Charlie

  Since sitting her exams and leaving school, Charlie’ d also given up the tenancy on the flat in Dartmouth and her job at the Royal Castle Hotel. Many people including her employers and neighbours had expressed the opinion that she was being too hasty, disposing of the flat and selling the furniture, and advised her to stay on for at least the summer, but she knew the time was right to leave.

  Few people knew just how desperately lonely and sad she’d been in these past few months. Her neighbours saw her going off to school and to work in the evenings and because she appeared so calm and hard-working, and rarely mentioned her mother, they believed she had put the past firmly behind her. But in reality there were few nights when Charlie didn’t cry herself to sleep; just walking through the front door brought on searingly painful memories of Sylvia.

  Beryl had been right in saying that before long Charlie would recall many incidents from her childhood. Some nights they came in rushes, tumbling over themselves as if asking to be examined. Sometimes they were funny ones, of her mum sitting astride the arm of the settee pretending to be Calamity Jane driving a stage-coach and singing ‘The Deadwood Stage’. Sometimes they were sweet ones, like the time Charlie had chickenpox and Mum painted spots on her face too, in sympathy.

  Then one night the memory of that incident in London which Beryl had mentioned came back. Charlie remembered a rather grand hotel suite, with a central sitting room cluttered with bags and boxes from their shopping spree. They were getting ready to go out to dinner that evening. Jin was shaving in the bathroom, Sylvia was still in a negligée, and Charlie was wearing a red velvet dress and patent-leather shoes, wriggling as her mother brushed her hair for her, when the telephone rang.

  Charlie was never given any reason why that telephone call ruined the evening. All she remembered clearly was that suddenly Sylvia was screaming at her father at the top of her voice, they didn’t go out to eat and she was sent to bed and her parents kept on shouting at one another.

  Charlie’s bedroom was the opposite side of the sitting room to her parents’ one, but she heard her father go out later, leaving her mother still sobbing. She lay in bed for some time listening, then eventually crept in to see her. Sylvia was lying across the bed face down, she didn’t even seem aware her daughter was trying to cuddle and comfort her.

  ‘I’ve lost him now,’ was all she said, over and over again.

  Sadly Charlie’s memory stopped there, she couldn’t even remember the next day, or the trip home. But Beryl was right; looking back, it was around that time when Sylvia’s black moods began, the rows became more frequent, and her father stayed away more often.

  Now, with the benefit of more information and more adult eyes, Charlie could understand what a terrible shock it must have been for her mother to discover Jin was still seeing DeeDee. Although Charlie still thought her mother was spineless not to fight back, bring it into the open and insist her husband made a choice between her and DeeDee, perhaps Sylvia thought having only half a husband was better than gambling the lot and ending up with nothing.

  It was this thought which finally made her pluck up the courage to go through the many boxes of letters, papers and photographs that had been sent over from ‘Windways’, but what she found merely confused her further.

  There were dozens of loving letters from Jin to Sylvia, some dated as far back as 1956, right up until the autumn of 1969. Some came from as far away as China, others on hotel notepaper from Harrogate, Bath and Winchester. There were Valentines, Christmas and birthday cards too. It didn’t seem feasible to Charlie that any man would pen such emotional letters if he was living with a mistress.

  There were dozens of old photographs too, apart from family ones, and some of these she felt were taken in one of his clubs. She wished she’d insisted Sylvia had gone through these boxes, maybe then she could have discovered who everyone was.

  The only substantial thing she found was a small newspaper cutting about the opening night of Jin’s first club, the Lotus Club in Carlisle Street. It was dated 14 April 1952 and there was a picture of Jin with Sylvia opening a bottle of champagne. Sylvia was described as his fiancée, Jin said they hoped to be married very soon.

  It was this cutting more than anything which determined Charlie to go to London. Common sense told her she wasn’t going to find her father if the police couldn’t. Yet if she could just find a few answers to the hundreds of questions about her parents’ earlier life together there, and this other woman, then maybe she’d find some peace of mind.

  Then of course there was Andrew. He had written every week since Easter, telephoned her often too, and his warmth and jollity had kept her going when everything else seemed black. Whether or not their friendship could be fanned back into a romance, she didn’t know. But she hoped it could.

  The final reason for going was because she knew that in Dartmouth she would always be thought of as a tragic figure. Selling off the furniture not only provided her with a nest-egg, it was also like shedding an unwanted skin.

  Ivor was storing the few items she wanted to keep. His little spare bedroom was hers now, for holidays and a base if she wanted it. The treasures taken from ‘Windways’ were still in the vault in Exeter and it was her intention to leave them there indefinitely. Ivor and Beryl were the only people she really cared about in Devon. If she could make something of herself in London it would be a constructive way to show her appreciation for all they’d done for her.

  Unknown to Andrew she had been in London a week already, staying in an Islington guest-house. A rowdy end-of-term party had resulted in the boys being thrown out of their flat. Andrew had found himself a summer job, living in at a pub in Hampstead, but the last time they’d spoken on the phone and she said she was intending to come to London, he seemed harassed and anxious, reminding her how expensive and hard-to-come-by flats were in London. As Charlie felt she’d been enough of a burden to him in the past, she was determined to find a flat and a job before calling him. That way she’d be entirely independent.

  Charlie’s feelings about London were mixed. She loved the big shops and the feeling of being inconspicuous; she was also excited at finally seeing places like Carnaby Street where the small boutiques were stuffed with the kind of outrageous glam-rock clothes she’d only seen in magazines before. Rock music wafting out of shops and so many posters advertising concerts told her she hadn’t arrived too late to experience some of the excitement of the youth revolution of the Sixties. Yet it seemed so peculiar and alien to see men like peacocks, wearing makeup, their hair dyed bizarre colours, girls of her age and even younger strutting about in six-inch platform shoes with yard-wide flares, feather boas and big hats. All at once she felt so very dowdy and out of touch with her own generation.

  The milling crowds, the frantic pace and the sheer size of the city was at times frightening too. Getting from one place to another on the tube was much more difficult than she’d imagined and the maps only confused her more.

  On her previous visits to London with her mother, they’d usually shopped in Knightsbridge and Kensington. She had started off looking for a flat around there, just because it was familiar, but she soon discovered that even a tiny bedsitter in that area was well beyond her means.

  She couldn’t stay at the guest-house for much longer. People had told her that £30 a week was cheap, but it was a fortune to her and it wasn’t even nice. She had to ask permission to have a bath, there was constant noise of traffic as it was on a busy main road, and she couldn’t even make herself a cup of tea in her room. It was imperative she found somewhere else to live, and quickly.

  If this flat was only half decent and the girls nice, she was going to take it. She’d seen so many terrible places so far that she knew now she wasn’t going to get the flat of her dreams.

  Taking a deep breath and crossing her fingers, she walked up the path to the front door. The bell marked Flat 4 seemed to ring a great way off. As there was a pane of glass missing in the leaded lights either side of t
he door, Charlie peered in. The hall was wide, with old black and white tiles. A pram was on one side, a bicycle on the other. It looked mucky, but not impossibly so.

  Hearing feet approaching, she stood back a little way. The door was opened by a girl wearing a flowing red caftan and a great many strands of beads. Her feet were bare and dirty, her long, dark, curly hair needed a wash too.

  ‘I’m Charlie Weish,’ she said. ‘I had an appointment –’

  ‘I’m Meg,’ the girl replied, cutting Charlie short. ‘You don’t look a bit like I imagined, I expected a blonde. But come on in. We’ve tried to clear up a bit, but it’s still a mess. I hope it won’t put you off.’

  Charlie followed the girl up two floors. She didn’t need to speak because Meg gave a running commentary as they passed closed doors. ‘Here’s the bathroom, here’s another loo. We’ve got one up on our floor too. But the one downstairs is old with lovely flowers on it. There’s a girl with a baby downstairs front, next to her are two nurses. The first-floor flat is mixed, two girls and three blokes, they haven’t been here long and I don’t know their names. Where do you come from, Charlie, I can’t place your accent?’

  They’d arrived at the flat by then, and Charlie was out of breath. She guessed Meg was somewhat taken aback by her Oriental appearance, people always were. ‘Devon,’ Charlie said. ‘I didn’t know I had an accent.’

  ‘Well, you don’t sound like a Londoner,’ Meg said, and with that drew Charlie in the door, straight into the living room.

  To Charlie, who had only ever been in conventional homes, it looked bizarre. There were no chairs or settees, just mattresses covered in Indian-style cotton rugs and bedspreads. Even the central light was covered with what looked like several silk scarves. Right in the middle of the seating area was a low table. It looked very much like an old-fashioned dining one, but someone had cut off the legs and painted it red.

  There was a peculiar smell too, not unpleasant, but a bit too strong. Dozens of large green plants everywhere, and the walls were covered in posters of Jimi Hendrix, Frank Zapper and several huge Day-Glo astrological signs.

  ‘What sign are you?’ Meg asked as she saw Charlie look at them.

  ‘Pisces,’ Charlie replied, wondering what that had to do with anything and where the other two girls were.

  ‘Fab,’ Meg exclaimed with a wide grin. ‘I’m a Scorpio. Beth’s a Cancer and Anne’s a Taurus. That means you’ll be compatible with all of us.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about astrology,’ Charlie said. She felt instinctively drawn towards this chatty girl, even if she was a bit odd and grubby.

  ‘You soon will if you come to live with us,’ Meg laughed, then called the other two girls to come and meet her.

  In the next hour Charlie found that the smell in the flat was joss-sticks, that all three girls were aged twenty, Londoners, and students at Hornsey Art College. They were vegetarian, smoked cannabis which they called ‘dope’, none of them believed in regular boyfriends or wearing bras, and the room on offer was shared with Anne. The girls had bombarded her with so much personal information about themselves that Charlie’s head was reeling. Part of her was attracted to their hippie and somewhat irregular lifestyle – she had after all come to London looking for fun and excitement – but the other, more conventional side of her was wary. The talk of drugs made her nervous, the flat was a bit dirty and she wasn’t sure she could learn to fit in.

  Meg was very much their leader, outspoken, forceful, with strong opinions about everything.

  Although Beth was small, dainty and blonde, and by far the prettiest of the three, she was a true extrovert. Her rainbow-painted eyes were alight with mischief, and her zany patchwork trousers could only be worn by someone with a big personality. When she told Charlie it was her intention to become one of London’s top fashion designers, Charlie had no doubt she would get there.

  Anne was the most reserved and the plainest of the three – tall, a bit overweight, with long, straight, light brown hair which almost reached her waist. Meg rather unkindly likened her large, limpid brown eyes to a cow’s, but in fact they were beautiful and very expressive. The Day-Glo astrology posters were her work, perhaps heavily influenced by Meg, rather than her own imagination, but technically brilliant. Interestingly enough, Anne was clearly the only domestically minded of the three. Several times in the hour-long visit she brought up the subject of a need for greater cleanliness in the flat, and looked to Charlie as if for support.

  When she took Charlie into the bedroom at the back of the house that they were to share, this facet of her nature was proved. The large room was dark because a large tree was growing up in front of the window, but it was clean and tidy, and most of Charlie’s reservations left her.

  The furniture was very old and rather lovely. A huge carved fronted cupboard full of shelves and hanging space completely covered one wall; in front of the window was a matching large dressing-table. The two single beds were side by side with a small trunk between them. But what appealed to Charlie most was the way Anne had arranged strands of beads and old fans on the wall – there were dozens and it looked like a work of art. Anne warmed up considerably as Charlie praised it, and after discovering she didn’t smoke, she was positively beaming. ‘That’s great. I couldn’t bear to share a bedroom with a smoker,’ she said. ‘Beth and Meg’s room stinks. I hate it.’

  It seemed that Meg had already decided Charlie was to move in. She asked only the most casual of questions, informed her the rent was £3.50 a week each, to be paid to her every Saturday, and the gas, electric and phone bills were divided between them as they came in. She wanted £20 as a. deposit against unpaid bills, and said they all bought their own food, but they each put £1 in the kitty each week for bread, milk and the other things they all used.

  Charlie swallowed her anxiety about drugs, the squalid kitchen and the fact that the shared bathroom was out on the landing. It was a cheap place to live, Hornsey seemed a much nicer area than most she’d seen, the girls were warm and friendly. She decided it was an ideal place to shed her past and inhibitions, and arranged to move in the following day.

  Before Charlie went back to the guest-house to inform them she would be leaving the next day, she telephoned Andrew from a call-box at Jack Straw’s Castle, the pub where he worked.

  ‘You’re here! In London?’ he gasped when she finally got through to him. ‘I thought you must be staying with Ivor when I found your phone had been cut off.’

  Charlie told him she had wanted to surprise him and went on to give him her new address and telephone number. ‘Fantastic!’ he yelled down the phone. ‘That’s not so far away, not on my scooter. I’ve got Sunday off so I can come and see you. You do want me to come, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do, silly,’ she laughed. ‘I don’t know how I stopped myself from coming into your pub during this last week. I can’t wait to see you.’

  ‘I work funny hours,’ he said somewhat regretfully. ‘Most evenings and lunchtimes.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got an interview for a job on Monday too,’ she said. ‘It’s in a photographic laboratory in Holborn, so if I get it, I won’t be free much either.’

  ‘Is it a good job? Do you know anything about photography?’

  ‘You don’t need to, and it sounds lousy, but it was the only job at the agency that said they take almost anyone on immediately and pay them well,’ she said with a rueful laugh. ‘Apparently no one stays there long, but you can do tons of overtime when they’re busy. Its called Haagman’s, and apparently if Mrs Haagman likes me she’ll get me to start immediately. I thought it would do until I find something better.’

  Suddenly her money had run out. ‘It’s really great you’re up here,’ Andrew said over the pips. ‘I’ll phone you at the flat tomorrow.’

  Charlie arrived at Hazelmere Road by taxi at twelve-thirty the following day. Anne came down to let her in.

  ‘Meg and Beth are still in bed,’ she said as she took one of Charl
ie’s two suitcases and went on up the stairs. ‘And I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go and see my mum, so you’ll have to settle yourself in.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Charlie replied. She had hardly slept a wink last night because she was so excited. She didn’t expect or need a welcoming committee.

  In the bedroom Anne showed her which drawers were for Charlie, and pushed her clothes along in the wardrobe to make space. ‘Make yourself at home, help yourself to tea and stuff if you can stand the mess in the kitchen. I didn’t make it, Meg and Beth did, and I’ll be buggered if I’m going to make myself late for Mum by stopping to clean it up for them now. I’ll be back about five, I expect.’

  Charlie stowed her clothes away, made up her bed with her own sheets, then as Meg and Beth still hadn’t surfaced, she went into the kitchen. Anne was right, it was even more disgusting than the night before, dirty saucepans filling the sink, piles of unwashed crockery and rubbish everywhere.

  Looking at the room objectively, Charlie could see there was really no need for such squalor. It was a long, thin room, almost like a ship’s galley, but the units all down one side were modern, imitation-wood Formica, even the gas cooker was quite new. If the big sash window at the end were cleaned, and perhaps pretty curtains or a blind put up there, it could be quite nice.

  It occurred to Charlie as she started to clean it up that she was possibly making a rod for her own back, but apart from the fact that she couldn’t bear even to make a cup of tea for herself there as it was now, she wanted the other girls’ approval.

  An hour and a half later it was finished. Every pan and plate had been washed and put away, surfaces cleaned, rubbish taken downstairs, and the filthy floor which didn’t appear to have been swept, much less washed in weeks, scrubbed. She’d even cleaned the window inside and out, sitting on the sill and pulling the window down on her lap. Yet curiously it was the most satisfying thing she’d done in a long time. She just wished Meg and Beth would get up soon so they could see it.