Angel of Brooklyn by Janette Jenkins Page A

season’s out.’
    ‘So where’ve you been?’ Jeffrey asked.
    ‘Italy.’
    ‘I thought you’d one glass too many at lunchtime,’ said Jonathan.
    They walked slowly now, pausing outside a confectioners while Jeffrey went inside to buy some sticks of rock. Jonathan squeezed her hand tight, saying, ‘You were right to want to come.’
    Outside a tattoo parlour, Beatrice stood for a moment, as the green-tailed mermaids combed out their hair and snakes curled around initials and sharp-looking daggers.
I could be back there
, she thought with a pang.
This place smells like Coney
.
    Determined to snap out of this sudden feeling of homesickness, she grabbed hold of Jeffrey. ‘Remember the fortune teller? Let’s go find her.’
    ‘But she’ll hate me. She’ll know that I’m a sceptic.’
    ‘Of course she won’t hate you, you’ll be giving her a sixpence.’
    ‘Sixpence?’ said Jonathan. ‘She’ll charge you more than that.’
    Jeffrey went in first. ‘Here, hold my rock,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know if she’s any good before you cross her palm with silver.’
    Five minutes later he reappeared through the curtains looking slightly perplexed.
    ‘Well …?’
    ‘The great gypsy Iva knew I had a sister, said I was artistic, then said all these things about bonfires, on and on, she went.’ He shrugged. ‘Bonfires? I don’t know what to think.’
    As Beatrice went through the curtain, she could feel her heart racing. The caravan was small, the curtains pulled, a small oil lamp was lit on the table. It was like stepping into night-time.
    ‘You may sit,’ the woman smiled as she took Beatrice’s money and slipped it into a small velvet pouch. The lamp cast shadows on the walls; the room smelled of coffee and jasmine oil. ‘Now, please uncurl your hand.’
    Beatrice did as she was told and the woman looked at it for a long time, before she closed it up again.
    ‘You have lived a wonderful life,’ she said.
    ‘Is that all?’ said Beatrice. ‘For a shilling?’
    ‘You want your money back?’ The woman shrugged and began undoing the pouch. ‘Here. I don’t mind. Take it.’
    ‘But what about the future?’
    The woman smiled carefully and pushed the shilling towards her. ‘I read palms, but I don’t have all the answers. I’m honest. If I can’t see, then I won’t charge for it. The lines on your hand make no sense to me.’
    Beatrice left the shilling on the table. It was a bad-luck coin. She felt troubled as she went outside, blinking in the sunshine.
    ‘So, what’s going to happen to you?’ said Jonathan. ‘Am I going to make a fortune? Are you going to have half a dozen children?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ she said, looking over her shoulder. ‘She talked to me in riddles.’
    ‘Bonfires,’ Jeffrey mused. ‘Now, I’m not saying I don’t like them …’
    ‘We’re having salmon,’ said Ada. ‘I hope you all like salmon.’
    They’d met up again as planned, in the back room of the Sand Pilot, where the landlord laid on supper. The men were drinking beer, leaning against the bar, joking with the barmaid, a lively-looking redhead who had heard it all before.
    ‘Just look at them,’ said Madge, tutting.
    The girls pushed their chairs together, giggling, secretly watching their husbands through compact mirrors, sipping light ale and comparing souvenirs.
    ‘Look at my Frank,’ said Madge. ‘His face is as red as her hair. He’s smitten.’
    ‘He’s drunk,’ giggled Lizzie. ‘They all are. Remember last year? Tom nearly broke his leg falling from the bus.’
    Ada leaned back and looked towards Beatrice. She took a long slow sip of ale, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘And last year,’ she said, ‘you were still in your America.’
    ‘Yes, I was there selling postcards and cheap souvenirs.’
    ‘And now you’re buying them,’ said Madge, laughing.
    The supper had been set across a table at the back of the room. The children had been taken into the