About the Book
From the seedy backstreets of London’s Soho in the 60s to the tough, sexy world of international rock-stardom in the 70s, Georgia sees it all…
When nine-year-old orphan Georgia James is unexpectedly fostered by the kindly Celia and her bank manager husband she can hardly believe her luck. But then – on her fifteenth birthday – she suffers the cruellest betrayal of all at the hands of her foster father and is forced to run away, leaving everything she loves behind her.
Penniless, sleeping rough, Georgia is soon introduced to the sleazy Soho world of brassy strippers, sweat shops, camaraderie and hardship. Fired by a fierce ambition, blessed with an extraordinary voice, her long struggle for fame and fortune begins. But even when she reaches the top she finds that the scars of the past can open up to ruin her…
Lesley Pearse was born in Rochester, Kent, but has lived in Bristol for over twenty-five years. She has three daughters and a grandson. She is the bestselling author of nineteen novels, including Ellie, Georgia, Tara, Camellia and Charity, all five of which are published by Arrow. She is one of the UK’s best loved novelists with fans across the globe and sales of over three million copies of her books to date.
Also by Lesley Pearse
Tara*
Charity*
Ellie*
Camellia*
Rosie
Charlie
Never Look Back
Trust Me
Father Unknown
Till We Meet Again
Remember Me
Secrets
A Lesser Evil
Hope
Faith
Gypsy
Stolen
Belle
* Also available in Arrow Books
Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Lesley Pearse
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781409043942
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Published by Arrow Books 2011
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Lesley Pearse 1993
Lesley Pearse has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
Quotation in chapter 25 from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 1993 by William Heinemann
First published in Great Britain in paperback in 1993 by Mandarin Paperbacks
First published in paperback by Arrow Books in 1998
Arrow Books
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099557456
To my girls, Lucy, Sammy and Jo; without your love and support I couldn’t have written it.
A big thank you too for the real Georgia who was friend, confidante and inspiration.
Chapter 1
Grove Park, South London, February 1954
Clanking keys and a ponderous step woke Georgia. Her ear was so finely tuned she knew which nun was coming, even her exact position.
It was Sister Agnes. Some of the nuns moved up the stairs in one fluid movement, some panted and huffed, pausing to rest halfway, but Sister Agnes despite her bulk and age ploughed on steadily to the top, her breath wheezing faintly.
She had reached the top now, passing the long, narrow, barred window, on her way to ring the early morning bell.
Georgia sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. A murky grey light showed up twelve iron beds, six to each side of the large room. Small mounds in each, still fast asleep.
The heavy footsteps moved away from her dormitory, down towards where the bell hung on the wall just outside the big girls’ room. Another pair of feet were coming down the stairs from the floor above, this time light and bouncy, almost running as they went on down further. That would be Sister Theresa on her way to make Mother Superior’s early morning tea.
A whimper made Georgia’s head turn to the bed on her left. As the child stirred, so an unmistakable acrid smell of urine wafted across to her nostrils.
‘Pamela!’ she hissed. ‘Aggie will be in here any minute, run for the bathroom. I’ll try and cover for you.’
The bell rang out in the uncarpeted corridor, drowning Pamela’s reply and as the last echo reverberated round the convent, so heavy feet thudded towards them.
Pamela’s first cry had been one of dismay to find she was wet, but her second was one of terror. Instead of shooting out of her bed, and running like a hare out of harm’s way, she just cowered, small arms over her head, waiting for the beating she knew would soon come.
Georgia knew to protect Pamela she had to create a diversion. Tossing back her covers she leapt into the air.
Sister Agnes paused momentarily in the doorway in time to see Georgia’s trial bounce, landing feet apart, hands clutching her pyjama trousers.
‘Get down this minute!’ she shouted. The child looked like a chimney-sweep. As thin as a stick in oversized striped pyjamas, her crop of black curls standing out like a wire brush.
One hand flew up to hold down the starched wimple, the other lifted her habit clear of the floor.
‘How dare you?’ her voice rasped as she swept down the room indignantly.
Georgia merely grinned at her, a yellow-brown face cut in two with the flash of white teeth. Another small bounce quickly followed by a stronger one, and she had flipped herself over and landed on her feet again, just yards from the exasperated nun. She had perfected this somersault only days earlier in the playroom, where she had launched herself from an old couch on to cushions in front of an enthusiastic audience. But landing on cold, hard lino had jarred her legs and back and she toppled back aga
inst the bed rail.
‘Morning, Sister Agnes,’ she panted, hauling the baggy trousers back to her waist. ‘Did you see how good it was?’
Sister Agnes was the oldest nun in the convent. Humourless, mean-spirited and cruel. Black hairs sprouted from her white flabby chin, a hooked nose with a jiggling wart next to it vying for attention, and sharp piggy eyes that could spot a misdemeanour almost through a wooden door.
‘This is a dormitory, not a gymnasium,’ she sniffed. ‘You are nine, it’s high time you set a good example to the younger girls.’
Instinctively the old nun knew Georgia was trying to distract her, and insolent interference was something she wouldn’t tolerate. Georgia infuriated her. Not only was she scrawny with huge eyes that dominated her yellowy face, but also endless punishments and beatings couldn’t wipe her ear-to-ear grin away. Despite her skinniness and her mixed blood she had managed to become the leader of the younger girls and worse still she was encouraging them all in acts of disobedience.
‘I’ll deal with you later,’ Sister Agnes swept the dormitory with her sharp eyes. Small girls jumping into their navy blue knickers, eyes avoiding her. ‘What’s been going on in here?’
‘There was a noise,’ Georgia sidled away from the Sister, rolling her eyes round the room in pretended alarm. ‘I think a bird’s got in again.’
It was all she could think of on the spur of the moment. Only last summer a pigeon had found its way in and to the children’s amusement Sister nearly had hysterics. The way she had sped from the room as the bird flapped around her veil was something they still giggled about.
‘We heard it too,’ a chorus of agreement came from three of Georgia’s closest allies. As they struggled into grey skirts and jumpers, they nodded at one another, waving their hands as if to indicate the flight path.
Sister spun round, her hands reaching up to her veil, eyes scanning, ears straining for the sound of wings or cooing. Jennifer, the youngest child in the dormitory, stood with her thumb in her mouth, her pyjama jacket almost reaching her thin, scabby knees.
Every girl was poised expectantly, breath like smoke in the cold air, eyes alternating between the hesitant nun and Georgia. Bravery vanished as the big woman turned slowly. Each girl blanched under her inspection, fingers hastily fumbling for buttons, eyes downcast. At best she was as sour as a crab apple, angry, she was dangerous.
‘Come here, girl.’ Sister’s voice echoed round the bare room. Her chins were quivering ominously, her face turning puce.
Georgia cast one frantic look at Pamela, hoping she had the sense to move now, then sauntered over to Sister.
Sister caught her shoulder with one hand, her other swung out and hit Georgia with her full strength across the face.
Georgia stumbled back against a bed rail catching her side with a crack. A rustle came from Pamela’s bed on the other side of the room. Georgia gritted her teeth, willing Sister not to turn and catch sight of the girl. But Sister’s sharp ears had picked up the sound too. She wheeled round and at the same time her nose twitched furiously. The hasty dressing was halted. Ten mouths dropped open in horror, Jennifer sucked vigorously on her thumb. Pamela just stood by her bed. Pyjamas steaming, fists covering her eyes, whimpering and shaking with fear.
She was a quiet, nervous child, still in the throes of grief from losing her mother. Straggly brown hair, a slight squint and a tendency towards fatness hadn’t endeared her to anyone other than Georgia.
‘Seven years old and you still wet the bed,’ Sister’s bellow caused yet another trickle to splash on to the floor. ‘You are worse than an animal, even they don’t lie in their own filth!’
One claw shot out, grabbing the terrified child who didn’t have the sense to run, and with the other she boxed her ears so hard that Pamela fell to the floor.
The sheer force of Sister’s attack made Georgia spring forward. ‘Don’t you dare!’ she yelled, lungeing at the black habit. She saw one heavy black shoe swing forward to kick the helpless child and she pummelled her fists against the nun’s wide posterior. ‘She can’t help it. You only make her more frightened. Leave her alone you bully!’
The other children hopped from foot to foot on the icy lino. One of the older girls caught hold of Jennifer and began helping her to dress, anxious to get her out of the way.
Sister turned and caught Georgia by the wrists. Her face was purple now, her thin lips curling back.
‘Get downstairs and fill the coal scuttles,’ she roared, spittle spraying the child’s face. ‘You won’t get away with this insolence.’
Georgia backed away to her pile of clothes. If she said another word it was quite likely Sister would lock her in the cupboard they used as a punishment cell. Bread and water only, crouching in that black hole until bedtime, without even a blanket to wrap round her. She couldn’t help Pamela any further and she wanted her breakfast.
Later, as Georgia knelt in the outhouse shovelling coal, she could hear Pamela crying in the bathroom. It wasn’t even screams of anger, just a wail of distress.
She could picture the scene. Sister Agnes would have her standing in a bath of cold water, scrubbing at her with a brush. Pinching, slapping and all the time lashing her with jibes about her bedwetting.
There’d be no breakfast for her. While the other girls ate their porridge, Pamela would be alone in the laundry, crying as she struggled to wash the sheets. Why did Aggie think punishment would make her stop doing it? Even Georgia knew Pamela couldn’t help it.
‘Aggie’s evil,’ she chanted to herself as she wielded the shovel, banging it down hard on the coal, pretending Sister Agnes was under it. ‘Why doesn’t someone stop her?’
Georgia was always being punished, if she dawdled coming home from school, if she talked during meals or giggled in the chapel, so much so that it hardly concerned her any longer. She learned to accept that Sister Agnes would never like her, along with accepting she was a different colour from the other girls. It even amused her when Sister called her ‘Devil’s spawn’; it reminded her of tadpoles in the tank at school.
She had mentioned it to Sister Mary once and her laughter had banished any sinister thoughts.
‘You are like a little tadpole,’ her blue eyes twinkled. ‘But you’ll change into a beautiful woman, just you wait.’
Until she was five or six there had always been the possibility she might be adopted one day. Most Sundays couples came to St Joseph’s looking for a child to love. Some old, some young, some rich with cars and fur coats, some ordinary like the other girls’ mothers at school. But they all had one thing in common, they wanted pretty blonde girls with blue eyes, the younger and sweeter the better.
There had been times when Georgia tried the ploys the other girls used. Climbing on to laps, tugging at clothes, beguiling smiles, letting her eyes fill with tears, but all she ever heard was the same remark.
‘She’s a nice little thing, but we couldn’t cope with mixed race I’m afraid.’
Georgia sighed deeply as she hauled the two heavy coal buckets across the yard and down the stone steps into the kitchen. She was resigned to staying here until she was fifteen and found a job. At least she had school.
Most of the other girls hated school more than the convent. They were singled out as different from other children, not only by the way they were shepherded across the busy main road by one of the nuns, but by their badly fitting clothes, heavy shoes and lack-lustre hair. But to Georgia every day at school was an adventure, a chance to see the outside world, to learn about things and places, to feel normal.
She liked the pictures on the walls and growing beans in blotting paper, mixing powder paint and making puppets, the percussion band and stories. But most of all she liked Miss Powell and her music.
Miss Powell was the headmistress. She had a kind of glamour in her dark suits and white frilly blouses, her blonde wavy hair swept up at the back. But when she sat at the piano and played, that was the very best.
Hymns, sea shant
ies, folk songs, beautiful haunting melodies that made pictures in Georgia’s head. Without Miss Powell perhaps Georgia would never have found she could sing!
Singing made her feel good. She could forget the convent and Sister Agnes, her dark skin and the people who didn’t want a mixed-race child. When she sang people looked at her and listened, even her own teacher who grumbled because she didn’t learn her multiplication tables looked proud of her.
‘You’ve been given a very special gift Georgia.’ Miss Powell had smiled down at her the day she picked her to be Archangel Gabriel in the school nativity play. ‘I’ve chosen you because your voice can do justice to the beauty of Christmas. I want everyone to be as proud of you as I am.’
That afternoon in December when she had stood on the stage wrapped in a white sheet with a tinsel halo, hearing applause ringing out round the assembly hall, had been the best moment in her life.
‘In the Bleak Mid-Winter’ seemed so appropriate now as she rinsed the coal dust from her hands before joining the other children for breakfast. Her cheeks were icy, her hands and thighs chapped with the cold, and right now Sister Agnes was plotting her punishment.
When Sister Agnes didn’t retaliate immediately after the usual Saturday breakfast of porridge and boiled eggs, Georgia put punishment out of her mind. Keeping warm outside in the playground was more important than worrying what might happen later.
St Joseph’s gave the impression of being a large country house. The gravelled drive, the sweeping lawn, the walled kitchen garden and the old knarled trees were all from a more elegant period.
In fact the large house was only a stone’s throw from Grove Park station in South London. Minutes away were rows of shops and a street busy with cars and buses.
Three floors, with basement and attics, it was too large to heat adequately. The once gracious drawing and dining rooms were now draughty dormitories. Only Mother Superior’s sitting room held any comfort. Even the small chapel on the first floor was gradually becoming dingy through lack of maintenance.
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