Read Online The Leaving Of Liverpool by Maureen Lee - Free Book Online
Authors: Maureen Lee
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in the cab? Very irresponsibly, he thought on reflection. Anne Murray wasn’t fit to be out on her own. What nationality was she? He had a feeling Murray was a Scottish name, but wasn’t sure.
He drove into Bleecker Street and stopped outside number eighty-eight. ‘We’re here,’ he announced. When she showed no sign of having understood, he got out and approached the building. The music shop on the first floor was closed and in darkness, and there were three bells on the door at the side. He pressed the bottom one, but no one came, so he pressed the second, then the third. Still no one came. He pressed all three at the same time and could hear them buzzing inside, but the door remained stubbornly closed. No one was in.
What was he supposed to do now? Drag Anne Murray out of the cab, sit her on the step, and hope someone came for her soon? He felt angry that such a pretty, vulnerable young girl was being treated so negligently: shoved in a cab to be taken to a place where there was no one to meet her. Two men emerged from a diner across the road embroiled in a fight. A woman tapped his shoulder: ‘Are you looking for a good time, honey?’
Levon ignored her, got back into the cab, and drove away with Anne Murray still in the back.
Maggie arrived in Bleecker Street seething with fury. Her journey had been a complete waste of time. She hadn’t been allowed on the Queen Maia . Most of the crew, she suspected, were out on the town. Nobody could give her any information. An important-looking individual in uniform had a list of passengers expected tomorrow, but not of the ones who’d arrived that day. ‘Ask at the shipping office,’ she was told but, by the time she’d found the shipping office, the damn place was closed. There was no sign of her nieces.
She was tramping up the stairs to her apartment when the doorbell rang. There was no one else in the building: Jim Goldberg worked nights on a newspaper and the ballerina who lived on the top floor, whose name she could never remember, was on tour. Maggie tramped down, opened the door, and scowled at the caller, a woman of about her own age wearing an old-fashioned mackintosh and a woollen hat.
‘Miss Connelly, hi,’ the woman gushed. ‘I’m Eileen Tutty, I only live around the corner, and my daughter, Imelda, is in your class at Saint Mary’s. I thought I’d better come and tell you when I saw your name on the envelopes, case it’s important.’
‘What envelopes?’ For some reason Maggie went cold.
‘Well, you know I work on Ellis Island?’ Maggie didn’t know, but nodded all the same. ‘I’m a clerk there and tonight, just before I came home, a parcel of clothes was brought in that had been left unclaimed. There was a passport inside and some letters: they had your name and address written on the back. I would’ve brought them, but they wouldn’t let me. They’d been sent to a Mollie Kenny in County Kildare.’
Maggie went even colder. ‘Whose name was on the passport? Did you look?’
‘Yes, it belonged to Annemarie Kenny. Mr Scarlatti, the supervisor, will be writing to you tomorrow. Is she a relative of yours, Miss Connelly?’
‘She’s my niece. Please excuse me, Mrs Tutty. It’s really nice of you to have called, but I need to go upstairs and think about this.’ She closed the door and stood with her back to it, breathing deeply, resisting the urge to scream at the top of her voice. First thing in the morning she’d send Francis Kenny a telegram demanding to know what was going on. In the meantime, she knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink that night.
Levon Zarian opened the door of the apartment in Grammercy Park. ‘Tamara,’ he called softly. ‘I have a surprise for you.’
‘What is it, Lev?’ She came out of the bedroom, her face streaked with tears. It must have been one of the bad days for she was wearing the cream lace gown she’d had on when they’d found Larisa lying in a pool of her own blood. Tamara had
He drove into Bleecker Street and stopped outside number eighty-eight. ‘We’re here,’ he announced. When she showed no sign of having understood, he got out and approached the building. The music shop on the first floor was closed and in darkness, and there were three bells on the door at the side. He pressed the bottom one, but no one came, so he pressed the second, then the third. Still no one came. He pressed all three at the same time and could hear them buzzing inside, but the door remained stubbornly closed. No one was in.
What was he supposed to do now? Drag Anne Murray out of the cab, sit her on the step, and hope someone came for her soon? He felt angry that such a pretty, vulnerable young girl was being treated so negligently: shoved in a cab to be taken to a place where there was no one to meet her. Two men emerged from a diner across the road embroiled in a fight. A woman tapped his shoulder: ‘Are you looking for a good time, honey?’
Levon ignored her, got back into the cab, and drove away with Anne Murray still in the back.
Maggie arrived in Bleecker Street seething with fury. Her journey had been a complete waste of time. She hadn’t been allowed on the Queen Maia . Most of the crew, she suspected, were out on the town. Nobody could give her any information. An important-looking individual in uniform had a list of passengers expected tomorrow, but not of the ones who’d arrived that day. ‘Ask at the shipping office,’ she was told but, by the time she’d found the shipping office, the damn place was closed. There was no sign of her nieces.
She was tramping up the stairs to her apartment when the doorbell rang. There was no one else in the building: Jim Goldberg worked nights on a newspaper and the ballerina who lived on the top floor, whose name she could never remember, was on tour. Maggie tramped down, opened the door, and scowled at the caller, a woman of about her own age wearing an old-fashioned mackintosh and a woollen hat.
‘Miss Connelly, hi,’ the woman gushed. ‘I’m Eileen Tutty, I only live around the corner, and my daughter, Imelda, is in your class at Saint Mary’s. I thought I’d better come and tell you when I saw your name on the envelopes, case it’s important.’
‘What envelopes?’ For some reason Maggie went cold.
‘Well, you know I work on Ellis Island?’ Maggie didn’t know, but nodded all the same. ‘I’m a clerk there and tonight, just before I came home, a parcel of clothes was brought in that had been left unclaimed. There was a passport inside and some letters: they had your name and address written on the back. I would’ve brought them, but they wouldn’t let me. They’d been sent to a Mollie Kenny in County Kildare.’
Maggie went even colder. ‘Whose name was on the passport? Did you look?’
‘Yes, it belonged to Annemarie Kenny. Mr Scarlatti, the supervisor, will be writing to you tomorrow. Is she a relative of yours, Miss Connelly?’
‘She’s my niece. Please excuse me, Mrs Tutty. It’s really nice of you to have called, but I need to go upstairs and think about this.’ She closed the door and stood with her back to it, breathing deeply, resisting the urge to scream at the top of her voice. First thing in the morning she’d send Francis Kenny a telegram demanding to know what was going on. In the meantime, she knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink that night.
Levon Zarian opened the door of the apartment in Grammercy Park. ‘Tamara,’ he called softly. ‘I have a surprise for you.’
‘What is it, Lev?’ She came out of the bedroom, her face streaked with tears. It must have been one of the bad days for she was wearing the cream lace gown she’d had on when they’d found Larisa lying in a pool of her own blood. Tamara had