Angel of Brooklyn Read Online Free

meet?’ asked Jeffrey.
    ‘I sold him some postcards.’
    ‘You don’t look like a shop girl,’ said Frank.
    ‘I worked in a booth, on the boardwalk, at Coney Island.’
    ‘The what?’
    ‘Promenade. She means promenade.’
    ‘I had to work. You see, my mother died when I was born, and my father was killed in a house fire. My brother Elijah went to Chicago to preach. He was drawn in by the church and I haven’t seen him since. After that, I just had to get away. And I chose New York.’
    ‘Why New York?’ Jeffrey pulled a strand of tobacco from his pale top lip.
    ‘I read plenty of magazines and people in magazines talk a lot about New York. And you know something, they’re right. It’s a wonderful tall place, full of opportunity. I was lucky. A man called Mr Cooper let me work in his booth. I hadn’t much experience, but he could see that I was honest.’
    ‘Aye,’ they nodded.
    ‘You look honest all right,’ Frank winked.
    ‘And that’s how we met. Jonathan bought some postcards.’
    ‘These,’ he said, fanning them out. ‘These are the very cards I bought from her.’
    ‘So, you sold him these postcards,’ said Jeffrey, ‘and that was it? Did Cupid shoot you right in the heart there and then?’
    ‘More or less,’ said Jonathan, looking at his wife.
    ‘Mary Pickford’s American,’ said Frank.
    As they handed round the cards, they glanced at her, feeling the swell of the ocean, the taste of the exotic pouring through the ink.
    ‘It does wear you out after a while,’ said Jonathan, swirling his glass of port, throwing the last thick bite of his cigar onto the fire. ‘You never saw so many people at one time.’
    ‘Not like here,’ said Jeffrey with a frown. ‘I do hope you’ll like it here, Mrs Crane.’
    ‘Why shouldn’t she?’ said Frank. ‘Life’s just grand, and the air’s clean. There’s plenty of work for us and all the Irish. We’ve just bought ourselves a fancy new gramophone. Wonderful thing it is. We dance all night, me and Madge, and it sends the kiddies to sleep.’
    ‘I met your little boy,’ said Beatrice. ‘He gave me a daffodil.’
    ‘I’m sure he couldn’t help himself,’ said Jeffrey.
    ‘Aye,’ said Tom. ‘A flower, for a flower.’
    By eleven, there was a lull in the house. Glasses stained with lines of red and amber had been pushed across the table. Ashtrays held pyramids of warm grey powder. There was a stain on the tablecloth, a tattered port wine daisy. Eyes were being rubbed. Lizzie had taken off her sister’s borrowed shoes.
    Madge was in the kitchen. ‘I wonder,’ she said, licking pastry from her lips. ‘Could I make up a plate for Mary? It seems a shame she missed out. I don’t suppose you’ve met her? She’s ill. Never leaves her room.’
    ‘She doesn’t? Well, of course, go right ahead, take whatever you think she’ll like,’ Beatrice told her. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
    ‘No one really knows.’ Madge forked up some ham. ‘But she’s as pale as a sheet all right, and her legs are thinner than cotton. We all look in from time to time.’
    ‘Maybe I could too?’
    ‘Good idea. She needs entertaining.’
    Beatrice watched Madge making up the plate with cold meats, Lancashire cheese and a broken slice of pie.
    ‘Have you got a tea cloth I can borrow?’ she asked. ‘To keep the food from spoiling?’
    Ada appeared, grinning triumphantly. ‘Here, use this,’ she said, handing her a large paper bag, printed with the words
Swift & Son, Fine Bakers and Confectioners
.
    ‘Thanks,’ said Madge. ‘That’s very handy, that is.’
    ‘They were all mixed up,’ said Beatrice, looking hard into the fire. ‘Mr Cooper told me about the rich and poor in England, and those in between, and how they all lead very separate lives. Tonight they were all mixed up.’
    ‘It’s like that here. I admit that it’s strange, it isn’t at all usual, but everyone knows everyone.’
    ‘Apart from me.’
    ‘Apart from you,’ he