‘He’s in that room,’ Mrs Dooley’s Irish voice boomed out. ‘He hasn’t shown his face for nearly two weeks. But he’s in there all right, more’s the pity. Filthy bastard, you can smell him from the hall.’
‘Has anyone got a key?’ The male voice was crisp and tough, the sort of voice belonging to someone with authority.
‘Don’t think so.’ Her voice was coming closer as if she was walking down the stairs. ‘The landlord was supposed to be coming over to heave him out in a day or two. He hasn’t even been out to use the toilet. God knows what you’ll find in there.’
He buried his face when the rapping on the door started again. Was it night, or merely the dim light?
‘Mr Anderson!’ That strong voice again. ‘Mr Anderson, open the door or we’ll have to break it down!’
He was sure it was the police. Reporters didn’t threaten violence. He screwed up his eyes, huddled further under the blanket and waited, too sick and weak to make any protest.
A thump and a splintering noise and they were in.
‘Bloody hell.’ P.C. Blake clamped one hand over his nose and waved to his partner to open the window as he moved over to the bed. Cautiously he pulled back the thin blanket to find Anderson staring up at him blankly.
‘Are you all right mate?’ he asked, his stomach churning.
There was no reply. Just those pale frightened eyes looking at him, a haggard, almost shrunken face glistening with sweat, flecks of white foam on his blue lips.
‘Get an ambulance,’ Blake turned to the younger man standing gasping by the window. ‘Warn them about the conditions. Book a fumigator afterwards.’
As the constable rushed back gagging to the door, Blake’s professionalism got the better of revulsion. He lifted one scrawny wrist from the sopping bed and felt for a pulse. ‘You’ve got yerself in a right state,’ he said. ‘It’s hospital for you.’
‘I’m sorry for what I did,’ Brian whimpered. He tried to sit up, but he was too weak. ‘Will I go to prison?’
‘Don’t look that way,’ Blake moved away from the man’s fetid breath. He glanced up at a picture cut from a glossy magazine. Georgia was sitting astride a cane chair, one arm leaning on the back, drinking a glass of milk wearing shorts and a T-shirt. ‘It was her that asked us to check you out. Not a moment too soon I’d say.’
‘Georgia asked you?’ Brian tried to focus his eyes. All he could see was silver buttons against blue serge as once again his bladder overflowed.
‘Welcome home,’ Sam threw open the door as he heard the lift.
‘Sam!’ Georgia launched herself towards him, arms wide to hug him. Peter was left in the lift with a suitcase.
‘I came over to make a meal for you,’ Sam said. A lump came up in his throat, making it hard to speak. Her warm body pressed against him, the perfume of her hair, her lips against his neck. ‘I felt I had to talk to you before everyone else grabbed you.’
She held him still, looking up at him, nose twitching, like a stray dog hoping for a meal, big eyes dancing.
‘It smells wonderful,’ she said. ‘But I’m being rude. This is Peter, I keep forgetting you haven’t met before.’
Peter in the flesh was far more striking than press photographs. Blue eyes alight with laughter, a rugged quality to his features. He seemed to fill the small hall; muscles straining under his thin jacket, blond hair streaked almost white by the sun, the golden tan, all gave the impression it had been achieved by a lifetime in rough country.
‘It’s great to meet you at last,’ Sam put out his hand and Peter gripped it firmly. ‘Sorry I had to drag you away from the sun, but the people at Decca were getting frantic.’
‘We understood,’ Peter grinned. ‘I should be back at school anyway.’
They had been in the Canary Islands for nearly two weeks. Georgia looked black now, the whites of her eyes and her teeth flashing against her skin. She wore a red flouncy dress that made him think of gypsy dancers, bare feet in gold sandals.
Rest and love had done wonders for her. Skin glowing, eyes gleaming, she’d even put on a little weight. There was a calmer, softer look in her eyes.
‘I still don’t understand what the panic is,’ Georgia said as she bounced inside, gazing around her in delight. ‘But whatever it is, it’s nice to be home.’
The lounge was filled with late afternoon sunshine, lighting up the vivid primary colours of her Spanish rug and turning the white settees to pale gold.
She walked round the room, just reaching out and touching things as if telling them all she was back in charge.
Sam could see her eyes flitting out to the window-boxes on the balcony, her eyes lighting up at the clusters of giant pansies, blue and purple heads nodding at her as if in welcome.
‘I kept them watered,’ Sam smiled. She was just like Katy, at heart a homemaker. Soon she would be running her fingers over ledges, making mental notes of jobs to be done. ‘Now sit down and I’ll make us a drink.’
He had to tell her tonight. Everything was moving so fast. He’d removed every possible obstacle to give him a clear field. He just had to hope no one came unexpectedly.
Peter took the glass of beer and sank into a chair, but Georgia flitted in and out of the room looking at things as Peter described their hotel and the beach.
‘This is all a bit posh,’ Georgia called out from the dining room across the hall. ‘Come and see Peter, Sam’s laid it all with flowers, and napkins. I didn’t know you were so domesticated, Sam!’
‘There’s lots you don’t know about me yet Miss Smartypants,’ Sam grinned, as he looked into see her straightening a knife here, a plate there. He too had been surprised to find a sideboard full of white bone china, polished silver cutlery in felt lined boxes and a wealth of starched tablecloths and napkins. Clearly Georgia hadn’t rejected Celia Anderson’s middle-class values. He wasn’t going to admit that he had learned his skills while working as a waiter.
‘Now, I don’t want you two to think I’m intruding on your last night together. I’ll be off later.’
‘You don’t have to go,’ Peter touched Sam’s elbow, his face full of concern that he might feel pushed out. ‘We’re both pleased to see you.’
Sam heard that deep voice, full of sincerity and knew this was a man he could respect. He wished he had time to get to know him the way he had Georgia, but there wasn’t time for that now.
‘Thanks,’ Sam grinned. ‘We’ll have lots of opportunities later to dig into each other. But first a drink and I’ll dish up. I hope you like spicy food as it’s about all I know how to cook.’
‘He’s got something on his mind,’ Peter said as Sam disappeared into the kitchen. He sat down on the settee while Georgia began sifting through records in the corner. ‘Do you think he knows something about Celia?’
‘No, he would have told us immediately if he did,’ she looked reflective. ‘I hope there isn’t something wrong with his kids. I couldn’t bear him to leave England.’
Peter shrugged.
‘He’ll have to go sometime.’
‘Oh Peter,’ she jumped up, dropping the record and bounded across the room to him. ‘You aren’t jealous are you?’ She perched next to him, running one hand through his hair.
‘I guess so,’ he grinned sheepishly. ‘No, I’m not jealous of Sam exactly. Just a bit overwhelmed by your life. That welcoming reception at the airport, all those press hanging on to your every word. It makes me wonder about my role in your life.’
He’d read so often about Georgia being mobbed by fans, yet until he was in the thick of it himself it never seemed real. People grabbing his arm, microphones stuck right under his nose, the shouted questions, the flash of cameras, a feeling of terror that they could actually be crushed to death by this crowd.
‘You don’t have a role in my life,’ she smiled. ‘You are my life.’
They had spent so much of their time away sounding out each other’s ambitions. Georgia’s went no further than finishing her album a
nd finding a home out of London, but Peter’s ideas were more altruistic. His dreams were filled with education for everyone, decent homes and proper health care and it was apparent to Georgia that the idealistic boy with missionary zeal had grown into a humanitarian.
‘Well, sweetness,’ Peter put his hands on her neck, lifted her hair, then bent to kiss her ears. ‘One thing’s certain. Branscombe Road Secondary Modern isn’t going to be thrilled at such an infamous teacher in their midst.’
‘If they’re that small-minded it’s the perfect excuse to walk out,’ she grinned.
‘I don’t walk out of anything until I’m ready,’ Peter replied sternly. ‘And I certainly won’t leave them in the lurch just to be one of your acolytes!’
‘Well, what do you think of Creole cooking?’ Sam said as finally their empty plates were pushed away.
‘Superb.’ Georgia sat back in her chair, holding her stomach, grinning like a greedy child. Lazily she leaned forward, filling up the wine glasses again. ‘If the music world lets you down you can always become my cook/housekeeper.’
Sam had entertained them during the meal with gossip. The press’s speculation about their future together. People from Berwick Street and the club scene too. He said how United Artists had offered the boys a contract, and Norman had written some brilliant music. Rod was taking singing lessons and claimed he was in love with a model called Patti. Speedy was straight still and the others were trying to influence Les to join him.
Sally and Janet had finally been offered new houses in Harlow, and Pop, faced with losing his two most reliable workers, was looking for small factory premises there too. Even Babs and Bert were seriously contemplating retiring.
‘You’d better let me meet them all soon,’ Peter said. ‘Otherwise they’ll all be gone.’
‘We could throw a party,’ Georgia’s eyes lit up. ‘How about Whitsun when you’re on holiday, Peter?’
‘We’ll talk about that some other time,’ Peter groaned. ‘I think Sam’s got something on his mind.’
It had grown dark outside while they talked and Georgia stood up to draw the red curtains and turn on a small lamp on the sideboard. She’d lived in this flat for nearly two years, but this room was hardly ever used. It gave her a glow of pleasure to see how warm and inviting it could be.
‘Is it your kids?’ Georgia touched Sam lightly on the shoulder before she sat down. ‘Or has someone offered you a contract?’
Sam looked down at his empty plate. Chopin was playing softly from the lounge across the passage, the traffic down below had slowed to a mere purr. He couldn’t stay here all night. He had to tell her now.
‘Neither of those,’ he said. ‘It’s about you, honey. Hell, I don’t exactly know how to put this,’ he paused, biting his lip. ‘I want you to think about your real background. I mean your natural mother and father.’
Georgia made a face, putting a finger in some sauce and licking it.
‘Is this a “let’s face the black side of yourself” routine?’ she said. ‘A warning that mixed-race relationships are doomed from the start?’
Sam chuckled. ‘No. There’s sure as hell plenty of others will say that for me. I meant don’t you ever wonder how you came to be abandoned, orphaned or whatever it was?’
‘Of course I do,’ she smiled. ‘But Celia tried to dig around, didn’t she Peter? She didn’t find much.’
‘All the records were destroyed,’ Peter said. ‘She was pretty certain Georgia was in the Billericay war orphans home, but there’s not even any real evidence of that. What’s made you bring this up?’
He could sense an undercurrent, something Sam had been brooding about for some time.
Sam cleared his throat nervously.
‘Before I met you Georgia, when I first arrived in England, I did some digging myself.’ He paused looking at Georgia through thick curly lashes. His Southern drawl suddenly seemed more pronounced, or was it he was choosing every word carefully? ‘I told you I was here during the war, and somehow it seemed important to just go down to my old haunts and look around.’
‘An old flame?’ Peter smirked.
‘Yeah,’ Sam was smiling, yet his eyes were sad. ‘She just stopped writing, you see. It happened all the time. One day the girl’s crazy about you, the next she’s got cold feet.’
Peter reached out and picked up the wine bottle, dividing up the remains between the three of them. He was sure this was leading to a serious warning about mixed marriages whatever Sam had said previously. Perhaps a pep talk to Georgia about accepting that Peter had a career too. He had noticed Sam studying him closely. Was he doubtful they could make it as a couple?
‘She was white?’ Peter said, raising one eyebrow. ‘Come on then, give us the whole story.’
Sam took a deep breath and began. His meeting with Katy at the base, falling in love and her parents’ disgust that their only daughter should choose a black G.I. How Katy moved out and found a flat in the East End so they could be together and then on to his departure to France.
‘Everything was kinda frantic,’ he said, his big lips trembling a little. ‘We didn’t know where we was goin’, if or when we’d be back. I never told Katy just how hard it would be for her if she married me. We just kinda lived for the moment. All we had was letters and trust.’
‘Did she write?’ Georgia asked.
Sam nodded. ‘Every day. Sometimes I didn’t get any for weeks, then I got a big bundle. She used to number them. A funny little figure on the back of an envelope with our names written round it. But then they stopped.’
For a moment Georgia thought he was going to cry. No tears, just a twitching in his cheeks as if he were fighting it.
‘It nearly broke me. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I grew bitter. It kind of sapped all my energy.’
Peter nodded. He knew exactly what Sam had gone through.
‘But why didn’t you come back?’
‘I wanted to,’ Sam bit his lip again. ‘But everything was crazy in Germany. Then I got wounded, nothing real serious, just a bit of shrapnel in my arm. Just enough for the M.O. to decide I was to go back Stateside instead of staying like the others to clear up the mess.’
‘Did you write again?’ Georgia asked. ‘Did you tell her what was happening?’
‘I wrote over and over,’ Sam shrugged his shoulders. ‘What was I to think? Black guys had enough trouble getting willing girls over. What chance did I have with one who didn’t even reply?’
‘So that’s what you went to dig up?’ Peter said.
Sam nodded. ‘It had all changed. I found Hughes Mansions where she lived, all right. But something was different. Some people I met there told me about a V.2 dropping on it,’ he said, watching Georgia’s face. ‘Katy was amongst the hundred or so killed.’
‘Oh Sam, you never knew?’ Georgia’s face fell. ‘You thought she didn’t love you, but all the time she was dead. I don’t know which is worse.’
‘There is something worse,’ Sam took Georgia’s hand. ‘To find the girl I loved didn’t tell me she had my child.’
Georgia’s hands flew up to her mouth, eyes filling with tears.
‘The child died too?’
‘No, it was rescued,’ Sam said slowly. ‘I went to the East End looking to just reminisce. Instead I find I’ve got another child.’
‘Where?’ Georgia leaned forward. ‘Have you found him?’
‘Her,’ Sam corrected Georgia. ‘That was somethin’ else. Blind alleys, disappointment, hundreds of old papers to go through without even a name to help. Finally when I thought I couldn’t go no further I found an old social worker who’d taken a child from a foster home, on to a convent.’
Suddenly Peter saw the truth. Not just Sam’s words, but the way he was looking at Georgia. The eyes were the same, round and large, two sets of identical dark chocolate, the same delicate eyelids, even the lashes like brushes.
Georgia couldn’t see it. She was too immersed in Sam’s tale, grieving over a woman she
didn’t know and the sadness of her child being orphaned.
‘What’s her name, Sam?’ Peter said softly. Someone had to help the man, he could see Sam wanted to blurt it out but couldn’t find the right words.
Two weeks ago Peter had only the image the press had painted of this man in his head. A brute who beat his wife and abandoned his children. What would a man in his forties have in common with a girl like Georgia? Wasn’t it more likely he was using her to further his own career, building up her trust so one day he could get his hands on her fortune?
Of all the things he feared most about Georgia’s life, this man was probably the thing which worried him the most.
But on holiday Georgia told him about her Sam. The talented musician, the caring father, the good friend. A man who made no advances to her, asked for nothing. The man who had stayed by her side when everyone else turned away.
Both images had stayed with him, like two pans on a scale. The pans had teetered up and down since meeting him. One moment he was sure Georgia’s opinion was right, the next he had his doubts.
But now the pan was thumping down on the table, the image the press had put in his head, flipping out of the window with the force. He could see tears gathering in the man’s eyes, feel the emotion in his heart.
‘Was it Georgia?’ Peter asked.
Sam’s eyes closed, a tear trapped by his lashes trickled down his dark cheek.
‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Oh yes.’
For a moment Georgia just sat there, stunned.
She rested her elbows on the table, holding her head in her hands. Her eyes moved from Peter to Sam, back to Peter’s smiling face, then back to Sam.
‘Me?’ she questioned. She looked like a frog. Huge bulging eyes and mouth gaping open. ‘I don’t understand. Are you sure?’
Sam opened his eyes again.
‘The nun was Sister Mary from St Joseph’s,’ he said.
Her chair tipped over and crashed to the floor as she leapt up. She zoomed round the table, flinging her arms round Sam, burying her head in his shoulder, unable to say anything.
Georgia Page 56
