Georgia

  ‘I don’t think she’ll respond to you or any man,’ Celia shook her head. ‘But you can try. Just don’t try to touch her that’s all.’

  ‘Georgia!’ Peter whispered in the darkened room. ‘Are you awake?’

  There was no reply. In the gloom all Peter could make out was a small lump in the bed, her dark hair sticking out of the covers like a chimney-sweep’s brush.

  Peter walked across the room and drew back the curtains.

  It was bitterly cold outside, a dark, grey day as if all the world was suddenly monochromatic. The heath across the road was deserted, bare branches of trees looked menacingly like skeletons.

  ‘I think it’s going to snow,’ he said, taking a chair just close enough to see her face.

  It was crumpled, as if she’d aged ten years. Her eyes were open but they showed no signs of recognition.

  ‘You’ve got to talk,’ he said, keeping his voice as normal as possible. ‘Maybe not to me, but to your mother. She’s tearing herself apart, and she’s the one who is trained for things like this.’

  No movement, not so much as a flicker of an eyebrow.

  ‘Would you like some music on?’ he asked. ‘I could get your record player and plug it in?’

  Still nothing.

  For five days he’d waited patiently for this opportunity, convinced Georgia would open up to him. But she lay there like a doll, dark eyes staring into space and now he understood why Celia was so frightened.

  ‘School started again,’ he went on. ‘I haven’t been though,’ one hand reached out, but paused in mid air. He could feel tears pricking the back of his eyelids. ‘I went to bed dreaming of you that night. I intended to come round to help you clear up in the morning. Then the police came.’

  He had trusted the police until that morning. One moment he was lying in bed thinking of Georgia, the next he was bundled down the stairs into a squad car, accused of having sex with a minor.

  For three hours they interrogated him. First in an almost jocular ‘all-boys-together’ manner suggesting he had been caught by Mr Anderson with his pants down. But later it turned vicious, with insinuations about Georgia’s character that left Peter bewildered.

  It was only when he discovered Mr Anderson had been stabbed that the hideous truth filtered through. He remembered the way Anderson had been as he left, Georgia’s insistence she would get him to bed before her mother got home. Why had he let her persuade him to leave?

  Maybe it was foolhardy to take a swing at Inspector Forbes, to scream out his anger and frustration at their callous indifference to Georgia’s pain, and stupidity at blaming him. But at that moment he didn’t care if they locked him up forever.

  There was no understanding or sympathy when he got home eight hours later. No concern that his girl had been raped, or even anger that he was being blamed. His father made lewd suggestions. His mother could see no further than Georgia’s colour.

  ‘I’ll never get over the shame,’ she raved. ‘My son mixed up with some wog. I won’t have it Peter. Don’t you dare go near her again.’

  Celia was the only one who shared his outrage. It was her arms he turned to for comfort instead of his own mother’s, and now he hoped together they could bring Georgia out of her silence.

  Peter wriggled in the small cane chair. There was still no movement from Georgia in the bed. She didn’t even look round to watch him.

  ‘I’m not going to give up,’ he said petulantly. ‘I shall just keep on coming until I bore you into telling me to shut my mouth. Day after day, year after year. I’ll tell you what I ate for tea, what I did all day. You are my girl and I’ll keep coming till you tell me to go.’

  He peered at her to see if there was even a flicker of amusement.

  ‘Right, I’ll try the music,’ he said, getting up and making for the door.

  The playroom was much as they’d left it the night of the party. The garlands hanging down, stray balloons and records still littering the floor. Only the food, glasses and plates had been removed.

  He unplugged the record player and sorted through the records, selecting only one.

  Then carrying it back across the landing, he noticed the blood-stain.

  Celia had obviously tried to get it out of the carpet, but still it stayed, dark and menacing against the pale, flowery design.

  That animal had taken her here, only feet away from the place where Peter had held her in his arms earlier. Rage washed over him, his hands shook and he could understand only too well why Georgia had got the knife.

  Taking a deep breath he pushed his way back into Georgia’s room.

  The record crashed down from the spigot, the arm moved across and for a second there was only a scratching noise.

  ‘How did I exist until I kissed ya. Oh, you’ve got a way about ya, now I can’t live without ya. Never knew what I missed until I kissed ya.’

  It sounded trite and silly under the circumstances. But they’d played it over and over the night of the party.

  He hummed along with it, wondering what to do next.

  Leaning forward he saw a tear trickling down her cheek.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ his hand reached out to touch her, but recoiled almost immediately as he remembered her mother’s warning. ‘It’s just it’s our song isn’t it?’ He was sure she was going to speak now, but still she was silent.

  ‘My feelings haven’t changed,’ he whispered. ‘I love you.’

  It was all he could do to prevent himself from sweeping her up in his arms. He wanted to hold that small crumpled body, breathe life back into that blank face, somehow he was sure the power of touch would succeed where words never could.

  ‘Now I can’t live without you.’ He sang the words softly, then turned away, stumbling to the door.

  Georgia lay staring at the ceiling. The soreness had faded now, though when she turned over she could still feel the bruises on her buttocks. Nothing felt right anymore. Not her own body, or even her bed. She had felt like this before, in the early morning before Celia had collected her from St Joseph’s. Sister Mary’s kind words had softened some of the wounds Sister Agnes had infliced on her, just as Celia’s and Peter’s tenderness had, but still inside was this core of terror that nothing could make go away.

  ‘Devil’s spawn’! That was what Sister Agnes had said about her. Maybe it was her fault. Something bad within her that caused destruction and pain.

  She couldn’t stay here, not now. Celia and Peter might want to help, but they couldn’t. What good would it do telling the police the truth? So Brian might get locked up, but what sort of hell would she have to drag Celia, Peter and herself through? And for what? It wouldn’t make her forget what happened. She wouldn’t even be able to stay with Celia.

  Celia came in with a tray of food around lunchtime. Once again Georgia lay silently, staring into space.

  ‘Look, dear,’ Celia sounded as if she was losing patience. ‘You must be hungry, even if you don’t want to speak to me. Sit up and eat this, just for me.’

  The smell of the casserole made her feel nauseous. Why did Celia keep bringing food, when all she really wanted was to be left alone?

  ‘I’ll put it down here.’ Celia’s voice was firm and business-like as she placed the tray on the floor by Georgia’s bed. ‘I’ve got to go into the office this afternoon. You know how it is Georgia. When all’s said and done the children’s department will have a final say. By speaking to them now I might just get us a few weeks grace. Even the doctor has suggested you need to be taken into hospital. I can be back in a couple of hours. Will you be all right?’

  Georgia nodded. The first indication she’d given her mother that she even understood what was going on around her.

  Celia sat down on the bed and took one of Georgia’s hands in hers.

  It was that same look Georgia had seen all those years ago when Celia had taken off her clothes and found the wounds on her back. So much pity and understanding, so willing to give her anything t
o make things right.

  ‘I love you darling. This evening I want you to come downstairs with me. I know why you don’t want to speak,’ her voice was breaking with emotion. ‘But the sooner you open up to me, the sooner we can put this horrible affair behind us. Together we can find a solution.’

  ‘’Bye darling,’ she said at the door. ‘Eat that dinner just for me?’

  In that second Georgia’s resolve nearly crumbled. Celia looked so careworn, the small lines round her eyes deeper, etched with unbearable sadness. She had made an effort to look smart again. Her navy pin-striped suit with its long jacket hid the plumpness, a small brooch at the neck of her white blouse, her hair washed and brushed back from the soft cheeks. Powder and lipstick had done their best to cover the putty-coloured skin. But the apple cheeks Georgia knew so well looked sunken.

  Georgia waited until she heard the front door slam and the car start up. She sat up gingerly, looking down at the tray of food. She didn’t want it, but it might make Celia feel better knowing she’d eaten something.

  She forced herself to eat half the meat and some of the vegetables but however hard she tried she couldn’t manage the apple pie and custard.

  Her legs were stiff and unsteady as she got out of bed, her face in the mirror was pale and drawn but however bad she felt she had to get dressed. She found a holdall in the cupboard on the landing and hastily packed a few warm clothes. She put on the new navy suit Celia had bought her before Christmas, which made her look older, and put her hair up in a French plait.

  Finally her thick, grey overcoat, a woolly hat and scarf and a pair of sheepskin-lined boots.

  Then stuffing her make-up, hairbrush and washing things in a handbag, she made her way downstairs.

  The house gleamed. Celia always cleaned frantically when she was angry or anxious.

  All the Christmas decorations were gone now, pine needles carefully swept away. Everything looked just the way it always did, except it could never be her home again.

  Taking a sheet of paper from Celia’s desk in the dining room, she sat down to write a note, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Dear Mummy,’ she paused, unable to see clearly through the tears, her mind suddenly blank of the right words.

  ‘I’m sorry. I had to go. We both know it’s only a matter of days before someone takes me away and if I can’t stay with you, I’d rather be alone. I’m old enough to get a job and somewhere to live. I will always love you and be grateful to you for taking me from that convent, no one could have had a better home than me.

  ‘Please don’t blame yourself for what happened and try to forget about it. Don’t try to find me, it will only make things worse.’

  She paused again, sobs rising up within her. There was so much she wanted to say, so many thank yous. How did you say goodbye to someone who meant so much?

  ‘Explain to Peter for me. He must forget too and go on to university like he planned. Maybe one day we can meet again. You will never be out of my thoughts.

  I love you,

  Georgia’

  Leaving the letter on the table, she lifted a ginger jar off the mantelpiece where Celia kept housekeeping money. She took twenty pounds and then returned to the desk.

  ‘PS, I took twenty pounds as a loan. I’ll send it back just as soon as I can.’ She added this on the bottom of the letter, then took it into the kitchen to leave it on the table.

  Picking up her bag she walked to the front door. Pausing for a moment to look back one more time.

  There was snow her first day here. She remembered Celia sitting her on the stairs, taking off her shoes and rubbing her toes to warm them. Maybe the little girl who’d stared in wonder at the paintings, the thick, patterned carpets, the polished furniture and the grandfather clock had grown up, but that first impression would stay with her for ever.

  She gulped back tears, opened the door resolutely and walked out, slamming it behind her.

  Outside, the cold air made her shrink back into her coat. The heath had a thin coating of frost, fog concealing the walls of Greenwich Park in the distance. It would be dark in a couple of hours. She must hurry now before anyone saw her.

  Peter would soon forget, whatever he said now. Brian had taught her how shallow men’s love was.

  Still, she paused by the church, Peter’s face dancing in front of her. She could see those blue eyes fill with emotion as she sang the Christmas Anthem at midnight mass. Remember the kiss he stole as they hung up their surplices in the vestry. She hated her father for a great many reasons now, but most of all for ending something so beautiful.

  Standing in Piccadilly with crowds of people milling around her, she felt numb. This was the centre of everything. The big city with its bright lights, smart shops and continuous noise. Neon lights flashing, the never-ending stream of traffic, strange smells. Men in bowler hats carrying furled umbrellas, office girls, shop assistants and shoppers.

  Swan and Edgar’s windows were piled high with sale goods. Around her were the shouts of newspaper men, music from a one-man-band, wafts of fried onions from a hamburger stall, and Eros in the middle directing the circus. It was the ideal place to hide in, every day of the year girls swarmed to this area to begin life away from home and most probably started with less money than she had.

  At six her legs and feet were aching. She’d seen two rooms with a To Let notice, but both times she climbed the stairs to enquire she’d been told the rooms were ten pounds a day.

  She was baffled. Why would a grubby little room in Soho have such a high rent?

  The answer came to her on her third attempt.

  A big-busted blonde girl of about thirty came to the door wearing a black negligee, a cigarette dangling from vermilion lips.

  ‘I’ve come about the room,’ Georgia said wearily. ‘Is it still vacant?’

  The girl wore false eyelashes, one was peeling off and she had traces of mascara rubbed onto her cheeks. She looked Georgia up and down, taking in the wool coat, sheepskin boots and holdall.

  ‘You aren’t a working girl,’ her greyish face puckered into a frown.

  ‘Not yet,’ Georgia tried to sound bright. ‘I’m going to look for a job in a café or something tomorrow.’

  The blonde girl studied her for a moment. A quizzical look as if she thought someone was pulling her leg.

  ‘Come off it love!’ she laughed, but it came out like a dry cough.

  ‘Sorry?’ Georgia frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  The girl just looked at her for a moment, a mixture of amusement and pity.

  ‘You must’ve heard what goes on in Soho?’ She took another puff on her cigarette. ‘These rooms are for the girls. Know what I mean?’

  Georgia’s mouth fell open. ‘You mean?’ she couldn’t bring herself to say the word.

  The blonde nodded, a warmer look spreading across her face. ‘Try the evening paper, or go home love. There’s nothing around here for a little thing like you.’

  Georgia backed away feeling foolish and just a little tainted.

  ‘Good luck,’ the girl said cheerfully. ‘And watch what you are doing love!’

  Earlier Georgia had welcomed the darkness. Now it seemed like a threat. She was tired, cold and her holdall was getting heavier by the minute. She bought a paper and went into a café to read it, wrapping her hands round a cup of tea to warm them.

  The advertisements offered very little. Most of them were too expensive and almost all of them said ‘references required’. She ringed eight which sounded possibilities, drank her tea then found a phone box.

  Five of them had already been let. One was right out near Wembley and at the other two there was no reply.

  Two policemen walked past as she came out of the phone box. One looked at her bag and then directly at her.

  Trembling with fright, she moved off quickly, running down the narrow street, back towards Piccadilly.

  The West End might have seemed exciting with the security of a friend beside her, or l
ooking at Christmas lights from the safety of a car. But alone, in the dark it was menacing.

  So many people pushing and shoving. Tramps mingling with couples out for the evening. Young office girls off to a dance, a gang of rough-looking Teddy boys shouting remarks at passing girls. Taxis, motorbikes, cars and buses, a madhouse of noise and bustle, a sinister undertone to everything. Her bag was heavy and each time someone turned to look at her Georgia sank into the shadows.

  Turning again back towards Soho, she walked deliberately up one street, looking at all the notices on doors, then down the next.

  There were plenty of signs.

  ‘French Lessons, apply second floor.’ ‘Model first floor,’ and even one saying ‘Strict Instruction, ask for Mitzi.’

  Girls and women stood brazenly in doorways. Tight shirts, cigarettes dangling from lips like scarlet gashes, ‘beehive’ hair do’s and heavy eyeliner, clinking keys in their hands. They stared openly at Georgia as she rushed by, her heavy bag banging against her legs.

  ‘Are you doing business?’ A swarthy-looking man sidled up to her.

  Shame overwhelmed her, her eyes filled with tears, all she could do was pretend she hadn’t heard and carry on walking as if she had some place to go.

  It was after nine and she’d been up and down each street. Almost every coffee bar she’d passed she enquired in.

  Always the same answer.

  ‘Sorry. Try the paper.’

  She saw one advertisement for a room in a shop window and went round to the house immediately.

  An elderly lady came to the door, opened it just a crack and peered out.

  Georgia put on her most beguiling smile.

  ‘I’m sorry to call so late. I believe you have a room to let?’

  She reminded Georgia of story book grannies, white haired, wrinkled with a crocheted shawl round her shoulders. She opened the door a little wider and peered at Georgia standing on the pavement.

  ‘No blacks!’

  The door slammed shut in her face, leaving Georgia standing there mouth agape, cheeks burning at the insult.

  The cold seemed to have got right into her bones, even the sheepskin boots no longer kept out the cold.