Angel of Brooklyn by Janette Jenkins

felt like giving way as she stepped onto the ground. The boy held her hand for a second, blushing, before she moved away to the Magic of Italy, where the water had been coloured with a bright blue dye and the boats were made like gondolas. The man pushing the boats into the tunnel with his boot was dressed like a shabby gondolier.
    ‘My name is Antonio,’ he said to a bunch of giggling ladies, in a thick Italian accent. ‘And I’m sure my ride will please you.’
    He was handsome and olive-skinned and all the girls fell for it, though they half remembered him from last year as Tony, ripping tickets at the skating rink. From the mouth of the dark tunnel, a scratched gramophone record played Verdi.
    ‘
Si?
’ he said to Beatrice, holding out his hand. ‘Is very beautiful Italy.’
    ‘Oh, sure it is.’
    ‘I will take you there myself.’
    Throwing his money bag into the booth, where the other operator was sleeping, he took hold of her elbow, guiding her into the boat, before jumping in beside her.
    ‘Hey, get yourself out of here,’ she told him. ‘I don’t need you sitting beside me, I’m perfectly fine on my own.’
    ‘I give you a tour,’ he said, as they were swallowed by the darkness. ‘We will see lemon trees, Pisa, the Colosseum in Rome.’
    ‘OK, but no hanky-panky. One straying hand and I’ll swing for you.’
    ‘No hands,’ he said, sitting on them. ‘I promise.’
    The tunnel was filled with a strange pinkish light. Badly painted murals showed gladiators, men drinking wine, an opera house.
    ‘See. We have much culture. We have fighting, drinking and many loud singing on very high notes.’
    ‘So whereabouts in Italy do you come from?’
    ‘The part that looks like a heel.’
    ‘Oh, a heel,’ she smiled. ‘Interesting.’
    ‘And you are not English?’ he said. ‘Look at Venice now. The man in the stripes, he looks a little like me, no?’
    ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m an American.’
    ‘Do you know the Ziegfeld Follies?’
    ‘Gee, let me think … Only one or two.’
    The boat stopped. She could hear the chains creaking.
    ‘Look at the lovely lady, eating her spaghetti.’
    The woman in the picture had silver-coloured eyes and two pink circles for cheeks. She was flaking. Her large red mouth was wide, waiting for the spaghetti that was dripping from her fork.
    ‘Are we stranded?’ Beatrice asked. She could hear the girls in the first boat laughing like ghosts.
    ‘Not really. Jimmy needs to crank up the chains.’
    ‘He was snoring back there.’
    ‘Let me assure you, signorina, that if I am allowed to remove my hands from underneath my persons, I can push us on to the next tableaux.’
    ‘Just get us moving,’ she said.
    The boat jerked forwards and she could see the way out. There was a half-moon of sunlight as strands of coloured paper brushed across their faces.
    ‘The seaweed,’ he said. ‘Is very wonderful? No?’
    By the time they emerged, she was laughing, her head bent to her knees, as he told her all in one breath that his real name was Anthony, he was really from Silverdale, though spending the summer in Morecambe, and could he take her dancing later on.
    ‘Sorry,’ she told him. ‘I’m married. My husband would never approve.’
    ‘I’m heartbroken. But what the heck? It was worth a try.’
    She smiled as he leaped onto the side, helping her out, taking her hand and kissing it. Madge walked by with a red-faced Frank and they waved.
    The Pierrots were taking a long final curtain call. Jeffrey and Jonathan were whistling and stamping their feet. Beatrice couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them.
    ‘Look at you two,’ she said.
    ‘You’re like a couple of kids.’ ‘I’ll have you know,’ said Jonathan, ‘they were the best bunch of Pierrots that Morecambe’s ever seen. You should have stayed, my darling . You missed Mamie Adams the soubrette, Juggling Jimmy Jest, and Smoky Joe, song-and-dance man, who’ll be snapped up by the West End before the