Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘No,’ he could hardly contain himself. ‘It’s you who is appearing there. It’s your chance to show an invited audience what you can do.’

  She sat quite still. The other girls looked at one another in astonishment, not sure they had heard it right either.

  ‘You mean I can sing in this club, with a piano and all?’

  ‘A quartet,’ he laughed. ‘And you have to go along and practise a few times with them first, so they know what songs you do best.’

  ‘So who will be there?’

  ‘All Andreous’s best customers.’

  ‘How did you arrange this,’ she said, her face pale but with the beginning of a volcano in her eyes.

  ‘Andreous heard you sing. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘And he didn’t think I was a joke?’

  ‘I didn’t hear him laugh,’ Pop said, a lump coming in to his throat as he saw her mouth curl into a wide, joyful smile. ‘It’s my hope this will change everything for you.’

  ‘Oh, Pop,’ Georgia hurtled into his arms. ‘That’s the most wonderful, exciting birthday present. I can’t believe it.’

  Somehow this sweet man had picked up on her dream, without her even realizing she had one. She’d talked of being an actress, a dancer, almost forgetting singing came as naturally to her as breathing.

  All around her the other girls were laughing and joking, eating cake, drinking the wine. Each and every present had been carefully planned. But this one was so very special. As Pop said, ‘Not just for now, but maybe forever.’

  ‘I can’t say what I feel,’ she whispered, winding her arms around his neck.

  ‘You don’t have to, sweetie,’ his voice was gruff with emotion. ‘Just make it work for you on the night.’

  ‘Mum’s left the office,’ Georgia blurted out to Janet the next morning. ‘I mean she’s gone for good and no one knows where.’

  Even last night, with the party going on around her, Georgia had been dying to phone Celia. She had imagined the scenario, the shock, the surprise, even tears. Never once had she considered Celia might leave her job.

  ‘Now calm down,’ Janet got up and put her arms round Georgia. ‘Is it that surprising she left?’

  ‘But what do I do now?’ Georgia’s mouth drooped petulantly like a small child’s.

  ‘You know where Peter lives,’ Janet raised one eyebrow. ‘Go on over there. He’s bound to know where she is!’

  Eltham High Street looked different, cleaner, brighter than she remembered. No drunks or tramps, spivs or tarts like Soho. Just middle-aged ladies with shopping baskets, younger women with prams and pushchairs and men driving Fords. Even the gang of youths who stood outside Olive’s coffee bar watching the girls go by looked harmless. Suit jackets over carefully pressed jeans, hair cut in the same college-boy style favoured by office workers.

  Georgia checked her appearance in a shop window as one of the boys whistled at her. Her red double-breasted coat came from a jumble sale but Helen had taken in the waist and shortened it for her. Although it was a little old-fashioned she knew it suited her. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders and she had new, pointed patent-leather shoes.

  As she approached Haig Road she wanted to run. It was beginning to rain and she had no umbrella.

  Peter’s house looked exactly the way it had when she rode passed it on her bike that first summer soon after she’d met him. A bit frowsy, litter in the bare front garden. The gate was hanging off its hinges, the front door still unpainted.

  She knocked on the door, holding her breath with excitement, screwing up her eyes as she willed Peter to answer.

  But instead it was a tall thin woman, a blue nylon overall over her clothes, a duster in her hand.

  ‘Is Peter in?’ Georgia smiled at the woman. She had expected Peter’s mother to be shorter and fat.

  ‘No,’ she said sharply, her face tightening, her mouth a thin suspicious line.

  ‘Oh,’ Georgia felt her heart lurch, instinctively knowing she should have written rather than called. ‘I’m an old friend. Georgia.’

  ‘He’s gone away,’ Mrs Radcliffe stiffened visibly, already trying to close the door as if that was an end to their conversation.

  ‘Please,’ Georgia moved closer, her bright smile wiped out by the hostility, her eyes pleading now. ‘Can I come in and talk?’

  ‘What is there to talk about,’ the woman looked at her with dead, cold eyes. ‘He’s at university. He’s forgotten about you and he doesn’t need any reminders.’

  The woman’s sharp words cut through her like a knife. There was no resemblance to Peter. Pale washed-out brown eyes, white skin with tiny, red broken veins, thin lips and a sharp, pointed nose. Even her hair was colourless. Never golden blonde like Peter’s, just dreary light brown, fading to grey at her temples.

  ‘But let me explain,’ Georgia pleaded. ‘I can’t find out where my mother is. You do know what happened don’t you?’

  ‘I know only one thing,’ the woman’s thin face loomed up close to Georgia’s, small eyes full of spite. ‘You ran off leaving my boy so upset he could barely take his exams. He’s got over that now. He’s happy with a nice girlfriend. Go away and leave him in peace.’

  ‘Is he staying here for the holidays?’ Georgia was getting desperate now. Not for one moment had she expected this.

  ‘No, he’s with his girl.’ Once again the door started to close.

  Georgia moved forward and held the door. ‘I don’t want to bother him if he’s got a girlfriend,’ she blurted out, tears coming to her eyes. ‘But he might know where my mother is.’

  ‘He doesn’t,’ she snapped, pushing Georgia’s hand off the door. ‘He hasn’t seen her since you left. Why should he? You left him high and dry without a word. Got him into all that trouble with the police. Mud sticks you know, and you did nothing to clear his name.’

  ‘But –’ Georgia felt sick. She hadn’t even considered Peter might be blamed in some way.

  ‘There’s no “buts”,’ Mrs Radcliffe folded her arms across her bony chest, her narrow lips set in a straight uncompromising line. ‘He’s forgotten you. Now push off.’

  It was that same kind of frosty prejudice she’d met when she first left home.

  ‘Please give him my address,’ Georgia pleaded. ‘Tell him I don’t want anything but to find Mum.’

  She thought then she had brought the woman round, she hesitated for a second, letting her arms drop to her sides.

  ‘All right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But don’t expect miracles. He’s got enough on his plate.’

  Georgia took out a notepad from her bag, quickly scribbled her address and passed it over.

  ‘Berwick Street,’ Mrs Radcliffe looked at it, then at Georgia suspiciously. ‘Soho?’

  ‘Yes. I share a flat with a friend.’

  She sniffed, and put it in her pocket.

  ‘Thank you,’ Georgia could feel her face burning with shame. She knew what the woman was thinking and it hurt so badly she wanted to die.

  The door was closed before she even got to the gate. Georgia stood for a moment staring up at the house, her eyes filling with tears.

  She could see a few books on an upstairs window-sill. Was that his room where she’d imagined him sleeping? Why couldn’t his mother have been the fat, comfortable, jolly person she expected, opening up her arms in welcome?

  So he was staying with his girlfriend! He had a new life and it didn’t include her. Peter’s world was closed to her, as firmly as his mother had shut that door.

  The rain grew heavier, but Georgia hardly noticed it as she trailed down Shooters Hill Road towards Blackheath.

  This morning she had been so full of joyful expectation and now it was all gone. Celia had left her job. Peter had been blamed. Instead of solving all their problems by running away, it looked as though she added to them. Celia had told her many times about hysterical teenagers who claimed rape to cover up for staying out late, or going willingly with a man. Was that wha
t they believed of her?

  The moment she saw the old house she knew Celia had long since left. The lawn in front of the house had been paved over and the railing removed. Apart from two forsythia bushes, there was nothing left of the garden. Now there was merely space for two cars, and every window sported net curtains.

  Celia had never liked nets. She believed they were unnecessary, spoiling natural light, fussy and old-fashioned.

  Georgia stood just a little way away from the house wondering what to do.

  It was possible that Brian still lived there and the last thing she wanted to do was see him.

  Instead she passed the house and called two doors away where Mrs Owen lived. She hadn’t been a friend of the Andersons, just a gossipy neighbour, but if anyone knew where Celia had gone it would be her.

  She rang the bell nervously.

  A short, plump, middle-aged lady answered the door, wiping her hands on a tea-towel.

  ‘Does Mrs Owen still live here?’ Georgia’s heart plummeted to even greater depths. She was like Mrs Owen, but smarter and several years younger.

  ‘She’s gone to visit her daughter in Australia,’ the woman smiled. ‘I’m her sister.’ Despite her smile she looked flustered, as if caught in the middle of something.

  ‘Oh,’ Georgia frowned with disappointment.

  ‘Can I help?’ the question was one of indifferent politeness, already she was looking past Georgia out towards the heath as if wondering how long this was going to take.

  ‘I was looking for someone who lived at number nine. Mrs Owen was friendly with her. I thought she might know where she went?’

  The woman stepped forward out of her porch, glancing down the road as if to try and remember.

  ‘Oh yes, you must mean the Andersons,’ she said. ‘I never met them, but Nancy used to talk about them. They sold the house, dear. There’s students living there now.’

  Georgia sensed the brush off. The woman didn’t want to talk, already she was retreating back into her doorway.

  ‘Thank you,’ Georgia took a step back. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t help more,’ the woman was already closing the door. ‘Try the estate agents. It’s Goodman and Smith, the first one you come to. They’re bound to know.’

  By the time Georgia got off the train at Charing Cross she was wet through and so cold her teeth were chattering.

  The estate agents had given her an address, but it was Brian’s.

  ‘Terrible mess the house was in,’ the pink-faced, snobby estate agent told her. ‘Seems his wife left him and he went to pieces afterwards. He got us to sell off everything. He said he was going abroad.’

  ‘But did he tell you where his wife went?’ Georgia was tempted to tell him the whole story if only to get his full attention, but he was so cold and businesslike she merely pretended to be a niece.

  ‘Rumour had it she ran off months before,’ the man said haughtily. ‘I believe Anderson drank, we certainly found a great deal of evidence to bear that out. We had no reason to contact Mrs Anderson, the house was his sole property.’

  She took Brian’s address in New Cross out of politeness, but once outside she tore it up and threw it away.

  As she opened the door to her room, Helen hobbled towards her, green eyes blazing like fireworks, her pale face flushed and hot-looking. Clothes were strewn all over the place and the air thick with the smell of burnt toast.

  ‘I’ve got a hospital bed at last,’ she flung herself at Georgia. ‘Next week. Isn’t it wonderful?’

  Georgia took a deep breath and tried hard to smile.

  ‘I’m so pleased for you,’ she bit back tears and held Helen tightly. ‘You’ve waited so long.’

  ‘I’ve got so much to do I don’t know where to start.’ Helen wriggled out of her arms, picking up things and throwing them down while all the time she trembled with excitement.

  ‘What have you got to do?’ Georgia had to laugh despite her own misery. Helen was normally so placid and quiet, it was a diversion at least from her own troubles.

  ‘I’ll have to give my notice at the club. Buy some new nighties, tell Bert I won’t be here. So much.’

  ‘Now calm down,’ Georgia said, taking Helen by the shoulders firmly. ‘All that will take less than half an hour.’

  Helen tried to dance, hopping around on her one good leg, her smile stretching across her whole face. ‘Oh, Georgia in a week or two we might be able to go out dancing. By the time you sing at the Acropolis I might be a normal girl.’

  All the previous year Helen had been waiting for this bed. Twice before she had been accepted as a patient and then the operation had been cancelled just days before.

  ‘Don’t build your hopes up too high,’ Georgia said slowly. ‘Think the worst, just in case.’

  ‘That’s an odd thing for you to say,’ Helen spun round and looked at Georgia sharply, colour draining from her face, as she remembered where Georgia had been going. ‘Don’t say you didn’t find Peter?’

  ‘Worse,’ Georgia slumped down into a chair. ‘He doesn’t care about me anymore. I think his mother hates me. Mum’s vanished too.’

  It was only after her abortion that Georgia had finally told Helen the whole story. It had been the opening up, the sharing of pain which had helped her to gain her old confidence. Once again Helen listened, her green eyes filling with tears and she rested her small red head on Georgia’s dark one.

  ‘What can I say?’ she whispered. ‘I don’t really believe they don’t want to see you. How could anyone turn their back on you?’

  ‘But why didn’t Mum leave an address?’ Georgia sniffed. ‘Surely she knew I’d want to contact her?’

  ‘People do funny things when they’re hurt,’ Helen said thoughtfully. ‘But even though Peter’s mother sounds like a real old witch, I’m sure she will pass on your note to Peter. She probably got a shock seeing you on her doorstep.’

  ‘I handled it all wrong,’ Georgia sighed deeply. She was beyond crying now and she didn’t want to spoil Helen’s joy by dwelling on her own problems. ‘I should have trusted Peter a year ago and written. You can’t keep people in the dark and expect them to just know how you feel.’

  ‘You haven’t had much luck have you,’ Helen wound a strand of Georgia’s hair round her finger, her small bony arms holding Georgia tightly.

  Georgia looked at Helen. The built-up brown boot was peeping out from her long skirt, her green cardigan had tiny darns where moths had eaten it and she was about to face a serious operation which might leave her lamer than before. Yet never once had Georgia heard her sniffle about having no family.

  ‘No luck?’ she forced herself to smile. ‘I found you. I’ve got a job and a home. I’ve even got a chance at the Acropolis. How much more luck does anyone need?’

  *

  It was after twelve that night when Mrs Radcliffe pulled the address out of her overall pocket. Peter had gone to bed early, his face white and strained.

  It was lucky he hadn’t got home from the library ten minutes earlier, otherwise he might have caught her sending that girl packing.

  Why couldn’t he be like her neighbours’ sons, out with the lads on a motorbike instead of mooning around waiting for her? He had a fine career ahead of him, no mother would gladly see her only son going off with some wild black girl.

  ‘I’m doing this for your own good, son,’ she muttered to herself, poking the fire up into a blaze. ‘She’s probably been on the game all this time. No good for you, my boy.’

  She hesitated for a moment, then plunged the note into the flames before she could change her mind.

  ‘That’s it over now.’ She wiped her hands on her overall and straightened up. ‘You’ll thank me for it one day Peter.’

  Chapter 7

  ‘You look exhausted,’ Peter frowned with concern as Celia sank into a chair without even taking her coat off, an unopened letter in her hand.

  It was after ten, a cold March nig
ht, yet another evening spent fruitlessly in pubs and coffee bars searching for Georgia.

  ‘I’ll make some tea, then I’d better get home,’ Peter bent down to light the gas fire. ‘Are you just going to stare at that?’

  ‘It’s from him,’ Celia shuddered at the familiar neat script.

  ‘A letter can’t hurt you,’ Peter came closer and put one hand on her shoulder. ‘Do you want me to open it?’

  She shook her head and slid one finger under the flap.

  ‘The telephone bill,’ she pursed her lips with annoyance. ‘He’s got a cheek, I’ve been gone three months!’

  ‘No letter?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Just a curt note saying the long distance calls –’ she stopped suddenly in mid-sentence, making Peter turn his head.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A postcard too, from Georgia.’

  ‘What!’ Peter came back to her side with one bound. ‘Let me see.’

  Celia’s hands were trembling, her eyes filling with tears. Peter snatched it from her, just the sight of her rounded, childish writing filling him with renewed hope.

  ‘Read it to me,’ Celia whispered.

  ‘“Dear Mum, I’m safe and well. I’ve got a nice room, a job and new friends.”’ Peter gulped, glanced at Celia’s radiant face, then continued. ‘“Don’t worry about me please because everything’s fine. Soon I’ll be sixteen and then I can get in touch again. Give Peter my love, tell him I miss him. I love you, Georgia.” ’

  For a moment they could only stare at one another, then Peter dropped down on to his knees beside Celia, running one finger over the few sentences as if committing them to memory.

  ‘Manchester,’ he held the card closer to the light, examining the postmark. ‘But it’s dated January 29th, it’s almost two months old.’

  ‘The evil swine,’ Celia’s face flushed with anger. ‘He’s sat on it for two months. How could he do that?’

  ‘Revenge?’ Peter shrugged his shoulders. ‘And all the time we’ve been wasting our time looking in London.’

  If it hadn’t been for Peter’s obstinate strength, Celia might have buckled under the strain weeks ago. No one else seemed concerned that an underage rape victim was out there somewhere alone. The police had given up looking for her. Even the agencies who advertised their concern had come up with nothing. Wild goose chases to places where someone had reported a girl fitting her description. A call from a hospital in North London where a girl lay in a coma, another to view a body in the Deptford morgue. Each time Celia rushed there full of hope, or dread, only to discover the only similarity was dark hair and the right age. Even the children’s department had lost interest, suggesting it was high time she concentrated on other children in her care. She couldn’t count the cost of phone calls, stamps or petrol, that was all incidental. What frightened her most was running out of hope. It was Peter who kept her going night after night. Meeting her to check out yet a few more clubs, pubs or bedsitter houses, never daunted by the size of the task, never flagging in enthusiasm.