She's Leaving Home (22 page)

It was after ten in the morning when Gertie sauntered into the kitchen. Her white satin dressing gown, tied at the waist, was trimmed with rabbit fur as were the matching mules on her feet. She found her sister-in-law working busily, surrounded by piles of dishes, with two opened boxes at her feet full of crockery half-wrapped in torn newspaper. Annie seemed out of sorts; plates and soup bowls banged and clattered alarmingly.

In turn Annie noted with some satisfaction that despite the painted toenails and tinted hair, once deprived of panstick and rouge the person before her was without doubt an old lady.

‘Would you like a cooked breakfast? I can manage eggs –’

Gertie yawned. ‘Oh, Gawd, no. Thanks. I’d kill for a cup of coffee, though.’

Annie looked dubious. ‘I’ve got a small jar of instant coffee and chicory somewhere. We drink tea.’

Gertie blinked awake. ‘You got a percolator? No? OK, then I’ll go downtown later and buy you one. Glass of hot water and lemon’d do for now.’

Annie gulped. ‘Lemon?’

Gertie knew she was not at her best first thing in the morning. It was the only time of day when she felt her age. A superhuman effort was required, therefore, not to respond rudely. She settled for a glass of warm water from the kettle sweetened with honey, a piece of toast and a cigarette.

Annie returned to her task. She appeared to be removing one set of plates from boxes and putting the current sets, carefully wrapped in the same scraps of paper, into other cartons. The activity seemed to require the two sets to be kept completely separate and, since little surface space was available in the small kitchen, much of it annulled by Gertie’s spreading herself and yesterday’s newspaper over the table, it was a complicated manoeuvre.

A decorated tureen fell to the floor and broke with a crash. Annie wailed, flapped her hands helplessly, then bent to pick up the pieces.

Gertie raised her eyes from the paper and peered over half-moon spectacles. ‘What are you doing? You don’t need to go to any trouble on my behalf.’

‘I’m not,’ Annie responded crossly. ‘This is for
Pesach
next weekend.’

‘You change the dishes?’ Gertie was incredulous. ‘What – all of them? Cutlery too?’

Annie nodded and stood, two large shards in hand, trying to fit them back together. ‘Of course we do. You can’t mix Passover dishes with everyday stuff. Don’t you?’

‘Doesn’t bother me one bit. I keep separate for
milchich
and
fleishich
. Mostly. And I won’t have
treife
in my kitchen, though with processed food you never know for certain what’s been used. But changing over the lot for Passover – that’d mean four sets of dishes! No way.’ Annie coloured. It was clear she was deeply offended. ‘This is how we do it here. It’s how I was brought up and it’s how my friends operate. I don’t know any other way. I won’t have any other way; it’d feel like – like contamination. So I’d be grateful if you’d observe with us during your stay. I’ve enough problems persuading the children that these rules are for their benefit, without you…’ She left the rest unsaid.

Gertie removed her spectacles, drew on the cigarette and blew a pensive stream of blue fumes out through her nostrils. Annie’s nose wrinkled. Gertie had not taken the hint from the lack of an ashtray. Instead the cigarette was stubbed out on the toast plate.

‘I must get dressed. Can I use the bathroom now? Pity you don’t have a shower. Is the water hot?’

‘Yes,’ Annie answered stiffly. ‘I put the immersion heater on specially for you. A couple of hours ago. I didn’t know what time you wanted to get up.’

‘It’ll be earlier tomorrow. Say, you gotta let me pay for a few things. That extra heating must be costing you. Can I give you some money?’

How dare you, Annie wanted to scream. I will not be humiliated by you. You march in here and you casually assume you can simply take over. My husband decides to go to a restaurant for the first time in years, for you, not for our anniversary or something for
me
. You give my son a briefcase that costs as much as my weekly housekeeping: next he’ll demand more pocket money and think we’re mean when we refuse. And my daughter, who ought to be growing up in my own image, who should be planning to settle in a semi-detached house just down the road so I can see my grandchildren daily: silly Helen gawps at this newcomer like she’s the pantomime fairy come to grant every wish. But no good can come of it. After this interloper’s gone there’ll be a price to pay, in discontent and restlessness. And who knows what else.

Annie forced herself to stare calmly into her tormentor’s face. She shook her head. ‘No, of course not. You are our guest. Daniel would be furious if I accepted a penny.’

‘Then I’ll pay for dinner tomorrow night. You can’t refuse me that.’ And without waiting for a rejoinder Gertie swept out.

As Nellie crossed the shop towards the door she could tell that her boss Maurice Feinstein was more than usually preoccupied. She wondered what might be on his mind.

As usual Passover was an exceptionally busy period for a grocery store, since (if anything was to be sold at all) the premises had to be closed and scrubbed in their entirety before a single piece of
matzoh
could be allowed to enter, let alone the myriad varieties and huge quantities of food necessitated by the eight-day feast. The idea was to remove any trace of leavened bread or flour – whether biscuits, cakes, instant potato, pancake mix or anything which might have been tainted – tea, jams – to be safe, the lot. That meant a complete spring clean with attention devoted to the remotest corners where suspect crumbs might lurk.

The clear-out had required the closure of the shop after Sunday trading. All hands had then worked late into the night, ready to reopen on Monday morning, albeit an hour late. The shelves and glass gleamed. Paintwork had been completely washed down and shone. The lino had been swabbed by hand, with a toothbrush at the awkward edges. A faint smell of disinfectant hung in the air, fresh and flower-scented. Behind the counter a big Rakusen’s sign in English and Hebrew wished all customers a very happy
Pesach
.

It was fortunate, Nellie reflected, that the edicts only worked one way – that
chometz
(leaven) could render
matzoh
unsaleable and useless but not
vice versa
. So once the holiday was over, sealed boxes could be retrieved from the locked back room and the erstwhile banned packets of biscuits returned to the shelves. Had the exercise been required twice in a month she would have protested and probably left. Instead, as she crossed the floor to unlock the door, her breast swelled with pride at her handiwork. She could justify that sort of annual effort. Other shops she’d worked in never got the sniff of a damp rag from one year’s end to another.

The next few hours were busier than normal for a weekday morning. It was not till after eleven and a quick coffee break (with a new jar of Nescafé covered in
kashrut
stickers stating ‘Kosher for Passover’ and a set of mugs kept solely for Passover) that the two had a quiet moment together by the cheese display.

‘You did a magnificent job, Nellie.’ Mr Feinstein never lost an opportunity to be appreciative.

‘Looks nice, doesn’t it?’ his assistant agreed. There was a moment’s silence.

‘Nellie –’

‘Mr Feinstein –’ Both spoke at once, and laughed in embarrassment. He started again by patting her hand.

‘You mustn’t call me Mr Feinstein. After the years we’ve known each other. Call me Morrie.
Anyway I wanted to ask your advice.’

‘I’m not sure I’m the person to ask, Mr Fein – er, Maurice.’ It felt strange to call him that, but ‘Morrie’ was absolutely too familiar.

He looked at her directly. ‘I’m thinking of getting married again. Do you think I should?’

Nellie nearly dropped her cup. Her mouth fell open and she gaped at him with round eyes. Was this – did he mean –? He had dropped no hints. It would be madness to jump to conclusions. She coloured furiously, and to hide her confusion bent her face and took a large swallow of coffee. It was too hot and she spluttered.

He waited patiently with an anxious expression.

‘Well,’ she gulped at last, ‘it depends on the person, doesn’t it? Do you have anyone – particular – in mind?’

‘Oh, Nellie, I wish I had,’ he responded gloomily. ‘She would have to be as capable as you and as pretty as my dead wife, God rest her soul. She’d have to help me with Jerry – stepmothers always have problems.’

‘Jerry’s nearly grown up. You could concentrate on your own needs now. You deserve it.’ Nellie heard her voice tremble.

Mr Feinstein did not seem aware of her turmoil. ‘Yes, that’s what my dear Rosetta said. My wife. She came to me in a dream the other night and told me it was time to remarry, and that she would give me her blessing.’

The thought of a dead wife reappearing like some latter day Mrs de Winter to interfere with a new relationship gave Nellie pause. Her chance, however, might slip away. She took a deep breath.

‘I think you should be extremely cautious. You don’t need to get married again, Maurice, if all you’re after is help in the business. I’ll stay here and take care of – everything.’

How she longed to tell him that she would take care of him too if he wanted. He swirled the remainder of the coffee in his mug and stood brooding, but did not argue with her.

Outside the door two lady customers were about to enter, their identity hidden by signs and notices Sellotaped to the glass. The bell tinkled as the handle was pushed.

Hurriedly Nellie asked, ‘I suppose she has to be Jewish – your new wife, that is?’

‘Yes,’ Mr Feinstein affirmed, but he sighed sadly. He turned back to her with anguish on his face. ‘Oh, Nellie, if only –’ he began.

There was no more time. The two women approached in a jangle of bracelets, shopping bags and noisy greetings. One was Mrs Cohen, the sprightly little octogenarian from Dudlow Court who had come for butter and half a pound of cheese. The other was Sylvia Bloom.

Nellie collected the two empty mugs, nodded at the old lady and shot the stout newcomer a glance which she hoped was full of recognisable malevolence. The
shbadcban
, such people were called – matchmaker. Nemesis had just walked in.

‘I’ve brought my order to be delivered Wednesday,’ Sylvia announced. ‘And guess what? I’ve found the ideal girl for you, Morrie.’

From the back room came a wail, then the sound of breaking china followed by a blunt curse. Customers and shopkeeper half twisted uncertainly towards the noise then returned to their transactions.

‘Having one of her bad days, is she?’ Sylvia exuded false  sympathy.

Feinstein shrugged. Some instinct told him not to run Nellie down in front of Sylvia, even if she was a
shikse
. Ultimately he needed Nellie’s services far more than Sylvia’s, as the sparkling shop bore witness. ‘She’s cross with me, I don’t know why,’ he confessed, then realised he had no evidence for his statement apart from the muffled growls behind the partition.

‘As to this girl – such an excellent match for you,’ Sylvia continued. ‘You’re going to the Majinsky barmitzvah?’ Feinstein nodded. ‘Fine, so is she. You can get to know each other then.’

A few more details were exchanged which Feinstein received with a morose air. The news should have filled him with excited anticipation. His days of loneliness would soon be over. Yet as Nellie failed to reappear until the front door shut and the bell tinkled once more, he realised he did not view his course of action with the pleasure it deserved.

‘Hi, it’s great to see you. Twice in one week.’

‘They’ll be talking about us.’ Helen grinned up at him, and allowed him to kiss her lightly on the cheek. Behind him the cathedral loomed into the sky, its red walls warm in the midday sun. Michael had left a message at the Post Office on the corner of Hope Street where the school pupils bought their sweets that he would be nearby during her lunch-hour, if she could get away. It had not been difficult.

‘Well, I so enjoyed our time at the Cavern. What an incredible experience!’ He was wearing the same check shirt and a pair of slacks, with his airman’s leather jacket, almost too warm for the spring weather. In his hand were two paper bags of snacks purchased at the shop. She did not bother to hide her uniform: he was going out with a schoolgirl and ought to realise it.

‘So’s this.’ Helen pointed round the back of the cathedral, where a stone grotto ran down and out of sight. The two began to stroll. ‘This is where the kids from the Institute – boys’ and girls’ schools – come to learn to smoke. It’ll be quiet and safe now. Gets a bit dangerous at night sometimes.’

The descent was steep, through a natural stone arch which formed a dank tunnel. Michael reached out to steady himself on the slippery path then recoiled at what he had touched. ‘Jeez! That’s a gravestone.’

‘Sure.’ Helen had a touch of mischief in her voice. ‘It’s the old graveyard. St James’s. Much older than the cathedral itself. An abandoned quarry, I think. Very gothic. Come on.’

He took her hand as they reached the level. The unfinished cathedral towered overhead, with no sign of movement up above. Any workmen would doubtless have disappeared for a long
meal-break
. Together they began to pick their way through weed-strewn paths, peering at the monuments and statues, some at angles or broken, many dotted with green and yellow lichen. Brambles trailed over catafalques, trees creaked mournfully in the wind. A scruffy tramp turned away at their approach and shuffled off into the undergrowth. In the distance a tall circular mausoleum stood forlornly, its marble columns cracked, isolated and forgotten. Yet the atmosphere was silent and dignified, despite the disorder and insidious neglect.

‘Loads of Americans here.’ He pointed and read out loud. ‘Captain William Wildes, bom at Arney Town, state of New Jersey, USA, 3 July 1793, died Liverpool 4 March 1835. Captain Charles H. Webb of the barque St Lawrence of New York, US, died 25 January 1856 aged forty-five. There’s another one, from Miami.’