Georgia (16 page)

Georgia had moved everything and it looked almost like a real home. The beds flanked the walls either side of the fire place, made up properly, each covered with the bedspreads she had never bothered to get out of the wardrobe.

‘What have you done?’ Helen asked, tears for no apparent reason pricking her eyelids.

She couldn’t hold back the tears, she groped for the armchair and sat down heavily.

‘I’m sorry,’ Georgia said, as if froms a long way off. ‘I didn’t mean to be bossy. I’ll put it all back how it was tomorrow.’

‘It’s,’ Helen couldn’t speak for a moment. ‘It’s just such a shock.’

Only then did she really see Georgia. She wore a red sweater and jeans, kneeling down in front of her, her heart-shaped face a picture of concern, her eyes bewildered and afraid.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you. Please don’t cry.’

Helen’s mouth shook, laughter bubbling up inside her. Georgia’s face was so lovely, she hadn’t fully taken it in the night before.

The big, dark doleful eyes, the sooty lashes, the curly hair tied up in a pom-pom on top of her small, beautifully-shaped head. The grace in her movements, the slender hands and the soft voice. Who would have thought a girl who looked like that could be capable of cleaning a stinking toilet?

‘I’m not cross,’ she said weakly. ‘I just didn’t expect it.’

‘Why are you crying then?’ Georgia’s voice was tentative, like a child who isn’t convinced she’d really won approval.

‘I’ve lived here for nearly four years,’ Helen sniffed. ‘In all that time no one has ever been up here except me. I can’t remember the last time someone had a meal ready for me, or cared enough to tidy up for me. You don’t know how good it feels.’

Georgia’s eyes seemed to grow bigger, her wide, curvy mouth quivering.

‘I wanted to show you how much I appreciated your kindness,’ she said softly, reaching out and touching Helen’s cheek. ‘If you’ll let me stay and help me find a job I’ll cook and clean for you every day.’

‘I thought you were such a child this morning.’ Helen found herself crying again, remembering all the second thoughts she’d had during the day. ‘I panicked because I thought you would want me to look after you. That’s why I went out early. I even thought of going to the police and telling them you were here.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘It seemed cowardly,’ Helen sniffed. ‘Besides, I half expected you to take the money and go. I couldn’t see you wanting to stay with a cripple in a slum.’

‘That isn’t how I see you,’ Georgia looked shocked. ‘Maybe I did at first, but then you became just another girl with a bad leg, someone all alone like me with nothing but bad memories behind her. But who knows? Maybe we can have a future together.’

‘Oh, Georgia,’ Helen reached out for the younger girl, drawing her to her breast, an instinctive action she had never done to anyone before. ‘I’ve got a feeling this was meant to be.’

Helen felt Georgia’s tears even through her coat and in that moment she knew something shocking had happened to her, something far worse than a family row.

‘What’s the smell?’ she said, lifting Georgia’s chin up.

‘Meat pies from the market.’ Georgia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I bought them with the change from the laundrette. I hope that was all right?’

‘I love meat pies,’ Helen smiled. ‘Especially when I’ve got company to eat them.’

Chapter 5

‘Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be warm again.’ Georgia held her toes up to the fire and massaged them with her fingers.

‘It’s March next week, spring’s nearly here,’ Helen sighed in sympathy. She was stirring a pan of soup over the cooker, still wearing her coat. ‘Why don’t you do some exercises if it’s that bad?’

‘I ache too much,’ Georgia growled at Helen. ‘Besides you always laugh at me.’

‘Sounds like a feeble excuse. What happened to your fighting spirit?’

‘Died of cold.’ Georgia looked round at her friend and tried to smile. She didn’t want to admit she’d been sick again that morning, or about her fears.

‘Did Janet get her letter from the sailor?’ Helen plonked half a loaf down on the table and turned to get the teapot.

Georgia stood up, pushing her feet back into her slippers and went over to the cooker, peering into the pan.

‘No, I think she’s given up on him now. She made some joke about how she could always pull men, but she hadn’t figured out how to keep them yet.’

Georgia prodded the soup. Her insides were bashing together with hunger, yet just the thought of vegetable soup again made her feel queasy.

‘It’s ready, pour it out will you?’ Helen didn’t notice Georgia’s grimace as she got cups out of the cupboard.

‘I can’t eat this,’ Georgia dropped her spoon with a clatter after a few tentative mouthfuls. She picked up a hunk of dry bread and wolfed it down.

Helen said nothing, just a slight raise of one gold eyebrow as she lifted the spoon to her lips.

‘Go on, say it,’ Georgia challenged, her mouth full of bread. ‘I’m a spoiled brat and it’s my fault there’s no money left this week.’

‘Did I say a word?’ Helen retorted.

‘You don’t have to,’ Georgia sniffed. She picked up her spoon and tried again.

Helen had asked her to buy belly of pork at the weekend, but she’d seen a piece of beef in the butcher’s shop and bought that instead. Now she was discovering what a tight budget really meant.

‘It’s a good job we can get vegetables for nothing,’ Helen grinned. ‘I bet you won’t be so daft again.’

‘It’s all right for you. You get a meal at the club later,’ Georgia said. She had had to buy that beef, her stomach was screaming out for the sort of food Celia cooked. How was she to know how much beef cost? ‘I bet you’ve been eating fruit all day too!’

‘What is it Georgia?’ Helen put down her spoon and reached across the table to touch her hand. ‘There’s something wrong isn’t there, something more than being hungry and cold. Do you want to go home?’

‘This is my home,’ Georgia shovelled the soup in her mouth, barely tasting it.

Of course she wanted to go home! Day after day she dreamed of Celia’s hot meals waiting for her, the clean sweet-smelling house, her warm bedroom and all the other things that home meant. But there was no way back now, this room, her job as a machinist and Helen was all she had now.

‘Is it something at work then?’ Helen could be so persistent. ‘Is it too much for you?’

‘I’m just tired and cold,’ Georgia tried to smile, even though she felt a lump coming up in her throat. ‘I’ll go to bed early tonight.’

Helen said nothing more, just watched anxiously as Georgia finished her soup.

She hadn’t believed Georgia would last a week in Soho, let alone seven. When she sent her up to Pop’s workrooms to ask for a job, she hadn’t expected her to even go in, let alone get the job and stick at it.

‘Pop’ as everyone called him in the market was a fiery Greek, his sweatshop a place you had to be desperate to work in. Four tiny rooms over his material shop, stinking of paraffin, engine oil and damp cloth. Five industrial machines and a huge steam press assaulted the ears and if you were capable of dealing with that, there was still his other employees to cope with.

Janet and Sally, two vicious-tongued women, ruled the roost, with Irene, Iris and Myrtle as their dim-witted sycophants.

Helen had spent a week in the workshop herself, before moving on to what she considered a far easier life in the market, but somehow Georgia had not only managed to master the sewing machine, but she’d also made friends with the other women.

Helen pulled two oranges out of her bag and tossed one to Georgia.

‘You see I didn’t stuff myself with fruit all day,’ she chuckled. ‘Now, in return I want all the gossip.’

Georgia was such a child. Helen saw the way her big eyes lit up with glee, grubby fingernails digging into the thick peel, tearing it off and biting into the juicy flesh like a savage.

‘Iris isn’t Pop’s mistress,’ Georgia said slurping at the fruit, juice running down her chin. ‘She just kind of hints he’s in love with her. I reckon she’s got delusions of grandeur. She told me her boyfriend is a count!’

Iris, the cutter, was in her forties, still attractive in an overblown rose style. Flame-red hair copied slavishly from Ava Gardner, given to fox furs and the kind of glamour that related more to the war years than now.

‘What did Janet have to say about that?’ Helen giggled.

Georgia wiped her mouth on her sleeve, she got up quickly and turned her back on Helen, returning moments later with two pairs of socks shoved up under her jumper in a parody of the busty Janet.

‘The Count of Monte Cristo?’ she put her hands on her hips, imitating the tarty stance, wiggling across the room. ‘Famous for his disappearing acts!’

Helen’s laughter pealed round the shabby, cold room. Georgia with her slim hips in tight jeans couldn’t possibly look like the woman with her blonde bird’s nest hair, tight low-cut dresses and ample curves, but she’d got the essence of her as she always did with people she imitated.

‘I suppose Iris went into one of her sulks?’

‘Not half,’ Georgia reported gleefully. ‘She cut out the dresses so fast we couldn’t keep up. She kept banging the shears down on the cutting table so often I thought she might stab Janet.’

‘Are you keeping up with the others?’ Helen fished, still convinced Georgia was hiding something. ‘It must be hard when you aren’t experienced like them.’

‘I’m not doing too bad,’ Georgia stacked up the plates and took them over to the sink. ‘Pop makes allowances for me, besides Myrtle always unpicks the bits I’ve done wrong. You know what she’s like.’

Myrtle was the sweet, uncomplaining one in the workroom. She perched in front of her machine all day like a drab little sparrow, offering very little in way of conversation. Her clothes were carefully pressed and mended but old and shabby. She rarely volunteered any information about herself, preferring to sit on the outskirts, looking in.

‘Is she still with that man?’

‘She must be,’ Georgia looked round from the sink. ‘She’s got a huge bruise on her arm. I saw it when she took off her cardigan to wash before going home. I wonder why she doesn’t leave him?’

‘Two kids and a council flat in Hackney, that’s why,’ Helen said, slowly nibbling the last segment of her orange. ‘I don’t suppose she thinks life has anything else to offer.’

‘But Janet and Sally left their husbands,’ Georgia frowned. ‘I can’t see why anyone would stay with a man who beats you.’

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Helen smiled. ‘You are young and pretty. What chance has Myrtle got of finding a new man?’

‘I don’t see why women need men. As far as I can see, they are nothing but trouble.’

Helen picked up her knitting. She had noticed how often Georgia made disparaging remarks about men. Was it the influence of Sally and Janet? Or was it part of the chain of events which led Georgia to Soho? She still wouldn’t open up fully, in seven weeks all she had was a sketchy vision of a comfortable middle-class home, dancing and singing lessons, then an unexplained row which led to her leaving it. Yet she had asked Helen to get someone to post a letter in Manchester to her foster mother. Why would she even bother if she didn’t care, and why did she cry out in the night so often?

‘You’re getting to be a right little cynic!’ Helen said gently. ‘To think I was hoping you’d introduce me to Mr Right!’

Helen dreamed of men constantly. At night in her cloakroom job at ‘Squires’ she would smile at the smart men who came in, hoping against hope one day someone would overlook her limp. Only the thought that the operation she was waiting for would be successful kept her going. It was all very well to be liked for yourself, but she wanted romance and love, a husband and children. To dance in a man’s arms, to walk without a limp down the aisle, to be desired.

Georgia knew Helen guessed there was more to her than she had revealed. She yearned to open up but she was afraid. It would be like opening a door, forcing herself to look at everything all over again. It was almost over now. She no longer jumped and ran when she saw a policeman, she had even adjusted to living in this place without television, music, or dancing and singing lessons. Maybe in time she could forget Peter, stop wanting his kisses. But if she told Helen now because of her fears it would all come back, and if her period was just late, she would have burdened Helen with it all for nothing.

‘We’ll go out dancing when you’ve had the op,’ Georgia smiled as if there was nothing on her mind. ‘We’ll make ourselves beautiful dresses and take London by storm.’

‘You’ve got to teach me to dance first,’ Helen laughed. ‘Anyway, I’d better get ready to go to work. Will you do my hair for me?’

Helen couldn’t imagine life now without Georgia. She filled the lonely hours before her night-time job with chatter and laughter. Sharing meals, shopping and cleaning the room was a pleasure where once there had only been a lonely void. When she came home tired from the club it felt secure to see her friend tucked up in bed and Sundays flew by with her company.

But Helen was a realist if nothing else, maybe Georgia was content to stay in now, but what would happen if she made new friends? Had it already happened? Was Georgia’s troubled look because she was tired of living with a cripple who worked so many hours?

Yet if Georgia was growing weary of this place and her, it didn’t show in the way she did her hair. Brushing it till it shone, coaxing curls round her fingers with an almost loving touch.

Georgia got up slowly the next morning, waiting for the expected feeling of nausea. Helen had gone out early as she did every morning, regardless of how cold it was, or how late she finished work. The gas meter had run out last night, she couldn’t put the fire on, have a cup of tea or even wash in hot water. But she didn’t feel sick and it was payday.

The window was frosted over on the inside. She scraped a small hole and peered out. Fridays were good. At lunchtime she could go into Sid’s and have steak and kidney pie and tonight she could turn the gas fire on full and bask in front of it with a library book, knowing she could lie in tomorrow. Janet had promised to take her to a jumble sale up in Primrose Hill in the afternoon, she might find some dresses they could alter on Sunday, or if it was nice they could go for a walk in St James’s Park.