The Factory Girl (25 page)

‘I've got to go, Mum.'

‘If yer must.'

Geraldine, gathering up her beautifully tailored jacket and her hat from Dickins & Jones in Regent Street, donned them, went to the back door and opened it. Mum asked out of the blue if she was keeping well, almost an afterthought, not having asked all the while she'd been here, and all the more hurtful because of it.

‘I'm fine, Mum,' she replied.

‘Well, you take care of yerself. Ain't got long ter go now.'

Geraldine searched her mother's face. ‘You will be there when I go into hospital, won't you? You'll be there to see the baby?'

‘'Course I will. What makes yer think I won't be? It'll be me second grandchild. Mavis's won't be born till a month after yours. 'Course I'll be there. Soon as yer start yer labour, get yer 'usband ter send us a telegram. We'll be waitin' for it.'

Always
your husband
, seldom Tony, almost on purpose, spoiling the heartfelt sentiments she'd just uttered.

‘'Course, bein' in 'ospital yer won't 'ave need of yer mum fussin' around. Not like at 'ome.' Again the barbed remark spoiling what sentiment there had been.

Her mother gave a deep sigh as she saw her out to the yard. ‘Don't really expect I'll be able ter get around ter seeing you before then. Might not see nothink of yer at all, unless yer 'usband wants ter bring yer in the car ter see us. It wouldn't 'urt 'im. Of course we'd like ter see yer before the baby arrives.'

All this was the longest Mum had spoken all morning. As if attempting to make up for the time lost, all in one swoop. She leaned forward for her daughter to kiss her goodbye but didn't accompany it by an embrace, and this time her hands were not occupied with broom and dustpan.

‘I'll give yer love to yer dad and tell 'im yer was sorry to 'ear about yer Aunt Vi. Take care going home. Don't walk too fast. 'Ope yer don't 'ave ter wait too long at the bus stop.'

Once in Bow Road she would find a taxi outside Bow Road Station to take her home. But with thoughts of what that would cost possibly making her mother turn from her as seeing money thrown needlessly away, making enemies again, she said nothing.

Nor had she said anything about what Tony was up to these days. She came away feeling she had mislaid something or rather that which she had wanted to unburden herself of was still up caught inside, leaving a strange empty feeling. She wanted to cry, very weepy these days, but not here in the street. This empty feeling was probably hunger. She was hungry and it was midday. She hadn't even thought of staying with Mum for a bit to eat. Mum wouldn't have begrudged her that, her tongue sharp, bitter at times, but she was never vindictive. Geraldine remembered that she hadn't had breakfast either and she was now feeling famished. Famished and faint.

She would have to find a coffee shop in Bow Road just to eat a bun, before finding a taxi. Bow Road seemed miles away yet it was only little more than a quarter of a mile.

There would have been somewhere in Grove Road but it meant going past Tony's shop. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her. It might be better to have gone the other way to Roman Road, plenty of coffee shops there, but that would mean retracing her steps. She felt confused, consumed by misery. The weight inside her was bearing down on her bladder, hurting her, making her want to wee again even though she'd been twice at Mum's.

With vision misting from the tears lying along the lower rims of her eyelids and her nose threatening to start streaming, she pulled her deep cloche hat even lower over her brows, thanking heaven for the current fashion and a now overcast sky that shielded her from passing glances.

By the time she reached the corner of Coborn Road with Bow Road she had a great need to sit down. She was beginning to wonder if she would indeed get as far as a café when she thought she heard her name being called as if from some way off.

At first she thought it to be the coalman she had not long passed, rasping out his trade above the trundling of his laden coal cart as he led his horse down the road. She remembered the coal-dust-streaked face, the cap back to front with its leather shield draped over neck and shoulders, the trousers tied below the knees with leather thongs, the thick boots, the loose coat all black with coal dust. As she passed him her nose had filled with the salty tang of coal and the warm odour of his horse. But now above his rasping call was a lighter voice, distinct now, hailing her.

‘Geraldine … Wait! Geraldine!'

Damn! The caller would see she'd been crying. They would want to stand and talk, and the way she was feeling at this moment, she'd more likely pass out in front of them, make a fool of herself.

Blinking away the moisture in her eyes, she turned to the voice, ready to smile and make the ubiquitous excuse of having something in her eye, or maybe having a bit of a cold, and then say she was in a rush and, sorry, she had no time to chat.

She was making up her mind about that when she realised it was Alan Presley belting towards her, raincoat flying, one hand holding his trilby firmly onto his head. It was he who'd called to her – all the more reason to make an excuse for her tearful appearance.

In seconds he was beside her, just the tiniest bit out of breath from running. ‘I 'ad ter run like mad to catch you up. I saw yer from some way off an' thought it was you so I broke into a sprint and it was you, thank God. I didn't want ter be caught chasing after some female I didn't know—'

He stopped abruptly, for the first time noticing her dejected features. His grin dissolving, he bent to gaze into her face, still half hidden by her hat brim. ‘Are you orright? Yer've been crying. What's up?'

‘Nothing's up,' she said tersely but her throat rasped painfully.

She couldn't stand here. She felt she couldn't stand at all. Her legs were beginning to go wobbly on her.

He must have seen what was about to happen because his arm came around her, drawing her to him, taking her weight. ‘Fer God's sake, Gerry, don't faint on me. Yer as pale as a ghost.'

She was leaning against him, her head drooping without strength on to his shoulder. Yet in the midst of her faint she was vaguely aware of the fact that they must look like two outrageous lovers, and out here in the street would draw disapproving looks from passers-by. This was not the done thing. That thought helped to return her to her senses, the receding world bouncing back as she became aware of how this must seem to others.

She made an effort to take her own weight but he held on. ‘No, take it steady. Give yerself a bit of time,' he was saying, so she let him continue to support her until she was slowly able to stand without support. He was gazing into her face, now unobstructed, her hat having been pushed up from her brow a little when her head had sunk onto his shoulder.

Hastily she readjusted it but still he regarded her with concern. ‘Yer colour's beginning ter come back, thank Gawd. Yer gave me quite a turn, yer did, collapsing on me like that an' me just meetin' yer after ages. But yer look all in, Gerry. What's 'appened. You ain't 'ad bad news or somethink?'

‘No,' she replied. ‘I'm just overtired – tired and hungry. I've not had anything to eat today except for a biscuit and a cup of tea.'

‘What, no breakfast? No dinner?' In the East End the midday meal was always called dinner, where she now called it luncheon. His brown eyes were studying her closely. ‘Ain't broke, are yer? Down on yer uppers? You ain't broke up wiv yer old man or anythink, 'ave yer? I can lend yer—'

She laughed in spite of herself, but it was a weak little sound. ‘No, not broke. And me and Tony are fine. It's just that … it's just …'

Without warning she burst into tears, they never being far removed from laughter, the two emotions travelling hand in hand like twins. This time they came in great, uncontrollable gulps. And again she was in Alan's arms, being held tightly, and damn what passers-by might think.

‘It's because you're 'ungry and weak,' he was crooning through her great, hiccupping gulps. ‘Should of eaten breakfast, you in your condition. If yer can make it, we'll get yer somewhere where yer can get somefink inside yer. Yer'll feel a lot better. Then yer can tell me all about it.'

She was being guided along, his arm still around her until she could eventually walk unaided, if unsteadily, merely holding on to his arm. Even in her state she'd felt uneasy about him having his arm around her waist out in the street as though he'd just picked someone up, and in broad daylight too. Not only that, they'd not touched since she had decided between him and Tony and it felt strange just holding his arm, if only for support.

The nearest café was but forty yards off, where Bow Road became the Mile End Road. It felt more like forty miles, each step an effort, she fighting weakness the whole way. It was a working men's café, grubby, stinking of the all-pervasive smell of fried onions and sausages and overused frying fat, but to her it was a haven as Alan eased her down on one of the wooden benches, a couple of none-too-clean road menders moving up to make way for her.

Feeling slightly sick she rested her elbows on the stained, green, baize-covered table top, her head bent on her two fists. Like this she could see her protruding stomach, and it occurred to her to wonder what the men in here must think – not that a pregnant woman had entered, but that a woman was sitting here at all, a café like this normally used by working men and far too grimy for any woman to eat in. Not only that, her clothes spoke of a well-groomed lifestyle. They must be wondering what she was doing here, the unsteadiness of her entry, the way she had been helped into a seat by the man who'd brought her in, the waxen colour of her cheeks making them wonder even more. They were probably having a field day. Well let them, she didn't care; all she wanted was to be home, to sink down on her soft sofa, close her eyes and sleep in quiet surroundings away from this echoing boom of men's voices, the clash of plates, the shouts from the counter hand – ‘Two 'Oly Ghosts' (for years she'd known the rhyming slang for toast) ‘and two Rosy Leas!' (this for tea) – and the nauseous smells coming from a probably foul kitchen with everything caked with fat residue. The very thought of that kitchen from where her tea and toast would come made her want to vomit.

By the time Alan returned with the two cups of tea in thick china cups and two massive rounds of toast, often known as doorsteps, sitting on equally thick plates, she felt she couldn't have taken a single bite.

He sat down opposite her, obliging another customer to move up a little, and leaned forward, peering into her wan features.

‘I know it ain't no Buckin'am Palace, but it was the nearest in an emergency. Just take a couple of bites and drink the tea and yer'll feel better and then we can find a decent place and talk. Yer need to talk, Gerry, yer really do, the state of yer when I saw yer. Now eat up, gel. Get yer strength back.'

He was kindness itself. She thought of the time she had told him she did not want to see him again, how she must have hurt him, what he must have thought of her chucking him over for a man with money. Yet here he was behaving as if none of that had happened. She felt humbled.

‘You're being very kind,' she mumbled.

‘Oh, bugger that!' He gave a small chuckle. ‘Damsel in distress – wot bloke wouldn't come to 'er aid?'

Geraldine took a small bite of the toast, found it palatable, even tasty, realised how hungry she was, as though she hadn't eaten for a week. She took another bite and another, then a sip of tea, making certain to wipe the rim first in case it hadn't been properly washed. The tea was hot, short of milk, bitter and strong enough to stand a blessed spoon upright in, Mum would have said.

Normally she'd have pushed it aside in disgust but she gulped it down gratefully, finally putting the cup back on its saucer to lift her eyes to Alan.

‘I don't feel hungry any more.'

He was sipping his tea and thoughtfully eyeing her over the rim of the cup that looked more like a soup bowl it was so wide. He dropped his gaze to the half-eaten round of toast. His had already gone.

‘You ain't 'ad much. Go on, get yerself stuck inter it. Yer need a bit more ter get yerself all the way 'ome on. 'Ow yer getting 'ome anyway? D'yer want me ter come with yer?'

‘No, I'll get myself a taxi.' She saw his chin tilt a little, one eyebrow raise itself slightly, and she realised what a snob she must have sounded and hurriedly tried to rectify it. ‘I don't think I could get on a bus.'

‘No, I don't s'pose so, like you are.' He paused, apparently reflecting on their meeting, for when he spoke again it was to ask what she had been doing stumbling along on her own and in tears.

‘Yer seem in some sort of trouble, that's fer sure. Where was yer comin' from when I caught you up?'

‘Me Mum's.' It seemed easy to fall into his way of speaking.

All of sudden she found herself pouring out all that she had wanted to tell her mother and couldn't. He listened without interruption. The men sitting talking to each other next to Geraldine, seemingly oblivious to her, eventually left. The one sitting next to Alan lingered on, quite obviously ear-wigging as Mum again would have put it, for all Geraldine tried to keep her voice low. Until Alan gave him a long and deliberate penetrating look so that, clearing his throat noisily, the eavesdropper hurriedly got up and made his departure. Geraldine found herself quite suddenly admiring Alan for his strength of character in facing the man. She felt oddly protected and within her something reached out to Alan, a sensation she quickly stifled but which over the next half-hour kept arising.

They didn't seek another place to sit and eat in better surroundings. She said she just wanted to go home, even as she felt a strange longing to stay with Alan. Not that he'd said much, had offered no advice – simply listening had been enough – beyond saying that she must be careful to whom she spoke of the things she had told him.