‘I . . . What do you mean?’
‘Your boyfriend was in the audience last night.’ Doris turned away from Greta and concentrated on applying her eyeliner. ‘I presumed you’d invited him,’ she added pointedly.
Greta swallowed, torn between wanting to conceal the fact that she hadn’t known Max was there and making sure that what Doris had said was true.
‘Yes, I . . . of course I did. But I never look into the audience. Where was he sitting?’
‘Oh, on the left-hand side. I noticed him because just after the curtain went up on us jolies mesdames he got up and left.’ Doris shrugged. ‘There’s none so strange as folk, ’specially menfolk.’
Later that night Greta let herself into her room, knowing with absolute certainty she would never hear from Max Landers again.
3
Eight weeks later Greta realised that Max had left her a legacy which would mean she was unlikely ever to forget their brief but passionate affair. She was absolutely sure she was pregnant.
Miserably, she entered the stage door of the Windmill. She felt dreadful, having spent the early morning fighting sickness and, in between running to the lavatory, trying to work out what on earth she was going to do. Apart from anything else, a burgeoning stomach would cut short her employment at the Windmill in a matter of weeks.
She hadn’t slept at all last night, the fear in the pit of her stomach making it impossible. As she’d tossed and turned, Greta had even considered going back home. But she knew in her heart that could never be an option.
Shuddering at the unbidden memory, she forced herself to concentrate on her current predicament. As she sat in front of the mirror in the dressing room, despair overwhelmed her. It was all very well to leave the Windmill to go into the arms of a wealthy American husband, but what she faced now was, at best, a place in one of the homes that dealt with women in her position. Although the management were kind, the moral rules laid down for the girls at the Windmill were unbreakable. And being unmarried and pregnant was the biggest sin a girl could commit.
Greta knew her life was in ruins. All her plans for a future marriage or a film career were over if she had this baby. Unless . . . she stared at her terrified reflection in the mirror but realised there was nothing else for it. She would have to ask Doris for the address of a ‘Mr Fix-it’. Surely it would be fairer on her unborn baby? She had nothing to give it: no home, no money and no father.
The curtain came down at ten forty-five and the girls made their way back wearily to the dressing room.
‘Doris,’ Greta whispered, ‘can I have a quick word?’
‘Of course, love.’
Greta waited until the other girls had gone into the dressing room before she spoke. As calmly as she could, she asked for the address she needed.
Doris’s beady eyes scrutinised her closely. ‘Oh, dearie me. That GI gave you a goodbye present, didn’t he?’
Greta hung her head and nodded. Doris sighed and laid a sympathetic hand on Greta’s arm. She could be as hard as nails on occasion, but underneath the brashness there beat a heart of gold.
‘Of course I’ll give you the address, dear. But it’ll cost you, you know.’
‘How much?’
‘Depends. Tell him you’re a friend of mine and he might do it cheaper.’
Greta shuddered again. Doris made it sound as if she were going for a perm. ‘Is it safe?’ she ventured.
‘Well, I’ve had two and I’m still here to tell the tale, but I have heard some horror stories,’ Doris remarked. ‘When he’s done it, go home and lie down until the bleeding stops. If it doesn’t, get yourself to a hospital sharpish. Come on, I’ll write down the address. Pop along and see him tomorrow and he’ll fix you up with an appointment. Do you want me come with you?’
‘No, I’ll be fine. But thanks, Doris,’ Greta said gratefully.
‘No problem. Us girls have got to look after each other, haven’t we? And remember, dear, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last.’
Early the following morning Greta took a bus up the Edgware Road to Cricklewood. She found the street where Mr Fix-it lived and walked slowly along it. Stopping in front of a gate, she glanced up at a small red-brick house. Taking a deep breath, she opened the gate, walked up the path and knocked on the front door. After a moment, she saw a net curtain twitch, then heard the sound of a bolt being drawn back.
‘Yes?’
A diminutive man, who bore an unsettling resemblance to the pictures of Rumpelstiltskin from Greta’s childhood storybooks, answered the door.
‘Hello. I . . . er . . . Doris sent me.’
‘You’d better come in, then.’ The man opened the door wider to let Greta through and she entered a small, dingy hall.
‘Please wait in there. I’m just finishing with a patient,’ he said, indicating a sparsely furnished front room. Greta sat down in a stained armchair and, wrinkling her nose at the smell of cat and old carpet, picked up a tatty copy of Woman and flicked through the pages. She found herself looking at a knitting pattern for a baby’s matinée jacket and abruptly closed the magazine. She sank back into the armchair and stared at the ceiling, her heart pounding against her chest.
A few minutes later, she heard someone moaning softly from a room nearby. She swallowed hard as the man came back into the front room and shut the door.
‘Now, miss, what can I do for you?’
It was a silly question, and they both knew it. The moaning was still audible, despite the closed door. Greta’s nerves were in shreds.
‘Doris says you maybe could sort out my . . . er, problem.’
‘Perhaps.’ The man stared at her intently, his fingers moving to his head and smoothing the few greasy brown strands that covered his bald patch. ‘How far gone are you?’
‘About eight weeks, I think.’
‘That’s good, good.’ The man nodded.
‘How much will it cost, please?’
‘Well, I normally charge three guineas but, seeing as you’re a friend of Doris, I’ll do it for two.’
Greta dug her nails into the armchair and nodded her acceptance.
‘Good. Well, if you care to hang on for half an hour or so, I could fit you in immediately. No time like the present, is there?’ he said with a shrug.
‘Will I be able to go to work tomorrow?’
‘That depends on how things go. Some girls bleed a lot, others hardly at all.’
There was a knock at the door and a dour-looking woman poked her head around it. Ignoring Greta, she beckoned the man with her finger.
‘Excuse me, I have to go and check on my patient.’ He stood up and abruptly left the room.
Greta put her head in her hands. Some girls bleed a lot, others hardly at all . . .
She stood up, stumbled out of the grim front room and ran along the hall to open the front door. She slid back the rusty bolt, turned the latch and opened it.
‘Miss, miss! Where are you goi—’
Greta slammed the door behind her and fled away up the street, tears blurring her vision.
That night, after the show, Doris sidled up to her.
‘Did you see him?’
Greta nodded.
‘When are you . . . you know?’
‘I . . . some time next week.’
Doris patted her on the shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine, dear, honest you will.’
Greta sat without moving until the other girls had left the dressing room. Once the room was empty, she laid her head on the table and wept. The sound of the unseen woman she’d heard moaning had haunted her since she’d left the miserable house. And even though she knew she was sentencing herself to dreadful uncertainty, she knew she couldn’t go through with an abortion.
Greta didn’t hear the soft tap-tap on the dressing-room door and jumped violently when a hand was laid on her shoulder.
‘Hey! Steady on, it’s only me, Taffy. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just checking to see that you’d all left. What�
��s wrong, Greta?’
She looked up at Taffy’s kind face watching her sympathetically in the mirror and searched for something to wipe her running nose. She was touched by his concern, especially since she knew she’d hardly given him a backward glance since she’d met Max. A spotlessly clean checked handkerchief was passed to her.
‘There you go. Would you like me to leave?’ He hovered behind her.
‘Yes, er, no . . . oh, Taffy . . .’ she sobbed miserably. ‘I’m in such trouble!’
‘Then why don’t you tell me about it? It’ll make you feel better, whatever it is.’
Greta turned to face him, shaking her head. ‘I don’t deserve sympathy,’ she whimpered.
‘Now you’re being silly. Come here and let me give you a hug.’ His strong arms closed around Greta’s shoulders, and he held her until her sobs were little more than hiccups. Then he began to wipe away her tear-streaked make-up. ‘We are in a state, aren’t we? Well, as my old nanny used to say, nothing’s ever as bad as it seems.’
Greta pulled away from him, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry about this, Taffy. I’ll be fine now, really.’
He looked at her, unconvinced. ‘Have you eaten? You could pour out your sorrows over a nice plate of pie and mash. I find it always helps with affairs of the heart. Which I presume is where your problem lies.’
‘Try a little further down,’ mumbled Greta, then regretted it immediately.
He did his best not to let his true emotions register on his face. ‘I see. And that Yank’s upped and left you, has he?’
‘Yes, but—’ She looked at him in astonishment. ‘How did you know about him?’
‘Greta, you work in a theatre. Everyone from the doorkeeper to the manager knows everyone else’s business. A nun on a vow of silence couldn’t keep a secret in this place.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about him. I should have, but—’
‘What’s past is past. Now, I’m going to wait outside while you change and then I’m going to take you for some supper.’
‘But, Taffy, I—’
‘Yes?’
Greta offered him a weak smile. ‘Thank you for being so kind.’
‘That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?’
He took her to their usual café across the road from the theatre. Greta found she was starving and devoured her pie and mash as she recounted her plight to him.
‘So, I got the address from Doris and I went to see him this morning. But, Taffy, you have no idea what it was like there. This Mr Fix-it . . . he had dirty fingernails. I can’t . . . I can’t—’
‘I understand,’ he soothed. ‘And your American doesn’t know you’re pregnant?’
‘No. He shipped out the morning after he went to the Windmill and saw me starkers. I don’t have an address for him in America and, even if I did, after seeing me on stage he’s hardly likely to take me back, is he? He comes from a very traditional family.’
‘Do you know whereabouts he lives in the States?’
‘Yes, in a town called Charleston. It’s somewhere in the South, apparently. Oh, Taffy, I was so excited about seeing the bright lights of New York.’
‘Greta, if Max lived where you say, I doubt you’d ever have seen New York. It’s hundreds of miles away from Charleston, nearly as far as London is from Italy. America’s a vast country.’
‘I know, but all the Americans I’ve met seem to be so forward-thinking and not at all stuffy like us Brits. I think it would have suited me.’
He gazed at her, his emotions a conflicting mixture of irritation and sympathy at her naivety. ‘Well, if it makes you feel better, dear girl, the town you were about to move to is slap bang in the centre of what is known as the Bible Belt. Its inhabitants adhere so rigidly to the Scriptures that they make the morals of even our most devout English souls seem relaxed.’
‘Max did say he was a Baptist,’ Greta mused.
‘There you are, then. I know it’s no consolation, but honestly Greta, Charleston is about as far from the atmosphere of New York as my family home in the wilds of the Welsh mountains is from London. You’d have been a fish out of water there, especially after the life you’ve lived here. Personally, I think you’ve had a lucky escape.’
‘Perhaps.’ Greta understood that he was trying to comfort her, but everyone knew America was the New World, the land of opportunity, whichever part of it you lived in. ‘But if you say they have such strict morals, then why did Max . . . well, you know . . .’ Greta blushed.
‘Maybe he thought he could bend the rules if you were engaged to be married,’ he suggested lamely.
‘I thought Max loved me, really. If he hadn’t proposed, then I’d never, ever have—’
Greta’s voice dried up in shame and embarrassment. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘I know you wouldn’t,’ he said gently.
‘I’m not like Doris, really. Max . . . he was the first.’ Tears appeared again in Greta’s eyes. ‘Why does my life always seem to go wrong?’
‘Does it, Greta? Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No,’ she answered quickly. ‘I’m just being self-indulgent, feeling sorry for myself because I’ve made such an awful mistake.’
As he watched Greta force her features into a smile, Taffy wondered what had led her – a girl who was obviously educated and whose accent told him she was well bred – to the Windmill. Greta was a cut above the rest of the girls, which, if he was frank, was the reason he’d been drawn to her. However, now was obviously not the moment to ask, so he changed the subject.
‘Do you want the baby, Greta?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know, Taffy. I’m confused and frightened. And ashamed. I really believed Max loved me. Why did I ever . . . ?’ Her voice trailed off miserably. ‘When I was in that dreadful house waiting to see Doris’s Mr Fix-it I didn’t run away just because I was frightened of the procedure. I kept thinking of this little thing inside me. Then, on my way home, I passed two or three mothers wheeling their babies in prams. And it made me realise that, however tiny, it’s alive, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Greta, it is.’
‘Then can I really commit murder for a mistake I’ve made? Deny the baby its right to life? I’m not a religious person, but I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself for killing it. On the other hand, what future can there be for either of us if I bring it into the world? No man will ever look at me again. A Windmill Girl in the club at the age of eighteen? Hardly a good track record, is it?’
‘Well, what I suggest you do is sleep on it. The most important thing is that you’re not alone. And . . .’ He voiced the thought that had been slowly brewing as he listened to her story of woe. ‘I may well be in a position to sort something out, put a roof over your head if you do decide to go ahead with the pregnancy. This Mr Fix-it really doesn’t sound too good, does he? You might end up killing both of you, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?’
‘No, but I’m still not convinced I have any choice.’
‘Believe me, Greta, there is always a choice. What about going to see Mr Van Damm? I’m sure he’s had to deal with this kind of thing before.’
‘Oh, no! I couldn’t do that! I know he’s kind, but Mr Van Damm expects his girls to be whiter than white. He’s terribly protective of the Windmill’s image. I’d be out on my ear tomorrow.’
‘Steady on, it was only a thought,’ he replied, getting up to pay the bill. ‘Now, I’m going to put you in a taxi. Go home and get some rest. You look exhausted, Greta.’
‘No, really Taffy, I can take the bus.’
‘I insist.’
Hailing a taxi outside the café, he pressed some coins into her small hand and put a finger to her lips as she began to protest again. ‘Please, I’ll worry if you don’t. Pleasant dreams, Greta, and don’t worry, I’m here now.’
‘Thank you again for being so kind, Taffy.’
As David waved after the taxi, he asked himself why he was trying to help Greta, but
the answer was simple. No matter what she’d done, he’d known from the moment he’d set eyes on her that he loved her.
4
The next morning the two of them were once again sitting in the café across the road from the Windmill. Greta had slipped out of the morning’s rehearsal to meet David, claiming she was feeling faint and needed some fresh air, which wasn’t far from the truth.
‘You look awfully pale,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’
Greta took a big gulp of her watery tea and added another lump of sugar. ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘I’m not surprised. Here, have half of my sandwich.’
‘No, thanks.’ Just the smell of it made her feel nauseous. ‘I’ll eat something later.’
‘Mind you do. Well then?’ He looked at her expectantly.
‘I’ve decided I can’t go through with the . . . procedure, so that leaves me no choice. I’m going to have the baby and suffer the consequences.’
‘Right.’ David nodded slowly. ‘Well, now your mind’s made up, I’m going to tell you how I may be able to help. What you need is a roof over your head and a bit of peace and privacy until the baby arrives. Yes?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Hush, and listen to what I have to say. I have the use of a cottage in Monmouthshire, on the Welsh borders. I was thinking you could go and stay there for a while. Have you ever been to the area before?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Well, then you won’t know what a special place it is.’ He smiled. ‘The cottage is on a big estate called Marchmont. It’s near the Black Mountains, in a beautiful valley not too far from the town of Abergavenny.’
‘What a funny name.’ Greta managed a half-hearted smile.
‘I suppose you get used to the language when you’re brought up there. Anyway, with me working in London, I don’t need the cottage at the moment. My mother lives on the estate, too. I telephoned her last night and she’s prepared to keep an eye on you. A lot of the land is farmed, so there’s enough fresh produce to feed you during the coming winter. The cottage is small, but clean and cosy. It would mean you could leave the Windmill, have the baby and if you wanted to, come back to London without anyone even knowing. Well, there it is. What do you think?’
The Angel Tree Page 4