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Authors: David Rain
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regret it later, and was not sorry to be
drunk by the time Blitzstein bashed out Sonata in No Key on the tuneless upright – and the saucepans on top of the piano, ranged in order of size.
I was wondering when it would be safe to slip away when Aunt Toolie appeared beside me and whispered beneath the cacophony, ‘Darling, I need your help. One word: Agnes.’
‘Not again!’ For months my aunt had been in one crisis or another over this runaway Catholic schoolgirl, a would-be actress of no discernible talent who gloried in the stage name of
Agnes Day. Few of our circle had time for Miss Day; Aunt Toolie had all the time in the world.
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘Another career debacle? So soon too! Or perhaps it’s love. Is Matterhorn still the one?’
‘If only! Matterhorn’ – Aunt Toolie’s name for a mountain-climber beau of Miss Day’s – ‘has gone, I fear, the way of all flesh.’ (Whether this
meant he had fallen to his death or merely ended his tenure in the lady’s affections, I did not manage to ask.) ‘So many lovers, and all bagatelles – shallow diversions of
restless girlhood! It’s time she was settled. You know what this means, darling? Copley Wedger. They’re both here tonight. I’m relying on you. Lead the horse to water. And this
time, make her drink.’
‘Such confidence in my abilities!’
Wobblewood grew wilder as the evening wore on. By midnight, revellers from the speakeasy downstairs had joined us, presumably without being invited. Where Agnes Day had gone, I had no idea. For
a time I talked to the Songbird Sisters, although this was difficult, as golden-haired Maisie leaped in to answer any remark addressed to Daisy, while copper-haired Daisy seemed always eager to
leave, yet reluctant to do so without her sister. Later I succumbed to the attentions of a Spanish lady said – by Copley Wedger, an expert in such matters – to be a notorious
prick-tease . The lady, known popularly as Conquistador, propelled me to the door of my room before turning abruptly, pecking me on the lips, and spiriting herself away. I was disappointed and
relieved.
‘Limehouse Blues’ blared from the phonograph, and couples, trios, and blissful solitaries were stomping recklessly on the hazardous floor by the time Aunt Toolie, sober as always,
demanded of me whether Miss Day had agreed yet to marry Copley Wedger.
‘What I can’t understand,’ I said, ‘is why you’re so keen for her to marry at all. What could be more bourgeois?’
Aunt Toolie pulled my nose and I howled.
Dutifully, I sidled off to look for Miss Day. I ended up in the annexe at the back of the apartment, a sort of boxroom on a grand scale, with paper peeling from the walls in strips and clutter
heaped precariously in cobwebbed piles. My quarry, outlined by the moon through an open window, squatted on the fire escape. Awkwardly, ashplant slipping, I clambered out to join her. No rain fell
any more, but the tiles and chimneys and well-like yard below were black mirrors, sleek with wetness.
I should have liked to sit with Miss Day, but my leg made it impossible. Sadly, I looked down at her. She was beautiful. That night she wore chunky costume jewellery and a yellow beret, beneath
which she had swept up her long black hair. Her face was silvery in the pale light. And what did she see? A prim bookworm with a bad leg. I wore a spotted bow tie, a tweed jacket with
leather-patched elbows, cord trousers, and argyle socks. There were cuts on my neck where my razor had slipped while negotiating the territory around my Adam’s apple.
My position with Miss Day was a peculiar one. We seldom spoke – I was shy around her – but Aunt Toolie had told me so much that I felt I knew her intimately. Her employment disasters
formed a never-ending saga. Miss Day had adopted many careers while awaiting her Broadway break: stenographer, waitress, swimming-pool attendant, factory girl, bakery assistant. Each career ended
drunk by the time Blitzstein bashed out Sonata in No Key on the tuneless upright – and the saucepans on top of the piano, ranged in order of size.
I was wondering when it would be safe to slip away when Aunt Toolie appeared beside me and whispered beneath the cacophony, ‘Darling, I need your help. One word: Agnes.’
‘Not again!’ For months my aunt had been in one crisis or another over this runaway Catholic schoolgirl, a would-be actress of no discernible talent who gloried in the stage name of
Agnes Day. Few of our circle had time for Miss Day; Aunt Toolie had all the time in the world.
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘Another career debacle? So soon too! Or perhaps it’s love. Is Matterhorn still the one?’
‘If only! Matterhorn’ – Aunt Toolie’s name for a mountain-climber beau of Miss Day’s – ‘has gone, I fear, the way of all flesh.’ (Whether this
meant he had fallen to his death or merely ended his tenure in the lady’s affections, I did not manage to ask.) ‘So many lovers, and all bagatelles – shallow diversions of
restless girlhood! It’s time she was settled. You know what this means, darling? Copley Wedger. They’re both here tonight. I’m relying on you. Lead the horse to water. And this
time, make her drink.’
‘Such confidence in my abilities!’
Wobblewood grew wilder as the evening wore on. By midnight, revellers from the speakeasy downstairs had joined us, presumably without being invited. Where Agnes Day had gone, I had no idea. For
a time I talked to the Songbird Sisters, although this was difficult, as golden-haired Maisie leaped in to answer any remark addressed to Daisy, while copper-haired Daisy seemed always eager to
leave, yet reluctant to do so without her sister. Later I succumbed to the attentions of a Spanish lady said – by Copley Wedger, an expert in such matters – to be a notorious
prick-tease . The lady, known popularly as Conquistador, propelled me to the door of my room before turning abruptly, pecking me on the lips, and spiriting herself away. I was disappointed and
relieved.
‘Limehouse Blues’ blared from the phonograph, and couples, trios, and blissful solitaries were stomping recklessly on the hazardous floor by the time Aunt Toolie, sober as always,
demanded of me whether Miss Day had agreed yet to marry Copley Wedger.
‘What I can’t understand,’ I said, ‘is why you’re so keen for her to marry at all. What could be more bourgeois?’
Aunt Toolie pulled my nose and I howled.
Dutifully, I sidled off to look for Miss Day. I ended up in the annexe at the back of the apartment, a sort of boxroom on a grand scale, with paper peeling from the walls in strips and clutter
heaped precariously in cobwebbed piles. My quarry, outlined by the moon through an open window, squatted on the fire escape. Awkwardly, ashplant slipping, I clambered out to join her. No rain fell
any more, but the tiles and chimneys and well-like yard below were black mirrors, sleek with wetness.
I should have liked to sit with Miss Day, but my leg made it impossible. Sadly, I looked down at her. She was beautiful. That night she wore chunky costume jewellery and a yellow beret, beneath
which she had swept up her long black hair. Her face was silvery in the pale light. And what did she see? A prim bookworm with a bad leg. I wore a spotted bow tie, a tweed jacket with
leather-patched elbows, cord trousers, and argyle socks. There were cuts on my neck where my razor had slipped while negotiating the territory around my Adam’s apple.
My position with Miss Day was a peculiar one. We seldom spoke – I was shy around her – but Aunt Toolie had told me so much that I felt I knew her intimately. Her employment disasters
formed a never-ending saga. Miss Day had adopted many careers while awaiting her Broadway break: stenographer, waitress, swimming-pool attendant, factory girl, bakery assistant. Each career ended
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