Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  Down in the market there had been joy of a wrong righted. Here there was nothing but the smell of money.

  He remembered Georgia telling him about the day she signed her contract with them. No wonder she had found it so terrifying.

  ‘Good to see you Sam,’ Max frowned as if it wasn’t good at all. ‘Where’s Georgia?’

  ‘She’s gone away,’ Sam replied, pulling up a chair unasked.

  ‘What on earth does she think she’s playing at?’ Max exploded. ‘She should be down here.’

  Seven indignant faces turning to him. Eyes narrowing at plans thwarted.

  ‘Now just one moment,’ Sam felt a bubble of anger in his gut. ‘Am I hearing right? You guys abandoned her, right at the time when she needed support.’

  ‘We did nothing of the sort.’ Jack Levy drew himself up behind the table, dark eyes blinking furiously behind his glasses. ‘We had no alternative but to suspend recording.’

  ‘Not one of you called on her, wrote her, sent her flowers,’ Sam’s eyes flashed from face to face. ‘Did anyone of you go to the press and tell them what a nice girl she is? Did you hell!

  ‘You sat on your fat arses, panicking that the golden goose was finally about to be killed off. And probably had a meeting just like this one to decide who would get the carcass.’

  ‘That’s not fair Sam,’ Max flushed with anger. ‘We had to act impartial.’ He drew a cigar out of his breast pocket and sniffed it reflectively.

  ‘You acted like cowards,’ Sam hissed at them. ‘Even if she had done everything that creep said, after all she’s given you, you should have stood up for her. I’ve only known her a few short weeks but it seems I was the only person who truly believed in her.’

  ‘Well, where is she now?’ one of the directors said. His face showed no emotion, just irritation that she wasn’t here, cap in hand.

  ‘She’s doing what she should have done some time ago. Putting her own affairs in order,’ Sam said, glaring round at each one of them in turn.

  ‘But the album,’ Max said.

  ‘Screw the album,’ Sam’s voice was rising. ‘I’d like just one of you to express concern for her. To show some emotion. She might find her mother. How ashamed you are that you doubted her? Or even ask about the boyfriend?’

  ‘So that’s it,’ Max said, a sly look in his eyes, taking out a gold cigar cutter. ‘I suppose she’s off screwing him.’

  Sam leapt out of his chair and caught Max by the collar of his suit jacket, lifting him clean off the floor, scattering cigar and cutter to the floor.

  ‘You motherfucker,’ he hissed. ‘You stopped that boy from seeing her. You lied to them both. Why Max? Why?’

  ‘How was I to know?’ Max’s voice whined. ‘Countless blokes claim to know her. I was protecting her.’

  Sam let go of him, but his fists were clenched. He looked round at all the other men, searching their eyes to see if they had guessed the reason. There was interest, surprise, but no real understanding.

  ‘You wanted her yourself,’ Sam snarled. ‘I can understand that, but why then if you wanted her so badly didn’t you stick up for her? You left the country with some blonde on your arm. What sort of a man are you?’

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong.’ Max pulled at the revers of his jacket, his eyes flashed round the room trying to convey to the other men that Sam was mad. ‘Georgia was like my own daughter.’

  ‘Then you,’ Sam poked a finger at Max’s belly, ‘are just like Anderson. Because I’ve sure as hell heard you describe her as a cockraiser. Did you get to rape her too?’

  Max cowered back. Jack Levy leapt to his feet and moved swiftly over to Sam, putting a restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘That’s enough, Sam,’ he yelled. ‘Enough!’

  ‘Enough?’ Sam glowered round at the men. ‘I ain’t even started yet. Georgia is making what promises to be the finest album ever made,’ he hissed. ‘She’s put her heart and soul into it, singing songs of love so beautiful they even move me to tears.’ He pushed away Jack’s hand, his mouth trembling with anger. ‘But all you lot see is money,’ he went on glaring at each of the men in turn. ‘You don’t see a little girl abused by a man she trusted. A girl with guts and fire that made things happen for herself without selling her soul in the process. Don’t you know what you’ve got?’

  The atmosphere was charged with electricity. Max shrank back against the wall, even Jack stopped short.

  ‘I’ll tell you arseholes what you’ve got,’ Sam yelled, waving his clenched fists at Jack. ‘You’ve got a girl with more heart and guts than all us lot put together. Get off your chairs, get down in the studio and listen to those tapes. Forget how much money they’ll make and listen to the message in her voice. When you’ve done that and found out what Georgia is all about, then maybe I’ll tell you where she is!’

  He paused. He saw the gaping mouths, sensed that his words had sunk in. Sam turned sharply, pulled open the door, and left, slamming it behind him.

  Max turned scarlet. ‘I’m sorry about that.’ His voice shook nearly as badly as his legs. He couldn’t meet their eyes. For once he couldn’t think of anything sharp to say. ‘He’s an artist, he can’t help but be emotional.’

  Jack Levy took off his glasses and polished them vigorously. He felt something he hadn’t felt for years and he knew it was shame.

  ‘We’d better do what the man says.’ He replaced his glasses on his nose. ‘We’ll talk again afterwards.’

  Sam paused only long enough in the street to take a few deep breaths. He wasn’t going to agonize over whether he’d gone too far, or whether he’d blocked all chances of his own career taking off. Right now he was going to ring that editor Phillips and make sure everyone was pulling out all the stops.

  ‘It’s Sam Cameron,’ he said, when they finally put him through. ‘Georgia asked me to phone and find out the state of play.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Sam wanted to laugh, it was that same frantic question he’d heard in the boardroom, another would-be puppet master.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just found Peter had gone,’ Phillips said. ‘I just hoped they were together. As I see it that pair were made for each other.’

  Sam felt all the anger inside him melt. At last someone had the right idea.

  ‘Between you and me, off to sunny places with Peter. The recording company is freaking out. They don’t know where she is, so I’d be grateful if you didn’t print that.’

  Phillips chuckled. ‘Wonderful. That news makes it all worthwhile. Peter Radcliffe is a real human being. I’m keeping everything crossed for them.’

  ‘Yup, looks like you might get your big love story soon. But don’t rush it, give them time. Now, about Mrs Anderson?’

  ‘We’ve managed to contact the health organization she is working for. The office is in Nairobi. Apparently she’s way out in the bush running a small clinic and hospital.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ Sam’s face broke into a broad smile.

  ‘We’ve got things in hand.’ Phillips’ voice had a ring of pure glee. ‘It won’t be instantaneous. Messages have to be sent by wire, the last lap will be by jeep over rough terrain. It could be a couple of weeks before they can get a replacement out for her.’

  ‘Did you tell them what it was about?’

  ‘Just the bare bones,’ Phillips hesitated. ‘I was apprehensive about the story being misinterpreted, so I promised to send full details by telex. I’ve just finished that.’

  ‘Georgia is going to flip,’ Sam’s voice was breaking with emotion. ‘This is all too much. How soon before we know anything positive? I don’t want to wind her up and then leave her dangling.’

  ‘I suggest you say nothing, yet,’ Phillips’ voice was more cautious. ‘We don’t want her rushing off to Nairobi and then missing her mother. As soon as we know she’s on a flight home, that’s the time to tell her. The poor kid’s had enough grief to last most of us a lifetime.’

  ‘Sounds sens
ible,’ Sam said. ‘At least she’s got Peter to take her mind off things. I’m very grateful to you.’

  ‘Has she said what action she’s going to take about Anderson?’ Once again he was just a reporter, wanting to be first with the news.

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Sam said. ‘If it were up to me I’d go round there and kick seven kinds of shit out of him. But Georgia isn’t one for revenge. We’ll just have to wait for that.’

  ‘Keep in touch,’ Phillips’ voice held warmth and sincerity. ‘Let me know when your next gig is. I’d like to meet the man Georgia raved about.’

  ‘She spoke of me?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Phillips chuckled. ‘You rate in importance along with Celia and Peter, but surely you knew that?’

  Down in the recording studio Jack Levy and his team were listening closely to the tapes Georgia had been working on. Heads bent forward, hands on knees, cigars, coffee and even note-making forgotten.

  ‘Sam was right.’ Jack twisted his large gold ring around his finger during a pause, looking round at the other men with stunned eyes. ‘This is some of the best stuff I’ve ever heard.’

  Georgia’s lush, rich voice filled the studio. The complex machinery, the plastic chairs, the glass partitions, the bright lights all softened in the music. With eyes closed, each one of them was transported to a place of beauty, memories and emotions long forgotten were stirred with her special magic.

  Every note and instrument on the finished songs was impeccable. Sam’s tenor sax sent shivers of delight down their spines, the strings, drums and piano all played their part in creating a masterpiece.

  ‘Sam’s one hell of a player too,’ one of the men said. ‘We ought to get him under contract too, before he floats off back home.’

  As the last note died away, Max got up. He felt drained, suddenly old and tired. He’d give anything to have Miriam back home to run to.

  Why had he cheated Georgia, lied to her and held her back? Why couldn’t he have been like Sam, listened, protected and encouraged? What made a man who had a bright and beautiful butterfly in his hand, crush it and still expect it to fly?

  Georgia would merely laugh at the underhand things he’d done in the past. She accepted them all the way a zoo keeper expects the tiger to snarl at him. But by preventing that lad from seeing her, by turning his back on her when she was in trouble, that was when he dug his own grave.

  ‘What’s up, Max?’ Jack Levy squinted up at him through his glasses. ‘Can’t stand the heat any longer? She’ll re-sign with us. They always do. We’ll just have to offer her a better deal.’

  ‘I think I’m through with deals,’ Max said. ‘Sometimes they leave a nasty taste in your mouth.’

  Chapter 27

  The newspaper lay crumpled amongst empty sherry bottles, chip papers, cold cups of tea, and congealed greasy plates, hardly an inch of floor exposed from bed to window.

  The stained china sink smelled like the lavatory he’d used it as, draining-board groaning with burned saucepans and jagged-edged empty cans.

  The frayed brown curtains were no longer opened. The small table in front of the window strewn with pointers to a period of wealth. An empty whiskey bottle, a cigar box, the remains of an Indian takeaway meal thick with mould and a dead potted plant.

  Dust, paper and food scraps were everywhere. Vomit lay on the floor just feet from where he lay huddled on his bed. The stench of himself, the vomit and rotting food combined to make the air unbreathable.

  Only the wall covered in Georgia’s pictures had any semblance of order and light.

  He was sweating, so hot he felt he was on fire. But he knew soon the shivering would come back and nothing would warm him.

  Drink couldn’t help now. Nothing could blot out the misery. No heat, money, drink or food. Trapped, sick and helpless.

  Why was it that his mind had cleared now? Ever since that day when he was knocked down and robbed, the grey mist which stopped him hurting and thinking had vanished.

  How long ago was it when those newspaper men came here? A week, two, maybe a month. He remembered putting a fiver in Mrs Dooley’s hand and persuading her to clean up for him though.

  ‘Fancy her being your daughter,’ she kept saying as she swept the floor and changed his bed. ‘She should pay to put you in a home, you aren’t capable of looking after yourself.’

  Mrs Dooley wasn’t the only one who treated him like a celebrity then. Someone left a bag of clothes on his doorstep, another neighbour brought him over a pot of stew. Every day the mail brought letters of sympathy, some with money inside them. Mrs Dooley was glad to clean for him. It gave her an opportunity to ask questions, she even referred to him as her ‘poor old gentleman friend.’

  So many visitors knocked on his door, offering invitations to their houses, sympathy, help and understanding.

  Down at the pub they all wanted to drink with him, they didn’t refuse to serve him in the café, everyone said how badly Georgia had treated him.

  A taste of what it must be like to be her. A person people wanted to meet. He felt like shaving again, taking baths, eating proper meals, for a while drink hadn’t been so necessary.

  Church wardens came round and talked of re-housing him in a nice little flat. A lady down the road knitted him a blue pullover. Even the kids along the road began to smile at him.

  A hundred pounds seemed fair enough at first. He didn’t know he’d been cheated until Adams made off with thousands. In that first week it had been enough to be important and know at last the public had turned against her.

  The sickness had started the night he read just a few lines in the Evening News. A picture of the bitch standing by a flashy car, wearing a white mini skirt.

  ‘You can read the true story tomorrow,’ she said.

  That night even whiskey didn’t help. A small voice kept whispering in his head, telling him things he didn’t like. Later it turned to a gnawing pain in his stomach, just where she stabbed him. The nightmares came back too. Visions of him grabbing her, smooth skin under his hands, a rounded arse in front of him surrounded by harsh net petticoats. An act which until then he’d blotted from his mind.

  It was Mrs Dooley that brought in the paper the next morning. The fat slut stood in his doorway, hands on hips, her hair in curlers, mouth like an angry red gash.

  ‘You bastard!’ she screamed at him, flinging the paper in disgust. ‘You filthy bastard! You’ll rot in hell for what you did to her, and I’d gladly get you there a little quicker!’

  Funny that Georgia’s retaliation didn’t make him mad. He just lay there crying, remembering.

  Was it that mention of St Joseph’s convent that made him think of her tiny, bony back, lacerated and weeping? What prompted the memory of guiding her down the pavement on her first bicycle, holding the saddle and urging her to steer and keep pedalling? Holding her on his shoulders to see penguins at the zoo. One hand under a smooth, soft tummy as he taught her to swim.

  Peter too. Sharp, clear pictures of him eating Christmas lunch with them. A red paper hat resting on his blond hair, talking about cricket, laughing at Brian’s stories about people in the office. The good feeling at having male company.

  Other things wafted back. Georgia coming into the bedroom in her nightdress, with a tray of tea for him and Celia, her stocking under her arm.

  ‘I waited as long as I could.’ She had that expression on her face that always made them smile. Wide-eyed, mouth trembling, a please-don’t-be-cross face that worked everytime. ‘Seven o’clock isn’t that early?’

  Once they’d put sugar mice in her stocking, tiny dolls, pens and pencils. That last year it had been makeup and stockings and a silly false nose and glasses she wore most of the morning.

  Why was it now when he needed the grey mist, it didn’t return? Sharp memories like Georgia sitting by his knee. The Christmas tree filling the room with the scent of pine, the fire banked up. Celia in a blue costume. Georgia in a tartan dress with a lace collar. He could see that book
on photography she gave him. A shiny red and black jacket, the spine two inches thick, one he’d intended to buy for so long.

  ‘Mum didn’t give me the money.’ He could hear her soft voice shaking with excitement, feel her lips on his cheek, her arms round his neck. ‘I saved it up myself.’

  He knew when the reporters came back he would get no sympathy. He cowered in his bed listening to them scrabbling round the house, terrified they would burst in. He heard neighbours shout things outside the window.

  ‘Come on out you pervert! We’ll show you how we deal with rapists round here.’

  Just enough strength to push a chair under the door, then stumble back to bed, hoping they wouldn’t hurtle a brick or a fire bomb through his window. His chest, legs and stomach ached, but the worst hurt was inside his head.

  How many times was it that he read that newspaper? Twenty, thirty? He lost count.

  ‘I don’t know why he changed that night,’ he read. ‘One moment he was my dad, the sweetest, kindest man alive, the next like an evil stranger. Everything I knew about men came from him. I loved being in the car with him, holding his hand when we went for walks. The way he hugged me when he came home from work. He knew everything. He helped me with my homework, he taught me to swim. He clapped when I danced and sang. My mum and dad were the best parents anyone could have. I had nothing to rebel against. I felt loved. I didn’t even mind when he got drunk and came up to the party. Everyone thought it was funny. I told him to go to bed after Peter had gone. But that’s when he changed.’

  It wasn’t a nightmare after all. He really had done those things which haunted him. Soon the police would come for him. They’d lock him up, maybe even beat him. If only he had enough money to put in that meter, to turn the gas on and wait for oblivion.

  Someone was insistently ringing the door bell. He heard Mrs Dooley shout to one of her children to answer it. Deep, male voices, too low to hear what they were saying.