Georgia (13 page)

Georgia could hear her own heart beating. She had cramp in her leg, she was so cold she felt she might just die and the man’s intentions brought her father right into the box with her.

She tried not to listen but the man’s grunts penetrated even her gloved hands over her ears. Stiff joints creaked and the swishing sound of clothes being pushed aside.

They seemed to be at it forever, disgusting her so much she felt sick and faint. Sucking sounds, heavy breathing, words that made her blush with shame. Then a prolonged thumping sound, like a piece of meat being slapped against a plate.

Georgia wanted to cry. All those silly dreams she’d had of love. What was going on out there was the real world. Men weren’t ruled by their hearts at all, they were just animals needing sex like food and it didn’t matter to them who they shoved themselves into.

‘Was it good?’ she heard the man ask.

‘Sure,’ the woman replied, the sound of pinging elastic like gun shots in the quiet street.

She left first. Her high heels like castanets on the road, gradually fading away into the distance.

A loud belch signalled the man was still close by. She heard the flick of a lighter, the smell of a cigarette, then unsteady movements and deep breathing. He stopped, the unmistakable sound of a zipper. A rumbling fart, and the hiss of urine, followed by a deep sigh.

It was too cold to sleep again. She had pulled everything out of her bag to lay over her, and handfuls more of the material from the other box, but still she shivered.

There was no more noise from people now. But cats continually prowled, frequently jumping on her box. There were other rustlings she couldn’t identify, sometimes a gnawing sound which made her eyes open with terror.

She must have slept eventually, as she came to with a start when the sound of an engine roared nearby.

Waiting a few moments, as the noise came closer and closer, she was finally brave enough to peep out round the edge of the box.

It was barely light, her breath like smoke in the cold grey dawn. At the crossroads less than a hundred yards away a dustcart had paused, four men throwing all the boxes and refuse into the back of the van.

Hastily she pushed all her belongings into her holdall, flung her coat over one arm and ran, her heart thumping like a steam engine.

She stopped for breath on the next corner and reached for her handbag to find a hanky. It was gone. In her haste she must have left it in the box.

Dropping her holdall, she flew back. All that was left of her bed for the night was a wet patch where one of the men had urinated, and a few scraps of fabric.

A dull rumble alerted her the cart was now in the next street. She tore round the corner, catching it up and running along side.

‘Please stop,’ she waved her arms frantically. ‘Stop!’

One of the men jumped off the back of the cart.

He was very small and stocky, a woolly brown hat perched on fair greasy hair, dressed in dark green overalls and a donkey jacket.

‘What’s up love?’ He had a strange speech impediment, and his mouth twisted alarmingly. He was about fifty and very dirty.

‘My bag,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I left it in a box that you’ve just picked up.’ She pointed in the direction they’d just left.

‘What sort of bag?’ he frowned, looking at her dishevelled appearance, pieces of cloth in her hair.

‘A handbag, it’s got my money and everything.’

‘Why was it in the box then?’ He scratched his head through his hat.

‘Because I was in there too. But I heard you coming and ran away. I didn’t realize I hadn’t got it until after you’d gone.’

The man looked from Georgia to the dustcart. She could see it was fitted with a crusher device, already chomping away the last of the boxes from the road they were now in.

‘I can’t get in there,’ he said sharply. ‘You should look after your stuff.’

‘But all my money’s in there,’ she said, tears springing to her eyes.

‘Can’t help that,’ he turned away from her.

‘What shall I do?’ she ran after him clutching at his sleeve.

‘Go to the police,’ he said wearily. ‘It ain’t my problem. What’cha sleeping in a box for anyway?’

He was gone before she could say anything more and Georgia felt as crushed as if she’d been in the machine herself.

It was a few moments before the full implications hit her. She went back to where she’d left her holdall and bent down in a doorway to repack it. She was so cold she was no longer shivering, and she knew she must find somewhere to get a hot drink.

A sick feeling wound its way into her stomach. She couldn’t get a drink or anything now. Every penny she had in the world was in that handbag.

She saw her reflection in the glass door. She was dirty, her hair full of bits of cloth and she had nothing at all other than a few clothes.

Sinking down onto her haunches she wept. Great heaving sobs that shook her shoulders and engulfed her whole body.

Money meant everything. She couldn’t get a drink, or a meal, much less a room for the night. She couldn’t use a phone or get on a bus or train.

There was no difference between her and the tramp she’d seen going through the rubbish last night!

Cold and hunger had brought on a new sort of apathy by five in the evening. A day spent walking up and down Oxford Street, eyes glued to the pavement, hoping to find a shilling or so to buy a drink. She’d been in the toilets of every shop from Marshall and Snelgrove to Selfridges, lingering in a cubicle as long as she dared, trying to summon the courage to swipe a handbag or purse from one of those wealthy ladies wreathed in shopping bags.

But each time she got close something stopped her. Sometimes an attendant watching, sometimes just a faint stirring of conscience. Eleven hours of walking and all she had to show for it was a yellow plastic comb and two halfpennies she’d found in a gutter.

For just a brief moment it seemed her luck had changed. Just off Tottenham Court Road she saw an advertisement being stuck up in a sweet shop window.

‘Bedsitter to let for business person. £2 per week. 14 York Street.’

She had run there, memorising the address, so sure it was a sign from heaven that she forgot the cold and her aching feet.

‘I believe you have a room to rent,’ she blurted out to the man who opened the door.

He was perhaps sixty, thin and bent with yellowish skin and a big, hooked nose.

‘How old are you?’ He looked her up and down with sharp eyes. She felt sure he could see the creases in her clothes and the traces of fabric still clinging to her hat and coat.

‘Eighteen.’ She could see a steep uncarpeted staircase behind him, it looked dark and dirty and she was more than a little scared. ‘I’ve just started a job in Oxford Street.’

‘Your name?’

‘Georgia.’ She paused suddenly remembering she intended to change it. She looked round and noticed a small shoe shop. The sign above it was James’s.

‘Georgia James,’ she said quickly.

The house was even worse inside than it looked from the street. Four narrow floors with uneven boards that creaked ominously. He led her further and further up, past so many brown-painted doors she lost count and finally right at the top he opened one.

Georgia gulped. Like the house itself it was long and narrow. A small window opposite the door so dirt-smeared it could have been curtained. The single bed sagged, the floor was bare linoleum, it looked as wretched as she felt.

‘I’ll take it,’ she said, taking no more than a cursory glance at the single gas ring and chipped sink.

‘A week in advance,’ his hand shot out reminding her strangely of Sister Agnes. His fingernails were black and she noticed he had no teeth.

‘Could I give it you on Friday?’ she forced herself to smile. ‘I lost my bag this morning, it had all my money in it.’

‘I don’t take charity cases,’ he turned immediately, dismissing her. ‘No advance rent, no room.’

‘Please,’ she caught hold of his arm. ‘Please, I promise I’ll pay you.’

‘I wish I had a quid for everyone that’s promised that,’ his lips curled back. ‘Go on push off. Go down the assistance if you’ve got no money.’

‘Look, take this,’ she unfastened her watch. ‘Please don’t throw me out.’

But there was no softening in his dark eyes.

‘What do I want a cheap watch for?’ his tone was contemptuous. ‘Go on, push off. I can see you’re trouble.’

There was nothing for it but to go on back down the stairs. He followed her in silence, Georgia pleaded silently with him to change his mind.

She turned at the door.

‘If I manage to get some money now, can I come back?’ She could feel prickling tears and she hated herself for pleading with him.

‘Going to sell yourself?’ he retorted, about to close the door.

‘How dare you?’ She took a step closer to him, drawing herself up and glowering at him. But before she could even get the satisfaction of giving him her opinion of his disgusting house, the door slammed and he was gone.

At half past five she found herself in Berwick Street, the sixth or seventh time she’d been through the market that day. The men were packing up now, piling boxes of apples, flinging rail after rail of dresses into vans and handcarts.

A weariness had replaced the earlier joviality. Stalls stripped down in hurried silence, the last-minute shoppers almost an intrusion. Hurricane lights softened the rubbish-strewn streets, yet drew attention to the gaunt, cold faces, highlighting abnormalities, turning every last man and woman into a Hogarth caricature.

She leaned against the lamp-post, her holdall at her feet, too weary to even go through the motions of pretending to wait for someone. Women hurried by, baskets full of shopping, rushing home to their families. Girls little older than her came tip-tapping down the street in high-heeled shoes, heads bent against the wind, perhaps planning the night ahead of them.

The notice on the club opposite beckoned her. ‘Dancing girls wanted, apply within.’ She’d looked furtively at the photographs of girls in nothing more than a G-string several times during the day, and now she was desperate enough to join them. Maybe it wasn’t the kind of stage she’d seen in her dreams, or the kind of dancing she’d been trained for, but another night on the streets might kill her.

A crippled girl was coming up a narrow street towards the crossroads where Georgia waited, catching her attention by her strange gait, bright red hair and unusual clothes. Caught for a moment under a street lamp she had the look of a Victorian maid in her long, waisted, russet coat with a fur collar, hopping, rather than walking, one foot dragging behind her.

Despite her obvious affliction she was arresting. Glorious, shiny red hair tumbled around a small white face and her slim shoulders, somehow lighting up the whole street.

She made Georgia think of red squirrels. Not merely her colouring, or the fast hopping motion, but the nervous head movements, as if she anticipated danger. She stepped out into the road, hitching two bags of shopping up into her arms.

A car roared round a corner just a few yards behind her. The girl’s head jerked round sharply, she hesitated, then tried to run. To Georgia’s horror, she stumbled, falling right into the path of the oncoming car.

Instinctively Georgia waved her arms and shouted. The car swerved, going up on to the pavement, missing the girl by only inches. The driver made a rude gesture with his fist, and drove off round the corner.

The girl lay spread-eagled face down. Around her the dropped shopping bags spilled out their contents, oranges, potatoes, a bag of sugar, mingling with knitting wool and needles.

‘Are you hurt?’ Georgia ran over, putting her hands under the girl’s shoulders and lifting her up.

‘I don’t think so.’ The girl’s voice was shaky, her face a ghastly white.

‘He only missed you by inches,’ Georgia said, supporting the girl with her arm. She saw a trickle of blood run down the girl’s forehead, as bright as berries against her white skin. ‘You’ll have a big lump there tomorrow.’

She led the girl over to a wall.

‘Stay there, I’ll just pick up your stuff,’ she said.

As she retrieved the vegetables and the knitting from the spilt milk she glanced up and noticed the girl was wearing a special built-up boot. She was leaning back against the wall panting, holding her head.

She carried the bags over to the girl.

‘Do you live round here?’

The girl dabbed at her forehead with a hanky, wincing as she saw the blood.

‘Over there,’ she pointed to the corner where seconds earlier Georgia had stood. ‘I feel funny.’ Her accent wasn’t a London one, the way she rolled the ‘R’ sounds smacked of the West Country.

‘I’ll help you home,’ Georgia put both bags in one hand and her spare arm round the girl.

It was difficult to know if the girl was pale because of her near miss, or naturally so. She was painfully thin, her wrists and hands smaller than a child’s. But as Georgia helped her along it was the limp she noticed most. She barely put any weight on her bad leg, merely dragging it along behind her, hence the hopping gait she had observed earlier.

Georgia hesitated as they came to her own bag under the lamp-post.

‘Well that’s something,’ she said as she bent to pick it up too. ‘I left a bag somewhere this morning and when I went back it was gone. Now where to?’

‘Just here.’ The girl pointed to a door right next to the side of the café where Georgia had smelt meat pies. She now looked faint, her colour turning from white to pale green and clearly she hardly knew what Georgia was saying. ‘Can you open the door?’

Georgia took the keys from the girl’s shaking hand. As she opened the door she could make out a narrow hallway with steep stairs ahead, the dank smell which wafted out suggested dirt and neglect.

‘There’s no light bulb,’ the girl said feebly. Georgia had a feeling she was about to be sick.

‘How far up is it?’ she asked.

‘The top,’ the girl sighed.

Georgia dropped the bags on the floor, bent down and picked the girl up, hoisting her over her shoulder.

‘Just hang on, I’ll get you up there,’ she said, feeling her way in the darkness.