie crazy in the previous four days and nights. Had she ever considered the joys of a cruise, the lesson had been learned.

She pondered. If she were quick she could use the facilities before Mrs Hattenscheiner woke up. In fact it would be possible to be out of the cabin and away before the unwanted companion had surfaced, which would avoid phoney farewells, an exchange of useless addresses, and insincere promises to look each other up. It’d been hard enough having to share a cabin at all, but the boat was full; and sharing was cheaper.

Mrs Hattenscheiner stirred, threw out a fleshy arm with its two
diamante
bracelets and blinked enquiringly.

‘Not yet – plenty of time,’ Gertie assured her. ‘I’m just going on deck for some air.’

When vigorous rumbles again filled the cabin she slid a packed suitcase out from under the bunk, quickly stuffed her toilet bag inside, pulled on her new coat and, with handbag under one arm and a second suitcase under the other, tiptoed out.

Halfway down the corridor the steward stepped neatly from his cupboard and greeted her. She had hoped to avoid him, too. The level of service grudgingly offered to lower-deck passengers did not deserve thanks, let alone a tip. But here he was, barring her way. She put down the bags and fished in her pocketbook for a five-dollar bill. He would have to be satisfied with that.

In the cold air her spirits, battered by lack of sleep and the miseries of the voyage, began to sink yet lower. The ship had crept close to the jetty; its engines throttled back to a low hum. For the first time in days their vibrations no longer jarred her teeth. She leaned over the rail and gazed at her native city, and understood once more why she had left it.

The morning was not dark but gloomy and dank, with no hint of sun or light. Grey clouds threatened rain. On the breeze came the smell of burning coal and rotting vegetation. Warehouses bordered the quay of assorted shapes and sizes, but uniformly blackened and grubby with broken windows and redundant winches. Dockers in overalls lounged in clumps and smoked. There was none of the excitement and joy supposed to be associated with arrival. All sea-ports have their depressing corners but Gertie decided that Dock 42, the home of the Cunard liners, must be amongst the most dismal in the world, and wondered how long it would take before the company, which sold glamour along with its tickets, would abandon Liverpool for ever.

A faint voice called up from far below. A man was waving. She waved back cheerily: the figure in an overcoat could be anybody. Without her glasses she could not see clearly. Suddenly she caught her own name. The man was jumping about and motioning frantically at her. She peered down uncertainly then straightened. Her own features stared back at her, albeit with a man’s moustache. It must be her brother Daniel.

She was home. A rush of emotion choked her. She found a handkerchief and fluttered it at him, then began to cry, and gesticulated and laughed, all at the same time.

By the time brother and sister came together on the dockside as the big ship loomed over them like a protective wall, and hugged and shouted all at once, surrounded by other noisy family
groups doing exactly the same, Gertie’s anxieties had vanished. The horrible Mrs Hattenscheiner, the supercilious steward, the miserable tub of a boat, were behind her.

An unforeseen problem emerged. As heavier luggage was unloaded Gertie identified her trunk. Daniel blanched at its size and weight. ‘It’s full of presents,’ she apologised proudly, and, ‘It won’t go into the car,’ he explained. She did not believe him; it had arrived easily enough at the New York dockside in Joe’s Chrysler. Not until the Vauxhall was brought from the car park to sit alongside the offending object and had been measured by eye was it obvious that Daniel was right.

‘Pity your car is so small,’ she commented as they debated what to do.

‘It’s the biggest I can afford, Gertie.’ Daniel was hurt. ‘Look, before we start. I hope you’re not going to spend the whole holiday complaining that everything in Britain is smaller or less grand than you’ve got at home. You may not intend to give offence, but I have to live with Annie afterwards. We’ll do our best for you and make you very welcome.’

Thus Gertie’s luggage had a taxi to itself, an expense neither could easily justify. The bemused cabbie followed the elderly black car to Childwall and helped unload the trunk with much puffing and groans inside. In the hallway came more hugs, though Gertie and Annie had not met before.

Annie fussed, fluttered, patted her apron. Her sister-in-law removed her coat and looked around for somewhere to hang it, but Annie seized the garment from her and folded it over her arm. As they spoke Gertie noticed that the fine fabric was caressed lovingly, as if Annie had never held anything quite so good before. In American terms it was a perfectly ordinary coat.

Annie pushed back a lock of hair. ‘Good journey?’

‘Yeah, terrific. Nothing like an ocean liner. You live in the lap of luxury for days.’ As Annie’s eyes rounded in envy Gertie could not resist elaboration, though her examples came mostly from glimpses along the gangways of first-class passengers on their way to dinner.

At last politeness intervened. ‘Where are the children?’

‘Gone to school.’ Both had begged to be allowed to stay, or to go to the dockside with their father, but Annie had insisted on routine. In truth she wanted a few minutes to herself to assess the visitor. Would Gertie be an intruder? A revealer of secrets? While any challenge to the orderliness of their lives was dangerous, this live invader posed particular risks: though Annie would have been hard put to articulate exactly how. Gertie was new, untried, unbridled. Gertie would not know the rules, and would scoff and deride. Both physically and in age and seniority Gertie was bigger than her hostess. Not to speak of vastly more prosperous, as the watch, brooch and gold chains at her neck with the diamond-crusted Star of David bore witness. The presence of this tall, angular woman in her home, whose outer clothing was obviously of cashmere and who wore rich perfume at nine o’clock in the morning, made her apprehensive.

Practicality asserted itself. ‘I’ll show you your room,’ Annie said and started up the stairs. ‘Mind your head as you go up. You’re sharing, I’m afraid. Bit cramped. Hope you won’t mind.’

Gertie pursed her lips. More of the same, it seemed, but for weeks this time, not days. She picked up the smallest of her bags and grimly followed.

Miss Plumb settled her charges at the large table in the corner of her study. In its centre stood a vase of red tulips; window-boxes on houses nearby were showy with yellow and purple pansies. The air outside was balmy and a gentle breeze nudged the window frame. Late spring, long overdue.

This was the part of teaching which she most enjoyed: four clever girls, expressions eager, their futures ahead of them, their characters as yet part-formed and open to influence.
Her
influence.

For, as Miss Plumb knew, every teacher is a secret Svengali. There might lurk within one such child the seed of genius just begging to be nurtured. Some of humanity’s greatest ideas (as refined by herself, of course) might thereby be instilled. If the result were a series of Plumb copies –
what was that term from botany, a clone? – that was as good, if not better, than breeding children of one’s own, whose outcome was far more unpredictable. That the nation might gain from her cultivation of such ability was naturally a powerful justification. The botanical allusion was, however, too flaccid altogether for what Miss Plumb felt. Pedagogy was a hunt with live quarry, with all the thrill of pursuit: success needed that combination of passion, persistence and cunning that any Master of Foxhounds would instantly recognise. Her task was not to kill her quarry but to capture it, to feed both mind and spirit, then release it, hugely improved, to go out into the world with
her
stamp on its brow. As Aristotle had for Alexander, as Socrates for Plato: the teacher had a sacred, God-given task.

By contrast the grind of administration bored and frustrated her. The daily cajoling of academic staff, the threats needed to keep cleaners and domestics in line, detracted from those hours she could spend teaching face to face. Yet it was reported that some heads no longer saw pupils at all. To Miss Plumb’s mind that was a disgrace, and a negation of everything she had come into the profession to do.

‘So how did you get on with
Emma
?’ she asked.

Three of the girls grimaced or stared down at their notebooks. Only Meg sat ready. ‘I liked it very much. The character of Emma’s done awfully well. She feels almost real.’

Brenda tossed her head. ‘She’s such a sourpuss. And she’s so mean to poor Harriet.’

‘But Harriet’s a goose too. She’s only interested in fine clothes and a rich husband.’ This from Helen. ‘I agree, though. I hated the book and had a struggle to finish it. I’d much rather read Charlotte Bronte – her characters are warmer and more sympathetic. Jane Austen’s seem so – brittle, like china dolls.’

‘I can see why Meg likes Emma. She’s a mischief maker, and doesn’t care who she hurts.’ Brenda spoke in a solemn murmur but her eyes danced: she meant no malice, though Meg flushed.

‘Now, girls.’ Miss Plumb encouraged her charges to argue but not to try each other’s patience. ‘Tell me how you saw Miss Austen’s portrayal of the relationship between men and women.’

Brenda frowned. ‘She doesn’t seem to like women much, does she? Her treatment is almost catty – whether it’s Emma or Harriet or the older women. Jane Fairfax is so drippy I could shake her. I mean, it’s funny and you can picture them exactly – the picnic on Box Hill, for example, when everybody jockeys for position and Emma is so cruel to poor Miss Bates. By contrast the men are the fount of wisdom, like Mr Knightley. I think he was stuck-up, but it’s clear you’re supposed to admire him.’

‘Not all the men. She clearly doesn’t have much time for Mr Elton the vicar.’ Meg warmed to her theme. ‘And Emma’s father is horrendous – can you imagine having a whinging old slob like that as a Papa? Heavens!’

Miss Plumb suppressed a chuckle. ‘You’re talking about one of the greatest novels of English literature, continuously in print since it was published nearly one hundred and fifty years ago, as if it were a penny dreadful from a cheap bookstall.’

The girls were not impressed. Helen spoke. ‘We aren’t paying it homage, we are studying it. And we’re entitled to say if we aren’t wildly enthusiastic. If I had to read this sort of stuff all the time I’d loathe it. Emma Woodhouse is a pain, Miss Plumb, you have to admit. She’s vain, silly, rude and a crashing snob. She doesn’t know what goes on outside her tiny world, either –’

‘Perhaps. Though Jane Austen herself wrote that pictures of perfection made
her
sick. But if I were you, I wouldn’t criticise too strongly should a question on Miss Austen feature on your general paper. You may be scientists but you don’t want to appear fools. Grit your teeth, my dears, say how remarkable the author is, and
then
give your analysis. Which, incidentally, carries considerable merit.’

The discussion continued for several moments. Miss Plumb had planned to set the group another of her favourite author’s works but the prospect of rebellion made her reconsider. Instead she
would check before the next session whether Mrs Gaskell’s
North and South
was available in school in sufficient quantity. If the quartet preferred a gritty tale of smokestacks and romance from the previous century, that might do the trick. Then maybe in the autumn a put-upon heroine like Maggie Tulliver might excite their sympathy rather than further derision.

In her neat hand she made a note for herself. Modern girls: so hostile to the notion that a marriage proposal was (or should be) the prime objective of a lady. In that respect they had more in common with Miss Austen than they realised. And with George Eliot. And with herself, come to that.

‘Now for next week, girls. Let me ask you about your current cultural intake. Do any of you waste your time with the magazine
Private Eye
?’

Glances were exchanged. Colette had been in the middle of a yawn, but collected herself and grinned. The girl seemed overtired. ‘Since we subscribe to it in the sixth-form Library you can’t condemn us for swallowing every line as gospel, Miss Plumb.’

‘I’m pleased to hear that the council’s expenditure is not in vain.’ Miss Plumb tried the glare, but its effect was to seal a bond with the quartet, not enforce a distance. ‘What about television? Are you familiar with
That was the Week that Was
?’

All four nodded. The programme was essential viewing at ten thirty p.m. on Saturdays even if that did mean getting home early.

‘How good to know that you keep up with current affairs,’ Miss Plumb teased dryly. ‘My attention was caught by a piece in the
Daily Telegraph
about such trivia in our society, which as you know come under the collective heading of satire.’ The article lay on the table before her. ‘The great satirists of the past, the writer says – and I imagine he has in mind classical writers, or Jonathan Swift – were moved by indignation to mock at stupidity, hypocrisy and vice in the name of intelligence and virtue. Swift regarded it as a mirror held up to nature, but pointed out that in it you can see everyone but yourself. Dryden believed that the true end of satire is the amendment of vices by correction. And Robespierre was brought down, there is no doubt, the instant the citizens began to laugh at him.’