‘I’m counting on you.’ Those were Katy’s last words to him, and this time he wouldn’t let her down.
Chapter 20
The headline mocked him even though he had moved away from the table where the newspaper lay. Even if he closed his eyes he could still see it.
‘Our Georgia, home again in triumph.’
‘How dare she smile like that after what she’s put me through?’ he muttered. Yet he still couldn’t bring himself to screw up the paper and throw it to one side without reading further.
Moving slowly back to the table, he bent over and tried to bring the small print into focus. His glasses were broken, and he had no money left to replace them. Dirt-encrusted fingers twitched with a kind of palsy. He was cold, his chest hurt, and now this.
‘Are you in there Mr Anderson?’
He heard the Irish voice at the door but ignored it. He could imagine Mrs Dooley’s fat face squashed against his door as she listened, vast breasts straining her overall. Swollen purple feet incongruous in furry pink slippers.
She kept in with the landlords by acting as unpaid rent collector and stool-pigeon, while taking bribes from the black tenants upstairs to keep quiet when another friend had swelled their numbers even further.
‘I know you’re in there!’ she called out. ‘You know what will happen if you don’t pay me, don’t you?’
He knew all right. Those bully boys from the landlord would come round and threaten him, maybe even throw him out on the street.
It wasn’t as if the room was worth anything. A filthy hovel in Ladbroke Grove sharing the toilet with blacks and Irish. They hadn’t mended the window since he fell against it, the gas meter was fixed to make money out of him and the sink was blocked up.
A sagging single bed. A sink and old black cooker. Hooks on the door to hold his only coat. Two fireside chairs, one with a broken arm. A table and two chairs. The proportions of the room were all wrong. A giant black marble fireplace. An eight foot ceiling and a long narrow sash window covered in grey net curtain, in a room twelve foot long by six foot wide. Once the room next door had been part of it, until the landlords hastily erected a thin plasterboard partition. To Brian Anderson it seemed almost coffin shaped.
Georgia’s face in the paper tormented him. She was wearing a ridiculous cowboy outfit, with a Stetson, fringed jacket, indecently short skirt and even cowboy boots. They said she’d taken America by storm and London airport was besieged with fans waiting for her arrival home.
‘They wouldn’t like you so much if they knew what you’d done to your father!’ he muttered, forcing the scissors between swollen, twisted fingers.
His room was full of her pictures. Glossy, glamour shots of her running along a beach in a red and white sarong, the wind catching her hair and holding it out behind her like a black flag. Another one and she was curled up sensuously in a white armchair, a hint of brown cleavage and those long, slim legs tucked round her. In sequinned evening dress, regal and beautiful. On stage, her hair sticking to her head with perspiration, that wide mouth open, head thrown back. Walking through fallen leaves in a park wearing jeans and a man’s jacket over her shoulder, laughing as though interrupted in some private moment of fun.
He had them all. Each mention in the press. Every picture no matter how tiny. A private collection which gave him no pleasure. She was responsible for his plight and one day he would ruin her.
Sometimes he had dreams when he saw her coming for him with a knife. He would wake up sweating and shaking. But it soothed him to look at the pictures. She was the evil one, not him. He must never let himself forget that.
He picked up a thin, worn donkey-jacket and put it on. He had to go and collect his money from the post office, he couldn’t risk Mrs Dooley calling the landlord again. Perhaps just one drink to warm him and stop the shakes.
The wind outside was icy. The soles of his shoes had holes in them and he had no socks left.
Was he going mad? He knew there had been a better life before. He could see himself mowing a lawn, or sitting in a sweet-smelling room listening to a piano. He imagined opening a drawer and taking out a shirt fresh from the laundry, putting gold links into the cuffs and slapping cologne on his smooth shaven face. But if he had that life once, why was it he ended up here?
Most of the time his mind was stubbornly fixed in Ladbroke Grove as if the startling memories that came to him were nothing more than something he’d seen on a film. Except for Georgia. Her face remained constant in his mind, only the details of how and why she made him suffer hazy.
Down the grey street he shuffled, eyes down in the gutter. Past dustbins spewing out on to the path. Black faces everywhere. Standing on steps gossiping, lounging on corners with malice in their dark eyes.
Where had they all come from? Surely there was a time when everyone was white?
He crossed the road at the lights, turned left and into the post office.
For once it was quiet. Only two people before him. Sometimes the queue stretched right to the door. Black women with prams, out-of-work youngsters, all the old, sick and poor people of Ladbroke Grove waiting for their state benefits.
‘Have you got your book Mr Anderson?’
He liked the post office. They treated him properly here. Remembered his name and gave him respect.
He felt inside his coat and pulled out the crumpled yellow book.
‘You haven’t signed it.’ The big woman with red hair smiled at him. She was tapping her nails on the counter with impatience, but then she was a busy woman. ‘Have you got a pen?’
‘Of course,’ he said, feeling in his pocket again.
The snotty-nosed brats in his street called him ‘The Banker’. He couldn’t always remember why this was, but the pen was a clue.
He signed the book and pushed it under the grille. She counted out the notes and pushed them back to him.
‘Good morning,’ he said, and shuffled off to the door, his money still in his hands.
His mind was cloudy again. It was like that most days now. Like the grey net at his window had got inside his head. It stopped him from thinking or planning and each day it grew thicker. He knew he needed to buy something but what was it?
A bus stopped in front of him, then another right behind it. He was caught in the middle of a human whirlpool, trapped by women with pushchairs, old ladies with shopping baskets, young men in leather jackets and a group of school children.
He didn’t see who pushed him, just a sharp thump in his chest, and the next thing he was on his back.
‘Are you okay?’ A male voice was speaking to him, but he couldn’t see anything but a blur of white above him.
For a moment he thought he’d just tripped, as he often did these days, yet why was he on his back instead of on his knees?
‘My money,’ he clawed at the air, suddenly aware his hand was empty. ‘Who’s taken my money?’
The man was leaning over him, touching his shoulder, but he was talking to someone else. Something about a black man who pushed him and stole his money. He was urging another man to telephone the police.
He didn’t know he was crying, just a damp feeling trickling down his face.
‘Poor old chap,’ the man said. ‘How could anyone be low enough to rob him?’
Through the grey mist he knew he must regain his dignity.
‘Help me up please,’ he asked. ‘I can’t see very well, but I’d like to get in somewhere warm.’
A hand went under his elbow and hoisted him up, he could see the man’s face now. It was young, fresh and even kindly.
‘Would it be too much to trouble you for a cup of tea?’ Brian asked. ‘I need a moment to get over the shock.’
‘Of course,’ the man said. He turned to someone behind him. ‘I’ll just take him into the café. Tell the police to come in there.’ He took Brian’s arm and led him into warmth. ‘Sit down and I’ll get you some tea.’
It was odd that the grey mist floated away suddenly. On
e moment confused, the next aware of everything. Just as if someone had opened curtains on a darkened room. Aware how shabby his clothes were, his dirty hands and the stubble on his chin. His tongue flickered across dry, cracked lips and he averted his eyes from a mirror on the wall.
He looked at least seventy. So thin, the skin on his face just hung in bags. Little hair left on the top of his head, but round his ears it sprouted out, grey/brown and greasy. His mouth appalled him most. It was sunken, his lips drooping at the corners and when he opened it his teeth were stained brown.
It wasn’t tea he wanted, but whiskey. He looked across the café at the man who brought him in and wondered if he’d be good for a handout.
The man was young. Arty looking in his leather-patched tweed jacket. A long, serious face and his hair hanging over his collar. He could be a social worker or a teacher. Not someone with money.
The café was one he often had lunch in when he first came to Ladbroke Grove. They greeted him like a friend then, telling him about specials on the menu and chatting about the news. He liked the red and white tablecloths, the smell of ground coffee and baking. It reminded him of his old home.
For some reason that eluded him, they asked him to leave. Was he drunk, or perhaps they didn’t like his shabby clothes? Whatever the reason was they seemed to have forgotten it now, for the two plump women behind the counter were looking at him as they spoke to his rescuer, nodding in sympathy.
The man came back, putting down two teas on the table and sat opposite Brian. He was frowning, a kind of impatient look, as if he wanted to leave hurriedly, but couldn’t bring himself to.
‘Are you feeling better now?’ His brown eyes were gentle. A soft, generous mouth with a cleft chin. His light brown hair had a shine to it, flopping down to his eyes. ‘The police will be here soon. They’ll help you.’
‘I didn’t see anything.’ Brian felt confused now, the present mingling with the past. ‘I felt someone push me, then I was on the floor. Did you see who did it?’
‘Two young black men,’ the man frowned again. ‘I saw you just standing there. I was just going to make you put the money away and they pounced. They moved so quick I couldn’t do anything.’
‘Blacks!’ Brian almost spat out the word. ‘The place is overrun with them.’
‘I picked these up for you.’ The young man dug into his pocket, and pulled out Brian’s payment book and a couple of photographs.
‘Thanks.’ Brian snatched up the book, but left the photographs on the table. Just the sight of them made his shakes come back. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not well. You must excuse me.’ This clarity of mind was far more painful than the grey mist and it was unreliable. He could start a conversation, think things out, then suddenly he could be thrown back to the confused man the children laughed at.
The photographs had been in his good overcoat. It wasn’t until he tried to sell it that he found them. He must have had them all this time tucked into the back of his payment book.
‘I saw your name is Anderson,’ the young man smiled, glancing down at the pictures. ‘I’m John Adams. Who’s this?’ Adams picked up one of the photographs. It was one of Georgia in a swimsuit, taken on the beach at Hastings the summer before she ran away. ‘What a pretty girl. She looks like Georgia, the singer.’
Brian felt a hot flush creeping up his neck.
‘It is Georgia. She’s my daughter.’
He had often wondered what it would be like to tell someone. He expected ridicule, laughter and questions, but he didn’t expect the shock he saw in this man’s eyes.
His jaw dropped. He blinked hard, picked up the picture and looked again. Lowering the picture he looked right into Brian’s eyes, the sort of look that meant he wanted to believe it, but couldn’t.
‘It’s true,’ Brian said. ‘Look at the other one too. She’s there again with my wife and I at a bank dinner and dance.’
It felt good to admit it. The hazy grey mist was lifting so quickly he could remember other things too.
Georgia sitting between them, in a light-coloured dress with a kind of ruffle round the neck, smiling at her father in dinner-jacket and bow tie. Celia, on her other side was in a chiffon, low-necked dress, a glass of wine in her hand. That night all his staff had been there, formality forgotten with Christmas coming. He’d given them little presents, shared jokes and pulled crackers.
He saw a red flush creeping up Adam’s face, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the snap, going back to Brian’s face, then back to the picture.
‘She changed her name of course,’ Brian picked up his tea and tried to control his shaking hands. ‘There’s things I could tell you about her.’ He paused, sensing something more in the man’s expression.
Not disbelief or scorn. But excitement.
‘How can she be your daughter?’ the man asked. ‘She’s black.’
‘Half-caste.’ Brian was surprised how easy he found to explain. ‘We fostered her, gave her everything, singing and dancing lessons, nice clothes. We loved her like she was our own.’
‘But –’ The man’s mouth was hanging open again.
‘But why am I like this if I’ve got a famous rich daughter?’ Brian’s laugh was hollow. ‘Because she’s a little bitch. That’s why.’
John Adams wasn’t a man who was shocked easily. He had grown up in Ladbroke Grove and knew many of the odd characters who lived there. Pimps, prostitutes, thieves, faded actresses, doctors who’d been struck off, he’d even met a few titled people who’d fallen on hard times. It was an area where people ended up. A dustbin of human life. Yet if he believed everything he’d been told in pubs, listened to every old wino who bleated out a sob story then it would be him next for the funny farm.
He’d seen Anderson before. He knew he drank heavily and sometimes he shouted and talked to himself. He had guessed the man wasn’t as old as he looked, and there were the rumours.
Didn’t Jock down at the Bell claim he was a retired bank manager? That a couple of years ago before he got this far out of it, he advised him on a couple of investments? Then there was Martha at the Black Horse, who felt sorry for him one night and put him to bed in her spare room. Later he’d written her a letter thanking her and that letter had been passed round the bar. Beautifully written in a stylish copperplate handwriting, the type of letter that could only be written by a man with a first-class upbringing and education.
The man lived in squalor now. His clothes were little better than a tramp’s, he was dirty, unshaven, neglected and definitely half way round the bend. But his accent was impeccable. He had good manners. Despite his present appearance he could see Anderson was the man in the photograph. Suppose it was true? The story could make a fortune.
‘Look,’ John leaned closer across the table. ‘I’ll be straight with you. If what you are telling me is true I can get you enough money to make up for what those guys took. I know you’re ill. You may have even had a bang on the head. But if you are making it up for God’s sake level with me now.’
‘Can I have made that up?’ Brian pushed the picture of the family group towards him again. ‘You can see plainly that’s her, even if she was only a kid then. You can see it’s me too, if you take away the fine clothes. How else would I have that picture if it wasn’t true?’
A picture five or six years old. How could it be a fake? Only a practised confidence trickster could engineer something like that, and this sad old man wasn’t that.
‘Would you tell me everything about her?’ Adams asked gently. ‘I’m a writer you see.’
Calling himself a writer was stretching the truth a bit. He’d been paid for a couple of articles on local history, written a few letters to The Times. But he could string a few words together, and he had got a couple of mates in Fleet Street.
‘All right. I will.’
Adams could only stare at the old man. He’d expected haggling, even straight, sober people asked for money up front. He remembered one of his journalist friends words. ‘They ei
ther spill the beans for money, or revenge.’ Revenge would pay the most!
By the time a policeman had been and taken a statement and John Adams had bought him a big breakfast, Brian was feeling better.
Adams had suggested he go home with him for a talk, he’d even suggested there might be some money in it for him. Maybe his luck was turning at last?
It was close to six o’clock when Adams showed Anderson the door. He had been tempted to ask the man to stay the night and finish what he’d started, but he was so overwhelmed by what he had heard he needed to be alone.
His feelings about Anderson had swung violently from pity to suspicion during the day, and now he wasn’t sure whose side he was on.
Pity had been the major feeling when the man came out of the bathroom. He could see shame on his face, now it was scrubbed clean, further evidence that he hadn’t always lived the way he did now.
‘I’ll get these cleaned for you and return them,’ he almost whispered, touching the clean shirt and old grey flannel trousers as if they’d come straight out of the window at Burton’s.
‘They’re yours.’ John hid his own discomfort by digging out a pair of black shoes which had been left behind by a friend. ‘Try these for size.’
He had felt bad taking a photograph of Anderson before the transformation. Even worse putting his old clothes into a bag and tying up the top to keep as evidence to back up his story. His mind was whirling with disgust at Georgia allowing her father to get to this stage, loathing at himself for cashing in on it, and an even greater desire to get to the hard truth.
He felt more pity too when he realized just how confused the man was. He had a story all right but it came out backwards, sideways, upside down, but rarely running straight.
Adams’ old tape recorder went round and round as he led Anderson through Georgia’s first days at his home. He heard about her being beaten by the nuns, her injuries and the way she brought sunshine into their home. Sometimes it sounded as if she was just a toddler on arrival, sometimes far older. One moment his eyes filled with tears, the next they flashed with hate.