Orphans of War (47 page)

If Gloria thought leaving Brooklyn Hall was the answer to her problems then she’d made a big mistake. Trust her to land under the tutelage of the one and only Avis Blunt, the erstwhile hostel wardress who had made their lives a misery at the Old Vic. St Felix’s Preparatory School was out in the country in Nidderdale, a large stone mansion with what seemed like thousands of little boys in shorts hurtling themselves up the stairs into the dorms, noisy, with verminous heads that needed combing out after a right old infestation of nits.

The school was understaffed and the assistant
domestic bursar post she’d applied for consisted of being a general skivvy to all and sundry. But to come face to face with Miss Blunt on her first day was punishment enough. Why hadn’t she been at the interview?

‘Miss Gloria Conley, I thought it must be you. How could I forget that mop of hair?’

‘Yes, Miss Blunt,’ she answered. And I remember your rug too, Gloria thought, trying to look contrite and not giggle.

‘I’m Mrs Partridge now,’ she smiled. ‘Mr Partridge is the deputy headmaster. I’m only helping out because we’re a bit short of qualified staff, otherwise you, my dear, would not have got past the door. How are all the old things at the Brooklyn? Mr Belfield–did he ever make it back home after the war?’

Gloria shook her head, feeling disloyal to Mrs Plum in telling the truth.

‘I thought not. Got more sense than to return to that nest of vipers. What a wearisome place that was, with all those vaccy scruffs. I don’t suppose any of them stayed around?’

‘Actually, my brother is farming up the dale,’ Gloria replied in defiance.

‘Horses for courses, my dear. He was not the sharpest pencil in the case, now was he? I don’t suppose you could have found anything better than this sort of work,’ she sneered. ‘No starring roles in pantomime then? You always were the little show-off.’

Gloria wanted to smack her on the gob there and then, but walking out on her first day in post was not an option, not if she wanted a reference to go anywhere
else. Nothing for it but to stick it out until she found something better closer to Harrogate town.

The bus route was a long way out of Harrogate. She had written to Greg’s office, telling him of her change of position, hoping he’d reply, but he hadn’t so far. She was glad now. Who would want to see her in this dump of a job? How could she have landed up working under ‘The Rug’?

Served her right, she shrugged. It was punishment, of course, for what she’d done to Maddy, but only a temporary blip to her plans. All was fair in love and war, she kept saying to herself, but there was a bit of her deep inside that was uneasy with all the lies she had told–the part of her that had always been Maddy’s friend, that recalled how Maddy had saved her so many times…but she shoved such misgivings to the back of her mind. Picking nits out of heads of wriggling hair was punishment enough, and she felt itchy all over.

This was time away to plan her next move, escape from the Brooklyn for a while, and Ken. What a relief to put all that smutty posing behind her. She must have been crazy to think it would ever come to anything. She’d managed to disappear from his radar screen but was stuck here for a term at least. It was going to be hell on earth to be out in the wilderness, knowing Greg was only a few miles away, licking his wounds, thinking nobody cared for him. She hoped it would be easy to find his office when the time came. And then she’d not be so easy to ignore.

Greg looked up at the sign above the builders’ merchants with pride. He’d left subcontracting behind, got his own team together and had found an old scrap-yard, cleared it out, smartened it with prefabricated huts for offices and started trading to his own trade. Every penny he earned had been ploughed back into the business and now this was his kingdom.

He was back shovelling sand and cement, bagging up nails and slates, but they were his sand and cement, his gravel chippings, his lorries on the tarmac. When staff let him down he was happy to muck in and kick the backsides of any slackers. He knew the tricks, the fiddles lads got up to when un-supervised: borrowing tools, selling stuff on the black market, making out fairy-tale time sheets, moonlighting on other jobs with his materials, and he locked his yard with thick gates. It took one to know one, he smiled, and nobody was ever going to take advantage of him again.

The move had gone smoothly and he ought to be the happiest guy in Yorkshire but the success was bouncing off him like rain on slate. There was no one special to share his success with, except Charlie and the Afton family. He’d never go near the Foxups and the rally crowd in case he saw Maddy on someone else’s arm, or go back to the Brooklyn. That part of his life was over. He’d gone soft in the head but no matter. He wanted to write to Mrs Plum and give her his good news, but pride wouldn’t let him. He’d never return there until he could go back with his tail up, accompanied by his wife and two
children and in the biggest saloon car he could find. He’d show them.

That would wipe the smile off Maddy Belfield’s haughty face. He tried not to give her the satisfaction of a second thought but at night when he lay in his flat off Dragon Parade, staring up at the wallpaper and the plasterwork scrolls on the ceiling, he wondered just where he’d gone wrong.

When had she changed? Was it over the course of that one weekend? He just didn’t understand any of it, but tough luck, he’d not waste time fathoming out the mysteries of a two-timing snob. There had to be someone else in the picture, some toffee-nosed git who could give her a better life. Her rejection stung him to the core. He’d thought they were soul mates. Never trust a woman would be his motto from now on. She must have found someone else and dumped him, got a better offer. That had to be the explanation.

Gloria would know everything. She’d already send him a newsy letter telling him about her new position at The Rug’s school, of all places. Poor cow! He’d have to rescue her and take her out. In his eyes she was still a sweet kid, pretty enough–but he wasn’t into pretty young schoolgirls, not any more.

The Harrogate boutiques were full of classy shop girls and waitresses, and he was going to sample the full menu. Once bitten twice shy and all that. His pride was wounded by Maddy and he’d not be so easy to fool next time around. He was going to play the field and not get trapped again.

When Ken Silverstone turned up at the front door of St Felix’s School he was given short shrift once they realised he was not a prospective parent. The Rug sent him round to the back yard and called out to Gloria to get downstairs and see to this intruder at once.

‘We don’t allow staff to have followers or have them turning up at all hours demanding an audience! This is not the hostel. We know how all the girls came to a sticky end there, but never in my day! See to your business and then back to work.’

‘Yes, Mrs Partridge!’ Gloria was fuming at this unexpected visit. How had he found her address? She must’ve slipped up somewhere.

‘What do you want?’ she snapped at Ken, feeling foolish in her overalls and turban.

‘That’s no way to speak to your lover-boy,’ said Ken.

‘I told you it was off,’ she retorted. The last thing she wanted was complications. Ken was part of her past, Bradford, and all that silly business was over.

‘Not in my book, darling. I’ve brought you some lovely pictures. Didn’t I promise you that I’d get you into some lovely mags, and I have?’ He produced a parcel. ‘Aren’t you going to give me a cup of tea?’

‘I can’t. I’ll look at these later,’ she said.

‘Meet me in the pub, the one in the village,’ he ordered.

‘I can’t, not in the village. Girls don’t go in them places. The Rug’ll go spare.’

‘Let’s go for a spin then, for old times’ sake.’ He winked lasciviously.

‘Please yourself, but I don’t get off until nine. Everywhere will be shut.’

‘We can sit in the car or,’ he paused with a grin, ‘I’ll take you to a nice hotel and treat you to some dinner.’

‘If you must, but I’m not staying over. All that is finished,’ she said, not wanting to give him any encouragement.

‘Of course, darling, whatever you say. I’ll be waiting at the gates. I’ve missed our little sessions.’

‘Well, I haven’t. I’ve finished with all that!’ Gloria insisted

‘We’ll see. Nine o’clock sharp. I’ll be waiting.’

Gloria didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, Ken’s arrival made her feel uneasy. There was something in the way he’d hunted her out, something in the tone of his voice that worried her. Ken could always unsettle her. There was something about him now that set her teeth on edge; something exciting, uncertain, difficult to pinpoint. How could such an ugly-looking man twist her round his little finger? Heaven knew why. It was not as if he was handsome like Greg, or well-mannered, but on the other hand it would be good to dress up and get away from this prison for a night on the town.

She’d make him pay up and treat her right, she smiled, throwing his parcel on the bed and rushing back to her evening chores. She might even wear her precious silk stockings and new shoes tonight.

Later, when she was dressed in a jumper and her best skirt, she opened the envelope and glanced at the magazine. It wasn’t one she recognised. It was called
Girls Galore
and inside were pages of scantily dressed girls in provocative poses, the usual stuff, and then she saw herself, topless on the rug with her legs bent to hide her privates. How her heart was thudding at the sight of those pictures. She looked hard-faced and silly and not a bit glamorous.

Gloria threw the magazine across the room. I’ll kill him for this! How dare he! These were private shots done for fun, not to be pored over by dirty men. Anyone could see them and recognise her. Bastard! He’d sold those shots behind her back. There was sweat on her brow, knowing that there were other shots he’d encouraged her to do, much worse than these. Oh, no! What had Ken done with them?

She ran down the drive to the gate in a lather of anger, thinking, Wait until I see you, Ken Silverstone. I’ll kill you for this! He was standing by the gate, smoking, his trilby hat cocked at a jaunty angle.

‘How could you?’ she screamed, throwing the parcel at him.

‘What’s up now, darling?’ said Ken.

‘Don’t you darling me! You sold those pictures and I want them burned!’ Gloria threw a punch at him.

‘I thought that’s what we agreed,’ laughed Ken. ‘I did your portfolio, and the others were specials. Get in the car.’

‘Give them back and don’t sell any more!’ she demanded, throwing the magazine on the car seat.

‘I can’t do that, darling.’

‘Why not? I don’t want you to sell them to anyone else. One magazine is bad enough.’

They drove in silence around the twisty lanes of Nidderdale but Gloria was too angry to look out of the window. Just when she had got her life on a new track, up pops Ken to spoil things. It was all going up a gumtree. She’d been flattered by Ken’s enthusiasm at first, carried away by the thought of being famous, but nothing had come of it and then he’d persuaded to her to do things, dirty stuff she’d bitterly regretted the moment she left the studio.

‘Promise me there’ll be no more of them, Kenny,’ she pleaded, hoping to appeal to his better nature. ‘I don’t want the world to see me like that. I’ll get sacked if anyone finds out.’

‘Don’t worry, anyone who buys the magazine and sees you in it will want more, believe me. You’re in good shape!’

‘I don’t care. It’s not what I want now. Those shots were between us, you and me, for our pleasure, and I never thought you’d sell them.’

‘Oh, come off it! Gloria. What shelf did you fall off? There’s a ready market in the glamour pics. You were happy enough to do them. What’s changed? Why are you going all prissy on me now?’

‘I don’t want to do them any more. I look dirty and common and cheap,’ she said, trying to make him understand.

‘That’s easily sorted. We can change the setting, if you like, to velvet sofas, a mink coat, but it’s your body the lads want to gawp at. You could be a star. Don’t get so het up. Come on, here’s a decent place. Let’s have a drink here and talk this is all over.’

The hotel on the slope overlooking Harrogate was the grandest place Gloria had ever been to. It was the one where the famous writer, Agatha Christie, had disappeared to all those years ago under a false name. Ken had booked a room and dinner for two.

Gloria was much too nervous to settle down and enjoy her surroundings. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she whispered. What if someone was reading the magazine and recognised her? Don’t be silly, she thought. With her prim skirt and hat, she was safe enough, but she gulped down her sherry cocktail and whatever drinks Ken bought her until her legs were shaky. She picked at the meal and then staggered back to his room to collect the promise of the other photographs. As soon as they got upstairs, Ken shoved her through the door.

‘Where are those negatives?’ she pleaded, knowing full well he’d not have them, but she had to make a stand.

‘Where do you think? Back in the studio. Relax and calm down. You’ve said your piece, so shut up and start being nice to me. If you’re nice to me I’ll do anything you say, darling.’

‘You won’t send any more of them off to the mags then?’ she pleaded.

‘Of course not, if you treat me right. Come here and be nice to me how I like it,’ Ken smiled, pointing to the bed.