Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘There can’t be much else going on in England,’ Georgia forced herself to laugh, even though she felt desperate. ‘What are they going to dredge up next?’

  ‘Your headmistress,’ Sam chuckled, opening another paper. ‘Georgia was a real leader. A strong character we all remember well. She did leave school suddenly and although I heard rumours about her father, I remained convinced she wouldn’t hurt anyone unless severely provoked. I hadn’t actually realized the Georgia Anderson I knew and liked so much was in fact the famous singer. Had I known I would have written and expressed my pride in her. I wish her well and I urge her to tell the true story about these events in her past.’

  But the few people who stood up for her were outweighed by the hate mail that arrived daily. After seeing a sample Georgia refused to even look further, and it was Sam who sorted through it, chuckling to himself.

  ‘You’ve gotta laugh,’ he said in his defence. ‘Just look at all this stuff. There’s a woman who reckons you killed her dog, another who believes you had an affair with her husband. Even one who thinks you are the anti-Christ. The rest of them are from Rednecks who blame your colour for everything.’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘You sure stirred up a hornet’s nest, honey!’

  Without Sam she might have lost her mind. He somehow put it all into perspective and gave her the courage to write down the full story.

  It was ten days after the news first broke that she saw a particularly cruel cartoon in one of the newspapers. A caricature of herself holding a knife over an old man, and the words ‘There’s no time Baby’ coming in a balloon from her mouth.

  She couldn’t laugh now. Rage welled up in her, a desire to speak out and be heard.

  ‘It’s time Sam,’ she said, wiping away tears of frustration. ‘I can’t stay in here another day. I’m going to the press.’

  The story was ready. A sharp, impassioned account, without exaggeration or embroidery. She spoke of her happiness with the Andersons until the rape. Her feelings for both her foster parents, then the shock and torment Brian put her through. Recalling the rape and stabbing was so painful it was tempting to gloss over it. She had to dig down deep within her, make herself remember each detail. The way he had laid sprawled on the landing, the knife in her hand as she came up the stairs, the blood as it spurted out of his belly. Once she’d faced that again it was easier to put down her explanation for running away. Her first few days in Soho, the abortion later, were softened by the people who helped her.

  ‘Want me to come too?’ Sam said. He was making coffee in the kitchen, wearing just a pair of jeans, his feet and chest bare.

  ‘No,’ she said shaking her head. ‘I’ve got to do this on my own haven’t I?’

  ‘I guess so,’ he moved across the kitchen to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘They’ll think more of you. Besides I couldn’t trust myself to keep my trap shut.’

  She took care over her appearance. For ten days she’d worn nothing but jeans and a sweatshirt. But now she had to look like a star.

  A white leather suit fitted the bill perfectly. The skirt was short and tight, the tiny jacket trimmed with silver stars went over the briefest skimpy silver top. She washed her hair and let it dry naturally in ringlets, adding star-shaped earrings studded with diamonds and a pair of long silver boots with cuban heels.

  ‘You look sensational,’ Sam grinned up at her as she came back into the kitchen.

  She faltered in the doorway for a moment.

  ‘Stage fright?’ He poured her another cup of coffee and slid it across the table.

  Sitting on the edge of a chair she lifted the coffee to her lips.

  ‘What if they still don’t believe me?’

  Sam’s eyes crinkled up with laughter, he reached across the table and took her hand.

  ‘Everyone who really counts already believes you, honey.’

  ‘Do you think they will find Celia for me?’ she whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

  ‘You make them find her,’ Sam said fiercely. ‘Don’t forget for one moment, they owe you. Now off you go. Keep your head up, take deep breaths if you’re nervous. I’ll be here if you need me.’

  She walked round the table and leaned over on to his shoulder, pressing her lips against his neck.

  ‘What would I have done without you, Sam?’ she said softly. ‘You’ve been mother, father and friend all in one. I can’t tell you how important you are to me.’

  His hand came up to caress her face and she saw his eyes were glistening with tears.

  ‘Off with you,’ he said gruffly. ‘Before I say something I might regret.’

  Through the glass panel on the doors she could see a handful of reporters still patiently waiting, puffing on cigarettes, chatting in small groups.

  It had been cold and wet most of the time she had been incarcerated in her flat, but now the sun was shining. Daffodils almost finished, tulips about to surpass them, and the almond tree was covered in delicate pinky-white blossom. Spring was finally here to stay.

  Taking a deep breath she opened the door and stepped out.

  She wanted to laugh at the way they all jumped. Cigarettes stubbed underfoot, sandwiches shoved into pockets, fingers fumbling for pens, cameras lifted, every face wiped clean with surprise.

  ‘Good morning.’ She waved the brown envelope containing her story, holding her car keys in readiness. ‘Glad to see you haven’t lost interest!’

  A small man darted forward. She had seen this one before on many occasions. He reminded her of a ferret, with his thin head, sharp nose and tiny eyes.

  ‘Have you any news for us?’ he said, as the others quickly clustered round him.

  ‘I’m off to the Mirror,’ she smiled more confidently than she felt and patted the envelope in her hand. ‘The truth’s in here. As they started the whole slanderous business, I expect them to lay it to rest too.’

  ‘Why have you taken so long to retaliate?’ A woman’s voice came through the crowd, Georgia could only see a pair of brown eyes and a mop of untidy red hair.

  ‘Timing,’ Georgia grinned round at them. ‘Giving you enough rope to hang yourselves. The story will be out tomorrow.’ She paused to pose for the cameras. ‘Go home now. There’s nothing for you here.’

  The sun was glinting on her red Mercedes. She opened the door and slipped in, winding down her window and turning her radio up loudly.

  As she drove quickly out of the courtyard, she saw for once they were speechless, mouths open with shock.

  It was sometime since she’d been to Holborn and she hadn’t thought to check out where the building was. As she stopped at the lights, just past Gray’s Inn Road, she noticed the huge modern building on her right.

  Without even considering the heavy traffic going through to the West End she did a ‘U’ turn in the road, ignoring the other motorists who honked furiously at her and pulled up with one wheel on the kerb.

  ‘You can’t stop here.’ A young policeman came forward, a frown of irritation vanishing into a smile of delight as he recognized her.

  ‘You park it for me then,’ she said dropping the keys into his hand. ‘I’ve got important things to do.’

  There were double ordinary doors up two steps or a revolving one to the side. She went through this so fast the door swung on round several times more behind her.

  She got a last glimpse of the policeman staring after her, a bemused expression on his face, her keys still in his hand.

  The foyer was all brown, highly-polished tiles and huge green plants in tubs. The corpulent uniformed porter looked up from his desk as she marched up to him. He knew her face was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  ‘The Editor!’ she snapped. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I’ll just telephone his secretary,’ he picked up the phone.

  Georgia put out her hand and prevented him.

  She could hear the lift coming down behind the porter, she wasn’t anxious for anyone to recognize her just yet.
/>   ‘Just tell me which floor,’ she barked. ‘Now!’

  ‘Third, no fourth,’ he stammered. ‘But –’

  ‘I’m going up there,’ she said coolly. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Phillips,’ he said weakly, his hand straying to the phone again, afraid he would lose his job.

  ‘You can warn him I’m on my way up,’ she called back as she made for the stairs. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell him it was all my doing!’

  She was out of breath by the time she reached the fourth floor. Her face was flushed and her heart hammering nearly as loudly as her heels on the tiled corridor. She marched quickly down the corridor giving only a cursory glance into open doors where typewriters and teleprinters clattered, the girls who worked them looking up in astonishment as she passed.

  His name was on the door. ‘John Phillips, Editor.’

  She didn’t even knock, but opened the door wide and swept in.

  She had expected a big man. Someone like Max in silk shirts and a fat cigar, full of bluster, a mouth like the Blackwall Tunnel. But the man behind the desk was short, thin, almost weedy, a boyish, open face. He wore corduroy trousers and a knitted tie, perhaps fifty, but he looked younger. His brown eyes blinked furiously, a small, gentle mouth opening in surprise.

  ‘Miss James,’ he jumped up, holding out his hand.

  ‘I’m surprised you recognize me,’ she snapped. ‘After all the fiction you’ve been writing about me lately, I thought you had me mixed up with someone else.’ She ignored the hand and plonked herself down in a chair, staring coolly at him.

  He was disconcerted. One finger ran round the collar of his shirt, his face turning pink.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he said weakly. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘You can print the truth,’ she said, fixing her dark eyes on his pale brown ones. She noticed he had a small mole on his cheek, one of his front teeth was slightly broken off and he’d cut himself shaving. He didn’t look as if he had a woman to look after him.

  ‘As far as we are concerned everything Mr Anderson said is the truth,’ his eyes dropped from hers, tiny lines showing round his mouth.

  ‘How much did you pay him for that garbage?’

  ‘I, I –,’ he stammered.

  She thought of how much she’d feared these people, thinking they were like gods who couldn’t be beaten. Yet here was a little man in charge who couldn’t even shave himself without making a hash of it.

  ‘All right, so you don’t want to tell me that,’ she was calm now. She might even enjoy tearing him and his paper to shreds. ‘But I have the truth here,’ she put the envelope on his desk. ‘All you have heard is the outpouring of a bitter man who has misled you.’

  She could smell Phillips’ fear. His Adam’s apple was leaping up and down, one eye was beginning to twitch. As his hand reached out for the envelope she remembered Celia.

  ‘Everything in there can be verified. I want you to find Mrs Anderson in return for that truth.’

  He pulled out the six sheets of paper, flicked through them and put them down again.

  ‘You’ll read it now,’ she commanded. ‘Not tomorrow, next week or when it suits you. Now, while I’m here.’

  ‘Of course,’ he picked them up again, that Adam’s apple threatening to get caught on his collar.

  Outside the window she could see only office windows and blue sky. A pair of pigeons were canoodling on a window-sill, the male spreading his tail and fluffing out his chest. The noise of traffic just a hum, subdued by the thick glass. It was strange to just sit silently while a total stranger read a story she had hardly been able to think about, much less tell.

  It was a comfortable office, with a big grey desk and plants in tubs. His desk was covered in papers, two of the other chairs were piled high with cuttings and folded newspapers. There were large glossy photographs lying around, one of her, on a pile of papers, taken as she came back from America.

  She could see Phillips was moved by the story. He bent closer to it, reading it slowly and carefully. His lips quivered, his fingers fiddled with his tie nervously, occasionally he glanced up at her, as if trying to fit the star in front of him into the story in his hands.

  She heard a faint sigh as he finished it. An expression of profound sadness on his youthful face.

  ‘You write very well,’ Phillips looked up at her, but he couldn’t hold her steady gaze. ‘Why did you wait so long to contact me?’

  Shame poured out of him. He was even honest enough not to try and wriggle out of it by counter-attacking.

  ‘I watched and waited,’ she said, but to her distress she could feel tears pricking her eyelids. ‘I wanted to watch every last louse crawl out of the woodwork. Have you got any idea how painful it was for me to relive that night? Do you know what you’ve done to me?’

  ‘I do now,’ Phillips’ eyes caught hers. Sympathy and understanding, mixed with a stronger desire to set things straight. ‘An apology seems futile.’

  ‘You will apologize, by printing the truth,’ she wasn’t going to let him off the hook just yet. ‘I expect you to use all your connections to find my foster mother too.’

  He cleared his throat. Fear of a law suit flickered across his watery eyes.

  ‘Do you understand our position? It’s our obligation as a newspaper to print news as we are given it.’ His voice was firm, yet there was an undeniable tone of shame in it. ‘Mr Anderson’s story was printed in good faith, he had photographs and evidence to support it.’

  ‘I’m sure he did,’ she said. ‘He may be many things but he was always plausible. I believed in him myself until he raped me. But didn’t you even think of contacting me first?’

  Phillips shrugged his shoulders and waved his hands.

  ‘That’s what a scoop is all about,’ he said. ‘We get a story, it sells our paper.’

  ‘Aren’t you wondering why I’ve brought this to you?’ she asked. ‘I could have gone to one of your rivals, dug up dirt about how you got Anderson to sell his soul.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ he croaked. She knew he was expecting news of lawyers. His earlier pink flush was turning a little green. She wanted to play with him, make him suffer as she had.

  ‘Because I want your whole-hearted commitment.’ She rapped one long nail on her story in front of him. ‘If you succeed in clearing my name, bring that bastard to justice and find my mother, then maybe I’ll just settle for a hefty donation.’

  ‘How much?’ he looked up quickly.

  The sharp expression in his eyes made her think of Max. Funny how money changed people!

  ‘You misunderstand,’ she smirked. ‘I have all the money I need, the donation can go to charity, one that deals with runaway kids.’

  Relief poured out of him. ‘That’s the least I can do.’

  ‘And you’ll find my mother?’

  ‘Any idea where she might be?’ There was a glow in his eyes, as if he relished the challenge.

  ‘No. I think she must have gone back to nursing. It must be somewhere remote or she would have read all this. I went back to Blackheath when I was sixteen, I tried to find her and Peter, but Peter’s mother sent me away with a flea in my ear and Mum had left.’

  He put the end of a pen in his mouth, sucking at it thoughtfully.

  There was something troubling him, something in her story which had tripped a wire. She could almost hear and see his brain mulling it over. Had Brian said something more which hadn’t been printed?

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘I can see something’s troubling you.’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t know if it’s important,’ he looked down at her story again, then glanced back at her. ‘We had a telephone call just after the story broke. A young man, he wanted your address.’

  ‘Not another of those fictitious lovers?’ she laughed lightly. ‘What did he have to offer?’

  ‘To be honest, we thought he was one of those,’ Phillips looked uncomfortable. ‘But the boyfriend, Peter, you
mentioned –’

  ‘It was Peter?’

  Phillips heard the catch in her voice, saw her eyes widen and sensed the emotion the name evoked.

  ‘What’s his surname?’

  ‘Radcliffe.’

  Phillips’ eyes closed for a moment. ‘That’s him. We had dozens of crank calls, so many we hardly listened to the filth they were saying, but –’

  ‘What did he say?’ Georgia was trembling now, every nerve-ending twitching. ‘Tell me.’

  Phillips ran a finger round his collar, beads of perspiration were glistening on his upper lip.

  ‘Just that he was an old friend. He wanted your address or phone number.’

  ‘Why didn’t you give it to him then?’

  ‘We never part with that kind of information.’ Phillips looked shocked at the mere suggestion. ‘The only reason I even remember his name was because he made no startling revelations. The girl who took the call said he was a teacher.’

  ‘Did you take down his number or address?’

  ‘Of course,’ Phillips picked up a pen and fiddled with the point. ‘We always log it down. We even tried to ring him back, but there was no reply. I think the girl suggested he could write to you care of this office.’

  ‘And has he?’ Georgia’s eyes were like glowing coals.

  ‘I don’t think so, not yet.’

  Georgia could feel her heart pounding, her palms sticky. The Peter she remembered wouldn’t sit and read lies without doing something.

  ‘He’s still special to you?’ Phillips’ voice softened.

  ‘Yes,’ she dropped her eyes and blushed furiously. ‘I never seem to be able to forget him. He might be married now, he certainly can’t feel the same about me still. But even so.’

  ‘You’d still like to see him again?’ Phillips raised one eyebrow.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she sighed.

  Phillips could hardly believe what he was seeing and hearing. All through his interview with Anderson he had sensed something wasn’t quite right, he’d had to force himself to forget he was a fan of Georgia’s, give the public the story, putting aside his own qualms.

  He knew he had the truth now, even without checking it out. But one thing was plain, he had to make amends for his paper’s part in it, and he hadn’t got to the position of Editor without knowing the value of emotional reunions.