Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘Get the other tenants out, Les,’ he shouted back down the stairs as Les lumbered out. His sallow, long face stared stupidly, dark hair hanging over one eye. He wore only a pair of jeans, feet bare, his sunken chest and spindly arms almost pitiful. ‘Get going!’

  The smoke made him choke as he opened the door and the heat of the flames made him recoil momentarily. Putting the blanket over his head he got down on all fours and began to crawl across the floor.

  The bed closest to the window was well and truly alight, flames licking over it, but the black smoke prevented him from seeing anything. The curtains had caught, taking the fire to the other bed, and he could just make out the outline of a body, flames just flicking out like evil fingers to consume it.

  He threw the blanket over the body, standing just for a moment choking with the fumes. Then grabbing the body by the feet he hauled it away from the bed.

  There was a thud as it hit the floor, but it was too late to be cautious. Blinded by the black smoke he hauled it back across the floor, towards the door.

  It was Alan. His face blackened by smoke, burns on his arms and legs, his fair hair almost completely gone on one side of his head, sharp little features so familiar, but different seen black.

  John was coming back in the front door.

  ‘Bring me more blankets!’ Rod shouted. ‘In the bath.’

  Rod stood coughing on the landing. His hands were burned but that was unimportant. Somehow he had to get Ian out of there too.

  ‘Don’t go in again,’ John flung him blankets, rushing up to look at Alan lying inert on the landing bending over him to feel for a pulse. ‘The floor might go. Wait for the fire brigade.’

  ‘Try giving him the kiss of life,’ Rod hissed. ‘I’m going back.’ He dropped down to his knees, one blanket over him, dragging the other behind him, as at last the sound of sirens wailed down the street.

  ‘Up the top,’ Les directed the firemen at the front door. He had sobered up the moment he knew what had happened, but now he wished he’d had the presence of mind to grab shoes. He had cut his foot on a piece of broken glass and blood was pouring out.

  ‘You stay here lad,’ the big fireman pushed him aside. ‘Who else is in there?’

  ‘Three of my mates,’ Les tried to follow but was pushed back. ‘No, four, John went back into help.’

  The two first fire engines were quickly joined by another two making a ‘V’ shape in the road. Firemen rushed in one after another, hauling hoses behind them.

  Outside a crowd was gathering, more stood behind the railings of the communal gardens in the centre of the square. Old women in nightdresses. Children in pyjamas, men wearing nothing but a pair of trousers like himself.

  ‘How did it start?’ A fireman tugged at Les’s arm as he stared up at the house. Flames were flickering on the roof now, turning the dark sky purple. Thick black choking smoke wafted down, almost concealing the ladder from the fire engine and the man on it wielding a high-pressure hose. Another two fire engines came roaring into the square, the men leaping out even before the engine stopped.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Les was crying now, tears splashing down over his cheeks, a dew drop gathering on his hooked nose. ‘We’d been to a party. We were all drunk. Perhaps it was a cigarette.’

  John came out first, quickly followed by two firemen carrying a body on a stretcher.

  Les broke through the cordoned-off area and ran to John.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked. ‘Where’s Rod?’

  ‘That’s Alan,’ John’s dark eyes were filled with tears. He reached out for Les like a child, burying his head on his shoulder. ‘Rod went back to try and get Ian. I think he’s copped it too.’

  ‘Is Alan dead?’ He could hardly bear to ask.

  ‘Yes, overcome by the fumes before the fire reached him. I tried to revive him, but I didn’t know how. Rod risked everything, for nothing.’

  It was like some hideous nightmare. John and Les stood bare-chested, huddled together. Windows opened, more people drifted onto the square in their nightclothes, all around them were whispers, pointing them out and giving other neighbours their opinion as to who was still inside.

  Two firemen came out again with a stretcher. Their faces black, the whites of their eyes showing clearly in contrast, under their helmets.

  ‘Who is it?’ John cried out.

  ‘The one who went in to rescue them. He’s in a bad way.’ The firemen handed over the stretcher to the ambulance. ‘But he’s alive.’

  ‘And Ian?’ They both knew the answer, but they had to ask.

  ‘He didn’t stand a chance,’ Another fireman came out of the doorway, he moved closer to them putting one big gloved hand on John’s shoulder. ‘He was dead before your friend even got in there. I’m sorry.’

  Georgia jumped violently as the doorbell rang. For a moment she ignored it, thinking it was for one of the offices downstairs. Again and again it rang, and slowly she got out of bed to look out the window.

  Sunday mornings were the only time the street was quiet. Empty of stalls, the only litter from drunken revellers the night before.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called down, peering out over the window-sill.

  ‘It’s John,’ an ashen face turned up to her. He was wearing nothing over his bare chest but an old cardigan. ‘There’s been a fire!’

  She threw a key down to him, then hastily pulled on jeans and a shirt. She was just pushing her feet into a pair of plimsolls when John came through the door.

  ‘Ian and Alan are both dead,’ he said sinking into her arms like a child. ‘Our flat’s gone, and Rod’s seriously hurt.’

  For a moment Georgia just held John staring vacantly at a poster of poppies on her wall.

  ‘Ian, dead?’ she whispered.

  She made him coffee, putting in lots of sugar, and found him a shirt of Ian’s left in her wardrobe. She was shaking, yet she couldn’t cry. She knew she was behaving like a mere neighbour, not like someone who’d just been told her lover was dead. All the time she kept thinking it was a dream, that any minute she’d wake up and find she was alone.

  But John was very real. He was icy cold to the touch. Bristles of beard showed through on his chin. His feet were bare and his eyes were full of tears, why couldn’t she share them?

  ‘Let me find you something to put on your feet,’ she said. ‘Ian left some shoes here.’

  ‘Georgia, have you heard a word?’ John shouted at her. ‘Ian and Alan are dead, Rod maybe too by now and you worry about my feet?’

  He grabbed her in his arms, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe, sobbing on her shoulder like a two-year-old. She could see Ian standing in the corridor at the Odeon last night, his hand lifted to return her kiss. All at once the reality hit her. She saw flames licking around that slender body, reaching out for his blond silky hair.

  John held her against his shoulder, patting her back as they sobbed together. ‘My two best mates just wiped out and I never even said goodbye to either of them.’

  It was just half past seven in the morning when John woke her and as the day slowly passed there was no end to the misery. Rod had been taken to Hammersmith hospital. Alan’s body was already in the morgue and Ian’s charred remains followed later. Les’s foot was so badly cut it needed stitching and John, after rushing across London to find Georgia, had sunk into shock, barely speaking. Alan and he had been like brothers from the age of six, their whole adult life had been spent together, even most of their possessions were shared. Now he was gone, and the next closest friend, Ian, with him.

  ‘Can you tell me about Rod?’ Georgia asked the nurses who scurried by, averting their eyes from the two boys still with smoke smuts on their faces sitting there shoeless and silent.

  ‘He’s holding his own,’ was all they would say. ‘It’s too soon to know yet.’

  Later, Speedy arrived at the hospital. He had gone home around ten in the morning to find the house still faintly smoking, the whole top floor caved in.
He at least was calm enough to find John and Les other clothes and shoes from a nearby friend and to insist they washed and combed their hair.

  Norman’s whereabouts were still unknown. Soon the parents of Ian, Alan and Rod would be wanting to talk to John and Les, but neither was capable of anything more than nodding and shaking their heads.

  Max came striding down the corridor around noon. He had been out when John had phoned him early that morning and Georgia suspected he had probably stayed out all night. He had stubble on his chin, his eyes bloodshot.

  ‘How did it happen?’ he demanded of John, even though he could see the boy was hardly able to speak.

  ‘They don’t know,’ Georgia spoke up. ‘They think Ian must have been smoking in bed and dropped it on the floor. What are we going to do?’

  She waited for Max to say something harsh, but to her surprise his eyes filled with tears.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ he said, turning away so they couldn’t see his face. ‘So much to look forward to, snatched away in their prime.’

  Georgia stood up, putting one hand on his arm, the other wiped away his tears with her hanky. His shoulders were slumped, his full lips quivering.

  ‘We’ve got to pray Rod will make it,’ she said.

  ‘Speedy,’ Max straightened up, getting back his self control. He sniffed, wiping one big hand across his eyes. ‘Take John and Les to my house, get Miriam to put them to bed and call a doctor to give them something. Will you stay here with me Georgia?’

  She nodded.

  The clock hands moved so slowly. Each doctor who passed the waiting room made them straighten up and hope it was news. The police called to say that Rod’s parents were away on holiday in Devon, but they were passing the information over to the police there. Alan’s widowed mother had been informed as had Ian’s family.

  ‘None of them were close to their families,’ Max said softly. ‘Alan’s mother rejected him when her husband was killed in an accident when he was thirteen. Ian put up a show of caring about his, but I never knew any of them come to gigs or anything. Yet I still don’t know how I’m going to face them.’

  If only I’d taken Ian home with me last night,’ Georgia blurted out. ‘He wanted to come Max, but I insisted he went to the party. It’s all my fault.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ Max put his arm round her and cradled her to him. This was a side she’d never seen of him before and it touched her deeply. ‘It could have happened at any time. If someone’s number comes up, that’s it. Can you imagine how low I feel now after what we were talking about last night?’

  All at once Georgia felt tears welling up inside her. The same terrible loneliness she’d felt that night when Helen died. She put her head on Max’s chest and sobbed and sobbed.

  ‘I wish I could find the right words,’ he said softly stroking her hair. ‘You don’t deserve any of this, baby. I’ll find a way to make it up to you.’

  The door of the waiting room opened. A young woman doctor with pale brown hair and kind eyes was smiling.

  ‘He’s going to be all right,’ she said. ‘We had some trouble with his breathing. But it’s stabilized now.’

  ‘You mean he’s not going to die?’ Georgia sat up straight, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  ‘Far from it,’ the doctor laughed softly. ‘He’s got a few burns, but nothing too serious. He was a brave lad by all accounts. He won’t be running for any buses for some time. I doubt he’ll ever want a cigarette in his life again and of course the shock of seeing his two friends burned to death will take some getting over. But go along and see him for yourself.’

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ Max touched her shoulder. ‘It’s you he’ll want to see. I’ll wait till he’s stronger.’

  Georgia peeped round the door of the small side ward. There were three beds, but the others were empty. Rod was propped up on pillows, a drip in his arm, his face an angry shade of red. Both arms and his head were swathed in bandages.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, standing tentatively at the end of the bed.

  ‘Sore,’ he whispered, his voice unexpectedly croaky. ‘I tried to save them,’ a big tear rolled down his cheek.

  ‘You were wonderfully brave,’ Georgia came closer, wanting to hug him but afraid of hurting him. ‘You couldn’t have done any more.’

  ‘I should have gone up and got Alan out of my bed,’ Rod said. ‘I might have seen the cigarette then.’

  ‘I should have taken Ian home with me,’ she wiped a tear from her cheek.

  She pulled a chair up close to his bed, laying her head on the covers. Without another word the burden of shared guilt passed from one to another.

  ‘He told me he loved you,’ Rod’s eyes opened wider, wincing as if they hurt. ‘Make a deal with Decca now, Georgia. It’s what he wanted.’

  ‘I don’t want to sing again ever,’ she whispered, unable to hold back her tears.

  ‘You must,’ he croaked. ‘Wherever Ian and Alan are they’ll be waiting for it. Right now I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to play again either, or even want to, without them. But if I can manage it, so can you.’

  She looked up and saw tears streaming down his face.

  ‘Don’t Rod,’ she got up and reached out tentatively to wipe them away.

  ‘Kiss me,’ Rod whispered.

  Georgia moved forward and put her lips on his.

  ‘I feel better already,’ he tried hard to smile. ‘One of these days I’ll give you a real one and see what that does for you.’

  She smiled at his brave attempt at flirtation, and patted his bandaged hand gently.

  ‘You can have all the kisses you want if you just get better. I think you must be the bravest man I ever met.’

  Chapter 14

  ‘The time’s right to cut a record Georgia,’ Max sat in his office looking at her under hooded eyelids. ‘You’ve had all that publicity. If we don’t get it out now we’ll lose the benefit.’

  ‘Do you have to be so ghoulish?’ She leapt to her feet, eyes blazing at his callousness. ‘Rod still can’t hold drumsticks. John can hardly eat for grief. We’ve lost our saxophone player. Your timing stinks.’

  Max ignored her outburst. A fortnight had passed and it was time to crack the whip again.

  ‘I’m talking about you,’ he said calmly. ‘You cutting a record, not the boys.’

  ‘Don’t start that again,’ she stared at him coldly. ‘Surely they can come in on it with me after what’s happened?’

  Max studied Georgia. She had lost weight, her hair was dull and lank, she even had a couple of spots on her chin, her skin the colour of porridge. He didn’t want to be cruel, but he knew if he gave her too much time she might never get back to work.

  ‘They can work as your backing group,’ he said sharply. ‘But that’s all. I’ve got plans to find them a new male singer. Someone raunchy who’ll get the girls screaming. I’ve also put the word out I want a new song for you.’

  ‘Why can’t we record something we’ve written?’ Georgia stuck out her lip. She was actually glad Max was going to find Samson a new singer. New blood was needed in the band and she knew Speedy, Rod and Norman hungered for stardom in their own right.

  ‘Because I want a big dramatic number with strings and a full orchestra,’ he smirked. ‘I don’t want some drippy bit of bubblegum music.’

  ‘But what if we came up with the right song?’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll listen to anything you come up with of course, but don’t waste my time Georgia.’

  Georgia wasn’t surprised by Max’s apparent heartlessness. He alone was behaving characteristically. In a strange way it was more comforting than fan letters and the endless sympathy poured on the band by people who scarcely knew Ian and Alan.

  She had written the words of a song already, sitting alone in her room after the double funeral. Now with Max pushing her she might just find the strength to show the boys.

  It had been such
a beautiful funeral. A ray of sunshine shone through the high window at the crematorium, and rested on the two pine coffins side by side, each with a wreath of red roses. The chapel was packed to the doors with fans, old school friends, relatives and more than a sprinkling of musicians.

  All the papers had covered the story, perhaps only because Adam Faith, Billy Fury, Helen Shapiro and Marty Wilde were there. But it meant a great deal to all of the band to see these stars take time off in their busy lives to pay their last respects.

  So many bouquets of flowers and wreaths lined the entrance to the chapel and spilled out on to the forecourt. Some had sheets of music wound into them, some were just simple bunches brought along by unknown fans. The bright colours and the perfume belied the seriousness of the occasion. Few of the mourners wore dark clothes either, as if knowing the boys would prefer them to come the way they remembered them.

  Georgia wore a simple black dress with a white collar. She knew Ian would have told her she looked like a missionary and urged her to wear red, but she was afraid his mother would misinterpret her actions.

  Speedy and Les accompanied Norman with their guitars while Georgia sang ‘Morning has Broken.’

  Up till that morning she had thought she couldn’t sing, but it was Rod who convinced her. The bandages were off his head now, but his hands were still covered. His face was peeling like a bad case of sunburn, but he said he was well enough to attend the funeral.

  ‘You will sing,’ he said, raising one singed eyebrow, at her protest. ‘They would have wanted you to. It isn’t your feelings that count, but theirs.’

  Put like that she could do nothing but agree, but when she stood up by the pulpit, she nearly lost her nerve.

  ‘Turn your back away from the audience,’ she could almost hear Ian’s whisper on stage at the first gig. ‘If you can’t see them, it’s okay.’

  She had turned to the altar to sing, looking up at the window high above. She concentrated on the patch of blue sky so much like Ian’s eyes, and as Norman played the introduction and she filled her lungs with air, so her voice came back, filling the small chapel.