Tara

  Tod's Gym had seen no such refurbishment; if anything it looked even more seedy. The door was propped open and the narrow, steep staircase straight in front of it obviously rarely saw a broom, much less a wash.

  A man in a grey singlet and shorts was coming down the stairs. He looked like a boxer out for a run, muscular, snub-nosed and vicious. But he smiled warmly at her, pale brown eyes flicking over her face and body.

  'Looking for somebody?' he asked.

  'Is Harry Collins in there?' She blushed under the man's scrutiny, terribly aware of her crushed dress.

  'Yeah, he is. Go on up.'

  She hesitated, frightened of entering such a male preserve.

  'Go on, love,' He smiled, inclining his head towards the stairs. 'I could stand you interrupting my training.'

  Tara took a deep breath and made her way up the wooden stairs. She could hear thumping sounds, grunting and a man shouting what sounded very much like abuse.

  The gym was far larger than she'd expected, clearly it covered more than just the one shop. Strange-looking equipment covered the floor area to her right, on her left a group of men were lifting weights and in front of her was a raised boxing ring. A man lay on his back quite close to her, pushing his feet against a steel platform which rose and fell with his grunting efforts. He turned his head slightly, sweat streaming down his cheeks.

  'What' cha want, darlin'?'

  'I'm looking for Harry Collins,' she said.

  'Over the back.' He thumbed towards the boxing ring.

  She picked her way past men straining under weights, doing press-ups and sit-ups. The smell of sweat made her gag and she was aware that everyone was looking at her.

  Harry was practising on a punchbag, head hunched forward, fists shooting out alternately, whacking the bag as if he hated it.

  'Harry,' she said hesitantly.

  He glanced round while still thumping away, but stopped the moment he saw her.

  'Tara!'

  He didn't look as handsome as she remembered, but twice as powerful. His bare chest glistened with sweat, his dark hair practically stuck to his head; even the grey shorts he wore had huge damp patches on them which made her feel faintly embarrassed.

  'Sweetheart!' He came towards her, arms outstretched, but stopped a foot from her, looking at his boxing gloves.

  'I can't hug you,' he grinned. 'Not like this!'

  Tara smiled weakly, clutching the strap of her rucksack, hopping from one foot to the other.

  'Can I talk to you somewhere? Something awful's happened and I don't know what to do.'

  Harry looked over his shoulder, whether it was to see a clock, check up on someone else, or just see who was watching she couldn't guess.

  'Yeah, of course, sweetheart. Give me ten minutes to take a shower. Go along to the stall.'

  'No.' She shook her head furiously. 'I don't want to see Uncle George. I'll wait in a cafe or somewhere.'

  Harry frowned, his deep blue eyes almost black.

  'OK.' He looked round again. 'The Black and White, it's about two hundred yards that way.' He pointed down towards Stepney.

  'Black and White,' she repeated, backing away. 'Sorry to disturb you.'

  'I'll be as quick as I can.' He made towards a chang-ing-room door. 'Ten minutes!'

  When she was small the shops along Mile End Road had always seemed wonderful. But now she saw the unpainted fronts and dirty windows, and blushed at some of the goods on display. The lingerie shop with its collection of red and black scanties, the Durex sign in the barber's. Even the newspaper shop displayed far more pin-up magazines than ones with knitting patterns. Had the whole world gone crazy about sex or was it just that she hadn't noticed before?

  Harry took her up to a booth right at the back of the cafe and sat down opposite her.

  He smelled of soap and his hair was still wet, slicked back, black as a raven's wing. She was beyond admiring any man for now, but even so his sheer animal magnetism was hard to ignore.

  'Come on, then. Out with it!' His voice was soft, yet there was an edge to it which demanded she tell the whole truth. His angular face had filled out and matured since she last saw him.

  'Oh, Harry.' She hung her head. 'You see, I met this man and ...'

  Harry listened without interrupting. Somehow he ordered two teas, and sausage, eggs and chips, and put hers in front of her without disturbing the flow.

  'He's queer,' she ended up saying. 'Queer!'

  Harry took her hand across the table and squeezed it. He knew she hadn't told him the whole story. She spoke of 'having coffee' back at his cottage as if it had been an innocent romance with a boy her own age, but her comprehension of what the two men had been doing proved to Harry her relationship had been a sexual one.

  'You've been a right silly mare.'

  Tara's eyes shot wide open at his harsh tone.

  'I thought I'd get some sympathy from you,' she stammered.

  'Did you now?' Harry frowned, and held her hand even tighter. 'Well, in my opinion you're lucky that you just saw something nasty. What were you thinking of having a scene with a man of his age? Can you imagine how your mum felt when she discovered you'd run off?'

  'She's been in touch?'

  Tara's heart sank. She hadn't given her mother any thought, but of course Amy would have phoned George immediately. And Harry had sat there just listening, without mentioning he already knew she'd run away.

  'She was on the dog the moment she found you missing,' Harry said. 'Unfortunately Mabel couldn't remember the address on the bloke's letters, otherwise me and Dad would've been straight round there last night.'

  'You don't understand.' Tears crept down her cheeks. 'I fell in love with him, Harry. I thought he was wonderful and I would have told Mum soon. ButGran spoiled everything, she had to go snooping and I panicked. None of it was planned or anything.'

  Harry saw the desolation in her eyes, guessed at the pain inside her.

  'Are you up the spout? When was your last period?'

  Tara turned purple with embarrassment.

  'It isn't any good shying away from it.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'If you think you're old enough to have sex, Tara, you're old enough to consider the consequences.'

  For a moment she was tempted to deny things had gone that far, but she could see in his eyes that he knew.

  'I'm not used to men asking such things.'

  'It's a man who got you into this, remember? You chose to run to me instead of Queenie, your mum or even my dad. So I reckon that puts me in the position where I have to ask. Come on, stop hedging round the subject.'

  'Two weeks ago, since I last slept with Simon, so I'm not pregnant,' she snapped, tossing her head.

  'Well, that's a relief.' Harry smiled and patted her hand encouragingly. 'Now first we have to phone yer mum and stop her worrying, then we'll let George know you're safe too.'

  'I'm not going home.' Tara reared up in fright.

  'We'll talk about that later,' he said.

  'My heart's broken,' she whispered. 'You make it sound as if you don't think anything happened to me. I'm hurting.'

  Harry gulped. When he heard yesterday she'd run off with a bloke he'd felt murderous; the picture of Tara in his mind had been that of a sweet, innocent young girl. But when she'd walked in the gym, he'd been staggered by her adult beauty, despite the red eyes, mascara on her cheeks and a crumpled dress. He leaned across the table and put his big hands on her arms.

  'I know, darlin'. First love is painful and there ain't anything gonna cure it but time. You mustn't dwell on what you saw. And you mustn't start thinking all men are the same. There's dozens of men waiting for you out there. You've got a whole lotta fun to go through before you need to get serious about anyone. One day you'll meet the right man and it'll be magic, you'll see. But until then you have a good time.'

  'I want to stay in London, Harry.' She looked at his handsome face and remembered the crush she used to have on him. 'If we tell Mum everything she won't let
me. Can't we kind of edit it?'

  Harry smiled and shook his head slowly.

  'She knows you've had sex with the bloke. That's a big shock for a mother.' He waved a finger reprovingly at her. 'But I don't reckon there's anything to be gained by telling her he liked boys too. You can just say he had another bird.'

  'What about those children in his file?' Tara shuddered, hating Simon. 'Do we tell the police?'

  'You leave that maggot to me. I'll get him sorted, don't you worry.'

  'Will Queenie mind me staying?' Tara meant she was afraid Queenie and George wouldn't like her any more, but the words wouldn't come out.

  'Course not, she was expecting you to stay soon anyway.'

  He stood up, tucking his cigarette packet into the sleeve of his T-shirt, then winding it up to hold it in place.

  'Time to see Dad.' He inclined his head towards the door. 'And phone yer mum!'

  'I'm scared, Harry,' she whispered.

  He put one arm round her shoulders and led her outside.

  'Don't you think your mum and gran remember what it's like to fall in love?'

  Tara just looked glum.

  'As I recall they both were guilty of running off with the first charmer who crossed their path!' He pulled her to him for a hug, not caring that people were watching. 'You're luckier than them, babe. You've got people around you who care more that you're safe than what you've done. Now switch that lovely big smile on again and put all this down to a spot of experience.'

  Chapter 15

  Queenie waited until she heard Tara put the phone down before she came back into the sitting room. As she expected, Tara was crying, sitting straight backed, silent tears dripping down her cheeks. She looked the picture of misery.

  'That bad?' Her heart went out to Tara, yet at this stage she didn't think it was appropriate to be too sympathetic. She put a cup of tea down on the smoked glass coffee table.

  'It was OK.' Tara sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. 'But I know Mum. I bet she's crying now too.'

  Queenie sat down heavily on the settee and waited a moment before speaking. She'd sent George down to the pub with Harry. They'd done their bit for the day.

  It was seven in the evening. Queenie was still in her working clothes, a gaudy red and blue print dress, plump bare arms freckled with the sun, her bouffant hair-style held back with a red band.

  'We've all done just what you did,' Queenie said gently. 'Me, your mum and gran, and probably just about every other red-blooded woman in the world. Some strike lucky with the right man, some of us make right Charlies of ourselves. But it ain't gonna do you one bit of good regretting it, it's done. What' cha gotta do now is make sure you're a bit more cautious the next time some Jack the Lad whispers a few sweet words in your lugholes.'

  Tara smiled. Queenie tackled everything in the same straightforward, irreverent manner and after the strained voice of her mother and the brusque tones of Gran, it was very comforting.

  'I'm so glad you married Uncle George,' Tara blurted out. 'You're so lovely!'

  'And so are you, my little love,' Queenie's blue eyes swam with emotion, her double chin wobbling. She would have liked a daughter of her own, but fortune hadn't smiled on her in that direction. 'Now all we've got to do is find you a job, and make them stop worrying back 'ome. The first one's easy, the second may take a little longer.'

  Tara felt as if she'd been put through an emotional mangle. It was only twelve hours since she caught Simon in that shower but it seemed more like days. Anger, shame, love and hate were mixed up with a sense of betrayal, but above all else she felt a fool.

  'I feel so silly,' she whispered, moving on to the settee beside Queenie. Silly wasn't quite appropriate. A slut, a tart, dirty, were all far more apt, but she couldn't voice those words.

  'I expect you do, love.' Queenie put her arm round her. I've had more than my share of that, but there ain't no-one in this house is going to throw stones, so drink up your tea, go and have a hot bath and off to bed. Tomorrow everything will look better.'

  Tara didn't move from Queenie's arms. They were much too comforting.

  Queenie had stamped the house in Paradise Row with her personality and taste since Tara had last been here. Like so many East End women brought up in poverty, Queenie was house-proud. The furry three-piece suite had been replaced by a vivid green Dralon one and George had a reclining chair with a stool coming out from underneath to put his feet on. New Axminster carpet had been fitted, purple with green and white swirls. Heavy velvet curtains with fringed pelmets and a cord to shut them hung at the window, a showy teak wall-unit, fitted with strip lighting, housed her collection of crystal glass. But the thing that amused Tara the most was the bar. George had had one before, but it was small and unobtrusive. This one was stupendous. Kidney-shaped, with an imitation marble top, it took up the entire alcove by the window. The padded, studded white leatherette front had a narrow glass compartment, lit from within, displaying gilt-encrusted glasses never meant to be used. The top of the bar held a gilt Champagne bucket, an ice-bucket like a pineapple and a gilt cocktail shaker. Behind the bar was more of the same. Real optics like a pub, shelves holding rows of liqueurs and a collection of cocktail and Champagne glasses that wouldn't have shamed the Ritz. The whole thing sparkled as if it was polished daily. Tara could imagine that George and Queenie saw it as a toy, to play at having their own pub, something to impress their friends.

  'I like the bar,' Tara said.

  'Vulgar, ain't it.' Queenie's chest shook with laughter. 'We got to talking on our honeymoon and I confessed I'd always wanted one. George went right out and bought it, bless 'im. I kept tellin' 'im that toffs go in for a little drinks trolley, not bloomin' great things like that. Know what 'e said?'

  'No, what?' Tara sat up, knowing whatever it was it would make her laugh.

  ' 'E said, "We ain't toffs, Queenie, it ain't no fun sticking yer loot in the bank. A bar in yer 'ouse is all about swankin'. Showing you've got plenty of dosh, but you ain't mean neither, 'cos you like folks to share it."'

  Tara giggled. She could imagine just how many raucous parties this room had seen, with Queenie in her glittery frocks, festooned with jewellery, George in his embroidered waistcoat and bow-tie. Their way wouldn't be hers, but she loved them for their generosity and flamboyance.

  'Off you go now.' Queenie elbowed Tara. 'You're dead on yer feet and the world will look a bit brighter tomorrow.'

  It was only when she was alone in the little room that George had done up for her mother that her mind turned again to Simon. With it came tears. All day hatred had raged inside her, for the humiliation and the pain he'd caused her. But now, in the darkness, she felt empty. Love had made her a whole person for such a short while, and now it was gone.

  Tara stood at the crossroads looking over to St John's Church, soaking up the sounds, sights and smells. Queenie was right, the world did look brighter!

  She had woken to find Queenie and George long gone to the market and a note telling her to go out and buy herself something snazzy to wear. There was a ten-pound note and a front door key. A postscript said they'd be back around five-thirty.

  Her green dress hung over the back of a chair in the kitchen miraculously washed and ironed by Queenie overnight. As she put it on it felt like turning the clock back and starting again.

  It was Saturday morning and the whole of London was at her feet, waiting to be discovered.

  Traffic roared through the busy crossroads. The streets were busy – women with prams loaded with washing and shopping, smaller children in tow; young girls with headscarves over their rollers; lads lounging outside the Salmon and Ball pub, eyeing up the girls.

  There were the usual oddballs, a bearded man with a strange greasy quiff muttering to himself as he paced up and down, an old woman with her world in a wheeled basket and a much younger woman with wild eyes wearing a moth-eaten fur coat, despite the heat, chain-smoking by the public lavatories. Crowds milled up towards
Roman Road for the market and old women were feeling the fruit laid out in inviting piles in front of the shops.

  It was all so familiar, yet there was a different air to the place now. It was more prosperous, more cosmopolitan, with many black faces amongst the white. Tara had a feeling that this was a good place to be, or was that just because she had ten pounds to spend and six whole weeks stretching ahead of her without seeing one cow, pig or chicken?

  Two hours later Tara's delight hadn't faded, but her feet were aching from wearing high heels. She'd inspected Roman Road market, been tempted to spend her money on everything from dress material to shoes and a black velvet jacket. But now she had come back to the crossroads of Cambridge Heath Road and Beth-nal Green Road.

  She was torn between going home and putting on flat shoes and then catching a Tube to the West End, or having a cup of coffee in the smart new place on the corner of Bethnal Green Road. But going into a coffee bar alone was scary. London girls were sharper, more formidable than the ones at home and she was afraid of being stared at by those Cilia Black look-a-likes with their pale faces and heavily outlined eyes.

  "The hippy-hippy shake' was wafting out of the coffee bar's open door and it reminded her of the village dance back home. It was as she hesitated on the kerb, trying to pluck up courage to go in, that she saw the shop.

  It stood slightly back from the rest of the rank in Bethnal Green Road, which was why she hadn't seen it before. It was double fronted, painted maroon, with two circles of glass left unpainted, and one outfit displayed in each of them. It had the kind of modern style she associated with Honey magazine. There were no old-fashioned dummies, but bentwood hat-stands. The two outfits were 'mod' styles, both in navy and white-calf-length skirts and striped tops, dressed up with berets, beads and wide leather belts. The shop was called 'Josh'.

  Forgetting coffee, and even her aching feet, Tara darted across the road through the stream of traffic. The Beatles' 'Please, please me' reached her long before she got to the shop doorway and she paused on the pavement to look through the window.