The Girl From Barefoot House (16 page)

At that moment, on such a beautiful morning, with the sun shining warmly on her back and the sea glittering in the distance, the problem didn’t seem that acute. But Josie knew that with each day that passed, October growing nearer, the problem would get bigger and bigger.

She read Mrs Kavanagh’s letter again. There wouldn’t be enough to pay rent out of a seventeen-year-old’s wages, though she’d quite like to work in a hotel. But she would feel vulnerable, living there, as well. If things went wrong, she would lose her home as well as her job. The same thing went for a boarding school, and everyone would go home in the holidays except her.

A gull had perched on the back of the seat in front, and was watching her curiously with bright, black eyes.

‘No,’ she said, and the gull flew away. No, she didn’t want to live and work in either of those places.

‘You can stay with us until you sort yourself out,’ Mrs Kavanagh had written. But she mustn’t be there at Christmas when Ben came home. It wouldn’t be fair.
‘Eddie and I still have hopes you’ll be our daughter-in-law one day.’

Reading it again, Josie saw a simple way out of her problem. She would write to Ben, tell him she missed him as much as he missed her, that she was sorry she’d gone away. It was true. His shadow had haunted her ever since she’d come to the camp. Just dancing with another boy made her feel guilty, because it wasn’t
him
. There was no need to wait to get married. Circumstances had changed. They could get married next year, as soon as she was eighteen, and live in Cambridge. She would find a job and support him until he was ready to work himself.

She smiled. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

Josie wondered why, despite having sorted everything out so satisfactorily in her head, she felt more confused than ever.

She was cleaning the chalets that housed the Wasps. So far, she had managed to avoid Lily, who was unbearable if she knew something was being kept from her. Josie wasn’t in the mood for her friend’s remorseless probing, followed by the predictable oohs and ahs and shrill expressions of disbelief that Vince Adams was back in Machin Street.

‘And after what he did an’ all!’ Lily would say, having guessed a skeleton of the truth. ‘What exactly
did
he do, Josie?’

Most Wasps lived in a terrible state of untidiness. A few women kept their chalets neat, their clothes hung up. Some even made their own beds. It wasn’t Josie’s job to tidy, so she ignored the mess, merely straightening the beds beneath the heaps of clothes on top. She brushed
floors, took mats to the door to shake. She worked automatically, her mind on other things.

The next chalet she entered, Barbara’s and Sadie’s, was a little home from home, kept scrupulously clean. There was a teddy bear on Barbara’s pillow, film posters on the walls, dried flowers and photographs on the dressing-table.

Josie bent to pick up the mat to shake it. Her eyes became level with one of the photographs. She’d never once looked at them before, though Lily took everything in, even read letters if they’d been left around.

The photo had been taken in a garden – a couple standing under trees, the man with his arm around the woman, both middle-aged, both smiling. Josie picked it up to study it more closely. The couple looked complacently happy – the woman must be Sadie’s mother, she had the same dark, pretty eyes. She looked at the back. ‘Mummy and Daddy’s Silver Wedding’ was scrawled in purple ink. There was another photo, an ordinary wedding, about twenty adults and half a dozen children grouped around the bride and groom. She recognised Sadie as a bridesmaid and noticed the middle-aged couple in the group. On the back she read, ‘Jenny and Peter, 1949.’

‘Aah!’ Josie breathed. How lovely to have a family, a mam and dad, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts – to
belong
.

Mrs Kavanagh’s letter was stiff in her pocket, reminding her that, as from now, she was entirely alone. She had no one – unless she wrote to Ben.

There were typical mounds of clutter in the next chalet, Jeremy’s and Griff’s. Both beds were heaped with clothes, and the floor was full of empty beer bottles. There must have been a party the night before, as Jeremy and Griff couldn’t have drunk so much between them.
The sight depressed her for some reason. It seemed that with each chalet she went into she grew more and more aware of her situation and the future seemed more stark, more bleak. Unless she wrote to Ben, she reminded herself again, and wondered why she kept forgetting such an obvious way out.

‘Mam,’ she whispered. ‘What am I going to do? Oh, why did you have to go and die on me?’ She sat heavily on a bed, and began to cry.

There was a shriek. Josie screamed, leapt off the bed and a man’s head appeared from beneath the pile of clothes. ‘You sat on me,’ he said accusingly.

‘I’m sorry.’ Josie, limp with fright, sat on the other bed, then quickly jumped off in case there was someone in it.

‘It’s all right, it’s empty.’

She sat down again. ‘You scared me.’

‘Not half as much as you scared me. I thought the Russians had dropped the dreaded atom bomb or something.’ He sat up. It was Griff Reynolds, a Jack-of-all-trades who played the piano and the double base, acted a bit, sang a bit and told terrible jokes. He was the handsomest of the Wasps, with a face like a Greek god, lovely blue eyes surrounded by enviably long lashes and brown curly hair that was a mite too long, trailing rakishly around his perfect ears. Winnie said he was a fag, a pansy. You could tell by the way he walked and talked – the prissy little steps he took, the limp way he waved his hands, the high-pitched, effeminate voice. Winnie was then obliged to explain to the girls what being a pansy entailed. Lily had gone on about it for days.

This was the first time Josie had spoken to a Wasp, other than saying ‘Hello’ or ‘Good morning’. They normally kept very much to themselves.

Griff rolled up his pyjamas and examined his perfectly shaped legs. ‘I think you’ve broken one. Or at least an ankle.’ He wore a white pyjama jacket with black spots, and black bottoms with white spots. ‘If I have to go on stage tonight on crutches, then it’ll be your fault, darling.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Josie said again. ‘Anyroad, shouldn’t you be on duty? It’s half eleven.’

‘I’m ill, angel,’ Griff said mournfully.

Josie glanced at the bottles. ‘I’m not surprised.’

He caught her glance. ‘It was Jeremy’s birthday, sweet. We had friends in.’ He rooted through the clothes, found a pillow and propped it behind him. ‘How dare you come in crying, muttering about someone having died, then have the cheek to actually sit on me?’

‘You were awake? You should have said something.’

‘I was only half-awake, darling. And I wasn’t expecting to be used as a chair. Why were you crying? Who has died?’

Josie sensed that behind the jokey remarks, he seemed genuinely to care that she’d been crying.

‘The person died a long time ago,’ she explained. ‘It was me mam, and I still miss her. I just think about her whenever I feel miserable, that’s all.’

‘And why should such an adorable young woman have reason to feel miserable when it’s such a glorious day outside?’ He squinted at the window where the curtains were still closed. ‘I assume it
is
a glorious day?’

‘It’s lovely.’

‘Are you homesick, poppet, is that it?’

Josie smiled. ‘I haven’t got a home to feel sick about.’

‘You poor little homeless orphan,’ he cried. ‘Tell your Uncle Griff all about it.’

She got to her feet. ‘I can’t. I’ll get in trouble if I don’t finish by twelve o’clock. I’m already a bit behind.’

Griff sprang out of bed – too quickly. He clutched his head and winced. ‘I’ll help, sweet. Where do the bottles go?’

‘In the trolley outside. Ta.’

Between them, they disposed of the bottles. Griff threw the clothes off his bed, straightened the bedding, then threw the clothes back, while Josie made the other. He shook the mat while she brushed the floor.

He giggled. ‘I might come back next year as a chalet maid.’

‘You’d be wasted. I’ve seen your shows. You’re very good, particularly when you sing and play the piano at the same time.’

‘What a perfectly sweet thing to say. You know, I’ve seen you around, but I don’t know your name. I can’t very well call you Little Orphan Annie, it’s a bit of a mouthful.’

‘It’s Josie.’

‘I’m Griff’

‘I already knew that.’ She stared up at him. He wasn’t as tall as Ben, about five feet eleven, but much broader. His shoulders and arms were heavily muscled. She remembered he was very good at tennis. For the first time since leaving Liverpool she felt a flicker of interest in the opposite sex, but if Winnie was right, Griff wasn’t attracted to women. Yet there was something in his eyes …

‘Why don’t we meet up for a drink tonight after
Hit For Sex
?’ he suggested.

‘What?’

‘The play, my love.’

Her heart beat a fraction faster. ‘I’d like that, ta.’

‘The curtain comes down about five past ten, then I
have to change and remove my disgusting make-up, so I’ll see you at about twenty past in the Palm Court?’

She nodded. ‘Okay.’

For the rest of the morning, she mostly forgot about Mrs Kavanagh’s letter, and thought about Griff instead.

That night, she took great pains with her appearance, brushing her hair vigorously and applying make-up with particular care. After staring at the contents of her crammed locker for several minutes, she reached for a white linen skirt with an inverted pleat at the back, a lemon silky jumper with short sleeves and a V-neck, and white sandals that showed off her tanned legs to perfection.

‘You look nice,’ Rene remarked. ‘Lovely and fresh, like a pineapple. Are you meeting someone special tonight?’

‘Not really.’ She couldn’t tell anyone, not even Lily, about Griff. They’d only make fun.

The girls usually caused a stir when they entered the ballroom. Lily was small and plump, with Shirley Temple hair and cheeks rosier than ever from the sun. Her brown eyes sparkled, as if she was determined the evening ahead was going to be fun. Josie was taller, slimmer, her dark blue eyes more wary than her friend’s, her expression withdrawn, almost cold. She was beautiful, or so she’d been told a score of times, and supposed it was true. People who’d known them both said she was the spitting image of her mother, the most beautiful person Josie had ever known.

They were asked to dance immediately, and it continued that way for the next two hours. Josie was glad when Lily became attached to a nice young man called Harry, but unfortunately Harry had a friend, Bill, and
Josie was forced to claim a headache and leave early, otherwise she would have found herself landed with Bill.

It was only ten to ten. She went for a walk around the tennis courts, entered the Palm Court at a quarter past, found an empty table and waited for Griff.

He arrived a few minutes later with his room-mate, Jeremy, who led communal sing-songs in a fine baritone voice. They stood by the door, laughing, nudging each other, as if sharing a private joke. Griff wore a blue shirt with an open neck and dark trousers. A belt encircled his narrow waist. His eyes searched the room. Josie waved, and they came towards her, Griff with his funny, wiggly walk. She noticed the campers grin and wink at each other when he passed their tables.

‘
There
you are, darling,’ Griff gushed. ‘Josie, this is my pal, Jeremy. Jeremy, Josie. What are you drinking, precious? Lemonade! Jeremy, fetch this young lady a lemonade, and a pink gin for yours truly.’ He threw himself on to the next chair, and gave her a searching look. ‘Feeling better, poppet?’

‘Yes, ta,’ she gulped. ‘How did the show go?’

‘Like a dream, dear heart. The audience loved it.’ He told her about his career so far, ‘which wouldn’t fill the back of a postage stamp. I’ve yet to find my niche.’ He’d had a few small parts in West End revues and had played the piano on the wireless a few times. ‘But the vile producer wouldn’t let me sing.’

Jeremy arrived with the drinks. There was no sign of a pink gin. Instead, he put a tankard of beer in front of his friend.

As the night wore on, more and more Wasps joined their table. Josie didn’t open her mouth during the fascinating conversation that went on. What on earth could she contribute of the faintest interest to people
who said things like, ‘Larry Olivier actually kissed me on the lips, darling. Poor Vivien, she was
livid
!’

‘Tommy said – Tommy
Handley
, that is, darling, “I just
know
we’ll see your name in lights one day, Stella.” Such a pity he died, poor man.’

‘Who’s got a pantomime at Christmas?’

There was a groan and a chorus of, ‘
I
have!’

The strains of the last waltz drifted from the ballroom, ‘When We Sound The Last All Clear’. The orchestra played the same tune every night. ‘We’re going to the beach, sweetheart,’ Griff said. ‘Like to come?’

‘Oh,
yes
.’ She didn’t want to miss a single thing.

‘Good grief,’ Griff shrieked when he saw the dozens of writhing couples on the sand. ‘This place is becoming more and more like Sodom and Gomorrah every day. Don’t look, my pet. You’re far too young.’ He put a casual arm around her shoulder, and she felt a stupid little thrill.

Then Jeremy said something very strange. ‘Calm down, mate. There’s no need to keep up the act. We’re amongst friends.’

‘Phew!’ Griff said in a deep, perfectly normal voice. ‘One of these days, I’ll forget who I really am.’ He squeezed Josie’s shoulders. ‘That other guy is merely a performance put on to entertain the campers. You guessed, didn’t you, Josie? Otherwise you’d never have come.’

‘Yes,’ Josie said weakly. Perhaps she had!

‘We come here most nights. It’s peaceful after a hectic day acting so bloody cheerful.’

‘It’s lovely,’ she breathed, suddenly extraordinarily happy.

The midnight sky was perfect – a dark, luminous blue,
cloudless, strewn with a million twinkling stars and a few dusty patches of gold. The waning moon was a tangerine segment, and the sea gleamed as if it were illuminated from underneath. She removed her shoes and the sand felt warm and powdery beneath her feet. Ahead, a bonfire burned merrily, and Josie could hear music and the crackle of flames.