The Throwaway Children (55 page)

Marks House was a decrepit-looking building and she paused outside, unwilling to go in. She knew she had to find somewhere, but the grubby windows and the peeling paint made her hesitate. Just then a young woman came up behind her and started up the steps to the front door.

‘Excuse me,’ Jean called, ‘do you live here?’

The woman turned round and looked down at her. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘you talking to me?’

Jean nodded. ‘I just wondered if you lived here.’

‘Yup,’ replied the woman, ‘’fraid so.’

‘Do you think they might have a room free?’ asked Jean.

The woman thought for a moment and then said, ‘Actually you might be in luck. I think someone moved out a couple of days ago. Want me to go and ask?’

Jean stepped forward, still clutching her suitcase. ‘Would you?’

‘Sure,’ came the reply. ‘Wait a mo.’ She pushed her way through the door and minutes later came back, beaming. ‘You’re in luck. Come on in.’

Jean hurried up the steps and went inside. In the hallway beside the young woman was another, older, woman.

‘This is Mrs Glazer, our warden,’ the young woman said. ‘She does have one room free.’

‘Name?’ said Mrs Glazer, giving Jean a penetrating look.

‘Jean.’ She hesitated a fraction of a second before adding, ‘Smith.’ She’d so nearly said Waters.

‘Well, Miss… Smith,’ she, too, lingered on the name, ‘thirty bob a week… in advance.’

Jean took out her money and counted out the thirty shillings.

‘She’ll have Miss Crawford’s old room, Miss Smart. Will you take her up?’

Taking her acquiescence for granted, Mrs Glazer handed her a key and disappeared through the door to her own quarters.

‘Typical!’ grinned Miss Smart. ‘Lazy Glazy don’t do anyfink she can pass on to someone else.’ She looked at the thin girl waiting beside her, her fair hair lank, her face pale with a wary expression in her dull blue eyes. ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘My name’s Daisy,’ she added, as she led them up the stairs. ‘My room’s just across the landing from yours.’

When they reached the second floor Daisy unlocked a door and Jean followed her into the pokey room.

‘It ain’t too bad,’ Daisy said. ‘None of these rooms is much cop, but at least you can shut the door and call it your own.’

Jean looked round the room. It certainly wasn’t much of a place, but it had a bed and a chest of drawers and to her it was a refuge. Most importantly, it had a lock.

‘Thanks,’ she said and dumped her case on the floor.

‘I’m just across the landing,’ Daisy said, ‘if you want anyfink. Kitchenette’s just down the passage and the bathroom is one floor down.’

Jean simply nodded and said, ‘Thanks.’

‘You got any food with you?’

‘Not hungry,’ Jean said, not meeting her eye.

‘OK,’ shrugged Daisy and crossing the landing to her own room, she left her to it.

As soon as Daisy disappeared, Jean shut and locked her door. For the first time since she had climbed out of her bedroom window, she felt safe from pursuit. Even if Gerald Waters chased her to Sydney he’d surely never find her in the myriad of streets and houses. Daisy’d asked if she had food, and she realized that she had had nothing to eat since her sandwich hours ago, and had nothing except the few biscuits in her case until she could go out and find something in the morning. Still she didn’t care; hungry or not she wasn’t going to venture out into the darkening streets again. She put her case onto the bed and unpacked the few things she’d brought with her.

As she was eating her biscuits, there came a knock at her door, followed by Daisy’s voice, ‘Jean?’

Jean didn’t answer and Daisy knocked again. ‘Jean? You hungry?’

‘No.’ Jean’s reply came loud and clear offering no further opening for conversation. She had no intention of getting to know anyone else who lived in this house. She wanted to keep herself entirely to herself, leaving no trail for Gerald to follow.

‘OK, suit yourself,’ Daisy called, and Jean heard her go along the landing to the tiny communal kitchen.

Maybe she’s just being kind, Jean thought. But kind or not, Jean would trust nobody, certainly nobody she’d only met a few minutes earlier.

In the kitchen, as she heated up baked beans and made toast for her own supper, Daisy thought about the new girl. There’s something odd about her, she decided. Her name was probably Jean, but whether it was Jean Smith, that was another matter. Looks pretty down, thought Daisy. Wonder where she’s come from.

Over the next few days Jean saw nothing of Daisy. She heard her leave for work in the mornings, and though Mrs Glazer didn’t allow anyone to remain in the hostel during the day and Jean had to be out by 8.30, she was usually back before Daisy in the evening.

The following week Jean had to find another thirty shillings. Her money had dwindled to almost nothing and she was desperate to earn some somehow. All week she’d been trying to get a job, but she could find nothing. No one wanted to employ a young girl with no experience and no qualifications. She was getting desperate, for she knew that if she didn’t find the rent for her room Mrs Glazer wouldn’t hesitate to turf her out onto the street.

She was walking home later than usual, through the backstreets of Kings Cross, when a man suddenly materialized out of a doorway and grabbing her by the wrist hissed, ‘How much?’

Jean froze. The man smelled of Gerald. ‘What… what d’you mean?’ she faltered.

‘What d’you think I mean?’ growled the man, still gripping her wrist. He jerked his head at the dark doorway. ‘Quick plunge, eh? I’ll give you a pound.’

A pound. It would save her from being chucked out by Mrs Glazer. Jean realized bitterly that she wouldn’t be doing anything she hadn’t done, or been doing for years, only this time she’d get paid for it.

‘Show me the pound,’ she said, and the man laughed.

‘You’re a one,’ he said as he pulled her into the doorway.

It was all over very quickly, and as the man zipped his fly he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the promised pound. ‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘Same time next week.’

‘What!’ Jean grabbed the pound note, hitching up her knickers as she did.

‘I’ll be round here same time next week,’ said the man. ‘Another pound, doll, if you’re here too.’

‘You make it sound like a dentist’s appointment,’ Jean said, edging away.

The man gave a shout of laughter. ‘Better than the dentist!’ And with these words he disappeared into the darkness.

It was two weeks later that disaster struck. Her punter had come back the next week, and though she knew she was stupid but in desperate need of money, Jean went back and earned another pound.

‘When I come next week,’ he said as if it were a regular arrangement between them, ‘I know a place we can go; do it properly, not just a quick knee-trembler.’ He cocked an eye at her as she snatched the pound from his hand. ‘Pay you more, too,’ he said, and as before he melted into the dark even as she was still adjusting her clothes.

So she went again, and when they met he took her hand and led her along the road, just as if they were friends out for a stroll. Jean, tense as a bowstring when they met, began to relax. It’s easy money, she thought. Isn’t as if I don’t know what to do.

They turned into a narrow street and walked to the far end where a light shone above a door. The man took a key from his pocket and opening the door, pushed Jean inside.

‘Upstairs,’ he said, and Jean, beginning to realize just how stupid she had been to leave the safety of the open street, stumbled up the steep staircase ahead of him. At the top was another door, and when he opened it and shoved her into the room, she was confronted by three men, all of them eyeing her eagerly.

‘You was right, Clive,’ one said as he reached forward and ran a hand down Jean’s leg. ‘She is a young’un. Just as I like ’em.’

Jean flinched away and turned for the door, but Clive was barring the way.

‘Now then, doll,’ he said, ‘don’t be like that. You done it with me. Now my friends want a turn.’

They all laughed, and Clive said, ‘You first, Jerry.’

He propelled Jean into the arms of a man with ginger hair that stuck up round his head like a bottlebrush. She could smell the alcohol, the stale sweat and his putrid breath as he began to pull at her clothes. Jean screamed and he gave her a backhander across her face, before pulling her down onto a bed in the corner.

When they had all finished, Clive, the last to take his turn, gave her a shove towards the door. ‘Beat it,’ he said, ‘I can see Jerry’s up for it again.’

Clutching her clothes, Jean staggered to the door and almost fell down the stairs. She had coped with the rape as she had always coped with Gerald, closing her mind, leaving her body to the abuse it was suffering, but now it was over she was shaking with terror. When she reached the street she stumbled through the darkness towards the lights of the broader thoroughfare beyond. Twice she tripped and fell on the muddy cobbles, grazing her hands and bruising her knees, and by the time she reached the hostel she had tears streaming down her face, and knew she couldn’t face Mrs Glazer in such a dreadful state. She didn’t climb the steps to the front door, but slipped into the alley that ran down one side of the building and sat curled up against the wall sobbing, and that was how Daisy found her half an hour later. Daisy had been to the flicks and was coming home when she heard the sobs. Pausing on the corner, she peered into the darkness and called softly, ‘Anyone there?’ No one answered but there was a scuffling in the deep shadows, where the light from the street couldn’t penetrate.

Daisy flicked on the torch she always carried in her bag and directed its beam into the alley. There she saw a crumpled figure, a hand shielding her eyes from the light. For a moment Daisy didn’t recognize her, but there was something familiar about the cowering shape and she said, ‘Jean? Is that you?’

There was another sob and Daisy hurried to kneel beside her. The beam of the torch picked out the cuts and bruises on Jean’s grimy face, a swelling black eye, a gash across the back of her hand.

‘Jean!’ Daisy exclaimed in horror. ‘Whatever happened? Who did this to you?’

Jean didn’t answer, but tears streamed down her face as she heard the kindness and concern in Daisy’s voice.

‘Right,’ said Daisy, taking charge. ‘Let’s get you indoors.’ She helped Jean to her feet and supported her as they walked up the steps to the front door. Letting herself in, Daisy called out, ‘Only me, Mrs Glazer, Daisy. Goodnight.’

As she’d hoped, Lazy’s door stayed closed and they were able to get up to Jean’s room unseen. Once inside Daisy closed and locked the door.

Leading Jean to the bed, she said, ‘Lie down and I’ll get some water to clean you up.’

It took a while. Daisy carefully wiped away the blood, mud and grit, bathing the grazes on Jean’s cheeks and hands, pressing a cold towel gently against the swelling eye. Then she made a cup of tea, ladled sugar into it and, placing it into Jean’s hands, said, ‘So what happened, Jean? Who done this to you?’

Jean, now propped up on her bed, looked at her warily for a minute or two and didn’t reply.

‘Come on, Jean,’ Daisy urged. ‘You can tell me. I ain’t going to dob you in, am I?’

‘Dunno,’ murmured Jean.

‘Well, I ain’t,’ said Daisy stoutly, ‘so come on, tell.’

‘There was a man,’ began Jean, ‘and I…’ She hesitated and then shrugged as if to say what did it matter anyway.

‘And you went with him for money,’ supplied Daisy.

Jean nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I hadn’t got the money for my room. Mrs Glazer’ll turn me out.’

‘So you sold yourself for this poxy little room,’ Daisy said flatly.

‘Why not?’ demanded Jean with a spark of defiance in the eyes. ‘Why not? I done it before. I know what to do. Christ, I been doing it for years!’

‘Doing it for years?’ echoed Daisy faintly. ‘How old are you, Jean?’

‘Nineteen,’ replied Jean.

‘Pull the other one,’ scoffed Daisy. ‘Fourteen, more like!’

‘Fifteen,’ admitted Jean sullenly.

‘OK, fifteen,’ agreed Daisy, knowing this was, at least, closer to the truth. ‘So how come you been doing it for years, for Christ’s sake?’

Jean took a gulp of the hot, sweet tea and a touch of colour came back into her cheeks.

‘My dad,’ she replied.

‘Your dad? You been fucking your dad?’

‘No,’ said Jean fiercely, ‘he’s been fucking me. Ever since I was a little girl.’

‘But what about your mum?’ demanded Daisy. ‘I mean, didn’t you tell her?’

‘Course I told her,’ snapped Jean, ‘but she called me a liar and slapped my face. ‘

Daisy took Jean’s hand. ‘Tell me.’ So Jean told her, of her life with the Waters and her final escape.

‘So you’re on the run,’ said Daisy. ‘I thought you might be.’

‘Yeah, well, my money’s gone,’ Jean said, ‘so I thought I’d make some more. Done it a couple of times and it was OK. Enough money for my room and some food.’ She spoke defiantly, but Daisy ignored what she’d said.

‘Won’t they be looking for you?’ she asked. ‘Your mum and dad?’

‘Maybe,’ said Jean, ‘but if I keep my head down I’ll be OK. If they do find me,’ she added defiantly, ‘I won’t go back. Not ever. I’d rather kill myself than go back there. If they find me I shall tell the police what the bastard’s been doing to me… fucking his own daughter for the last ten years! But I won’t go back, I swear it.’

‘No,’ said Daisy gently, accepting as true what Jean had told her, ‘course you won’t.’

Silence lapsed round them as Jean finished her tea, and Daisy tried to get her head round what she’d just heard.

In the end Daisy said, ‘So what happened tonight?’

‘Took me to a room,’ replied Jean bleakly. ‘There was four of them.’

‘You’re lucky they didn’t kill you, Jean.’

‘Am I?’ sighed Jean. ‘Not so sure of that myself.’

‘Well, you ain’t going back on the streets no more,’ Daisy said firmly.

‘All right for you to say that,’ snapped Jean. ‘You got a job to go to. I seen you go off every morning. And the other girls.’

‘Well, we’ll have to try and get you a job, an’ all,’ said Daisy. ‘You go back out on them streets, you’ll end up dead in a gutter.’