Georgia (15 page)

‘I hope you won’t mind if I use the bucket in the night?’ Helen said without a trace of embarrassment after she had made a last trip to the bathroom. ‘I can’t go clonking downstairs, waking everyone up.’

Georgia winced, as she was reminded she too would have to go down there.

‘Doesn’t anyone ever clean it?’ she asked on her return.

‘I used to try,’ Helen pulled a wry face. ‘But I’ve given up. I go down the public baths once a week, and the other tenants are hardly ever here. My landlord keeps saying he’ll do something to it, but he never does.’

Georgia hurriedly slipped out of her clothes and into her pyjamas. The bed felt damp and it was lumpy, the sheets and blankets smelled, but she was too tired to care. She put her arm under her head, nose buried in her pyjamas with the faint whiff of home and waited for Helen to put out the light.

Helen wore thick stockings under her long skirt. As she peeled them off, sitting on the side of the bed, Georgia could see how wasted her leg was. She could have put her thumb and forefinger round the ankle, the calf only slightly bigger.

Her other leg was normal, the muscles made bigger by taking the strain from the bad leg.

Earlier, out in the street Helen had reminded her of a squirrel, later that image had changed to one of a prim governess, but now as she undressed so the image changed again.

She wore a white cotton petticoat, her gleaming hair cascading down her back, like a lady from a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Although she was too thin and her skin so pale, she was lovely in a mystical way. Her features were all small and childlike. Perfect bowed lips, green eyes sparkling under reddish-gold eyebrows and lashes. Not even a freckle as she would have expected with red hair, just pure white skin like a baby.

Georgia woke with a start, for a moment wondering where she was. It was still dark, but every now and then bright flashes of light splashed on to the walls accompanied by rumbling, banging and shouting from outside in the street.

Pulling a blanket round her, Georgia went over to the window and peered out through the dirty glass, rubbing a patch with her blanket to see better.

The stallholders were setting up. Skeleton-like stalls being hastily assembled by men in donkey jackets and woolly hats, brandishing mallets. The sound of tarpaulins being shaken, the trundle of trolley wheels and the slap of cardboard boxes hurled from vans.

Yesterday this same scene had seemed violent and brutal. The coarse jokes, the swearing and the raucous laughter had seemed like a glimpse into a madhouse as she shivered on the corner. Now it seemed jolly, almost a street party. An Indian in a red turban wheeled a rail of dresses. A woman, mummified with a scarf wound round her head and neck arranged flowers in pots. A tall thin man dancing on the spot to keep warm. Teasing banter as they pushed and shoved through the disorder, the cold air making each one of them move faster. Gleaming apples, oranges, tomatoes and bananas lay in boxes, like a feast about to be prepared.

Georgia looked at the clock. It was only seven. Although she wanted to get up she didn’t think she should disturb Helen just yet. She climbed back into bed, buried her head in the pillow and went back to sleep.

She awoke again to the sound of splashing water. Helen stood at the sink, naked, washing herself as if she were alone. Sideways on she had the figure of a small boy, flat-chested, with a tiny, bony bottom and concave stomach, her thighs so slender it was a miracle she could walk at all.

Georgia closed her eyes again, afraid she might embarrass Helen, and waited for her to dress.

‘Cup of tea?’ Helen was now wearing an old faded dressing-gown the colour of mushy peas.

Georgia sat up and looked at the clock.

It was only eight.

‘I always go out early,’ Helen smiled. ‘I go down to the library as soon as they open and read the papers.’

‘What for?’

‘To find out what’s going on in the world. Besides it’s warm in there, saves on heating. But I suggest you don’t go far today as they may be looking for you.’

Georgia looked sharply at Helen. Could she be intending to go to the police to turn her in? Or did she mean she could stay?

Helen frowned as though she had something on her mind.

‘I can’t promise anything,’ she said. ‘Last night I wanted to invite you to stay permanently. But I’m not sure now. You’re so young. We’d have to find you a job. I need time to think it over. I don’t even know if I could live with another girl. But stay till tomorrow. By then we should both know if it’s going to work.’

Helen’s honesty touched Georgia deeply, it lit up the drab, cold room and she felt ashamed that she had doubted her intentions.

‘But I’ve got no money,’ Georgia reminded her. ‘I can’t help out until I get some.’

‘Another day won’t break the bank.’ Helen limped over and sat on the bed. ‘Take the washing over to the laundrette across the street for me and tidy up. That’s enough help for one day.’

She passed over a mug of tea, put some coins on the table, then under her dressing-gown she started to dress.

Her knickers looked ancient, the petticoat was worn and thin. She sat down on the bed pulling on thick brown stockings held up with a garter of thick elastic. Next a thin sweater full of holes. The brown dress she’d been wearing the day before, and over the top a thick, gold-coloured cardigan which looked hand knitted.

Georgia gulped. She thought of her drawers full of clothes back in Blackheath, dainty underwear, soft sweaters, dresses hanging on padded, scented hangers.

‘You have to wrap up warm.’ Helen seemed to sense Georgia’s shock, turning to grin at her. ‘This place is like a morgue and it’s even worse on the stall.’

Pulling on her coat and a woolly hat over her ears, she left, shutting the door behind her.

Georgia sat for a moment, listening to the painful sound of the built-up boot clonking down the stairs.

Celia came sharply into focus. She could almost smell bacon frying, hear the news on the radio. Celia would be sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea from a bone china cup as she scanned through the post.

‘She’ll be crying,’ Georgia murmured, suddenly aware that until this moment she hadn’t really considered how her mother would be feeling. ‘She’ll be frightened for me.’

An acute pain made her curl up into a ball. She didn’t want to stay here in this dark, cold room. She wanted to be back home with Celia, fifteen was too young to be trying to fend for herself, how could she find a job alone? How was she going to manage?

But as she dug deeper into the bed, Brian’s face came back to her. She could feel his breath on her face as he lunged at her in the playroom.

‘You’re not my daughter.’ Those were his words. Everything she remembered and loved belonged to him. The house, her clothes, the piano, even Celia belonged to him. She couldn’t go back, not ever. It was over.

Slowly she lifted her head from the covers. This room wasn’t hers either, for now she was dependent on a crippled girl who’d been big-hearted enough to share what little she had.

‘You’ve got to make it work for you,’ she whispered. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, the worst is over. Get up and get moving.’

The room was icy, but she must save the money in the gas meter. Jumping out of bed she moved the table to one side, taking the back of one of the upright chairs.

Dance exercises were the answer. She must get the blood flowing again, stretch those lazy muscles, warm herself up.

In the playroom in Blackheath, she had the record player to help her concentrate. Her own barre Brian had put up for her. She would watch each movement in the big mirror to see it was right. Back straight, eyes ahead, moving in time to the music.

She had to pretend the chair was a barre, imagine the music, forget she was wearing pyjamas and her feet were bare. Maybe she had no dancing teacher or parents now, but no one was going to stop her getting on the stage. All it took was willpower.

First one leg, up, down, up, down, repeating it till she hurt. Then the other. Knee bends, high kicks, and toe touching until she was hot with exertion.

Visions of dancing class came to her. Sixteen girls, each identical in black tights and leotards, pink ballet shoes. Hair scraped back into a tight bun, Miss Askell pounding the piano as they plié-d and jeté-d at her instruction.

Today Celia wasn’t going to come for her, no flask of hot coffee while she got dressed, no hour of shopping before driving her over to her singing lesson in Greenwich. But Celia had believed in her talent enough to sacrifice each Saturday willingly. She must keep it up for Celia now.

She washed herself later in the sink, trying hard not to dwell on the sparkling bathroom she’d never see again. Then before she could get cold, she jumped into jeans and a sweater.

She filled a pillowcase with all the dirty clothes and bed linen, then made her way down the stairs, across the street.

The laundrette hadn’t been open long. A woman in a blue overall was mopping the floor, she turned to look at Georgia.

‘Service wash, love?’ she shouted above the noise of a radio.

Georgia stared blankly at the row of machines, round glass doors standing open.

‘I, I,’ she stammered, blushing with embarrassment. ‘What do I have to do?’

‘Well are you going to work, or have you got time to watch it yourself?’ the woman asked, stepping nearer.

‘It’s Helen’s stuff,’ Georgia said weakly. ‘Do you know her?’

The woman’s face broke into a smile, showing more gaps than teeth.

‘Oh, she gets special treatment.’ She reached out and took the bag from Georgia. ‘I see’s to it for ’er. She comes back later. She ain’t ill is she?’

‘No, she’s fine. I’m just staying with her for a day or two,’ Georgia reassured her. Already the woman had the pillowcase open, tossing the washing into two separate machines, whites in one, coloureds in another.

‘That’s all right then,’ the woman nodded at Georgia. ‘Come back around twelve, it’ll be ready then.’

Back upstairs Georgia stared around her, wondering where to start.

Last night the room had looked squalid, but by day it looked far worse. The small, dirty window cut a shaft of light through the middle, but under the eaves it was still in shadow. Yet looking objectively at the room, part of the reason it looked so wretched was the way the furniture was arranged. The wardrobe so close to the window blocked the light. The beds sticking out from the wall made it seem like a dormitory. So the wallpaper was stained, and the carpet would never curl comfortingly round anyone’s feet, but there was room for improvement.

Starting by the fireplace she cleared the furniture to the other side of the room by the sink. Then taking a small stiff brush she began to sweep the carpet on all fours. Again and again she went over it, until at last no more dust flew into the pan. Filling the bucket with hot soapy water she washed down the fire surround, the mantelpiece, the skirting boards and the floorboards around the carpet. Then changing the water again, she went over the surface of the carpet, being careful not to make it too wet.

By the time she had finished the whole room it was twelve. The furniture stacked by the fire, ready to rearrange. She couldn’t count the number of buckets of black water that went down the drain. Her hair felt full of dust, she had tidemarks up to her elbows, but it was so satisfying.

The carpet was a red-brown. She could even see a swirly pattern now. The windows gleamed, letting in twice as much light, but most of all it smelled clean.

*

‘Been up a chimney?’ The woman in the laundrette grinned at her as she handed her the warm bag of washing.

‘Doing a bit of spring cleaning,’ Georgia said shyly. She could feel the dirt on her face and her hands were bright red from all the cleaning fluid. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Call it five bob,’ the woman said. ‘I dried everything real well and folded it. It’s good ’Elen’s got a bit of company, spends too much time on ’er own does that one.’

The market was packed with shoppers. Women from offices buying vegetables, young girls looking at clothes. Georgia kept her eyes down as she scuttled back across the street, aware of a policeman standing by the door of the café.

Was he looking for her, or merely taking a break in his beat? Her heart thumped with anxiety as she slipped in the front door. What if he asked the lady in the laundrette about her?

Upstairs again she felt safer and she had a great deal more to do before Helen got back.

Helen smelled bleach and disinfectant as she stepped into the dark hallway. Instinctively her hand went out to the light switch and to her surprise a light on the stairs came on.

She blinked. Not a sweet wrapper or bus ticket in sight. Balls of fluff and a coating of grey grit on each stair had gone. The carpet was so worn in places she could see the stair treads showing through, but it was clean!

Slowly she hauled herself up by the bannister. She was so cold she couldn’t feel her toes, but for the first time ever she felt a rush of pleasure to be going home.

The open door to the bathroom beckoned her. She paused, leaning heavily against the wall, staring in amazement.

The smell of bleach was so strong it almost choked her, but in front of her was a clean bath, basin and toilet.

Granted there was still a stain of limescale where the cold tap dripped in the bath, and nothing could be done about the chips and scratches, but the tiles were white! The window-sill was shiny, even the cracked lino was clean. The smell of stale urine was gone. They could even use the bath if they wanted to!

But there was another smell too as she went on up the stairs in a daze. An aroma of meat pie. Was she dreaming all this, or was it merely a faint memory of something from years ago?

The door opened as she turned on to the last flight of stairs. Georgia stood there, a smile of welcome on her face.

‘I thought you’d never come home,’ she said, taking Helen’s basket from her arm. ‘I’ve got the tea ready.’

As Helen limped into the room she stopped suddenly.

The fire was lit. Curtains drawn. The table was now under the window laid for two, saucepans and kettle rattling on the cooker.