‘I don’t think it’s been wasted,’ said James. ‘I’d like you to go and see her.’
‘Well of course if you want me to, I will. But she’d be best left to stew in her own juice.’
James had made his point. He wanted Ted to go immediately, but felt any more pressure from him would seem peculiar, even to Ted, and he might go to see George in the wrong frame of mind. He didn’t want Ted to do anything but pay a fatherly call, have a chat, and see which way the land lay. Nevertheless, he was consumed with impatience when day by day went by and Ted made no move. He kept giving him time off, saying pointedly that he was sure there were things Ted wanted to do. Finally, he decided to go away himself for a couple of days in the hope that Ted’s enforced leisure and lack of company would make him remember to go and see his daughter.
If James had had any imagination at all he would have realized that there could be nothing more completely phoney than Ted going to see George. It was something which simply couldn’t be done casually, or without arousing a great deal of resentment on both sides.
Ted had in fact no idea how even to get to George’s flat. As far as he was concerned she lived in some squalid region well out of his beat and he resented having to go there. It took him half an hour even to find the street in the ‘A to Z’ – he didn’t trust himself going beyond Park Lane without it – and very much longer than that to work out a bus and tube route.
He walked into the square grudging every footstep. He didn’t know what he was going to say, except complain about her not coming to the funeral or anything. Yet that wasn’t what he had been sent for. He was on some undefined mission for James, about which he had not to let on. It was up to him to stall for long enough to find out what she’d been doing these last few months and how she was. He supposed he’d see the latter with his own eyes clearly enough.
No one answered his first two rings. He stood on the doorstep, his hat tilted aggressively on one side, a frown already settled on his forehead. With impatience, he jabbed his finger on the bell again, good and hard, and kept it there. A window sash went up high in the building and he cunningly stood dose into the door so that George wouldn’t be able to see who it was. He had no doubt that if she did, she wouldn’t let him in, father or no father.
That did the trick. Someone came down the stairs at a pretty fast lick, and was breathed heavily upon by Ted who catapulted into the hall the minute the door was opened.
‘Why didn’t you come to the funeral?’ said Ted, then he saw it wasn’t George.
‘I wasn’t invited,’ said Jos.
Ted flushed. ‘No need to give cheek. It was a mistake – I thought you were my daughter.’
‘I’ve always been told I had a pretty face,’ said Jos.
‘There’s no need to be impolite,’ said Ted. ‘I rang her bell. Has she moved then?’
It was on the tip of Jos’s tongue to say yes, but he decided Ted would have to be met some time. George was keen on family ties, whatever she pretended.
‘No,’ he said, ‘she still lives here.’
‘Is she out?’ said Ted.
‘No. As a matter of fact she’s in.’
‘Who are you then? Can’t she answer her own bell or doesn’t she answer anything these days,’ said Ted angrily. He’d been put off his stride good and proper now.
‘I’m a visitor. A friend,’ said Jos, and went on standing there in front of this small, square, red-faced man.
‘I thought you said she was in?’ said Ted.
‘I did.’
‘Then you might have the good manners to let her own father in,’ said Ted.
Jos took his time going up the stairs, which was natural but silly because it only made Ted more furious. He felt it was unfair to George to simply walk on and say ‘it was your father dear’, but he couldn’t keep this angry little man waiting in the hall. There really wasn’t any way of easing him in gently. So he walked into the flat, a little ahead of Ted, with his hands in his pockets to give an impression of nonchalance and announced the farcical words, ‘It’s your father, George.’
‘Why didn’t you come to the funeral?’ snapped Ted, stepping round Jos. ‘It was disgusting behaviour after all that’s been done by them for you. I don’t suppose you’ve got any reason.’
George had just got up. It was three in the afternoon but they’d just got up after a sudden and prolonged post-lunch love-making session. She was feeling weak and a bit giddy, so that her instant reaction at the sight of Ted was that she must sit down. She sat, with a heavy thud, on the edge of a chair and tried to concentrate on the figure of her father.
‘Why ever have you come here?’ she said at last.
‘You weren’t at the funeral,’ said Ted, still standing.
‘But that was a week ago,’ said George. ‘Is that really why you’ve come?’
‘Considering you don’t have the charity to answer letters and phone calls,’ said Ted.
‘Do you want some tea?’ said George.
‘No. You haven’t answered.’
George pressed her hands to her forehead. ‘I was busy,’ she said.
‘Enjoying yourself most likely,’ said Ted.
‘Most likely,’ said George.
‘While others suffered,’ said Ted.
‘I don’t like funerals,’ added George.
‘I suppose other people love them,’ said Ted.
‘I didn’t see what good it would do,’ said George. ‘I mean, she was dead.’
‘It’s a sign of respect,’ said Ted, ‘to those who are left. I suppose you never thought of that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said George. ‘Sit down. There’s no need to stand there.’
‘Thoughtless and selfish,’ said Ted, furiously.
‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ said George.
‘It’s not me that’s the hurt party,’ said Ted. ‘It’s someone else you should have had the gratitude to apologize to.’
‘I will,’ said George. ‘I’ll write to James.’
‘It’s easy getting out of it that way,’ said Ted, rather lamely. She’d given in very easily. Now that she’d admitted her guilt there wasn’t much he could do. ‘What were you doing?’ he said. ‘Your mother’s been worried.’ He was aware that Jos was smiling and making signals at George. ‘Here, what do you think you’re doing?’ he said, glad to have something to work up his anger again. ‘I’ll thank you to keep out of this, young man. It’s not funny. I don’t know who you think you are.’
‘This is a friend,’ said George.
‘So he said,’ said Ted, glaring at Jos. He couldn’t really stand there shouting at her if he wanted to find out what was what. Feeling it was a sign of weakness all the same, he sat down stiffly, to George’s relief.
‘How have you been?’ he said, swallowing hard at the indignity of stooping to such social niceties.
‘Very well,’ said George, embarrassed and amused. ‘I’ll make some tea, whatever you say.’
She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Ted was staring at Jos with distaste.
‘It’s been bad weather for August,’ said Jos.
Ted frowned suspiciously. He hadn’t come to be made fun of. This young man looked just the sort George would pick up with, though it surprised him that anyone would have her. He was untidy and unhealthy looking and didn’t look as though he’d been in the army. Furthermore, he looked a bit of a wog – nothing serious maybe, but he was very black-haired and sallow-skinned for an Englishman. His trousers were too tight and made of that denim and his shirt was striped. George would make two of him in size.
‘Do you have a job?’ said Ted, abruptly.
‘Yes,’ said Jos.
‘Where?’
‘In a bank,’ said Jos. It was the first time in his life he’d said it without feeling ashamed. Instead, he felt that had knocked Ted for six, which indeed it had. Ted naturally had a respect for banks. He’d been expecting Jos to say he was an artist or such like.
&nbs
p; ‘Why aren’t you there then?’ he said, still trying to make capital out of it.
‘I’m on holiday,’ said Jos. Daringly, he added, ‘I’m entitled to one, aren’t I?’
‘Who said you weren’t?’ said Ted, quickly. ‘I was only asking.’
‘Quite all right,’ said Jos, smiling. He’d scored again, although to what end he didn’t know.
George came in with the tea. She’d listened uncomfortably to their brief dialogue, not wanting Jos to make a fool of her father. He was so obviously unhappy sitting there trying to look frightening and important. She appreciated acutely the effort entailed for him to come here and whatever his real reasons she felt unreasonably touched. It was an unsolicited demonstration of affection.
They sat and drank tea, Ted sparingly in case he compromised himself. Jos silently contemplated the addition of a father-in-law to his list of relatives and dependants, and decided Ted didn’t show any signs of horse-whipping him or producing a shot gun so there was no need to worry about the penny slowly dropping. To call on his daughter certainly showed a middle class fatherly interest but Ted’s attitude wasn’t one of concern. Once he’d made it clear how angry he was, Jos felt he’d lost interest in George and had become just a stranger sitting there, still with his coat on.
Finding the tea wasn’t easing things much, Ted stood up again and renewed the attack.
‘What have you been doing then?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ said George. ‘I’m on my holidays.’
‘This a holiday camp then?’ said Ted, scathingly.
Jos laughed loudly.
‘There’s nothing unusual in me having a holiday at this time of the year,’ protested George.
‘Funny place to spend it,’ said Ted.
‘The food and entertainment are very good here,’ said Jos solemnly.
‘Where’s your flat mate?’ said Ted.
‘In hospital,’ said George.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She’s had a baby. I told Mother about her.’
‘Are you the father?’ said Ted to Jos, with a sudden flash of insight. Jos nodded. ‘Ah, that explains it,’ said Ted. ‘I thought George had found herself a boyfriend at last.’
‘She has,’ said Jos quickly.
‘Not the way I meant,’ said Ted. ‘She been looking after you till the wife comes home?’
‘That’s right,’ said George brightly. ‘She’s coming home soon. With the baby.’
‘You’ll have some time to spare then,’ said Ted.
‘Lots,’ said George. ‘I won’t know what to do with myself, will I, Jos?’
‘You can come over and see us,’ said Ted. ‘Your mother would like to see you. And Mr James.’
‘It’s lovely to be wanted,’ said George.
‘Shut up,’ said Jos quietly, so that Ted couldn’t quite hear.
‘I’ll be going,’ said Ted, ‘took me long enough to get here.’
‘It was nice of you to drop in,’ said George, ‘you must do this more often.’
Ted frowned. ‘You’re being silly,’ he said.
‘Me?’ said George.
‘Talking like that, as though I wasn’t your father,’ said Ted, ‘it’s silly. I shouldn’t need to trail over here. It should be you coming to see your elders and betters. Mind you come.’
He went out without closing the door, and thumped down the stairs heavily. It was exactly the sort of run down dump George would choose to live in, out of sheer badness. At home, she had all James’s lovely things round her, everything beautiful, house, decoration, furniture, everything. Yet she had to give it up to come to this. Well, it was something they’d never catch him doing.
It was with relief that he returned home, not because his mission was accomplished in the sense of seeing George, but because he was back to richness and opulence. He went in at the front door, with his own key, and saw with pleasure the wide, spacious, white painted hall, the staircase winding gracefully up from it and the bowls of flowers on the landing and window sills. Even going down to the basement into the kitchen to see Doris he didn’t leave behind the luxury, James had seen to that.
Doris was sitting by the open French window sewing one of James’s shirts.
‘Did you find her?’ she said, breaking a piece of thread off between her teeth.
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘What was the matter? Anything?’
‘No. She’s been having a holiday, making a mug of herself as usual.’
‘What’s she been doing?’
‘Looking after that girl’s husband – the one she shares the flat with that’s had the baby.’
‘A boy or a girl?’ said Doris, eagerly.
‘I don’t know. I never asked,’ said Ted, impatiently. ‘That’s not what I went wasting my time for, now is it?’
‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said Doris. ‘I don’t know why you went. It’s not as though she’s a child. It’s not as though she hasn’t gone off before. I don’t know why you had to go off after her.’
‘Because James was worried,’ said Ted.
‘Why?’ said Doris.
‘I don’t ask him whys and wherefores,’ snapped Ted. ‘What does it matter anyhow. I went. She’s been looking after this young fellow.’
‘He’s not staying there, is he?’ said Doris. ‘Not while that Meredith’s in hospital?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ted, sighing. She always wanted to know the most trivial details. It annoyed him to death.
‘What was he like?’
‘A scruff,’ said Ted. ‘But he works in a bank. They can’t be very particular who they take on these days, that’s all.’
‘Do you think he was staying there?’ she pressed.
‘How should I know? It doesn’t bleeding matter anyway. You can’t see anyone taking advantage of our George or even wanting to, can you?’ said Ted, brutally.
‘You’ve always had it in for her,’ said Doris. ‘She has her points.’
‘Well I can’t see them,’ said Ted. ‘She looked a mess, same as she always does.’
‘Looks aren’t everything,’ said Doris.
‘She hasn’t got much else,’ said Ted. ‘She’s not grateful, is she? You can’t say that for her.’
‘You ought to leave her alone,’ said Doris.
She had more time now to think about her daughter. There weren’t any menus to make out and labour over, no dinners to arrange, none of that endless phoning for this and that and never the right thing delivered, no laundry to supervise, none of that. James was easy to please. He ate what she put before him and he didn’t have anybody in. He told her the very day after the funeral that he didn’t want to be bothered with any household worries and he wouldn’t bother her. She was to carry on as usual and ask for money when she wanted it, and he wouldn’t interfere. There was no question, he said, of not trusting her.
Deeply gratified, Doris was extra-meticulous about her duties, but even so she had these long afternoons when she could call the house and the time her own. So she sewed or knitted and listened to the wireless and thought about George when she wasn’t worrying about when James would get married again. George ought to be married. She was twenty-seven and no one in sight, but then she didn’t make the best of herself and Ted nagging on had never helped. She remembered once, when George was sixteen and invited to one of James’s parties for the first time, James had sent her a beautiful pink dress. It had a silk bodice with forget-me-nots threaded round the collar, and masses of tulle in the skirt. George had been enraptured. She’d lifted it out and stroked it and held it up against herself, all starry eyed even though Doris could see at a glance that it wasn’t going to suit her one bit. She’d said nothing though, and George had struggled into it and come to show her and Doris had said it was lovely. But it was no good. George had looked at herself and burst into tears, and taking it off, had hidden it in the box under the bed. Ted had been furious when she’d turned up for the party
in her school skirt and a big blue pullover. He’d gone on and on, and George had pretended she was wearing them out of sheer cussedness and because she thought the dress was hideous. Then Ted had said something she’d never forgotten. ‘I wish to God I had a daughter who looked like a daughter and not a navvy’ he’d said to her, slowly and deliberately. Doris reckoned that was the beginning of George’s real obstinacy. Nothing after that could get her into anything pretty. She seemed deliberately to wear all the things she looked worst in. When Doris bought her make up she threw it away. She wouldn’t wear any stockings except black woollen ones, and any jewellery she was given was buried at the bottom of her dressing table.
Doris sighed. Looking back, she should have done or said something, given George confidence, but she didn’t know how. Telling her she was a very pretty girl just made her laugh. She’d comforted herself with the thought that it was just a stage, that George would snap out of it once she started going out with boys. Only that had never happened. Stuck away in that boarding school she hadn’t met any boys and she wasn’t in any young circle at home.
That was the worst of sending her to one of them places, though Ted had been so pleased about it. She hadn’t a chance to snap out of it. When she was at home in the holidays she spent her time writing silly letters to her friends and never seemed to have any that knew any boys. Doris remembered how high her hopes had been when George was sent off to a finishing school in Paris. She’d seen pictures of ‘before and after’ and knew what they could do for even the most hardened of horsy debutantes. George would come back wearing her clothes with a continental flair and wafting perfume wherever she went. Her letters had given a hint that this wasn’t going to happen. They were full of references to art galleries and concerts and how awful the elite establishment she was at was. She came back one of the more outstanding failures the school had had, with her pony tail more bunchy and wild than ever, and wearing ankle socks and trousers. She was then nineteen and all hope was lost.
There was no reason why, in Doris’s knowledgeable opinion, she should have turned out like that. It wasn’t as though she herself was big and awkward, or Ted, or that she’d been brought up with a lot of brothers. She’d been a pretty enough little girl as anyone who cared to look at the photographs could see. It wasn’t until she was twelve that she’d suddenly shot up and grown all lumpy. Even her face had seemed to change, to grow longer and fuller, all within a few months. But she still wasn’t ugly, you couldn’t say that about her, there were many far worse looking who found husbands. Doris wondered if she could suggest a marriage bureau before it was too late, though it didn’t seem very nice somehow.
Georgy Girl Page 11
