The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (6 page)

As for informing her mother – poor Mrs Kaufman was barely coping as it was. It would be cruel to burden her with the petty crimes of her offspring. She envisaged Chani's mother, huge and sorrowful, her face a sad moon, her swollen ankles bulging over her scuffed shoes. She could not do it. The woman had enough tzurris already. Yes, a little rachamim, a little mercy was needed. Mrs Bernard smiled at her own graciousness.

Chani arrived looking suitably penitent. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, head bowed. She peered up at The Deputy Head through her fringe. The Deputy Head mustered her guns.

‘Yes, Mrs Bernard.'

‘Chani Kaufman, your behaviour today was inappropriate at the very least.'

‘Yes, Mrs Bernard,' Chani whispered.

‘What's that?' snapped the Deputy Head.

‘I'm very sorry, Mrs Bernard,' said Chani, a little louder.

‘I should jolly well think so! A Queen Esther girl does not behave like you did today! How dare you disobey instructions. When I say turn around, you jolly well do it at once.'

The Deputy Head's bosoms were quivering. Her face was puce.

‘But, but – I didn't hear you – ' stuttered Chani. She was actually feeling a little worried now. Everyone had turned to stare and the scraping of plates had abated. The hush was eerie.

‘Didn't hear me? Didn't
hear me?
I don't believe you.'

Chani's head drooped lower. Tears prickled her eyelids. She would cry a little. It usually helped. She raised her head, just as the first tear began to trickle down her cheek. She gulped and squeezed another one out. Her eyes shone with liquid apology.

‘Plea-please, Mrs B-b-bernard – I didn't mean to – '

The floodgates opened. Chani wept and shook. Mucus poured out of her nose and her mouth opened in a hideous wail. She looked and sounded awful. And she was getting louder by the second. Mrs Bernard had to put a stop to this. Hysteria was a highly contagious disease amongst young girls.

‘There – there – Chani, stop, enough now. Ok, ok, I believe you are sorry. Here, have a tissue, go and wash your face.'

Mrs Bernard handed Chani her last wrinkly but clean tissue. Chani accepted it gratefully and blew her nose like a trumpet. From behind the tissue, she gasped, ‘Will – will – w – you tell my mother and Mrs Sisselbaum?'

The Deputy Head paused. An empty threat was detrimental to her authority.

‘We shall see, Chani. Let's see how you behave for the rest of the tour and we shall take stock at the end of it.'

Chani swallowed and nodded manically. Then she gazed up at The Deputy Head through red-rimmed eyes. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bernard,' she whispered.

‘You may go now and join your friends. But remember, I will be watching you.'

Mrs Bernard watched Chani slink back to her cohorts. They surrounded her like a rugby scrum, embracing her and nagging for details – ' what-did-she-say, what-did-she-say?' But Chani took her seat in silence, settling herself as if she were a grand dame of the theatre. They could wait a little; she had plenty to say.

The Deputy Head turned away to hide her smile. She knew Chani's game and admired her style. And later that night, when all the girls were tucked up in bed, she sat with her fellow staff and laughed so hard at the day's events that tears ran down their faces and bladders were in danger of being released.

 

***

 

The bus edged into its bay. Chani's thoughts returned to the present and to Baruch.

She tried to imagine her husband-to-be naked. He would have a snout. This was an unavoidable fact but hopefully it would be more appealing than the walker's appendage. It must be this instrument that would enter her. It was hard to imagine that flaccid tentacle being capable of invasion. The necessary hydraulics were beyond even Chani's vivid imagination.

And please HaShem, make him not so hairy. She couldn't abide the thought of a hirsute body rubbing up against her own sleek skin. Chani tried to remember how hairy Baruch's wrists had been, but it was hard to tell for like her own, they had always been covered. Yet, his knuckles were smooth and that was a comfort.

The bus stopped. Chani forgot her fears as the doors flung open. Her earthly paradise beckoned and she hurried to meet it.

 

The crowds swirled around her like brilliant tropical fish. She watched them as if through a thick pane of aquarium glass, their voices loud and distorted, and their clothes bright and strange. Chani sat on a bench and stared in fascination. An Indian family ambled past, the children lagging behind their parents, eyes wide, gazing at Chani as she stared back at them. Their mother fluttered in a burgundy sari, sequins glittering as she walked. A vermillion dot graced her forehead. Chani admired her straight back and the delicate, gold bangles illuminated against her flesh. Brent Cross was a porthole through which she peered at the wider world. She longed to know what it was like to be a part of all that was forbidden to her.

How did other people live? Did they feel and think like her? What was it like to roam freely in the world and not have to think about your every action and its spiritual consequence? On her father's side, she had distant cousins in America who led secular lives. Her mind boggled at all the questions she would them ask if the opportunity arose.

What did the non-kosher world taste like, for example? Every morning she walked past a cafe on her way to school. A salty, smoky tang wafted from its doorway. Shulamis had told her that the smell was that of bacon. How had she known? Shulamis had shrugged and said another girl had told her. What did bacon taste like? In America, you could buy bacon flavoured kosher crisps – a puzzling concept, as how did the kosher producers know what bacon tasted like? Was a goy involved in the taste testing?

Then there was Christmas. She had admired the decorations and the trees. Definitely better than the giant Chanukiah outside Golders Green station. She knew Christmas was the goyim's biggest high holiday and it had something to do with the birth of Yoshki, the man they called Jesus. Did they dance wildly like the men did on Simchat Torah? Did they daven? Were they overwhelmed with sheer joy? Her father was known to shake with happiness on Simchat Torah. Obviously the whisky helped. And what exactly did they eat? She had heard of kosher turkeys that were available for the more liberal Jews. A kosher turkey to celebrate the birth of Yoshki. An interesting concept. Her father referred to Christmas as Bank Holiday. Apparently Yoshki had been a devout Yid. What had happened along the way, Chani wondered.

Whenever she walked past the large crucifix outside the local church, she would glance swiftly up at the painfully thin body and the tousled hanging head. He was so emaciated that she could see his ribs. His pierced feet and hands made her shudder but she had to look. Only for a second or two if no one was watching her of course. Her great-grandmother would have spat three times outside the church to ward off the evil eye. But Yoshki was almost naked and this was another reason to catch a glimpse. A frum boy in a loincloth. Why was he always suffering?

It was the young women that interested her most though; what they wore and how they presented themselves to the world, in ways that she could not. She envied their freedom of choice, of colour and texture, of self-expression and individuality. What would it be like to wear trousers or bare your arms in the summer? What about the feel of a ridge of material between your legs, but nothing catching around your ankles? And the ease of movement, never being too hot, never having to experience tights sticking to the backs of your legs in the summer heat?

She knew it was rude to stare, so she tried her best to observe them surreptitiously. If she caught someone's eye, she would look away, glancing at the blank screen of her mobile. She was waiting for Baruch to call. He had said he would speak to her before Shabbes came in. It would be their last chat before the wedding. Until now they had spoken once a week without fail. He would call her every Sunday night at eight o'clock. So far, he had not let her down.

 

Chani clutched her shopping and pounded down the steps to the exit. He still hadn't rung. Her heart flooded with disappointment. A queue of people hustled to get onto the bus and she staked her place in the line. She hopped on board as the doors hissed shut behind her. The bus swerved away from the kerb and Chani was thrown against the driver's window. ‘Sorry, love! Hold on tight now!'

She couldn't find her pass. Fumbling through her bag, her fingers scrabbled in the gritty dust in its seams, blindly recognising a hairbrush, her keys, the splayed edges of her prayer book, ragged tissues and a defunct biro, when her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Flustered, she waved a ten pound note at the driver. ‘I'm sorry – can't find my pass – do you have change?'

‘Nope, love. No change.' The driver shook his head ruefully. ‘Go on, I'll let you on just this once!'

‘Thanks!' she gasped as she boarded the bus. Her mobile had stopped. It had been Baruch. She couldn't speak to him on the bus. Everybody would hear. Chani realised she had little choice. If she didn't call him back now, they wouldn't speak until they were married. Squeezing past knees, buttocks and a stroller, she stumbled up the stairs. There was a seat at the back. Swaying down the aisle, she flopped onto the banquette and dialled his number.

‘Hello, Chani?' He sounded relieved.

‘Hi, Baruch – sorry I missed your call, I was getting on the bus back from Brent Cross – I couldn't find my pass but the driver let me on for free – ' she gabbled. Why did I tell him all that? Now he'll think I'm a real nebbuch.

‘Hey, what a mensch – good for you – I'm always losing my pass – How come you're at Brent Cross anyway? I thought you'd be home with your family. I'm tripping over mine – '

‘Same thing at my house . . . and well, I'm heading there. Um, it's a long story. I just needed a bit of time – '

‘To yourself?'

‘Yes. Exactly.'

‘I know how that feels. It's a madhouse at mine – I managed to get away to call you. I'm in Hendon Park by the swings. I rode here on my bike.' His voice quietened. ‘It's nice to speak to you right now, Chani – '

Chani squirmed in her seat. She had been doodling on the window with her forefinger but broke off to concentrate on Baruch's words. None came. Was she supposed to reply now? Her reticence had created an uneasy lull. Instead she waited for Baruch to continue, but he remained silent. She sensed the flagging of his expectations and felt foolish. If only it were Shulamis on the other end of the line. She would know what to say to her.

She had to say something. ‘I bought some nice things, you know.'

‘What did you buy?'

Chani fingered the lacy pink plunge bra in the Marks and Spencer bag. It had matching knickers, sheer at the back and frilly at the front. She couldn't tell him. Why had she mentioned shopping? Her face was burning.

‘Oh, this and that – '

She had planned to wear this and that on their wedding night. And she remembered Mrs Freidelberg's face looming over her in the queue, so close that she could see the powder caught in the old woman's creases – ' ahhh, little Chani the Kallah, so what are you doing here without your dear mother?' Mrs Freidelberg had almost choked when she had seen what Chani had been clutching. But Chani had brazened it out. ‘Oh, just buying a little something for my wedding night, Mrs Freidelberg. Do you think my hossen would like me in these?' She had dangled the bra and knickers in front of Mrs Freidelberg's nose. Mrs Freidelberg had leapt back as if scorched – her mouth had flapped open and shut like a guppy's. ‘A little loud, the colour, no?' Verdict uttered, she squinted at Chani, her jowls wobbling in disapproval. ‘Not at all,' replied Chani ‘Pink is very fashionable. My mother tells me it brings out my brown eyes.' Mrs Freidelberg tilted her head in defeat, and gripped the handles of her basket tightly. ‘If you say so, my dear . . .' Inside her basket were some firm support tights and a bra that resembled a harness.

Mrs Freidelberg had bumbled off leaving Chani triumphant. Shabbes was coming and it would be too late for Mrs Freidelberg to kvetch to her mother. She would be well and truly married by then, and hopefully the lingerie would have served its purpose.

‘Sounds intriguing . . . anything for me?'

She couldn't possibly tell him. ‘Yes, um, well . . .' Chani petered out.

He waited in vain for her to go on. He wanted to say he was looking forward to Sunday but he wasn't certain he really was. He wanted to know what she was feeling. He wanted to know whether she was as nervous about Sunday as he was. His hands grew clammy at the thought of it. Baruch sensed that the conversation was ebbing away. They would be married in two days and they still couldn't manage a phone call.

As usual, a void yawned between them. Baruch was only a mile away from Chani's bus, but he felt light years separated them. The convention of polite small talk was choking him but it was apparent to him that Chani was not ready yet to leave unfamiliar turf, although they had already spoken on several occasions. And why should she be? After all, they still barely knew one another. He felt trapped. This call could almost be a recording.

Baruch wanted more. He kicked the back tyre of his bike and wondered if he should change tack. A light breeze was stirring the brilliant sea of autumn leaves and they swirled in gusty eddies around his feet, catching against his trousers. He wished Chani was standing here next to him. There was a deep need in him to see her, to read her expressions and move beyond stilted talk. He wanted to know her in every sense, but the more he tried, the further away she seemed.

‘How are you feeling?' she asked suddenly.

‘I'm fine, I guess – ' Baruch was momentarily taken aback by her question. He could hear the rumble of the bus. Perhaps he had misheard her? He waited for her to speak again, to be sure.