Melting the Snow on Hester Street Read online

  ‘I dare say we are,’ I said. ‘But we can walk on up to Second or Third Street together. It’s sure to be quieter up there.’

  Inez glanced through the window. The sheriff had arrived and an angry gaggle had mustered round his motor, making it impossible for him to get out. It looked menacing.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘if it’s all the same to you, I think that would be just daisy. Thank you.’ As she stood up, she seemed to totter a little. Carefully, eyes closed in concen- tration, she straightened herself. ‘Shall we get going?’

  ‘You know I really don’t think …’ Mrs Carravalho murmured yet again, sending baleful looks at her husband.

  ‘Well, unless you want me to leave you here alone,’ her husband snapped at last, ‘with all the trouble brewing and the store unguarded, and the week’s takings still in the register, and you, no use with a handgun …’

  ‘Well but even so,’ she was saying.

  We left them squabbling and stepped out into the teeming street, Lippiatt’s blood still damp between the bricks at our feet.

  We had hardly walked a half-block before she stopped, grasped hold of my shoulder.

  ‘Hey, what do you say we sit down?’ she said. Her face was whiter than ever.

  ‘You want something more to drink?’ Truth be told, I didn’t feel so hot myself.

  She nodded.

  We might have stopped at the Columbia Hotel, just across the street. Or at the Horseshoe Club, ten doors down. Or at the Star Saloon at the corner. There was no shortage of choice. But we stopped at the Toltec. At the moment she grasped hold of me, and I was convinced she might faint right away, it happened we were right bang beside its entrance. So we turned in, and plumped ourselves at a table at the end of the room, as far from the hubbub as possible.

  The Toltec was plush and newly opened then; a saloon attached to a swanky hotel, both of which, I knew, were popular with visiting Union men. It was a saloon much like any other, maybe a little more comfortable. There was a high mahogany bar running the length of the room, an ornate, pressed-tin roof, still shiny with newness, and a lot of standing room. We sat beneath that shiny ceiling and ordered whiskey. A bottle of it. And for a while the bar was quiet.

  ‘Everyone’s out on the streets,’ the barman told us as we settled ourselves at the table.

  ‘Making trouble,’ Inez said.

  ‘Depends on your way of looking at things,’ muttered the barman.

  We filled our glasses and turned away from him. ‘But you know everyone I know agrees,’ she told me, sucking back on her whiskey. (She may not have been accustomed to liquor, but I noticed she had taken a liking to it fast enough.) ‘These anarchists come into town with their crazy ideas, and then they infiltrate the camps and stir up the miners. The men were perfectly happy before the Unions came in. And now look where we are! Death on every doorstep! Murder at the drugstore!’

  ‘To Captain Lippiatt,’ I said, to shut her up. I didn’t want to talk politics – not with anyone, and least of all with her. ‘May he rest in peace.’

  She stared at me, whiskey glass halted. ‘Captain Who?’ and then, ‘You know his name? You mean to say you knew him?’

  ‘Hardly very well. But yes, I guess knew him.’

  ‘How?’ And then, in a rush of embarrassment, and without giving me a chance to answer: ‘Oh gosh but never mind that!Did I tell you already – I work at the library. Do you ever go in there? You should. I’ll bet there are plenty books I could show you that you might enjoy.’

  ‘I love to read,’ I told her. ‘And I am often in the library. I’ve seen you in there before.’

  ‘It’s quite a thrill you know,’ she skipped on (I imagine the library was the very last thing she wanted to talk about). ‘I mean, once you get over the shock of it, and all. It’s quite a thrill to be here in this saloon. I’ve been walking past saloons all my life, never even daring to peep in. And now here I am,’ she beamed at me, ‘in a saloon! With you! It feels like the greatest adventure.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ I said. ‘For you and me both.’

  ‘Do you suppose your friend Mr Lippiatt—’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say he was a friend.’

  ‘No. But do you suppose he had a wife? Or children? Or anything like that? Maybe a mama. I think I should go visit them. Don’t you think I should?’

  I laughed. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Whatever for? He and I, we looked at each other. Don’t you see the significance?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, mine was probably the last human face, the last decent human face, not in the process of slaughtering him, which that poor gentleman ever laid eyes on. And then – Pop! He was dead.’ She sniffed. Picked up her glass. Glanced at me. ‘Y’know this is silly. Here we are, you and me, drinking in a saloooon together.’ She rolled the word joyfully around her mouth. ‘And I don’t even know your name. I am Inez Dubois, by the way.’

  ‘How do you do.’

  ‘I live with my aunt and uncle. Mr McCulloch. You’ve probably heard of him? Have you?’

  ‘No,’ I said automatically. Whether I had heard of him or not.

  ‘Mr McCulloch is my uncle.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘Well, he’s one of the old families. Ranching. Cattle. That’s where his money comes from. So he’s got no business with the coalmines, thank blame for that …’ She glanced at me. Already, her eyes were growing fuzzy with liquor. ‘Don’t you think so?’

  ‘It’s all the same to me.’

  ‘Even if the miners do get a fair wage. And nice homes and little yards and free schools and everything they could possibly ask for. Well, it’s all stirred up by the Unions now, isn’t it? And I would hate that. Just wouldn’t feel right, you know? To live off other people’s discontent. Whereas the ranchers aren’t like that. They’re altogether …’ She frowned. ‘Well, anyway, they’re not the same.’

  Inez Dubois looked and behaved much younger than her age. She was twenty-nine years old, she told me that night (making her eight years my junior), the orphaned child of Mrs McCulloch’s sister, who died alongside Inez’s father in what Inez described as, ‘one of these train-track accidents’. She didn’t go into details, and I didn’t ask for them. Her parents died back in 1893, in Austin, Texas, and after the funeral Inez and her older brother Xavier were sent to Trinidad to live with their only living relation. The McCullochs had no children, and though Richard McCulloch was aloof and uninterested, his wife treated her nephew and niece as her own. Inez never moved out. Her brother Xavier, on the other hand, had left town some ten years previous, at the age of twenty-five, and though he wrote to Inez once a week, often enclosing a variety of books and magazines he believed might educate or amuse her, he’d not returned to Colorado since.

  ‘He’s in Hollywood now. Silly boy,’ Inez said, though by my calculation, he was a good six years her senior. ‘He’s making movies,’ she said. ‘Though I’ve never actually seen any, so I don’t suppose he really is. He says I would love it in Hollywood. It’s summertime – only cooler – a cooler summer, all year long. Sounds heavenly doesn’t it? Shall we go there together?’ She giggled. ‘After what happened today, I tell you I’m just about ready to leave this place. I wasn’t far off ready before. And now … Truthfully. I’m sick to death of it. Are you?’

  ‘Kind of …’ I laughed. It must have sounded more mournful than I intended.

  She looked at me with her big, earnest eyes. She said, ‘You do realize, don’t you, that there are about a million questions I want to ask you. About everything. Only I guess I have a pretty good idea what it is you do.’She looked so uncomfortable I thought she might burst into tears again. I had to bite my lip not to smile. ‘And I don’t mean to pry. It’s probably why I’m yakking on like this. It just makes me nervous, that’s all. Because here we are, sitting here, and we’ve been through this terrible, awful thing together, when normally we wouldn’t even speak. And I was impolite to you in the drugs
tore, but you know I didn’t mean to be. I guess I just didn’t know any better. Because we can’t live more than a handful of miles apart and yet …’ She took a breath. ‘I don’t quite even know where to begin.’

  ‘Well you could begin,’ I said, ‘by asking my name.’

  She opened her mouth—

  ‘And maybe even hushing up long enough to find out the answer.’

  Honeyville is available to buy now

  Author’s Notes

  The Triangle Shirtwaist Company factory fire of 1911 remains the deadliest industrial accident in the history of Manhattan. My description of the fire – the roofs on the broken elevators, buckled from the weight of the bodies, the locked stairway, broken fire escape, burning bodies throwing themselves from windows to their certain death – are drawn from the many articles, photographs and books which document the tragedy.

  One hundred and forty-six workers were killed. Six bodies were buried unidentified in a ceremony for which, in pouring rain, hundreds of thousands lined the New York streets to pay their respects. Thanks in part to the campaigns conducted in William Randolph Hearst’s newspapers, the tragedy marked a turning point in industrial safety laws.

  Max Blanck and Isaac Harris, the two owners of the factory, having escaped the fire over the rooftop, were prosecuted for the manslaughter of the workers, locked in on the floors below. They were both acquitted.

  Marion Davies’s ‘niece’ Patricia was a regular visitor at San Simeon and at the Beach House in Santa Monica. When she died in 1993, her family confirmed rumours which had always circulated, that she was in fact the birth daughter of Marion Davies and Randolph Hearst. In 1924, Patricia’s adopted father disappeared in France, taking the girl with him. Randolph Hearst employed detectives to track her down and bring her home again.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Sarah Ritherdon, Louise Swannell, Kimberley Young, Clare Alexander and Alona Mingueto.

  Thank you Panda, Zebedee and Bashie for putting up with my obsessions and accompanying me on a fine road trip to Hearst Castle.

  Thank you Panda for your insights (and gentle delivery).

  Special thanks to Sharon Coussins and to Dr Khayke Beruriah Wiegand for checking over my attempts at written Yiddish.

  And finally, as always, thank you to Peter.

  Also by Daisy Waugh

  The New You Survival Kit

  Ten Steps to Happiness

  Bed of Roses

  Bordeaux Housewives

  The Desperate Diary of a Country Housewife

  Last Dance with Valentino

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