Georgia (12 page)

She forced herself to eat half the meat and some of the vegetables but however hard she tried she couldn’t manage the apple pie and custard.

Her legs were stiff and unsteady as she got out of bed, her face in the mirror was pale and drawn but however bad she felt she had to get dressed. She found a holdall in the cupboard on the landing and hastily packed a few warm clothes. She put on the new navy suit Celia had bought her before Christmas, which made her look older, and put her hair up in a French plait.

Finally her thick, grey overcoat, a woolly hat and scarf and a pair of sheepskin-lined boots.

Then stuffing her make-up, hairbrush and washing things in a handbag, she made her way downstairs.

The house gleamed. Celia always cleaned frantically when she was angry or anxious.

All the Christmas decorations were gone now, pine needles carefully swept away. Everything looked just the way it always did, except it could never be her home again.

Taking a sheet of paper from Celia’s desk in the dining room, she sat down to write a note, her eyes filling with tears.

‘Dear Mummy,’ she paused, unable to see clearly through the tears, her mind suddenly blank of the right words.

‘I’m sorry. I had to go. We both know it’s only a matter of days before someone takes me away and if I can’t stay with you, I’d rather be alone. I’m old enough to get a job and somewhere to live. I will always love you and be grateful to you for taking me from that convent, no one could have had a better home than me.

‘Please don’t blame yourself for what happened and try to forget about it. Don’t try to find me, it will only make things worse.’

She paused again, sobs rising up within her. There was so much she wanted to say, so many thank yous. How did you say goodbye to someone who meant so much?

‘Explain to Peter for me. He must forget too and go on to university like he planned. Maybe one day we can meet again. You will never be out of my thoughts.

I love you,

Georgia’

Leaving the letter on the table, she lifted a ginger jar off the mantelpiece where Celia kept housekeeping money. She took twenty pounds and then returned to the desk.

‘PS, I took twenty pounds as a loan. I’ll send it back just as soon as I can.’ She added this on the bottom of the letter, then took it into the kitchen to leave it on the table.

Picking up her bag she walked to the front door. Pausing for a moment to look back one more time.

There was snow her first day here. She remembered Celia sitting her on the stairs, taking off her shoes and rubbing her toes to warm them. Maybe the little girl who’d stared in wonder at the paintings, the thick, patterned carpets, the polished furniture and the grandfather clock had grown up, but that first impression would stay with her for ever.

She gulped back tears, opened the door resolutely and walked out, slamming it behind her.

Outside, the cold air made her shrink back into her coat. The heath had a thin coating of frost, fog concealing the walls of Greenwich Park in the distance. It would be dark in a couple of hours. She must hurry now before anyone saw her.

Peter would soon forget, whatever he said now. Brian had taught her how shallow men’s love was.

Still, she paused by the church, Peter’s face dancing in front of her. She could see those blue eyes fill with emotion as she sang the Christmas Anthem at midnight mass. Remember the kiss he stole as they hung up their surplices in the vestry. She hated her father for a great many reasons now, but most of all for ending something so beautiful.

Standing in Piccadilly with crowds of people milling around her, she felt numb. This was the centre of everything. The big city with its bright lights, smart shops and continuous noise. Neon lights flashing, the never-ending stream of traffic, strange smells. Men in bowler hats carrying furled umbrellas, office girls, shop assistants and shoppers.

Swan and Edgar’s windows were piled high with sale goods. Around her were the shouts of newspaper men, music from a one-man-band, wafts of fried onions from a hamburger stall, and Eros in the middle directing the circus. It was the ideal place to hide in, every day of the year girls swarmed to this area to begin life away from home and most probably started with less money than she had.

At six her legs and feet were aching. She’d seen two rooms with a To Let notice, but both times she climbed the stairs to enquire she’d been told the rooms were ten pounds a day.

She was baffled. Why would a grubby little room in Soho have such a high rent?

The answer came to her on her third attempt.

A big-busted blonde girl of about thirty came to the door wearing a black negligee, a cigarette dangling from vermilion lips.

‘I’ve come about the room,’ Georgia said wearily. ‘Is it still vacant?’

The girl wore false eyelashes, one was peeling off and she had traces of mascara rubbed onto her cheeks. She looked Georgia up and down, taking in the wool coat, sheepskin boots and holdall.

‘You aren’t a working girl,’ her greyish face puckered into a frown.

‘Not yet,’ Georgia tried to sound bright. ‘I’m going to look for a job in a café or something tomorrow.’

The blonde girl studied her for a moment. A quizzical look as if she thought someone was pulling her leg.

‘Come off it love!’ she laughed, but it came out like a dry cough.

‘Sorry?’ Georgia frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

The girl just looked at her for a moment, a mixture of amusement and pity.

‘You must’ve heard what goes on in Soho?’ She took another puff on her cigarette. ‘These rooms are for the girls. Know what I mean?’

Georgia’s mouth fell open. ‘You mean?’ she couldn’t bring herself to say the word.

The blonde nodded, a warmer look spreading across her face. ‘Try the evening paper, or go home love. There’s nothing around here for a little thing like you.’

Georgia backed away feeling foolish and just a little tainted.

‘Good luck,’ the girl said cheerfully. ‘And watch what you are doing love!’

Earlier Georgia had welcomed the darkness. Now it seemed like a threat. She was tired, cold and her holdall was getting heavier by the minute. She bought a paper and went into a café to read it, wrapping her hands round a cup of tea to warm them.

The advertisements offered very little. Most of them were too expensive and almost all of them said ‘references required’. She ringed eight which sounded possibilities, drank her tea then found a phone box.

Five of them had already been let. One was right out near Wembley and at the other two there was no reply.

Two policemen walked past as she came out of the phone box. One looked at her bag and then directly at her.

Trembling with fright, she moved off quickly, running down the narrow street, back towards Piccadilly.

The West End might have seemed exciting with the security of a friend beside her, or looking at Christmas lights from the safety of a car. But alone, in the dark it was menacing.

So many people pushing and shoving. Tramps mingling with couples out for the evening. Young office girls off to a dance, a gang of rough-looking Teddy boys shouting remarks at passing girls. Taxis, motorbikes, cars and buses, a madhouse of noise and bustle, a sinister undertone to everything. Her bag was heavy and each time someone turned to look at her Georgia sank into the shadows.

Turning again back towards Soho, she walked deliberately up one street, looking at all the notices on doors, then down the next.

There were plenty of signs.

‘French Lessons, apply second floor.’ ‘Model first floor,’ and even one saying ‘Strict Instruction, ask for Mitzi.’

Girls and women stood brazenly in doorways. Tight shirts, cigarettes dangling from lips like scarlet gashes, ‘beehive’ hair do’s and heavy eyeliner, clinking keys in their hands. They stared openly at Georgia as she rushed by, her heavy bag banging against her legs.

‘Are you doing business?’ A swarthy-looking man sidled up to her.

Shame overwhelmed her, her eyes filled with tears, all she could do was pretend she hadn’t heard and carry on walking as if she had some place to go.

It was after nine and she’d been up and down each street. Almost every coffee bar she’d passed she enquired in.

Always the same answer.

‘Sorry. Try the paper.’

She saw one advertisement for a room in a shop window and went round to the house immediately.

An elderly lady came to the door, opened it just a crack and peered out.

Georgia put on her most beguiling smile.

‘I’m sorry to call so late. I believe you have a room to let?’

She reminded Georgia of story book grannies, white haired, wrinkled with a crocheted shawl round her shoulders. She opened the door a little wider and peered at Georgia standing on the pavement.

‘No blacks!’

The door slammed shut in her face, leaving Georgia standing there mouth agape, cheeks burning at the insult.

The cold seemed to have got right into her bones, even the sheepskin boots no longer kept out the cold.

Down she went into the tube. At least there was a little warmth in the ladies’ toilets. Locking herself in a cubicle she unpacked another jumper and put it on under her coat and suit.

She looked odd, shapeless under the many clothes, the woolly red hat seemed to drain even more colour from her face.

‘Have you run away from home?’ The toilet attendant shuffled out of her small room, wearing a flowery crossover apron, as Georgia appeared for a second visit in an hour.

‘No,’ Georgia said quickly. ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

‘Well wait somewhere else,’ she snapped. ‘This is a public convenience. There’s cafés up there for meeting people.’

It was too late to find anywhere now. She was too scared to go to a proper hotel and if she hung around much longer the police might pick her up.

Instead she went back into a café and bought herself a meal, taking as long as possible to eat it while she thought what she should do next.

The café overlooked a strip club. One of many she’d noticed while walking up and down. As she watched she saw men going over to the brightly-lit pictures of naked girls and some went on, down the stairs. All at once she realized she’d made a mistake coming to Soho. It was another myth, like happy families, fathers you could trust and the streets paved with gold.

Tomorrow morning she could try the flat-letting agency she’d spotted in Berwick Street. That just left tonight to get through.

Just before midnight she left the warmth of the café. She was so tired now she could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

There was nothing for it but to look for somewhere to hide, and just wait till the morning.

Earlier she had noticed some large boxes, piled outside a dress manufacturer’s workshop. It was a small cul-de-sac tucked away behind the busier streets. She made her way there now, walking quickly to keep warm.

She passed an old tramp going through a box of abandoned fruit by the market; shuddering she moved even more quickly.

Looking over her shoulder to check no one was watching, she looked in the boxes piled high against a doorway.

One of them was full of scraps of material.

Selecting the largest of the boxes, she turned it on its side, placing the opening against the wall, then moving boxes either side of it, including the one with material, she crawled in.

It wasn’t large enough to lie stretched out, but curled up it was adequate. Then she reached out, taking handfuls of material until she had covered the floor with a thick layer.

Out of the wind it was much warmer, and the material soft to lie on. She wriggled out of her coat in the confined space, then using it as a blanket, her bag as a pillow, curled up to go to sleep.

A hissing sound close to her head made her wake suddenly. She lifted her head and listened.

She heard feet walking quite close. Obviously it was a man who had just relieved himself against the wall.

She cringed in disgust. In the distance she could hear music, the sound of someone dropping a bottle nearby, and shouting coming from the end of the cul-de-sac.

It was too dark to see the time, she was stiff with cold and she ached to change position and stretch out.

A cat mewed softly nearby and she heard rustlings which might possibly be a rat.

If she made any noise someone might investigate. The sort of men round here could be as bad as Brian. She turned on her back and bent her knees up, putting her hands under her head, trying hard to stay calm and not cry.

‘It’s only for tonight,’ she said to herself. ‘You’ll be laughing about this in a day or two.’

To take her mind off the cold she tried to imagine a bedsitter, small and cosy with a big fire.

‘I’ll change my name,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Something glamorous.’

‘Come on love, ten quid’s too much,’ a booming male voice made her almost jump out of her skin.

‘Ten quid or nothing.’ A woman with a cockney accent replied.

‘What! A tenner for here in an alley?’ The man’s voice was slurred with drink and the couple’s footsteps were coming closer.

‘Take it or leave it,’ the woman said defiantly. ‘I can’t take you anywhere now.’ She sniffed loudly, she was so close Georgia could even hear her pull a handkerchief out of her pocket.

Georgia hardly dared breath. She could hear the man going through money in his pockets. She shook with fright, expecting any moment that he would sense her presence and root her out.

‘I’ll give you a fiver,’ he said reluctantly. ‘That’s enough for a bleedin’ kneetrembler.’

‘You blokes are all the same,’ the woman grumbled. ‘Well, don’t expect me to give you the full treatment.’

A rustle of notes, the click of a handbag clasp and the rasp of fabric.

‘Give me a kiss then?’ the man said. ‘Don’t expect me to get it up without some help.’