Читать книгу Mr. Emmanuel - Louis Golding - Страница 5

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He sat down to his meal again, but he did not feel like eating. He lit the gas and reached for a book, but he did not feel like reading, either. He felt curiously ghost-like, as if already he did not properly belong to Magnolia Street any more. He felt himself fluttering in a dim to-and-fro between the Doomington roof-tops and the shivery eucalyptuses of the Palestine plantations.

“Milk!” muttered Mr. Emmanuel. “With milk he started! With milk he finishes! Till a hundred and twenty years!” he added hurriedly.

He was thinking of Moisheh, his eldest son, who had been bothering him a long time now to come over and settle in Palestine. Horses had been Moisheh’s passion, milk his livelihood, from his earliest days. He had been born, so to speak, in a milk-cart. He had started life as an unofficial milk-boy, was promoted in course of time to official milk-boy, and by the time the Great War happened he had become a fully fledged milk-man. “Hup! Hup! Hup!” he shouted behind his horse, proud as any Roman charioteer in the well of his chariot. Then the War came and he became a gunner.

He bombarded Gaza, cleared the way to Ramle and Ludd, and cried: “Hup! Hup!” mightily, while he and General Allenby entered Jerusalem. The War over, he came back to Doomington, made a Jewess out of the Gentile lady with whom he had lived out of wedlock, married her, and took her back to Palestine. They were accepted on the roster of Ain Charod, a colony in the Valley of Esdraelon.

There was a coloured photo of Moisheh on the mantelpiece, beside the clock—white smock embroidered round the collar with forget-me-nots, shorts, sandals. His face was brick-red. In the time of the gathering in of the sheaves he went up behind his team from the fields against Gideon’s brook, cracking his whip and crying: “Hup! Hup!” till the whole valley rang all the way to the hills of Gilboa.

Latterly he had been in the dairy. The cows were his friends, the calves his playmates. It turned out he was just as good with children, too. They all called him Sar-Hachalav, these days, Prince of the Milk, for he had put himself in charge of all the processes relating to the supply and distribution of milk in the colony, with special reference to the children, who must have all the milk they needed, whoever else went without. That was the news contained in the letter Mr. Emmanuel had received by air mail that morning. Mr. Emmanuel smiled wistfully. Hup! Hup! The milk-cart clattering down Magnolia Street, the hooves striking sparks from the cobbles. Hup! Hup! The milk splashing into snow-white pails in a cool cow-shed by Gideon’s brook!

That letter. Where did I put that letter? Mr. Emmanuel asked himself. For Moisheh it was a long letter. I didn’t have time this morning to read it properly. He put his hand into his breast-pocket. Yes. It is here. Not one letter. Two letters. He brought them out. Where did this one come from? I remember. Of course. What a head I have got! It was the letter he had picked up on the door-mat when he had entered the house that evening. From who is it? Do I know this writing? He adjusted his pince-nez. Perhaps he had seen it before, perhaps not, he was not sure. The postmark? He screwed his eyes up. Ringwood. The name was vaguely familiar.

What? Ringwood? In the South somewhere, in a forest, isn’t it? That is where Rose lives. Rose Berman! What foolishness I am talking! Rose Cooper!

She has heard of my sadness. Her sister Ada has told her, Ada Hummel. Oi, how nice of her she should write! A heart like gold! Like her mother had, peace be upon her!

He slit open the envelope, removed the letter, and read as follows:

Shipscar,

Ringwood,

23 July 1935.

My dear Mr. Emmanuel,

I have been away and have only just read Ada’s letter. I won’t try and tell you how sorry I am. She was such a darling, always so kind and fussy and gentle, and always so proud of you all. It is years and years since I have seen any of you, yet she remains as real and close to me as if I had left Magnolia Street only yesterday. I remember how she used to bring in little delicacies for my mother, when she was not up to form.... She was very good at stuffed chicken-neck, wasn’t she? and Mother used to make an absolute pig of herself. It can’t be much fun for you now, dear Mr. Emmanuel, over there in Magnolia Street. There are not many people left over from the old days, are there?

Ada tells me you are soon going to retire from your position at the Board of Guardians. You’ll feel a bit lost without that, won’t you, after all these years? But she says you’ve been thinking of going over to Palestine to join your eldest son there. How exciting! How I envy you! That will be a bit of a wrench, too, leaving the old street. It always meant so much to you in a funny sort of way. (It did to me, too. John, for example.)

Ada has the idea you won’t be able to get away for a few months. Is that true? Because if it is, I have a proposition to make to you.

The long and the short of it is, I need your help. I have a party of German refugee boys staying with me. It’s all been arranged through one of the refugee committees in London. They wrote round asking for people who’d put the boys up during their holidays—they’re all at school, you see. I thought I could put up two or three for a few weeks, but actually I’ve acquired five.

I adore having them, but they’re rather a handful. John left about a fortnight ago. I don’t expect him for four or five weeks, though that’s very good really, he’s on a short run now, you see. I don’t know what he’ll say when he comes back. Of course he’ll be as good as gold, but he doesn’t like a lot of leggy boys about the place. He has enough of them on board, I suppose.

Some of the boys are full Jews, some are Jewish on one side only. Like our own children, when you come to think of it. All this Aryan business—did you ever hear such wicked nonsense? I can’t tell you how sensitive these boys are, in their various ways. Like most uprooted things. It all needs tact, and patience, and understanding. And a knowledge of the German language is useful, too.

Could you help me out, dear Mr. Emmanuel? You have all those qualities. It is not easy for me to say it, but I never knew anybody with more. With John away, my own children need a bit of looking after, I can tell you. Excepting, of course, for Dick, the youngest, I hardly ever get a sight of him. He’s the private property of Mary. You remember Mary, John’s sister. She sends you her sympathy and her best wishes.

How would it fit into your time to come over to Shipscar for a few weeks? Perhaps they’d let you off a week or two earlier? It would be grand if you could give me a hand. And we could talk about Magnolia Street, too. How we’d talk! I’d want you to stay on till John comes back, of course. As long as you like. There’s any amount of room here, you know. The place expands, like an opera-hat.

Have I been dreadfully selfish, rattling away like this? You know how I feel about your sorrow. I can’t write about it. I don’t know if I’ll be able to talk about it, either, when we meet. I know if John were here, he’d send you his deepest sympathy.

Please, can I hear from you soon?

Ever yours with love,

Rose Cooper.

Mr. Emmanuel put the letter down on the table. He felt a little muzzy, as if he had had a drop too much wine. There was a knock and twitch in his knee-cap, as if his legs already wanted to be up and away.

He got up.

I must go over and tell Mr. Silver, he muttered. I must go over at once. So they think I am finished, eh? Rose Berman does not think I am finished. Poor little boys. No mother, no father, no home. He had got to the door of the scullery by now. Then suddenly he remembered. No, I cannot go to Mr. Silver. They are little German boys. Poor Mr. Silver! Such a year upon that daughter of his!

He was back in the kitchen again. He went up to the cupboard over his chair and took out a writing-pad and a bottle of ink. No. I will make blobs, he decided. I will go out first for a little walk, my hand should get steady. He was in the lobby now, with his black trilby hat on and his walking-stick in his hand. He lit the hall gas, for the place was not quite so empty to come back to with the hall gas burning. He closed the door behind him, descended the three steps into the street, and turned right towards Aubrey Street, then right again. He walked a hundred yards towards the brick-croft, then turned back sharply.

A picture of Rose Berman formed itself suddenly in his mind. (Rose Berman! he protested. How long is it she’s married, and always Rose Berman!) He saw Rose standing in a casement, looking forlornly into the night, one hand uplifted, holding a curtain back, the other held drooping across her forehead. There was a glint of tears in her eyes. The image was after the pattern of a pre-Raphaelite painting he paid his respects to from time to time in the Doomington Art Gallery, Hero watching vainly for the hapless Leander, whom you see dashed to pieces on the rocks below. He was not quite clear in his mind for the moment which of them corresponded to Leander, himself or Rose’s husband, but Rose-Hero was at once clear and urgent.

I will go back at once and write, he murmured, I should catch the last post.

He let himself in again, sat down to the table, and wrote as follows:

13 Magnolia Street,

Longton,

Doomington,

24 July 1935.

My dear Rose,

How glad and happy I was to hear from you. It was so kind you should write like that about my poor Slatta, peace be upon her. She did not ail for a long time, either, only three or four months, but Dr. Shulman said if she had lived, it would have been always pain. Like King David said in the Bible from his son, I say for her: I shall go to her; but she shall not return to me. She often talked about you like you were her own daughter, even when all the women were so angry they were like savages you should marry a Christian. But everything is different now since Hitler. Who cares now so much any more? Those poor boys you have with you, for instance, what harm have they done? But if I start writing, it will be for all night, and I want to catch the last post, it is ten o’clock, and it is now ten minutes to. Of course I would love to come and give you a help with those poor boys. It will be a holiday, as well. Mr. Silver, you remember Mr. Silver, he was saying tonight I needed a holiday. Only to see you it would be a holiday, and your children, and your husband. And also Miss Cooper. Thank her for sending me her kind wishes. I do not forget how she came into our house that night we heard our poor David was killed at the front. Please, my thanks and best regards to her. Meeting you, and Miss Cooper, and perhaps John, will be like a Magnolia Street Party. I finish from the Board in ten days. My visit to you will be something to look forward to. I will be with you, please God, before the end of the month. Thank you very much.

I am,

Your sincere friend,

Isaac Emmanuel.

Mr. Emmanuel blotted the sheet, addressed the envelope, stamped it, stuck it down. The nearest pillar-box was on the opposite side of Blenheim Road, by the clock where the trams clocked in. In five minutes he was there and back again.

I feel hungry, he said to himself. It would be a shame I should not eat the nice halibut steak Ada fried for me.

It was cooler now. He made a good meal, smoked a cigarette, then he went to bed. He got off to sleep at once. It was several months since he had slept so soundly.