The Forgotten Girl (24 page)

I nodded firmly.

‘I'll go home, get my stuff and move in,' I said. ‘Dad's being really nice just now. I think maybe he's turned a corner.'

Suze frowned.

‘Don't go when you know he'll be there,' she said. ‘There's no point in making him cross.'

‘He'll be fine, honestly.'

But she shook her head.

‘Don't,' she said. ‘Go and get your stuff when you know he's not there. It's not worth the risk of upsetting him.'

‘All right,' I said, to stop her worrying. But I kept thinking about how Dad had said I should be a writer, and how calm he'd been when I told him about Billy, and I started to hatch a plan.

‘I'm sure you're right,' I said.

Suze grinned and squeezed my arm.

‘We'll be flatmates,' she said. ‘Well, if you can call this a flat.'

‘I call it home,' I said.

We smiled at each other for a minute, then Suze clapped her hands.

‘Shall we get on? We've got lots to do if we're going to finish our magazine this week.'

‘Okay,' I said. ‘I'll write up the Stones interview first. Then we can lay out the dummy issue and see how it's all fitting together.'

‘Great,' said Suze. ‘Great.'

Suze was right, we did have a lot to do. Our version of Mode was taking shape but time was tight. We'd written all the features now, apart from the Stones interview, but that was the easy bit – the bit we knew about. Now we had to make it into something that resembled a magazine and that was going to be a lot harder because it wasn't anything we'd ever done before.

We had to lay out the articles so they looked right, add the pictures, and make sure the features followed each other in a logical order. We had to get the pace of the magazine right, so short features followed longer, meatier reads. It was going to be a challenge and we only had a week left before Margi arrived in London and we had to wow her with our efforts.

For now, though, I had to write this Rolling Stones interview. I settled myself down at Suze's desk, took the cover off my typewriter and wound a clean sheet of paper in. Then I opened my notebook. I knew how I wanted to begin – with Brian Jones begging me not to ask him about music – and I was sure the whole piece would flow once I'd got started.

‘I don't want to talk about the new album,' Brian Jones says when I arrive to talk about the Rolling Stones' new album…
I typed. Then I looked at Suze. She was crouching on the floor, trying to add pictures to a feature on the hottest new TV stars.

‘Suze,' I said. ‘You are okay, aren't you?'

She gave me one of her special, dazzling smiles.

‘I'm fine darling,' she said. ‘I'm absolutely fine.'

But she wasn't. And, as it happened, nor was I.

Chapter 38

It started with the haircut. I decided I was going to cut my hair before I went home to get my things. I knew there was a chance I'd back out of leaving home – after all, I'd done it many times before. So I wanted to make sure I'd completely committed to my new life.

Suze and I worked on our magazine most of the day, taking the smallest of breaks for lunch. Then, at about three o'clock, I said I had to go.

‘I'm going to go and get my stuff,' I said.

Suze squealed in excitement.

‘I'm working at Bruno's in a bit,' she said. ‘Can you take the dummy mag with you? I don't want to leave it here just in case…'

In case Vic came back, she meant. Though why she thought he'd be interested in our Mode application, I had no idea. I picked up the magazine anyway, though, and put it in my bag.

‘Will your dad still be at the shop?' Suze asked.

I nodded, truthfully. He would still be there now, but I had somewhere to go first. Anyway, I was still – naively – confident that even if he was at home, he'd be fine about me leaving.

I hugged Suze goodbye and wandered down to Carnaby Street. It was Saturday afternoon and it was buzzing. I smiled at the energy of it all, grinning at the girls standing around looking beautiful and the men standing around watching them. I had no time to stand around, though. I knew where I was going – a hairdresser I'd walked past many times on my way to George's studio. I hurried along the road towards it, then paused as I got to the door. Inside they were playing The Yardbirds loudly and inside two girls stood chatting to an older woman wearing a beautiful dress with large flowers all over it.

Without stopping to think, I pushed open the door. I was going to cut off all my hair – perhaps not quite as short as Suze, who wore hers in an Audrey Hepburn elfin crop. I was thinking more like Twiggy or Mary Quant. But either way it was going to mean I couldn't hide my double life any more.

In the end, I got a Twiggy. The hairdresser pointed out my rounded chin – Suze's was more angular – and said Mary Quant's blunt bob wouldn't do much for my face.

‘You need a side parting,' she said.

I nodded and tried not to cry out in alarm as she picked up my ponytail and cut it off in one slice of her scissors.

She handed it to me over my shoulder and I gasped.

‘New look,' she said.

‘New life,' I added.

It was going to take a bit of getting used to, I thought, as I walked to the station later, looking at my reflection in shop windows as I passed.

My hair had been long, brushing my shoulder blades even when I wore it in a high ponytail. Now it stopped just below my ears. It parted above my left eye, and my blunt fringe had been swept across my forehead. I looked very different. Much more like Suze, actually, I thought, peering at myself in a car windscreen as I crossed St Martin's Lane. And very trendy. I was pleased. And nervous. What was Dad going to say?

For once I didn't change my clothes when I got on the train, or wipe off my thick eyeliner. I stayed in my mini dress and left all my make-up on. But as I got off the train at my stop, I felt my bravado start to desert me. What if Dad had been drinking already? It was after six o'clock now. He would've had time for a drink or two since the shop closed. For the first time in my life, I hoped he'd gone to the pub and was settling in for the night. I could grab the few bits I needed, scribble him a note, and leave. Suze was right, there was no point in antagonising him – not when I was so close to escaping.

‘Come on, Nancy,' I said out loud. ‘Worst case scenario, Dad will shout a bit. It's not a disaster. It's not the end; it's the beginning.'

Even so, my hands were shaking when I put my key in the lock. The house was quiet at first and I exhaled slowly. Then, from the lounge, came a shout.

‘Oh here she is,' called Dad. ‘Here she bloody is, Lady Muck.'

‘Yes, it's me,' I said. ‘Just going upstairs to get something.'

I started to creep up to my room, but Dad called again.

‘I didn't make the final of the Business Awards,' he called. His words were slurred. ‘Found out at lunchtime.'

I closed my eyes briefly. Dad was still grumbling.

‘What do they know anyway,' he was muttering. ‘Bunch of bloody twits.'

‘Dad?' I said, one foot still on the bottom step. ‘Who looked after the shop all afternoon?'

‘I shut it,' he said. ‘What do you care?'

So he'd been in the pub since lunchtime? Oh, I'd made a big mistake here. Big mistake.

‘And then I went to the Three Tuns,' he said. ‘And do you know who I saw in there?'

Oh god, who had he seen?

‘I saw your Billy.'

I clung on to the banister, feeling weak with fright.

‘I'm going to bed,' I said desperately, even though it wasn't even seven o'clock.

‘Nancy!' Dad roared. ‘Get in here.'

I slunk round the corner of the door into the room, trembling. I hated that I was so scared of him.

Dad looked at me and the scornful smile he wore on his face dropped.

‘What,' he began. ‘What have you done to yourself?'

‘Dad,' I said.

‘You look like a slut,' he said brutally. ‘Like a silly slut.'

I hung my head.

‘Billy told me all about your lies,' Dad carried on. ‘Working in insurance, are you? Really?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I work on a magazine.'

‘A magazine,' Dad said. ‘With a load of women's libbers and poofs no doubt. Spreading shit.'

‘It's a good job,' I said.

‘You had a job,' Dad said.

‘I don't want to work in the shop.'

Dad scowled.

‘I don't care what you want,' he said. ‘We've got a shop and you'll work in it.'

‘Dennis doesn't,' I said.

Dad dismissed Dennis with a wave of his hand.

‘Too good for us, are you?' he said. ‘Too good for the shop and too good for poor Billy?'

‘You said Billy's uncle was a twit,' I said.

‘Well maybe that's all you deserve,' Dad said. ‘What are you going to do now? If you think I'm going to be supporting you, you've got another think coming…'

‘Good,' I said. ‘I'm not staying. I'm moving out.'

‘Moving out,' said Dad in a silly voice. ‘Oh listen to her, she's moving out.'

‘I've got money, and I'll get a flat with a friend.'

‘You bloody won't,' Dad said. ‘Bringing shame on our family like that.'

‘She's a woman,' I said. ‘I'm getting a flat with my friend Suze.'

‘Billy said you've got a boyfriend,' Dad said. ‘With long hair.'

‘He's called George,' I said. ‘He's very nice.'

‘Bollocks,' said Dad. ‘I know what goes on. He's probably on drugs. And you're a slut. I never thought a daughter of mine would dump a nice lad like Billy and take up with a long-haired poofter.'

That was as nonsensical as it was insulting but it was useless trying to argue with Dad when he was in this mood. I turned to go, but that annoyed him.

‘Where do you think you're going?' he said.

‘I'm going to do some work,' I said. ‘I've got a job interview on Monday morning.'

Dad stood up and stared at me.

‘What sort of interview?'

I stood my ground, though I was quaking in my sensible shoes.

‘There's a new magazine launching in Britain,' I said, trying to keep calm and hoping we could discuss this like adults instead of shouting. ‘It's called Mode. It's aimed at young women like me and my boss thinks I'll be perfect for it. I've done a lot of work to prepare for it and I really think I stand a good chance.'

‘Done a lot of work, have you?' Dad said. ‘Show me.

I didn't want to. I didn't want him to see the features we'd written on marriage or sex or the Stones.

‘I don't have it,' I lied.

Dad's eyes flickered to my bag, which I was still gripping tightly.

‘In there, is it?' he said.

‘I don't have it,' I said again.

‘Give it to me.'

I shook my head but Dad grabbed the bag anyway. He pulled out our dummy magazine and started leafing through it, his face getting redder and redder with rage.

‘This is disgraceful,' he said. ‘Disgusting.'

Furious even at the thought of his meaty fingers on my hard work, I lost my temper.

‘Oh don't give me that shit,' I said. ‘What about those bloody magazines you sell? The ones on the top shelf? The ones that Mr Forester comes in for every Monday? I know what's in those, and it's not fairy stories. Now give me back my work.'

I went to grab the magazine but Dad swiped at me and caught me across the cheekbone with the back of his hand.

I stumbled against the coffee table and sat down with a thump onto the floor.

‘Want it back?' said Dad. He drained his glass and dangled the magazine in front of me. I didn't move, scared he would hit me again. My heart was pounding and there was a rushing noise in my ears.

Feeling dizzy I watched in horror as slowly Dad began ripping up my magazine. First he pulled off the cover, featuring one of George's pictures and our carefully etched lines. He pulled it off, then he tore it in half, once, twice, three times. And he scattered the pieces on the floor.

He did the same thing to every single page. I sat on the floor and sobbed as he tore up those pieces of paper that amounted to hours and hours of hard work. The falling scraps of magazine looked a bit like confetti, which was ironic considering it was me calling off my wedding that had started all this.

When he'd finished, Dad threw the final torn scraps in my direction and glanced at me with disgust.

‘I'm ashamed of you,' he hissed. ‘You're a disgrace.'

Then he stepped over me and left the room. A minute or so later I heard the front door bang shut and his footsteps on the path as he headed for the pub.

‘Oh no,' I said. ‘Oh no.'

Still crying, I scrabbled round on the floor, gathering up all the pieces of paper but it was no use. The bits were tiny and there was absolutely no chance of me being able to piece it all together. The magazine was completely ruined and our interview was two days away. What on earth were we going to do?

Chapter 39

2016

Sometimes I wondered how anyone did anything before the internet. I supposed back in the day I'd have had to go to the library or some dusty council office and look stuff up in books of birth certificates. But obviously I started my search for Nancy Harrison on trusty Google.

There wasn't much. In fact, there was hardly anything, but I supposed that wasn't surprising if she died when she was in her early twenties.

All I found to begin with were various obituaries of a headteacher from Yorkshire called Dennis Harrison. He'd died a few months ago and his obituary had been in all the broadsheet newspapers.

I clicked on the first link and scanned it. He'd been a maverick headteacher at one of the country's top public schools, introducing all sorts of new teaching methods and causing quite a stir. Yawn. I wasn't interested in that… and then halfway down, the obit started to talk about his early life.