Charity

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘The stainless-steel scoop is just nineteen and elevenpence,’ Charity said. ‘But today I’m prepared to offer you another amazing kitchen tool absolutely free.’ She picked up a plastic board with a wavy blade attached and proceeded to slice it down through a raw potato, making thin wavy slices.

  ‘Staggering!’ Dorothy said. ‘What am I supposed to do with those skinny chips?’

  ‘Lightly fry them in oil and you have wonderful homemade crisps, or you can slice cucumber or carrots for dinner parties. Both items are indispensable for a hostess. Can you manage without them?’

  Dorothy scratched her head.

  ‘Very easily,’ she said, trying not to laugh. ‘I suppose we’ve got to have bloody melon balls for breakfast now and crisps for lunch?’

  ‘I haven’t got around to showing you how you can make fake new potatoes yet,’ Charity said. ‘You just hold the scoop against the potato firmly, push in and then twist your wrist.’

  ‘I’ll twist your wrist if you don’t shut up,’ Dorothy said. ‘Enthusiasm for work on a Sunday morning just isn’t on.’

  ‘Would you like a couple of wavy slices of cucumber to put over those bloodshot eyes?’ Charity said, deftly cutting two almost transparent slices. ‘You can lie on the settee with them and I’ll drop melon balls in your mouth.’

  ‘Balls to you too,’ Dorothy sniggered. ‘Now please can I have a cup of coffee?’

  Whiteley’s department store was quiet on Monday morning. Charity stood behind her small stand in the kitchenware department, adding embellishments to her display. She was pleased to see that hers was the only demonstration; Rita had warned her that sometimes a store ran two or three at the same time and then they had to vie for sales.

  Her central display was a large dish of tiny potatoes garnished with parsley in the centre, surrounded by wavy slices of cucumber and carrots. She had made coleslaw, cutting the cabbage with her gadget, and several sundae dishes were filled with various fruits from melon to peaches made into balls. Beneath her stand was a whole box of wasted fruit, but she hoped no one would ask what they would do with the odd bits of squashed fruit left over.

  It was lunchtime before she managed to entice a crowd. So far she had sold only two tools and she’d had to work hard to persuade these two women to buy. As a group of middle-aged women shoppers came in, she began frantically slicing carrots.

  ‘Hallo,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m sure all of you are interested in items that help make cooking more interesting and fun?’

  There was no response, but the women did stop at some distance from her stand. Undeterred by their lack of curiosity, Charity launched into her spiel, all the time keeping her hands moving as she scooped out perfect round melon balls.

  ‘But melon isn’t the only thing you can use it for,’ she said, picking up a peeled potato. ‘Tiny potatoes are so much more attractive, so much quicker to cook. You can have new potatoes in the middle of winter, make a melon go round a great many more people, and add a touch of flair to the presentation of a meal.’

  The women edged closer, and soon she saw other people peering over their shoulders. Her heart beat faster; the patter became easier with their interest.

  ‘At just nineteen and elevenpence the stainless-steel scoop is a bargain that will last you a lifetime. But today I’m giving away another essential kitchen item, the miracle slicer, absolutely free. Now I’m sure you’d all like these two products. Who’s going to be first?’

  Charity was amazed how quickly they got out their purses, pound notes fluttering in outstretched hands. As fast as she handed out the gadgets in their plastic bags and rang up the money on her till, more people were craning their necks to see what was on offer.

  ‘Just hold on,’ she called to the people at the back. ‘I shall start another demonstration of the Miracle scoop in just two minutes.’

  She managed to keep a crowd around her until well after two in the afternoon. Her box of tools was half empty and the pile of discarded potatoes and fruit beneath the stand was growing.

  ‘You’ve done very well,’ the floor manager said when he came over to check on her till. ‘Sixty-five items!’

  Charity beamed at the round-faced portly man. Early this morning he had claimed she wouldn’t sell ten!

  ‘I’ve brought our tea home!’ Charity said as she swept into the flat to find Dorothy and Rita lounging on the settee with their shoes off.

  ‘What is it?’ Dorothy looked at the two large plastic boxes. ‘Cake?’

  ‘No.’ Charity giggled. ‘We have a dieter’s dream! Cucumber, carrot and cabbage coleslaw, followed by mushy fruit salad.’

  ‘Get a job demonstrating chicken or steak next week,’ Rita said opening one of the boxes and recoiling at the huge amount of coleslaw. ‘I was never very keen on healthy food.’

  ‘How did it go at the motor show?’ Charity asked.

  Dorothy pulled a face. ‘Bloody boring,’ she said. ‘I thought we’d be on the Rolls-Royce or Mercedes stand. Instead we got lumbered with the Hillman one and had to talk to Normal Normans all day. They didn’t even have booze on our stand!’

  ‘Was it that bad, Rita?’ Charity asked.

  ‘I don’t even want to discuss it.’ She yawned. ‘Let’s just say I’ve had more fun at the library.’

  ‘Thank God shops close at Christmas.’ Dorothy came through the front door, slinging her coat in one direction and kicking her shoes off in another. ‘I’m exhausted.’

  Charity was lying on the floor, her legs stretched up the wall, vainly trying to reduce their swelling.

  ‘Four days off,’ she said dreamily. ‘With absolutely nothing to do but eat and drink.’

  Since the job with the Miracle scoop back in July she’d been booked solidly every week. She’d promoted crisps, pork sausages, non-stick pans, soft drinks, cigarettes and vacuum cleaners, but for the whole of December she’d been in Selfridges’ toy department as one of Santa’s helpers.

  At first this had seemed the most fun job of all, escorting children on to the sleigh ride through Santa’s grotto dressed like a gnome. But wearing red tights and a green tunic and painting her nose bright red each day had worn thin, especially as some of the children were little horrors.

  Hour after hour of being jolly, saying the same old clichés, holding sticky hands and looking at runny noses had almost put her off children. Every now and then she would get a pang of grief when she saw a toddler gazing in wonder at the mechanical elves making toys. Each time she heard ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ a lump came to her throat and she wondered if Daniel had been to visit Santa Claus with his new parents.

  Each blond-haired boy and girl looking at the displays of toys jolted her further. Prue was fourteen now, Toby almost thirteen – too old to believe in Santa Claus as James still did. Would Stephen and Grandmother make Christmas magical for them? Did they miss their big sister?

  But it was Christmas Eve, work put aside for a few days. No more reminders of things she wanted to forget. She and Dorothy were going to Rita’s parents’ tomorrow. No more escort dates for a while, as all those businessmen were home with their families. Tonight she and her flatmates were going down to the Coleherne in Earls Court Road, and they’d get drunk and kiss anyone who was even vaguely presentable.

  ‘Can I wear your white sweater tonight?’ Rita said as she bent over Charity. She had her hair in rollers and a mud pack on her face.

  ‘If you promise to wash it afterwards,’ Charity said, suddenly feeling magnanimous. ‘I’m going to wear my new pink dress and I’m going to flirt outrageously. I think my New Year’s resolution will be to find myself a new man.’

  There were many perks in promotion work. Leftover prepared food, free samples, and sometimes when they worked out of London they stayed in hotels. Dorothy and Rita tended to see the men that chatted them up as the major perk, but until this minute that had left Charity cold.

  ‘Glad to hear it, prudy-pants,’ Dorothy yelled from the kitchen. ‘We’ll hold you t
o that!’

  Chapter Twenty

  1964

  ‘You want to give up?’ Charity looked at Carmel in astonishment.

  ‘I’m too old for all this.’ Carmel waved her heavily jewelled hand at the tottering piles of files all around her. ‘It was fun once, but not any longer. I like the marriage bureau side of it, but I could run that from home.’

  It was October, a raw, windy day. Charity had popped in for a chat with Carmel in her break, partly to see if she had any escort work, but more importantly to talk.

  Charity was promoting a new board game in Harrods’ toy department, but although she’d been sublimely happy all year, in the last couple of months she’d felt her life had grown stagnant. Since January Central Promotions had sent her out on a different job almost every week. But though the varied work had given her a great deal of experience and she’d met many new and interesting people, a small voice inside her kept suggesting it was time she moved on to something more challenging.

  Rita and Dorothy claimed she needed a lover. Perhaps they were right, but although Charity had been out with several men she’d met through promotions, not one of them had made her toes curl or her heart flutter. Yet a new man didn’t seem to be the answer. Charity felt that a change of direction was needed.

  Girls she’d worked with a year ago were talking about getting married, Marjorie and Martin over in Hammersmith were discussing selling their restaurant and starting up a frozen food company; even Rita, who once only lived for the day, had ideas about finding a job with more stability.

  It was eighteen months since Charity had first met Carmel and their relationship had deepened into mutual respect and affection. Charity had grown fond of the grubby, chaotic office and the woman who maintained her glamorous appearance even in such surroundings. Today she was wearing a cream wool suit and a brown frilly blouse, her bulk contained by strong corsets. As always her hair was immaculate and her nails painted bright red, yet Charity could hear a new weariness in her voice.

  ‘But what about the escort service?’ Charity asked.

  ‘Maybe I’ll go through all these –’ Carmel’s dark eyes sparkled mischievously. She patted the file nearest to her with one podgy hand. ‘And blackmail the naughtiest ones!’

  Charity laughed.

  Carmel made it her business to know about each man who booked an escort, but as loyalty and discretion were her trademark, she used her knowledge only to help her clients. She took no moral stand, firmly believing a little lighthearted fun and flirtation while men were away on business sent them home to their wives refreshed and contented.

  ‘You’d never divulge anything about anyone,’ Charity said. ‘You’re too much of a romantic. You could’ve made a killing after the Profumo scandal with all the knowledge you’ve got about politicians, but you wouldn’t dream of doing it.’

  Charity had been out with two junior cabinet ministers and one eminent judge and although they had behaved themselves, she knew girls who would have taken advantage of them.

  ‘I think of my clients as friends,’ Carmel said gently. ‘I see it as a privilege when they tell me little secrets. I couldn’t betray their trust. That’s why I’m still in business.’

  ‘But what will they all do without you?’ Charity moved nearer to the one-bar electric fire; a draught was whistling under the street door.

  Carmel looked at Charity. The girl looked stunning as usual, today in a black fitted coat with a black and white checked minidress beneath and laced-up black granny boots. She moved with the fashion, but had a knack of interpreting it in a unique way. Other girls still backcombed their hair, but Charity’s was cut to her shoulders, gleaming like ivory satin, the sort of hair one’s fingers itched to touch. There was never any fear with Charity that she’d embarrass her dates. Even though she wasn’t quite twenty, she knew the right outfit for the occasion, she knew how to behave. Sophisticated men didn’t want anyone guessing they’d paid for the girl’s services; nor did they want a brassy-looking piece who got drunk, talked too loudly and showed them up.

  ‘It does seem a waste to burn all this.’ Carmel sighed, waving a hand at the mountain of files. ‘But what else can I do? Other agencies would probably offer me a great deal of money for my connections, but I couldn’t trust them to find nice girls for my gentlemen. Worse still, my best girls, like you, might be tempted into accepting dates with seedy characters.’

  Charity stifled a giggle.

  Carmel fully believed that all her girls were above reproach, and in fact all of them were – in the beginning. But the offer of money did strange things to people and Charity knew quite well that some of the girls didn’t stop at just dinner or a nightclub.

  Charity had received at least ten offers of extra money herself, but not once had any of the men turned nasty when she’d refused.

  ‘But you can’t just drop everything.’ Charity felt anxious now. She had made a great deal of money as an escort; Dorothy and Rita had made still more. They wouldn’t want to work for anyone else, because they trusted Carmel. She vetted all her clients.

  ‘I can’t spend another winter in here –’ Carmel waved her hand round the dingy office. ‘My arthritis is playing me up. Anyway, I’ve lost the drive to go out and find new clients. Once I used to attend all the trade fairs, I knew all the head porters in the good hotels. Now I just rely on word of mouth.’

  ‘What will happen to the office then?’ An idea suddenly presented itself to Charity.

  ‘Well that’s another problem.’ Carmel sighed. ‘There’s at least another two years to run on the lease. Not long enough to get a good price for it, but too long for me to have to pay the rent if I close down.’

  ‘Supposing someone offered to take it over?’ Charity asked, trying to keep her tone casual.

  ‘Who’d want to, dear?’ Carmel shook her head as she picked up two cups and went over to the tiny sink to wash them.

  ‘I would!’

  Carmel turned, her thin pencilled eyebrows raised in surprise.

  ‘I could run it.’

  The tip of Carmel’s tongue slid over her scarlet lips. She liked and trusted Charity. They were more than agent and escort. In many ways they were very alike: both had been brought up in poverty with responsibility for younger brothers and sisters, and Charity had that hunger for wealth she had once had.

  Carmel told all the girls and her clients she was a widow. In fact she had never married, but had been the mistress of many rich men in her time. But her heyday was in the war and when her looks started to fade she had thrown herself into this business, using all the knowledge of men she’d picked up over the years to make it a success. She was happy to spend her old age alone. She had wonderful memories and didn’t want reminders that she was fat and wrinkled now.

  She could see that Charity had the intelligence and enthusiasm needed to run the office, and that she was also very good at keeping her distance from the clients. But should she encourage someone so young and vulnerable to take over such a risqué business?

  ‘You could run into problems, being so young.’ Carmel looked anxious. ‘As you know, escort agencies have a bad name.’

  ‘I’d be as careful as you are,’ Charity insisted. ‘Besides, I was thinking more of starting up a promotions agency, not expanding the escort side.’

  Carmel felt a surge of admiration. Charity wasn’t just a pretty face, but ambitious and creative. Perhaps she should give her the chance to prove herself?

  ‘I’d have to ask for money for it,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t just give it away, not even to you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’ Charity’s big blue eyes were full of excitement. ‘How much?’

  ‘I’d need at least five hundred,’ Carmel said quickly. ‘I couldn’t let it go for less.’

  Charity’s heart sank. She had saved three hundred pounds over the last eighteen months. Should she take a gamble with it?

  ‘I haven’t got that much.’

  ‘Well think i
t over.’ Carmel resisted the urge to ask how much she had got. ‘I’ll hold fire for a couple of weeks. You might get a bright idea if you’re keen enough.’

  Carmel made them tea and they discussed the rent, the rates and the clients. She could see Charity was burning to buy the business and if she really did know Charity as she thought she did, she’d find the rest of the money.

  ‘You could do well.’ Carmel squeezed Charity’s hand as she left to go back to work. ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’

  Charity went back to work that afternoon, but her heart wasn’t in it. All she could think of was how she could find another two hundred pounds.

  In the last year she’d been sent out to so many jobs she’d often thought she could run her own agency. She could easily train other girls: she had enough experience to spot reliable, hard-working girls and she knew all the angles and pitfalls. Now all those vague dreams and ambitions seemed to spring into focus with this new opportunity.

  It was very quiet in Harrods. It was too early in October for the Christmas trade to get going. There was no new stock to arrange, no one even vaguely interested in board games, and she had to stay at her stand at all times.

  A couple of smart middle-aged women were cooing over soft toys just over to her right and to her left a man was agonising between two very expensive dolls. But Charity barely saw them: she was wrapped up in her thoughts.

  Carmel’s office would be ideal. It had a good position and the rent was low. Although she had no real desire to keep the escort side going, she could use it to bring in money until she landed her first lucrative contracts. The phone, typewriter and duplicating machine were all there; all it needed was a coat of paint, a carpet and some decent lighting.

  ‘Two hundred,’ she murmured. ‘It’s not that much!’

  Working as a promotions girl had given Charity the confidence and poise of a far older woman. Her romantic dreams of love and marriage had been replaced by a fierce desire for a successful career and independence.