Charlie (42 page)

When Charlie made no response, Rita got up and collected the cups. ‘That lad loves you. He’s not some creep that you can replace easily, but a decent, bright man who would do anything for you. I can tell you, Charlie, and believe me, please, men like Andrew are scarce. They get scarcer still the older you get, because girls with any sense grab them and hold on to them. Give him up by all means if you don’t love him. Let some other lucky girl have a shot at him. But if it’s just hurt pride holding you back, then I’m sorry for you. Your pride won’t keep you warm on a cold night.’

She stomped off into her bedroom then and left Charlie crying.

Charlie woke early the following morning. It was Saturday and as neither she nor Rita was working today it was going to be a strain being home together for a whole weekend. Her head said Rita had been taken in by Andrew’s charm, and however many feminist views she upheld, in reality she still bowed to the idea of male supremacy. Charlie’s heart argued with this, however – Rita was wise, a good judge of character, and she only really wanted what was best for her friend.

But whether to act on Rita’s views or not wasn’t the real problem. To save face it would be easy enough to agree to go and talk to Andrew, after she got back from the course. That wouldn’t commit her to anything, and at least Rita would see she’d met her halfway. Yet however sound an idea that was, it still didn’t address the really important issue which had come out of last night’s heated talk.

Long after Rita had gone off to bed, Charlie had sat alone analysing just what had been said, and why. It occurred to her that the passion her friend had spoken with had to have come from a deep personal hurt. Thinking about what that might be had raised several questions in her mind.

Why hadn’t Rita got married? Why was the spare bedroom done out for a child? Why did she really wear such frumpy clothes? She was still young, she had a good figure, and why, when she was so likeable, did she appear to have no friends aside from those at work? Could she have jacked someone in, and then come to regret it?

It was over two years ago when Charlie had suddenly realized she knew nothing about her parents, and discovered it was through being entirely self-centred. She’d prided herself on having become more concerned about people’s feelings since then, but now to her shame she saw she wasn’t much different.

Maybe if she’d studied Meg a bit closer she could have predicted what she might be capable of and warned Andrew not to be alone with her. She had known Rita for months now, yet she knew nothing of her past, not even where she grew up. Then there was Ivor, she loved him, but she hadn’t written to him and told him she was safe. He must be so worried about her. What right did she have to expect these people’s loyalty, when she was so busy thinking about herself that she never took the time to tune into them and consider their viewpoints or feelings?

Feeling very ashamed, she got out of bed and went into the kitchen. It was still only seven in the morning, but Rita usually got up early and she knew she would appreciate a cup of tea, even if she was still cross.

Rita’s door was slightly open, so Charlie walked straight in to find her friend still fast asleep.

Her room was extravagantly frilly and feminine, yet although Charlie had been in and out of it dozens of times in the past two weeks, it was only now that she really looked at it. Almost everything was pink, shades from deepest rose to baby pink. Frilly-edged curtains, heaps of satin cushions, even the bedside rug, the lamps and the lace mats which covered the dressing-table were pink.

The big double bed was very much the centre-piece of the room; by day it was covered with a pink and white lacy cover, and strewn with the cushions and fluffy soft toys. But Rita had tossed off the bedcovers during the night and she lay there stretched out on her back, her nightdress riding up over her thighs. She looked very young with her long hair loose; its vibrant colour glowing against the white pillowcase made a very pretty picture.

As Charlie stood there, tea in hand, pondering whether to wake her or not, she noticed some curious chequered marks on Rita’s thighs. At first glance it appeared to be a pattern made by the bright sunlight striking though the curtains, but as she moved forward to put the cup of tea down on the bedside cabinet, she saw it wasn’t a shadow, but scars.

Rita woke at the sound of the tea-cup clinking in its saucer. She looked alarmed to see Charlie so close to her. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, quickly pulling her nightdress down.

‘I wasn’t going to get into bed with you! Just bringing you a cup of tea,’ Charlie replied.

Rita relaxed visibly, pulled the covers back over her, took the tea and sipped it, then glanced at her clock. ‘You’re about early, why’s that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Charlie said with a grimace. She sat on the bed facing Rita. ‘Can you tell me why you can be so snug and comfortable in bed on days you’ve got to work, then on a day off you wake up at dawn feeling as if the same bed is full of nails?’

‘Sod’s law,’ Rita chuckled. ‘The same law which makes the tights you pull on in a hurry have ladders, or the cake you bake for someone special always sink.’

‘I’m very sorry about last night,’ Charlie said, glad to see her friend didn’t appear to be bearing a grudge. ‘You were right as always. I guess I ought to go and see him to talk.’

‘Don’t do it because of what I said, that would be self-defeating. Only go if you really think you must,’ Rita replied. ‘And I’m sorry too that I laid into you last night. It was wrong of me to air my views. I should have stayed neutral.’

‘Did something similar happen to you once?’ Charlie asked. ‘When I thought about it afterwards it sounded like you were speaking from experience.’

Rita pulled a silly face. ‘I’ve had all kinds of experiences, and been pretty daft in my time, but I don’t think I’ve ever been guilty of chucking true love away.’

Charlie was disappointed. She’d hoped for some real revelation. ‘Haven’t you ever been in love then?’

‘I can’t say I have. There were a couple of blokes when I was very young that set my pulse racing, but that’s not quite the same thing, is it?’

Charlie didn’t believe this. In her opinion no one as warm and affectionate as Rita could have gone through her life without falling in love.

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ Charlie said tentatively, ‘but I couldn’t help but notice those marks on your thighs as I came in just now. What are they?’

To Charlie’s surprise Rita blushed and stiffened. She pointedly turned her head away to put her cup down, and Charlie sensed she’d accidentally stumbled on something very personal. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Forget I asked. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’

When Rita stayed silent, Charlie was even more puzzled. It wasn’t like Rita, she always had a quick retort for any situation, and she wasn’t bashful about anything. Charlie was just about to apologize again and leave the room when a long drawn-out sigh broke the silence.

‘Those marks are scars. No one else has ever seen them before,’ Rita said in a very low voice. ‘I didn’t want you to see them either, but now you have, I suppose I have to explain.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Charlie said quickly. ‘It’s none of my business.’

Rita didn’t reply, but got out of bed. Her nightdress was the kind old ladies wore, pink cotton, high-necked, with short puffy sleeves and buttons down the front. She undid the buttons, then slipped her arms out. Charlie turned away for a moment thinking Rita was going to get dressed.

‘Look at me,’ Rita ordered her. ‘You might as well see the full glory and be done with it.’

Charlie turned, but gasped involuntarily before she could stop herself. ’Oh, Rita! What on earth happened to you?’

Her whole body was covered evenly in criss-cross marks about an inch apart. It looked for the world as if she’d been pressed on to mesh; no accident or operation could have achieved such a pattern. Rita remained silent and turned, lifting her long hair up to show Charlie her back. That was scarred the same way, from her shoulders right down over her buttocks and thighs. The marks stopped abruptly at her elbows and just above her knees.

‘Now you’ll understand why I keep myself covered,’ she said, and hurriedly put her nightdress back on.

‘How did it happen?’ Charlie felt faint. The scars were old, faded to thin brown lines, but they must have been excruciatingly painful when they were made. Even sadder was that Rita’s body was a perfect shape – full firm breasts, a tiny waist and a pert little bottom, and now it was disfigured.

‘A punishment.’

‘You mean someone did that on purpose? With a knife?’ Charlie’s voice rose to an outraged squeak. She could hardly believe what she’d just heard. It was like something out of a horror film.

‘Yes, with a knife, coldly and deliberately. I was being punished for trying to steal someone else’s man. I dare say you would have liked to inflict this much permanent damage on Meg. But eight years on, it still seems a bit extreme to me.’

Charlie’s eyes welled with tears. It was typical of Rita to try and make a joke of it, even something so terrible. But who could laugh at such desecration of a perfect body?

‘Can you bring yourself to tell me about it?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t know, I’ve never tried before,’ Rita said, getting back into bed. ‘Like I said, no one but you has ever seen them. I didn’t see a doctor then, and I doubt I could let one examine me even now. I used to try and invent a story about how it happened, a different kind of tattoo, or having some hot wire falling on me. But I couldn’t even convince myself, let alone anyone else.’

Charlie lay on her side across the bed, and listened as her friend took her back to 1964 when she said the story really began.

‘I thought I was a femme fatale in those days,’ Rita smirked, tossing her hair back and pouting to make her point. ‘A man friend once described me as a walking wolf whistle and I suppose I was, though I was later to discover he pinched that from the newspapers. It was in fact a description of Mandy Rice-Davies. Do you know who she was?’

Charlie nodded. ‘The other girl with Christine Keeler in the Profumo scandal.’ She remembered her parents discussing the girls’ behaviour at the time of John Profumo’s trial.

‘Well, I was part of the same set, what you might call goodtime girls. We worked as hostesses in various high-class London night-clubs, we all had rich and influential lovers, and our lives were dedicated to being gorgeous, fun-loving Jezebels.’ She paused and looked at Charlie as if to gauge her reaction.

‘Go on,’ Charlie smiled. Rita was being her usual jokey self, but Charlie sensed that was just a self-protective front.

‘A great many people made damning statements about girls like us at the time of the Profumo trial. They implied we were prostitutes, but that wasn’t true. We were just a bunch of girls who had little going for us but our youth and our looks, so we used them. Most of us were looking for the love and attention we’d never had as children.

‘We were war babies, you see, brought up with blackouts, bombs and rationing, some of us were evacuated, some lost parents, all of us were deprived in some way. Even after the war, things didn’t get much better, and the only real escape from the grimness of it all, for girls like us, was the cinema. I soaked up all those glamorous Hollywood films from the age of eight, I modelled myself on Rita Hayworth and Lana Turner. I couldn’t wait to leave school, I thought that sort of ritzy life was just a train ride away in London.’

Charlie wanted Rita to hurry up and explain about her injuries, but she realized that the background to this story was all-important, so she bit her tongue and listened.

‘I was only sixteen when I left home in my little Essex village for London. It was 1955, pre-Pill days, and I fell for the first man who took me out in a car. I thought he was a real gent because he had a gold cigarette lighter and he introduced me to port and lemon.’ She gave a wry little smile and leaned over to get her cigarettes. ‘He never bothered to tell me he was married, not until I told him I was pregnant, then of course he disappeared.’

She lit her cigarette and leaned back against the headboard. ‘I went home, I had nowhere else to go, Mum went mad, crying and screaming at me, Dad gave me a pasting. But once they’d calmed down, Mum said I was to tell no one and that they would bring up my child as theirs. They packed me off to a home for unmarried mothers in Colchester. When Paul was born my folks came and collected him. I was told I could come home just twice a year to see him, as his big sister, but that was all.’

Charlie’s eyes opened wide with horror. ‘But that’s awful!’

‘It was, but back then being an unmarried mother was about the worst thing in the world, and what they offered was better than handing Paul over to strangers.’ Rita shrugged. ‘But don’t let me get sidetracked, I’ll come back to that part later. What I want you to see is my state of mind when I had to set out again on my own.’

‘You must have been desperately unhappy?’

‘Yes, very, but it was more than that. I was kind of driven to make good. I had to redeem myself in my parents’ eyes, and I guess I thought the only way I could do that was to make lots of money to send home for Paul. You see, my parents were poor, Dad was only a farm labourer, we lived in a tied cottage and I was the oldest of five. But I had no qualifications or training, all I had in my favour was my looks and my figure. I got a job in a London store, but I still wasn’t earning enough to do more than keep myself in one tiny room.

‘My parents were so cold with me. On the few occasions they allowed me home they made it quite clear they had no time for me, and my brothers and sisters just followed their lead and were much the same. Finally in 1959, when I was twenty, a friend got me an evening job as a cigarette girl in a London night-club. I had to wear a fancy costume with a short little puffy skirt and plunging neckline, and parade around the place all evening being sweet to men. I was working during the day too, so I was always tired, but that job changed my mentality. Suddenly I was mixing with girls in a similar situation to me, and by listening to them and copying them, I saw a way off the treadmill I was on.’