New York - The Novel

blocks. At Fifty-fifth Street he slipped and fell, but he was so bundled up that he wasn’t hurt. He laughed, and looked about to see if he could find another ride. There was nothing. No cabs, no carriages, hardly anyone even trying to walk. Some of the stores and offices seemed to be open, but no one was going out or coming in. He slipped and slid another two blocks and came to a saloon. He went inside. Here, there were a few men, wrapped up like himself, standing at the bar. He unwound his scarf.
    “Drink, son?” offered the barman.
    “No money,” said Skip, though it wasn’t true.
    One of the men at the bar put a few coins down and motioned him to approach. There was a smell of whiskey and hot rum at the bar.
    “On me, boy,” said the man. “Give him a car driver’s,” he instructedthe barman, who nodded. “It’s just ale and red pepper,” he told Skip. “It’s what the coachmen take. It’ll keep you warm for a bit.”
    Skip drank it slowly. He could feel the warmth in his stomach. After a while, he thanked his benefactor, and headed out into the street again, wrapping his scarf tightly round his face at the doorway. And it was as well that he did, for as soon as he stepped into Broadway, the snow whipped round his face as if it meant personally to attack him and rip his scarf away again. But steadying himself against a railing, he put his head down and staggered on.
    And then, a few blocks further down, he got lucky again. For what should he see, but a brewer’s wagon. Behind his scarf, his mouth drew into a grin. Nothing ever stopped the brewers. When the supply of beer in New York came to a stop, you’d know the world had come to an end.
    The wagon was big, and loaded with kegs of ale. It was lumbering slowly along like a great ship through an iceflow. It was pulled by no less than ten massive Normandy horses. Unseen by the driver, he hopped in the back. And was thus conveyed, in ponderous but cheerful style, all the way down to Twenty-eighth Street. From there, clinging onto railings or whatever support he could, he made his way through the blizzard to Gramercy Park.

    Hetty Master was most astonished when Skip arrived with a note from Lily de Chantal, but she read it eagerly. The note wasn’t long. Frank’s boat had been forced to turn back the night before, she said. He’d arrived soaked, and seemed to have taken a chill. “But I have him safely tucked up in a bed, and I give him a little hot whiskey every hour. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s in the city, though he won’t say why.” Hetty couldn’t help smiling; at least Frank was safe, and Lily would look after him. There was also a postscript.
    It’s clear that our little friend never turned up at the boat. I wonder if she’s trapped in Brooklyn!
    I’ll make sure to see her, as we agreed, before I let Frank out on the street again.
    Hetty almost laughed. She hoped little Miss Clipp was freezing her toes off, wherever she was. In its curious way, the plan was still working.

    In fact, at that moment, Donna Clipp was standing by the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge. And she was getting angry.
    She could have stayed at the hotel, of course, but they were getting pretty insistent that she pay. And anyway, she was bored. Donna Clipp didn’t like doing nothing. One of the other guests had offered to lend her a book. But Donna could never see the point of reading. That was boring too.
    So she’d decided to go home. She’d taken the few valuables she had and stuffed them into her handbag. Then she’d demanded a length of rope and tied her suitcase with it in a series of intricate knots that it would have broken your fingernails to tackle. Then she’d made the manager give her a written receipt for it, and told him she’d collect it herself in a few days, and that if it wasn’t there, she’d fetch the police. Then she’d announced she was leaving. There was no transport of any kind. The whole of Brooklyn was staying indoors. But the manager did not try to stop her. He hoped the blizzard would freeze her to death, just as soon as she was well away from his hotel.
    Donna Clipp had made her way to the Brooklyn Bridge, which wasn’t far. And though she looked like a walking snowman by the time she got there, she was still very much alive. There were railcars across the bridge, and once she was over, she’d manage to find a way across to her lodgings, somehow or other. At the bridge, however, she encountered a