Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  Georgia hesitated as they came to her own bag under the lamp-post.

  ‘Well that’s something,’ she said as she bent to pick it up too. ‘I left a bag somewhere this morning and when I went back it was gone. Now where to?’

  ‘Just here.’ The girl pointed to a door right next to the side of the café where Georgia had smelt meat pies. She now looked faint, her colour turning from white to pale green and clearly she hardly knew what Georgia was saying. ‘Can you open the door?’

  Georgia took the keys from the girl’s shaking hand. As she opened the door she could make out a narrow hallway with steep stairs ahead, the dank smell which wafted out suggested dirt and neglect.

  ‘There’s no light bulb,’ the girl said feebly. Georgia had a feeling she was about to be sick.

  ‘How far up is it?’ she asked.

  ‘The top,’ the girl sighed.

  Georgia dropped the bags on the floor, bent down and picked the girl up, hoisting her over her shoulder.

  ‘Just hang on, I’ll get you up there,’ she said, feeling her way in the darkness.

  Once past the bend of the stairs Georgia saw a glimmer of light ahead. The acrid smell indicated a bathroom. She slid her hand round the door and found a light switch.

  It worked and gave Georgia enough light to continue up to the top.

  The girl was so light it was like holding a small child, even through her thick coat Georgia could feel her bones.

  There was only one door at the top. Still holding the girl Georgia unlocked the door and walked in with her.

  One naked lightbulb lit up a pitiful attic room.

  It was big with sloping ceilings that went from seven feet down to three on the window side. Untidy, a little dirty but the overall feeling was one of poverty.

  Georgia put the girl in one of the two old armchairs, unsure whether she should go or stay. It was icy cold, yet when she glanced down at the girl she noticed beads of sweat on her forehead, mingling with the blood and the greeny tinge to her face was even more noticeable.

  ‘You look sick,’ she said, looking round frantically for something to give her. Under the sink in the corner was a plastic bucket. She picked it up and handed it to her.

  The girl retched violently. Georgia averted her eyes, trying hard not to gag, and knelt down to light the gas fire.

  Looking closer, the room was almost as comfortless as the one she’d seen earlier in the day. Two single old-fashioned beds, both with blankets just dumped on them like two heaps of rubbish. Armchairs with stuffing coming out of them, a table strewn with cups, plates and a sauce bottle. An old white sink was sandwiched in one corner with an ancient cooker, and a battered wardrobe with the door hanging open stood against the wall. Even the square of carpet was so old and dirty no real pattern was visible and the faded and peeling paper on the walls had patches of black mould.

  Again and again the girl was sick. Georgia’s empty stomach turned over as streams of vomit gushed into the bucket. She wanted to run out, away from the rancid smell, the miserable room and this odd, crippled girl.

  Everything had happened so quickly, a turn of events so unexpected that for a moment she had forgotten her own predicament. But it could be an important turn, at least she might be able to have a cup of tea if she stayed.

  ‘Let me bathe your forehead,’ she said, going over to the sink and dampening a face flannel.

  ‘I don’t know how I would have managed without you.’ The girl looked up at Georgia. ‘You’ve been so kind.’

  She had the biggest, greenest eyes Georgia had ever seen. As intense as traffic lights, fringed with red-brown lashes, her skin so white it was almost transparent.

  ‘Are you feeling better now?’ Georgia tried hard not to look at the brown mess in the bucket, still in the girl’s hands. She bathed the wound gently, holding her breath so she wouldn’t smell the vomit.

  A flush of embarrassment spread across the girl’s face.

  ‘Yes,’ she said weakly, trying to get up. ‘But I need to empty this.’

  ‘Let me,’ Georgia said, ‘I’ll get the bags we left downstairs. Stay where you are.’

  As Georgia made her way back down the stairs with the evil-smelling bucket, she wanted to run. There was food in the bags and probably money in the handbag. She didn’t owe this girl anything, she didn’t even know her name.

  Nothing had prepared her for the bathroom. It was filthy. The bath was ingrained with dirt, even a spider had climbed in and died. The walls above grubby white tiles were flaking and festering with mould. The toilet was corroded with limescale, the smell catching her in the back of her throat. Cracked lino, encrusted with dirt. Even the ancient geyser hanging over the bath was daubed with more filth.

  She gagged as she tipped the bucket into the toilet. Holding it at arm’s length she filled it with water and swilled it round. How could anyone live in such a place? It made her think of slums her mother spoke of over in Hackney.

  Leaving the bucket by the bathroom door, she went on downstairs, feeling her way in the darkness.

  Her coat was still on, her belongings down here, she could be far away by the time the girl upstairs had the energy to come and look.

  Looking over her shoulder back up the stairs, she rifled quickly through the girl’s shopping, smelling rather than seeing. A loaf, some corned beef in greaseproof paper, eggs, cheese and bananas. She was so hungry it was all she could do not to rip the bread apart now and wolf it down.

  The other bag contained some tins, potatoes and other vegetables along with the knitting.

  Then there was the handbag.

  It was just a cheap plastic one, with a handle so worn it could break any minute, so different from the good leather one she’d lost in the dustcart.

  ‘Have you found the bathroom?’ The girl’s voice wafted down the stairs.

  Georgia hesitated, her fingers on the bag clasp.

  ‘Yes. I’m just coming,’ she called back up through the darkness.

  She couldn’t do it. Not to a crippled girl. There had to be another way.

  ‘It’s awful down there isn’t it?’ The girl looked up as Georgia came in with the shopping bags and her own holdall. ‘Whatever must you think?’

  ‘In my position I can’t think anything,’ Georgia managed a weak smile. ‘Let me make you some tea?’

  ‘I’m Helen,’ the girl turned in her chair and smiled. The greeny tinge had gone, her pixie-like face arrestingly white against the vivid red hair, yet a faint pink tinge had come back into her cheeks. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Georgia.’ She moved over to the sink and filled the kettle, speaking over her shoulder. The sink was full of unwashed crockery and saucepans. ‘Is it all right if I wash these things up?’

  ‘What did you mean, “You couldn’t afford to feel anything?”’ Helen’s voice had a note of anxiety. Georgia turned on the hot tap wondering how she could explain.

  ‘Blow the geyser!’ the girl said sharply. ‘It’ll light up then.’

  Georgia blew and a sheet of flame leapt up, the water turned warm under her fingers, the first time she had been able to feel them all day.

  ‘Come on, what did you mean?’

  Georgia gulped.

  ‘I haven’t any money. I was just waiting for the club over the road to open when I saw you. I was going to ask for a job as a dancer.’

  The girl got up, Georgia saw she was still shaking.

  ‘Stay where you are.’ She pushed her back into the chair. ‘Have some tea before anything else.’

  ‘But it’s a strip club,’ Helen said faintly. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Don’t I look like a stripper?’ Georgia tried to laugh, but she was blushing. She pulled off her woolly hat and shook her hair free.

  ‘No you don’t,’ Helen retorted. ‘You look about fifteen, cold and hungry. Have you run away?’

  ‘Sort of.’ She avoided further questions by noisily washing the dishes. All she could think of was drinking hot, sweet tea
, maybe a slice of that bread in the bag.

  Even the room didn’t look so bad now. It was getting warmer, it was even growing cosy. Should she tell the girl everything? What if she turned her over to the police?

  ‘Tell me.’ Helen’s voice sounded sweet and warm as she handed her a mug of tea. ‘I know you don’t belong around here.’

  As the warm sweet liquid went down, and the heat from the fire thawed out her icy toes so she felt able to tell a version of the truth.

  ‘I had a row with my foster father,’ she said. ‘I can’t go back. But I lost all my money today and I don’t know what to do.’

  Helen reached out and touched Georgia’s knee. ‘Stay and have some tea with me for now. But don’t go to that club, Georgia. That’s a last resort.’

  She got up to remove her coat and held out a hand for Georgia’s too.

  Helen prepared a meal then. Fried potatoes, corned beef and egg. She didn’t pry further, merely chatted about general things, the market, her landlord who owned the café on the corner and the two jobs she had.

  ‘I work on a stall in the afternoons and Saturdays,’ she said. ‘Then four nights a week I’m a cloakroom attendant in a nightclub.’

  They sat at the table close to the fire to eat. Georgia wolfed hers down, hardly tasting it, pouring cup after cup of tea from the big brown pot.

  Only when they were finished and sitting back in the armchairs did Helen bring the subject back to Georgia.

  ‘You haven’t told me why you ran away,’ her green eyes watchful, but sympathetic. ‘Would you like to know about my first days in London.’

  Helen was certainly the strangest person Georgia had ever met. She looked so frail, yet a bright vitality shone out of the big green eyes. She claimed to have no real friends but she was as easy and comfortable to be with as Christine had been. The untidy, grubby room didn’t go with her neat but old-fashioned appearance. Even the fiery, shiny hair waving over her small shoulders seemed to belong to another century where ladies had alabaster skin and kept their limbs covered at all times. She sat like a prim governess, knees and feet closely together, back straight, her boots concealed under the long brown dress, the only decoration a skimpy, cream lace collar. No one would guess that just outside her window was London’s red light district.

  ‘Did you run away too?’

  ‘Hobbled,’ Helen half smiled. ‘I was seventeen, in a home for handicapped kids down in Plymouth. I knew if I didn’t get out under my own steam they’d find me something they considered suitable for a cripple.’

  She used the word ‘cripple’ like Georgia used the word ‘black’, getting it in first as if to protect herself.

  ‘What’s the matter with your leg?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘An injury when I was little,’ Helen said lightly. ‘I’m going to have an operation soon to put it right.’

  ‘Why London?’ Georgia sensed the girl wasn’t keen to talk about her leg, or her background.

  ‘Same reason as you I expect. A place to disappear, start again. When you’re a kid it seems the place where dreams come true.’

  ‘But yours didn’t?’ Georgia glanced around her, noting how few possessions the girl had, a feeling that it was only intended as a temporary home, yet poverty had trapped her.

  ‘Well my dreams were a bit far-fetched,’ Helen laughed. ‘I thought I’d meet a millionaire, he’d whisk me off to the Ritz, you know, all that silly stuff.’

  ‘But you found a job and a home!’

  ‘Yes,’ Helen frowned. ‘Eventually, and it’s not much to brag about is it? But believe me I’ve seen worse, especially the first few nights.’

  ‘I slept in a cardboard box last night,’ Georgia sighed. ‘I thought I’d die of cold.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Helen smiled in sympathy. ‘I spent mine in St James’s Park. It was summer so it wasn’t so cold but I was scared witless. I didn’t have a clue about anything.’

  ‘How did you get this place then?’

  Helen shook her head, blushing a little.

  ‘That came later,’ she said uneasily, as if wondering whether she should divulge everything. She looked up at Georgia defiantly. ‘I let a man take me in.’

  Georgia was reminded of the man who approached her the night before.

  ‘You mean?’ she couldn’t actually say it.

  ‘Not for money,’ Helen shot back. ‘I just accepted a bed for the night. I suppose that amounts to the same thing, but then I was desperate.’

  ‘Was it awful?’ Georgia whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ Helen winced. ‘He didn’t hurt me or anything, but he was weird. He made me feel so dirty. After about three days I started to get frightened. I heard him talking about me to a friend on the telephone. I think he was intending to let this chap,’ she broke off blushing. ‘Well, you know!’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I nicked his money,’ Helen giggled, blushing again. ‘He left his wallet behind when he went out. By the time he got back I was gone.’

  ‘That was brave.’ Georgia leaned forward in her chair, liking Helen far more for revealing she didn’t intend to become a victim. ‘What then?’

  ‘Bert in the café downstairs had an advert on his window for this room. I took it and I’ve been here ever since.’

  Georgia stared into the fire.

  Already the standards she’d been taught by Celia were eroding. All day she’d contemplated theft, she was even prepared to become a dancer in a strip show. Helen’s story made her feel a little better about herself, at least she wasn’t the only one to fall prey to temptation.

  Helen got up again, hobbled across the floor and put the kettle on again.

  ‘Are you going to tell me about yourself?’ she said gently from the sink.

  Being crippled had made Helen perceptive. At twenty-one she had spent most of her life sitting quietly at the side lines of life watching others. But Georgia baffled her. It was obvious the girl had come from a good home. Her clothes were expensive, she spoke well and had beautiful manners. Yet there was deep sadness in the girl’s eyes. Something more than a rich kid looking for adventure. Runaways were ten a penny in Soho. They bleated out their misfortunes, lied and conned. Never before had she met one where she felt compelled to tell her own shameful story to try and get them to open up.

  ‘I can’t tell you everything,’ Georgia said in a whisper, hanging her head. ‘I want to, but I can’t.’

  Helen just stood there, the kettle in her hand. The kid was so young, she might be a liability. For all Helen knew the police might be searching for her right now; if she had any sense she’d make some excuse to go out. Fetch her landlord and let him make the decision.

  ‘Stay here tonight,’ Helen said softly. ‘Maybe tomorrow you’ll find it easier.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Georgia’s head spun round to look at Helen. She could feel tears pricking her eyes at the unexpected compassion.

  ‘Quite sure.’ Helen moved nearer, passing her hand lightly over Georgia’s head in just the same motherly gesture Celia used. ‘You didn’t hesitate to help me.’

  They had more tea and biscuits. Georgia told Helen about the way she lost her money and how she’d spent the day.

  ‘Would it really be so bad to get a job as a dancer?’ she said, yawning widely.

  ‘It would in that club,’ Helen smiled. ‘But you’re tired and I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to make up the bed. I’m sorry the sheets aren’t clean. I was going to the laundrette tomorrow.’

  Georgia leapt up, grabbing the blankets and smoothing out the sheets before Helen could change her mind.

  ‘I hope you won’t mind if I use the bucket in the night?’ Helen said without a trace of embarrassment after she had made a last trip to the bathroom. ‘I can’t go clonking downstairs, waking everyone up.’

  Georgia winced, as she was reminded she too would have to go down there.

  ‘Doesn’t anyone ever clean it?’ she asked on her return.

  �
�I used to try,’ Helen pulled a wry face. ‘But I’ve given up. I go down the public baths once a week, and the other tenants are hardly ever here. My landlord keeps saying he’ll do something to it, but he never does.’

  Georgia hurriedly slipped out of her clothes and into her pyjamas. The bed felt damp and it was lumpy, the sheets and blankets smelled, but she was too tired to care. She put her arm under her head, nose buried in her pyjamas with the faint whiff of home and waited for Helen to put out the light.

  Helen wore thick stockings under her long skirt. As she peeled them off, sitting on the side of the bed, Georgia could see how wasted her leg was. She could have put her thumb and forefinger round the ankle, the calf only slightly bigger.

  Her other leg was normal, the muscles made bigger by taking the strain from the bad leg.

  Earlier, out in the street Helen had reminded her of a squirrel, later that image had changed to one of a prim governess, but now as she undressed so the image changed again.

  She wore a white cotton petticoat, her gleaming hair cascading down her back, like a lady from a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Although she was too thin and her skin so pale, she was lovely in a mystical way. Her features were all small and childlike. Perfect bowed lips, green eyes sparkling under reddish-gold eyebrows and lashes. Not even a freckle as she would have expected with red hair, just pure white skin like a baby.

  Georgia woke with a start, for a moment wondering where she was. It was still dark, but every now and then bright flashes of light splashed on to the walls accompanied by rumbling, banging and shouting from outside in the street.

  Pulling a blanket round her, Georgia went over to the window and peered out through the dirty glass, rubbing a patch with her blanket to see better.

  The stallholders were setting up. Skeleton-like stalls being hastily assembled by men in donkey jackets and woolly hats, brandishing mallets. The sound of tarpaulins being shaken, the trundle of trolley wheels and the slap of cardboard boxes hurled from vans.

  Yesterday this same scene had seemed violent and brutal. The coarse jokes, the swearing and the raucous laughter had seemed like a glimpse into a madhouse as she shivered on the corner. Now it seemed jolly, almost a street party. An Indian in a red turban wheeled a rail of dresses. A woman, mummified with a scarf wound round her head and neck arranged flowers in pots. A tall thin man dancing on the spot to keep warm. Teasing banter as they pushed and shoved through the disorder, the cold air making each one of them move faster. Gleaming apples, oranges, tomatoes and bananas lay in boxes, like a feast about to be prepared.