That evening she would be dining at The Criterion with Laurie, her bestie, an up and coming actor who had just bagged himself a role on a television hospital drama. Who knew who they might bump into so Georgie had to look better than her best which necessitated a spot of shoplifting.
The desire for and appreciation of the finer things in life had never left Georgie despite her somewhat meagre financial state but minor details such as this didn’t hinder or deter, in fact it made her even more determined and resourceful. As much as she despised them, the Nibleys had provided her with most of the tools she needed to survive: social skills, good manners, excellent deportment, a rather nice accent. They had also shown her the true meaning of shallow, the art of manipulation, what snobs look and sound like and how disdain for those less well off made you bitter and cruel. Georgie put each and every one of them to good use.
After the hideousness of lodging with Evelyn finally became too much to bear, Georgie set upon a plan to leave Old Prune Face well and truly behind her. Her job in Whiteley’s department store in Bayswater gave Georgie not only a wage but the opportunity to learn many things. Accents were her speciality. She listened to and mimicked the customers, perfecting their little affectations, those subtle hints that gave away their breeding and backgrounds. Imperious looks, tinkling laughs, the way they stood and walked, held their handbags and pulled off their gloves, finger by finger, slowly and gracefully like they had all the time in the world, which they probably did. These cosseted creatures who lunched with friends while nanny cared for their offspring were priceless specimens that Georgie studied in great detail.
She could swing from snob to shop girl in a heartbeat. Georgie was one of the gang and laughed like a drain at whatever fruity titbit everyone was sharing in the stockroom or the pub after work. Everyone loved mischievous Georgie who was full of life and fun. She cheered a dreary day and brightened the lives of whoever she linked arms with, shared a cigarette or sat next to on the bus. And then there were her other chums, a bright array of actors and musicians, artists and photographers in whose world she was immersed, running with the pack, frequenting the most exciting venues and staying out till dawn. They loved her too.
Settled in London, Georgie embarked on fulfilling her ambition to become an actress and in her spare time attended auditions for anything and everything. Being bright and somewhat sensible, it soon became apparent that she was flogging a dead horse, and besides, the whole process was becoming tiresome. It was during one of these that she met Laurie, who did actually get a part in the soap powder advert. That was possibly due to him being drop-dead gorgeous, even more gorgeous than Georgie, and flirting outrageously with the producer. After laughing hysterically in the queue, they hooked up afterwards and headed to the pub, then later into the West End. They had been inseparable ever since and now that Laurie’s star was in the ascendant, Georgie abandoned any notion of making it big and instead decided to accompany her bestie on the ride, holding firmly on to his arm, coat-tails, every word, whatever it took.
The thing was, her shop girl wages didn’t provide the necessary accoutrements that went hand in hand with her social life. Her style icon was the glorious and fascinating Jackie Onassis, and Georgie aspired to being like her in every way. The problem was, she had the stunning good looks and a fun and rather endearing personality, but not the clothes, handbags and shoes. That didn’t stop Georgie.
The only time she stole from Whiteley’s was a means to an end. She needed an outfit that said wealth and class, that way nobody would look twice at the fetching young woman perusing the racks of dresses or casually examining the expensive handbags on display and trying on the latest shoes, hot in from Italy. On her day off, Georgie would head to Sloane Square, the Kings Road and sometimes Oxford Street where she would treat herself to whatever she needed to embellish her glamorous lifestyle.
Life was such a whirl, and with the dawning of 1970, hearts and minds had been set free, even more liberated than the swinging sixties when John Lennon gave back his MBE. While jumbo jets streaked above their heads, on the ground someone had the audacity to throw an egg at Harold Wilson. Paul had broken hearts and left The Beatles and once the dock strike was over, the riots began in Notting Hill. Georgie could feel revolution in the air and for the brave and the free, nothing was impossible.
Determined to live life to the maximum, in the evenings she and Laurie would meet their friends at their favourite haunts like The Colony Room in Soho, a nightspot where the eccentric and bohemian enjoyed the privacy of their own clandestine club, or perhaps The Flamingo Club where they listened to jazz and rhythm and blues. There were no barriers, no rules, just creative people sharing their love of the arts and here, Georgie could be anyone she wanted to be.
Quite soon though, Evelyn became thoroughly fed up of her cousin, tipping up in the early hours and waking the guests so ultimatums were given. While Georgie wiped away her panda eyes with soggy loo roll, Old Prune Face droned on and on about respectability and reputations. But Georgie cared not, Evelyn’s words washed off like rain because by the end of the week she’d be long gone, suitcases packed and away.
On the back of the advert, Laurie bagged a bit part in a police drama meaning they had just enough money between them to rent a bedsit in Earls Court. It was the tiniest place possible with just enough space to swing their hips, never mind a cat, but it was theirs, boiling hot in the summer and like a refrigerator in winter. Georgie and Laurie cared not a jot because it was merely somewhere to rest their heads and drink whisky.
The remainder of the time was spent having fun or on the stage. And that didn’t apply just to Laurie. As far as Georgie was concerned, her life was played out each and every day as though she was stepping in front of the spotlights or the lens of a camera. She was amongst crazy people who lived life as though it were the last day on earth, for whom nothing was impossible. They believed that music and words and images could take them anywhere they wanted to go. Georgie had found her place, for now.
Emerging into the sunlight and onto Earls Court Road, Georgie passed the shops that lined the pavement and before she reached one in particular, felt inside her handbag and pulled out her purse. They didn’t cook in the bedsit. For one, Georgie was able to survive on thin air and ate only morsels, mainly to maintain her figure, and secondly to save money that could be spent better elsewhere. But once a week she bought a small bag of groceries, just a few treats, not for herself but for someone who needed a helping hand.
There was also a more contrived reason for visiting one shop in particular. It reminded her of something she missed, a fact she only admitted to herself. As Georgie stepped inside the butcher’s and joined the queue, she inhaled the scent of blood and meat, a whiff of bleach and the unmistakable odour of sawdust. After glancing at the carnivorous offerings on show, she couldn’t help but close her eyes and go back in time to her days with the Butchers. Georgie missed them, everything about them. It was as simple as that.
During the six years since being rejected, Georgie had put many things into perspective. Living with Old Prune Face Evelyn had that effect on you. Oh yes, she loved London life, even the dreary hours in Ladieswear had its moments but Georgie knew all this wasn’t real, or enough, not forever. Momentum – that was the key. To keep moving forward and upwards was imperative but every now and then, taking note of what was going on around her, she allowed herself to glance sideways, but never down.
It had surprised Georgie to learn that, despite her upbringing, she had empathy, compassion and kindness running through her veins. She imagined these were borne from knowing rejection and seeing disappointment in the eyes of others. It was a slow burn, a gradual awakening, growing up perhaps. Georgie was able to admit her mistakes, be accountable for the hurt she’d caused yet still winced at the whip of revenge. All this had taught her valuable lessons, as had hanging out with her bohemian free-thinking friends which was why Georgie recognised in others so much more than what was on the outside.
What happened inside your heart and head was the thing that counted. The past and her new friends had taught her valuable lessons and as a consequence, Georgie was able to look deeper.
She could see loneliness in your eyes, its weight on your shoulders. Georgie was aware of fear in all its forms, like the fear of others, failure or speaking out. Shame was an easy spot, as was jealousy, and Georgie knew a fake a mile off. Disingenuous people were her number one pet hate. Yet despite whatever they gave away, Georgie reminded herself never to judge, not straight away, because who knew what circumstances had led someone to act in one way or another, what hand fate had dealt them, or how they had been previously treated or mistreated, manipulated or led astray. It was nobody’s business and neither she nor anyone had the right to look down on another human being. Not until you knew the facts.
After paying for the chops, Georgie headed home. Her feet ached and she desperately hoped there would be at least a few inches of hot water left in the tank so she could soak her weary bones, not necessarily all of them, just the lower half would do nicely.
Inside the foyer of the flats, an impressive Georgian building that had once been the home of wealthy Londoners, Georgie placed her bags on the dusty floor and knocked loudly on the first door. On the other side, a radio was turned to full blast and while she waited, Georgie eyed the peeling greyish-white paint on the walls of the corridor and the curl of foot-beaten linoleum that was in need of a mop. When the door finally opened, a pinched face peered out, a good foot below Georgie’s eye line and recognising immediately her visitor, the old lady smiled and welcomed her guest inside.
As soon as the door swung shut, Georgie enveloped her friend Dolly in a warm hug, not quite as tight as she would have liked but it would do. As they embraced, she told Georgie off for being a bag of bones, the irony lost as her gravelly voice, the result of far too many fags and post-war smog asked if she’d been eating properly. Georgie simply smiled and let Dolly rattle on, relishing the softness of her cheek, lost in the touch of the woollen cardigan below her hands, inhaling the talcum-powdered scent of the past.
“Anyways, fanks fer popping in darlin’. I only just ’eard yer knockin’. I ’ave to ’ave that bleedin’ radio on full these days, now, shall we ’ave a cuppa? An I fink I’ve got a bit of cake out back, I saved it fer yer special.” Dolly was already on her way to the kitchen before Georgie could refuse but she would be staying a while anyway, just to keep the old lady company. A cup of tea would be nice.
Georgie settled herself onto the footstool opposite the armchair by the fire. It was the only other place to sit in the tiny flat that smelt quite badly of damp, mildew spotting the wallpaper which was peeling in places. But Georgie didn’t mind. Gone was the girl who turned up her nose, who retched at the stench of real life and closed her eyes to things she had no desire for.
They had met one cold November evening, shortly after Georgie and Laurie moved into the bedsit. Dolly was clearly out of puff and struggling with her key so Georgie helped her inside and noting the old ladies peaky complexion, insisted on settling her in her flat. It was chilly and miserable inside, the old lady’s bed in the same room as her armchair and meagre furnishings. The sight left Georgie sad so she stayed a while and made a warm drink, got the fire going and then nipped to the chip shop and bought them both supper. They had been friends ever since, four and half years to be precise.
Dolly was childless and had no family in London. Her first husband was killed at The Somme and her second husband ran off with her cousin. Dolly had worked in munitions during the war and got bombed out twice which was why she ended up there, in a tiny two-roomed flat, one step away from the poorhouse. Georgie warmed to Dolly immediately; drawn to her dry wit and plain speaking observations, the way she’d accepted her lot in life but hadn’t let it defeat her. More than anything, Georgie was reminded of her gran and there was something else, in Dolly she had spotted a lost soul, well-hidden but there nonetheless. From that day on, by putting a little bit aside from her wages, Georgie had taken care of Dolly in a subtle way, so as not to offend or demean.
The coal man called regularly in the winter months, as did the milkman, and Georgie brought a few bits and bobs, telling Dolly that the woollen blankets and bedspread were in the sale and with staff discount cost only pennies, just like the thermals and slippers. In the summer, they would wander down to the park and have a picnic and a bottle of pale ale. On Christmas Day, Georgie and Laurie ate lunch in Dolly’s flat then took her to the pub on the corner where she got tipsy on port and lemon. Nevertheless, Georgie was careful not enter into a routine or have Dolly rely on her too much, her lifestyle didn’t allow it. Still, it gave both of them comfort, a non-binding reciprocal arrangement, perhaps another name for friendship.
An hour later they had shared a packet of ten Park Drive and, through a haze of cigarette smoke, ate stale cake and drank dark brown tea made with sterilised milk, plus two big sugars to put a bit of energy in their blood. Reminded of her evening plans, Georgie handed over the bag of treats and said goodbye to Dolly. It was always painful to witness the look of regret, the sag of the shoulders and the reverse shuffle as she closed the door, but as Georgie kissed Dolly’s cheek, she promised to pop in soon. It was one she always kept.
As she made her way up six flights of stairs to the top floor, Georgie forced back the tears. Dolly was her weakness, a drug she had to take because just being in her company transported her back to the Butchers, her real family and the loving arms of her gran. Georgie had severed all ties with the Nibleys but had kept in touch with her gran and granddad, sending postcards now and then, showing London landmarks, filling the space on the back with a snippet of information. Work was going well, she’d been to the cinema, to the top of St Paul’s and had spotted Princess Margaret as she hopped into a royal limousine. Georgie didn’t show off or allude to her racy lifestyle, instead she provided them with nice safe nuggets of information they could pass on to customers.
She remembered their birthdays and sent gifts at Christmas and every now and then, a surprise, bought with her wages, perhaps a packet of handkerchiefs for her granddad and a nice headscarf for Gran, nothing flashy. In return she received the best gift of all – contact. This came in the form of a loving message inside a card or a chatty letter, keeping her up to date with the goings on within the family. Georgie skimmed the letters, caring not about her cousins and aunts, and definitely not her parents. All she wanted to know was that the selfless honest love they had for her, despite her falling from grace, still remained. The rest of them could rot.
As Georgie climbed the stairs, she managed to shake off her gloom and the images of Dolly frying chops all alone. Georgie was going to have some fun and maybe they’d see the princess again through the smoky haze of the club, or bump into a screen actor or two, maybe even one of the Beatles, who knew? As Georgie reached her door, she stopped to catch her breath, wheezing slightly and ignoring the grumble of her stomach, perhaps the cause of her dizziness. Admonishing herself for smoking far too much and double-ended candle burning, she let herself into the flat and flopped onto her bed. A few winks would set her up nicely for the night ahead, or perhaps a splash of whisky might do the trick.
Ignoring the rattle inside her chest, Georgie closed her eyes. Maybe she’d meet the man of her dreams, whoever he was, if such a person even existed. Little did she know that less than a mile away, sitting alone in his house in Kensington was a man who, whilst not fitting the bill exactly, would soon become the one true love of her life.
The Surprise
Vanessa was giddy with excitement and had insisted on wearing her best dress for when Daddy arrived with his big surprise. Nanny had suggested she read but Vanessa couldn’t concentrate so instead, she had positioned herself at the window and watched for the car coming up the drive, taking great care not to crease her skirt. She had no idea what the surprise was but it was such fun guessing. Perhaps it was the puppy or kitten which she longed for but Grann
y forbade. It wasn’t fair because Granny was allowed a budgerigar that nobody was permitted to touch or even feed. Feeling sad again, Vanessa knew she wouldn’t be getting a pet because Daddy was scared of Granny, just like they all were.
Downstairs there was a terrible atmosphere because Granny hated surprises and was furious that Cookie had been asked to prepare a special tea and dinner. This was another reason Vanessa was excited because Cookie made the best high teas ever and had promised to bake some scones, the ones with cherries. Vanessa loved cherries. Thinking of food made her tummy rumble so instead she concentrated on the surprise and all the lovely things that Daddy might be bringing home for her. Not a new bicycle, she didn’t like to ride them as last time she wobbled over and hurt her knee on the gravel. She was far too old for dolls and eight was a bit too young for jewellery, so what could it be?
As she wriggled and pulled at the neck of her dress which felt a bit too tight in the heat, movement outside caught Vanessa’s eyes and sure enough, her father’s Bentley appeared on the drive, gliding towards her. Her heart skipped a beat while a bubble of laughter escaped from her throat as Vanessa slid off the window seat and rushed from her bedroom, eager and almost desperate to see her surprise, and Daddy of course.
Phyllis tapped her cane and watched the ticking clock which was marking time with the nerve at the side of her face. Horace, her budgerigar, was trying to attract her attention by ringing his bell but today she had no time for him. She was so cross, no, livid more like. It was as though they were colluding against her, taking whispered calls from Kenneth who it seemed had no time to speak to his own mother and preferred to relay messages via the staff.
Since his phone call the previous evening, where he told the nanny he would be home the next day, adding no doubt shiftily that he’d be bringing a surprise, Phyllis had descended into a state of cool rage. She rang him back immediately but there was no reply and suspected he had waited until she had retired before making the call. The coward.
The Secrets of Tenley House Page 9
