She saw too that the other girls did know. Maybe like her they’d been duped in the first place, but they knew now and it didn’t bother them. Overheard conversations took on new meanings now she knew the truth. Kate, one of the oldest of the girls, came back into the dressing-room grinning from ear to ear on Monday afternoon. ‘I cut his session short,’ she said. ‘I opened my legs and let him have a good look. He came straight away.’
Just two days before Josie would have imagined she was only talking about making the photographer move closer or something like that. Yet now she saw the situation in all its awfulness – these men didn’t just look, they relieved themselves while they were at it.
She worked out for herself that the only times she’d really been photographed was when Beetle kept her back after the other girls had gone, or got her in early. Those were the only times when he was fussy about what she wore, or checked her makeup and hair. This was probably why the other girls didn’t speak to her too, they were jealous that she was getting some real modelling work.
Yet that didn’t make up for all the times she’d been one of four girls in the studio, bathed in bright light and unable to see what was going on beyond them. It was almost laughable that she’d tried so hard to look gorgeous and alluring, she might just as well have slipped her top off or exposed her private parts and got it over with twice as fast.
But she said nothing to anyone, not even Beetle. When he asked her in private how it had gone with Mark, she made herself look as innocent as possible and said she really didn’t know, he hadn’t said much. Yet she was burning with anger inside, for the money she’d wasted on the sort of underwear she would never want to wear anywhere else, or the pair of long black boots which pinched her toes and were so high she couldn’t walk in them, but most of all for being made a fool of by Beetle and his treacherous girls.
By Friday evening she knew she couldn’t stomach any more, and she was just weighing up whether she should hang on in the flat till the end of the month, living on what she’d earned this week, or go home now before the loneliness drove her mad, when the door-bell rang.
She jumped. Apart from the man who delivered her bed, the bell had never been rung since she got here. As she ran down the stairs she hoped it might be Mark, but she was so down now that she didn’t really think that was likely. Yet it was him and he asked if he could come up.
Josie was embarrassed when he glanced around the flat and looked surprised at how bare it was, with not even a chair for him to sit on. But he made no remark, just sat down on the floor as if that was quite normal and offered her a cigarette.
‘The pictures were good,’ he said, without showing any expression. ‘I think I can work with you, but I have to tell you now it will be on my terms. Whatever I ask you to do, you do it.’
Josie thought this was another trap, that maybe he wanted to take pornographic pictures of her. She didn’t trust anyone now.
‘I’m not taking my clothes off,’ she said nervously. ‘So if that’s what you want me for, you’d better forget it.’
‘I’m a serious photographer,’ he said sternly. ‘If I wanted to take pictures of naked girls I would find one older and better endowed than you. Now, listen to me.’
Much of what he said went over her head. Then he went on to describe the kind of photography he was noted for, and showed her a small notebook of prints. All of them were of people, strange-looking in the main – black people, old people, tramps, tired-looking women pushing prams. One was of a group of both black and white people with angry faces as if they were about to start fighting. Josie became even more puzzled.
‘My plan for you is that we kind of chart your progress since you came to London. Arriving at the station with no money, working as a waitress and living in a slum. It’s a human interest story, Jojo, people love them, especially when little Cinderella gets to go to the ball in the end and marries the Prince.’
Josie couldn’t bring herself to admit she didn’t understand what he was talking about. He’d already commented the previous time she’d seen him that girls would have to be stupid not to know what was going on at Beetle’s. Well, she knew now that they did all know, all except her, so she was the only fool.
‘Story?’ she said, thinking that was one point which wouldn’t make her look too dense. ‘Do you mean someone will write it?’
He nodded. ‘A journalist, and I’ll do the pictures. Bit by bit the readers will see you becoming transformed, as you buy more fashionable clothes and get to know people here in London. At that point we’re going to be approached by model agencies, they’ll all be competing to get you. But I shall insist that I take all the photographs.’
He said he already had a journalist lined up, and that tomorrow they would start working on her arrival in London. He asked her to go and get dressed in whatever she’d worn the day she first came to the city.
‘This is it,’ she said as she came out of the bedroom wearing jeans and a white sleeveless blouse. ‘I haven’t really got to wear this though, have I? The jeans are horrible ones.’
Mark had to stifle a laugh; she really did look as though she’d come up from the sticks. The jeans were the cheap kind from Millet’s, and fitted where they touched; the blouse was rayon and shapeless.
‘You look just how I want you to look,’ he said. ‘Except I want you to part your hair in the middle and put it in bunches.’
Her expression of horror proved she hadn’t worn it that way for a very long time and didn’t ever want to be seen like that again.
‘I know best,’ he said gently. ‘It’s kind of acting, Jojo. I’ll be taking these pictures on a crowded station, I want you to look lost and forlorn – I’m sure you did look that way when you first arrived.’
She couldn’t argue with that, she could remember how desperate she’d felt when she was sitting on the wall in Ladbroke Grove before Fee spoke to her. At least he wasn’t suggesting taking her off to some studio where anything might happen.
‘How will I get paid?’ she asked, more out of bravado and to prove she wasn’t a complete fool than really wanting to know at this point.
‘I shall pay your rent when it comes due next. I can’t give you money like Beetle does. But if you want to carry on doing a few more sessions with him each week, that’s all right with me.’
‘I can’t go back there,’ she said in alarm, just the thought of it made her tearful. ‘I’d already planned that I wasn’t going to.’
Mark smiled. That’s what he’d hoped she’d say. He didn’t want Beetle getting wind of any of this just yet. By the time he did, he’d be under police surveillance, if not arrested. That was all to be part of the story.
‘Well, that’s fine, there’s always waitresses needed in the King’s Road, you could do a few days’ work a week for pocket money.’
‘You’ll really pay my rent?’ she asked. ‘It’s a hundred pounds a month!’
‘Yes, I’ll pay it, but it will be a loan until you start earning big money again. I don’t think it will be very long, just as long as you do as I say and keep all this to yourself.’
‘I haven’t got anyone to tell,’ she said, and the thought of that made her want to cry again.
Mark saw her lips tremble and he realized that was entirely true. ‘You will make new friends soon,’ he said, momentarily feeling a little sorry for her. ‘There will come a time when you’ll be very glad to escape up here on your own, I promise you. But I’ve got to go now. Tomorrow afternoon at half past four I want you to go to Paddington station, dressed just like I said, except you can put a cardigan on as it’s likely to be chilly. No makeup other than a bit of mascara, and put some things in your case to make it heavy. I’ll meet you there.’
It was quarter past five when Mark arrived at the station; he’d delayed his arrival purposely, knowing she’d get into a panic when she couldn’t see him. The station was very busy as the first rush of commuters made their way home, and as always at this time of day it was a
dirty and unpleasant place to be.
He spotted her immediately; her hair was like a beacon. She was standing with her case by the newspaper stand looking completely bewildered. He had worn a raincoat, with his long hair tucked up beneath a trilby hat, as he didn’t want her to notice him until he was good and ready. He took up a position by a coffee stall to take the first pictures with a zoom lens. He was stunned by how young and vulnerable she looked with her hair in bunches, yet he clicked away, delighted at how well his plan was working out.
Then a man approached Jojo. At first it seemed to Mark that he was merely asking her for directions or something harmless, for he was middle-aged and well dressed in a camel coat. But as he viewed the scene through his lens, he saw Jojo’s eyes widen in shock, and she backed away in panic.
Mark knew it was time to reveal himself, but he found he was rooted to the spot, almost enjoying Jojo’s distress as he photographed it. She was wringing her hands, alternating between looking up at the clock and around her in fear.
From Mark’s vantage point he could almost sense the predators around her, a man in his mid-twenties eyeing up a handbag left on top of a suitcase, a scruffily dressed older man wandering apparently aimlessly, but his eyes shifting from side to side. He wondered how many men were lurking around the station looking out for young girls and boys on their own, ready to offer them an ostensibly helping hand which could very well turn out to be the ruin of those young people.
Jojo moved, carrying her case over to a corner and then sitting on the top of it. At that point Mark was just about to walk over to her, when he saw through his lens that she was crying.
He felt only delight to get the pitiful picture he’d been hoping for, not a shred of sympathy that she’d be feeling let down again, or that it might be running through her mind that he was going to renege on paying her rent too. He kept clicking the camera as he walked over to her, his heart pounding because he knew he’d caught images that were potential prize-winners. Then all at once she looked up, saw him walking towards her, and, perhaps not recognizing him as Mark, but thinking he was another pervert about to try to force his attentions on her, she flew at him, her fists raised in anger.
‘Fuck off, you dirty bastard,’ she screamed at him, almost knocking the camera from his hands.
‘It’s only me, Jojo,’ he said, sidestepping her. ‘I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I got held up.’
She seemed to shrink before his eyes, all fight gone. Tears had washed tracks of mascara down her cheeks; she looked nearer ten than fifteen. ‘I thought…’ she said, but cut off what she was going to say. ‘I was scared,’ she added lamely.
‘Let’s go and have a cup of tea,’ Mark said, only too aware of people watching them. ‘I’ve got all the pictures I need, your job is over for today.’
He thought she’d be pleased, but instead she looked cheated and indignant, her eyes flashing with fire he hadn’t seen before. ‘You took pictures when I didn’t know?’ she asked, and her voice shook. ‘I wouldn’t have been looking my best!’
‘You looked just perfect to me,’ he said, and put his hand on her shoulder in an attempt at showing some affection. ‘Now, let’s have some tea and cake.’
Chapter Thirteen
Ellen saw her father’s old truck parked outside Truro station and ran towards it through the rain. Her small suitcase was heavy with Christmas presents, banging against her legs as she ran. But as she got closer to the truck she knew there was something badly wrong, her father’s face was taut with anger.
A cold chill ran down her spine. Had he found out about the baby somehow?
‘Hello, Dad,’ she said nervously as she opened the truck door. She supposed if he got too nasty with her she could go and stay with the Peters. They wouldn’t turn her away at Christmas. ‘Is something wrong? You look awfully fierce.’
‘It’s bloody Josie,’ he snapped. ‘She’s shamed us all.’
Ellen’s last visit home had been back in August. Since then she’d received two letters from Josie. Her first reaction was one of hurt, as Josie hadn’t asked anything about her baby. Not what sex it was, its weight or how Ellen had coped with giving it up. All she wrote about was herself.
But reminding herself Josie was only fifteen, still a child really, Ellen put the hurt aside and was pleased for her sister that she’d managed to get into modelling. She sounded happy in London, and the lack of address on the letters was understandable, given Josie’s fear that Violet might turn up on her doorstep. It was sad for Ellen to think she couldn’t write back, but she had taken Dr Fordham’s advice to get on with her own life, and if Josie didn’t feel she could trust her, well that was her problem.
Thoughts of the baby still tormented her, and she often cried at night over her, wishing there had been a way she could have kept her. But once Catherine was six months old, she’d had to sign the final papers and the adoption was then legal and binding.
Shortly after that she had a letter from the adoptive couple, sent via Dr Fordham. That letter gave her far more than she’d ever hoped for, every little detail: what she ate, that she had three teeth and more coming, and that she was a happy, placid baby who smiled and gurgled all the time.
Aside from all the detail, Ellen was deeply touched by the way they thanked her for what they called ‘her gift to them’. They said Catherine had given them more happiness than they could measure and they understood at what cost to her. They said that they sincerely hoped she too would find happiness and success in her life, and that when Catherine was old enough to understand they intended to tell her she had been adopted.
There were also three photographs, one taken in a studio, the other two in their home. Catherine was as fat as butter now, with a few tufts of hair sticking up and a wide, gleeful smile. Those photographs meant everything to Ellen, for they bore out all that Catherine’s new parents had said, and more. She could look at them whenever she wanted, and although it would always be painful to know she’d allowed her child to be taken from her, she knew she had secured Catherine a far better life than she could have given her.
Now she was able to look ahead, for it was done and there was no going back. In the spring she intended to start to look around for another job, perhaps with children in a residential home. While she knew the Sandersons weren’t going to be very pleased, as they’d come to rely on her completely, she wasn’t going to let that stop her. She felt she was entitled to a job that had set hours so she could go out or away for a weekend without having to beg for it. She also thought she deserved more than the three pounds a week pocket money she got now.
As the truck roared away, Ellen turned to her father. ‘Shamed us? Whatever has she done?’ she asked, not only relieved that it wasn’t her that was in trouble, but a little amused at his old-fashioned turn of phrase. ‘Shamed us all’ smacked of Victorian melodrama.
A year influenced by the Sandersons’ modern outlook, plus reading extensively on childcare and development, had made Ellen look closely at the way she had been brought up. While she didn’t feel hard done by, she thought most child psychologists would consider her and Josie lucky to have turned out so well adjusted.
‘What’s she done?’ her father roared over the noise of the truck engine. ‘Haven’t you seen the paper?’
It was too noisy in the truck to get the full story, but as soon as they got to Beacon Farm her father thrust the previous Sunday’s paper at her. It wasn’t the paper the Sandersons read, but one of the more down-market tabloids. Ellen was shocked to see a large picture of Josie looking very forlorn on a London railway station. She was sitting on her suitcase crying. The headline above it said Do you know this girl? Then there was an article which stated that the award-winning photographer Mark Kinsale had taken the picture and was now haunted by what might have become of her.
As Ellen read on about the many youngsters who flocked to the big cities, her heart began to pound with fear for her sister. According to the article they were targets for unscru
pulous employers, usually in catering or in the dress-manufacturing sweatshops and, more frightening still, in the Soho sex industry. It said the only places they could afford to live were shared rooms in some of London’s worst slum areas, where they could easily be induced into crime to supplement their low wages.
‘I rang that bloody paper and they wouldn’t help me,’ her father raged, while Violet stared stony-faced at Ellen as if it was somehow her fault. ‘They said she must have been unhappy at home to run away. How does that make me look?’
‘I can’t see why you think she’s shamed you though,’ Ellen said. ‘They haven’t said she’s done anything wrong, have they? She sounded well and happy in the two letters I’ve had. She’s been gone nearly six months now, so this picture is an old one.’
‘So you know where she is then?’ Violet pushed past Albert and stuck her face right up to Ellen’s. ‘She didn’t put an address on our letters.’
‘Nor mine,’ Ellen said, wishing she hadn’t come home now. ‘I haven’t any idea where she is. She said she had lots of new friends now and she was doing some modelling.’
Ellen’s previously good spirits plummeted as Violet raged about her daughter and once again said she held Ellen responsible. All at once Ellen knew she had to fight back or get this kind of treatment every time she came home. Her father was silent now but he still had a thunderous expression and she thought he should at least have asked how she was getting on in her job.
‘Don’t take it out on me or I’ll be off too,’ she finally said when she could stand it no longer. ‘It isn’t my fault at all, and well you know it. Look to yourself if you want someone to blame.’
Father Unknown Page 21