Hostel Girl

by Gee, Maurice

Mrs Page stalked back from the gate. ‘You really are the crudest girl,’ she said.

  ‘It’s the school I go to,’ Ailsa said. ‘See you, Calum.’

  She got on her bike and rode away. Errol Parkinson was not in the street. He must have run. I hope he locks himself in his stupid room, Ailsa thought.

  Back at the hostel the nurses were getting ready for the dance — trying on frocks, powdering, queuing for the bathroom. Ailsa had to wait until after dinner for her bath.

  ‘Are you coming for a while?’ she asked Gloria.

  ‘I’m not in a dancing mood. Don’t wear that belt. Borrow mine.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I see you’ve had a go at my lipstick. You don’t look bad. Let me see how mascara works.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. You can use a bit of my perfume. A dab on your wrists, see. And your throat.’

  ‘Why don’t you come?’

  ‘And steal all those spotty boys from their girlfriends?’

  ‘Calum’s not spotty.’

  ‘He’s hardly Charles Atlas though, is he?’

  That offended Ailsa. Gloria was cruel. She no longer wanted to tell her that she had saved her from Errol Parkinson. Which was just as well because she wouldn’t be able to say how.

  ‘You look good when you’re sulky,’ Gloria said.

  ‘You’re the expert. What’ll you do if Bevan turns up?’

  ‘Give him to Miss Cotter.’

  Ailsa laughed. She went upstairs to show herself to her mother, who frowned at the mascara but then agreed it made Ailsa’s eyes look dramatic. Ailsa thought a better word was sexy and she became nervous about what Calum would say.

  A car stopped, a door banged, but it was too early for partners to arrive so she didn’t look out. She wished Calum was old enough to borrow his father’s car. It drove away with squealing tyres.

  ‘You’re coming, aren’t you, Mum?’ she said.

  ‘I might look in.’

  ‘Gloria’s not. So you’ll be the best-looking one there.’

  Mrs McGowan blushed but did not deny it. All she said was, ‘Don’t you get too serious with that boy.’

  Ailsa went back to her bedroom and found Gloria sitting on her bed. She had a strange collapsed look on her face. All the pretty lines had weakened there.

  ‘Someone just threw this in the window.’

  She gave Ailsa a sheet of paper.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. I only saw a car driving away.’

  It was a single word, printed in black.

  BETRAYED!

  Chapter 10

  HELP ME

  The band was tuning up when Ailsa looked in. Ron Stock was scattering chalk powder on the floor. A dozen early couples had arrived and they waited on chairs around the walls.

  ‘Ron,’ Ailsa whispered, ‘will you be here all night?’

  ‘I’ve got to tidy up afterwards,’ he said.

  ‘She got another letter. But I don’t think he can do anything tonight.’

  ‘I’ll watch,’ Ron Stock said.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome,’ the MC cried. ‘Tonight we are privileged to have the Mellow Masters, all the way from the big smoke, and they’ll start with a foxtrot to warm you up. Gentlemen, your partners …’

  Ailsa went back to House 4. ‘Gloria, please come. I don’t think you should stay here all alone.’

  ‘I’ll go in the lounge and listen to the radio. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘It really is Errol Parkinson. Calum and me went into his house. He’s got a room …’ She described it. Gloria grew pale.

  ‘My name?’

  ‘In silk thread. Maybe he made his wife embroider it. She’s dead. It was her funeral today.’

  ‘And he’s got the window boarded up?’

  ‘It’s nailed up tight.’

  ‘What does he mean, betrayed?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I met him this afternoon at Calum’s place. I told him …’

  ‘Not about me?’

  ‘Not everything. I just had to make him see, you know, that you’re not pure.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Ailsa could not confess. She chose a lie. ‘I said you swore quite badly. And you had a new boyfriend. And drank gin. It was only to make him leave you alone.’

  ‘Well, thank you. Thank you for that.’

  ‘I really thought he’d see …’

  ‘That I’m a slut?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What does betrayed mean? What does he think he’s going to do?’

  ‘Nothing tonight. There’s too many people. Gloria, come to the dance.’

  ‘Who’d dance with someone who drinks gin?’

  ‘Then phone the police.’

  ‘I will on Monday. I’ve had enough of this. I’ve had just about enough of you as well. Give me my belt.’

  Ailsa took it off. ‘Shall I wipe off my mascara?’

  Gloria glared at her. Then she started to laugh. She half laughed, half cried. She gave back the belt.

  ‘Go and dance. And keep out of my business. Go on.’

  ‘I was trying to help.’

  ‘I know. Here, give me a hug. Now go.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘In the lounge. Have a dance for me.’

  Ailsa went to her mother’s room. ‘Try and bring Gloria if you come.’ She waited for Calum. He arrived at half past eight and leaned his bike against the fence inside the gate.

  ‘Calum,’ she called out the window, and hurried down so he would not have to climb the stairs.

  ‘Hey, that’s some eyes. You look great,’ he said.

  ‘So do you.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve worn my special callipers for dancing.’

  ‘Is it sore already?’

  ‘Just a bit. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘Sulking in her room. She says she’s washed her hands of Dad and me. Listen to the music. Let’s go.’

  She did not tell him about ‘betrayed’. She did not want to spoil his mood. But after they had been once round the floor in a waltz, he said, ‘This is not going to work.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t use it properly. I can’t spin.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  His face was white. ‘It bloody kills me.’

  ‘Let’s sit down.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘I don’t mind sitting. Let’s just watch.’

  ‘Yeah, some fun.’

  ‘We can go to the pictures if you like. The main one won’t be started.’

  ‘So I’ll spend the rest of my life at the flicks?’ he said.

  ‘No, you won’t. There’s other things. Come along and talk to Gloria. Talk to Mum.’

  ‘No need. They’re here.’

  Gloria and Mrs McGowan came in. They looked like two sisters, Ailsa thought, and she wished she had her mother’s colouring instead of her dad’s. They walked around the outside of the dancers and sat down. Gloria had found time to put her make-up on.

  ‘Not dancing?’ she said.

  ‘We’re resting,’ Ailsa said.

  ‘Waiting for supper. It’s only two hours,’ Calum said.

  ‘You can just sort of stand and sway. You don’t have to move.’

  ‘Miss Cotter would call the police,’ Ailsa said.

  A man standing by the door came and asked Gloria to dance, and another, not much older, asked Mrs McGowan. Ailsa began to fret. She could feel the rhythm. She wanted to dance. That was one thing. The other was the pity she felt for Calum.

  ‘Let’s have a walk,’ she said.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anywhere.’

  ‘Why don’t I just go home?’

  ‘No, come on.’ She pulled him to his feet and they went out to the footpath.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The railway bridge.’

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’

 
; ‘I won’t be if you put your arm around me.’

  They walked to the top of the overbridge and looked down the line towards the harbour.

  ‘You should get yourself another boyfriend,’ he said.

  ‘Dancing isn’t everything.’

  ‘No. Dad bought me a guitar. I might start playing.’

  ‘Can you sing?’

  ‘Sure, like Bung Crosseye. Nah. I guess I’ll try and be a lawyer like Dad. How long do you reckon we’ll stay together?’

  ‘As long as we keep on liking each other.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll ever do any more than, you know, kiss?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not for a while. I’m sorry, Calum.’

  ‘That’s all right. At least I know it’s not my leg.’

  They stayed talking on the bridge for almost an hour. The music from the dance sent messages, sometimes happy, sometimes sad.

  ‘We should go back,’ Ailsa said.

  ‘There goes Gloria and your mother.’

  ‘They didn’t pick up anyone,’ Ailsa said. They laughed.

  ‘I like the hostels. I like living here,’ she said.

  ‘I wish I could. I think Mum and Dad won’t stay together. He talks to himself. He can’t work out why everything’s gone wrong.’

  ‘He should sail away. And she should get a job.’

  ‘Your mother’s got two.’

  ‘She works hard.’

  She watched her mother and Gloria go into House 4.

  ‘They didn’t wait for supper.’

  ‘I’m getting hungry,’ Calum said.

  The light went on in Mrs McGowan’s room and a moment later in the lounge.

  ‘Gloria must be dancing by herself,’ Ailsa said, meaning it as a joke but hearing how sad it was.

  ‘Is she really pregnant?’

  ‘She thinks she might be.’

  ‘That should put Errol off.’

  ‘Yes, but Calum, what will she do?’

  ‘She could have it adopted.’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll do that.’ Ailsa could not see Gloria giving her baby away; but could not see her looking after it either.

  Calum was staring at House 4. He stood up straight.

  ‘Hey! That car.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘The one that’s double parked. I think it’s Errol’s. He’s got a Wolseley.’

  It was over the road from the house, facing the station: a black car, parked two out from the kerb, with its lights off.

  ‘There’s someone in it.’

  ‘It is him. Look.’

  Errol Parkinson got out of the car. He left the door swinging and crossed the road, bent forward, striding through the fuzz of light from a street lamp — black suit, black tie — like a man whose mind is suddenly made up. His teeth were bare, a crescent, gleaming. He kicked the gate open and took three strides into House 4.

  ‘Gloria,’ Ailsa yelled. She ran down from the bridge, with Calum, swinging his bad leg, behind. ‘Get Ron Stock. Quickly,’ she cried over her shoulder.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the dance. Or the boiler house. Get the police.’

  She ran into House 4, screamed ‘Mum’ at the bottom of the stairs, and ran like in a hockey match along to the lounge. She burst in.

  Errol Parkinson had a knife. Its blade was six inches long — a kitchen knife for slicing onions with. His arm was locked round Gloria’s neck, forcing up her chin. The point of the knife pricked her throat.

  ‘Leave her,’ Ailsa yelled; but could not move. It was not the knife but Gloria’s pleading eyes that held her back.

  ‘I’m taking her,’ Errol Parkinson sobbed. His cheeks were shiny with tears. He held her off-balance and pulled her like a shearer with a sheep towards the door.

  ‘She shouldn’t have … she shouldn’t have. She’s got to learn.’

  It was the first time Ailsa had seen him not acting a part and there was something terrifying in the way he cried without pretence.

  Mrs McGowan ran along the corridor.

  ‘Mum, stay back,’ Ailsa screamed.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Errol Parkinson. The one who wrote the letters.’

  They retreated before him as he pulled Gloria, half off-balance, down the corridor.

  ‘Where’s he taking her?’

  ‘To his house. Gloria, you’re going to be all right. Calum’s getting help.’

  ‘She’s mine,’ Errol Parkinson wept. ‘I won’t let her go.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Mrs McGowan screamed. ‘Ailsa, get the police.’

  ‘Calum is.’

  Errol Parkinson pulled Gloria out of House 4. The knife blade pricked her throat. Wet-faced, pale-haired, he bumped her down the steps and walked her off-balance through the gate. Gloria was leaking tears and gasping as though she could not breathe. The mascara she had put on for the dance ran in black streaks down her cheeks.

  People were pouring out of the recreation hall and running with jerky steps along the road. They stopped and started. Silver shoes glittered in the light. Young men seemed to crouch, ready to spring.

  ‘Stay back. I’ll kill her,’ Errol Parkinson cried. He pushed Gloria into his car, jumped in himself, and had the knife at her throat again, in his left hand. The key was in the ignition. He gave it a twist and the motor started. Then he had to lower the knife to shift the gear stick.

  Gloria came to life. She grabbed his arm two-handed and tried to hold it on the seat. Ron Stock ran round the side of House 4 and reared at the fence like a horse in a steeplechase. He tumbled over, landing on his knees, and was up again, scattering boyfriends as the car jerked forward. Gloria fought with Errol Parkinson’s arm, which rose like a snake. The car seemed to drive itself, with Errol trying to close the door with his other hand. Ron Stock jumped and seized the swinging door. He hung on like a stunt man in a movie and rammed his foot across Errol Parkinson. Errol dropped the knife. He freed his arm from Gloria and picked up speed, shifting into a higher gear.

  The car weaved. People threw themselves out of its way. It reached the corner, whining for a gear change. Ron Stock fought for the wheel, and Gloria grabbed it, pulling the other way. The car crossed Cambridge Terrace and jumped on to the footpath. It crashed into the brick fence by the railway line and seemed to bite a hole in it. Ron Stock went tumbling away.

  Everything was still.

  Ailsa found herself running in the midst of men in suits and women in pastel dresses. They reached the crashed car and no one was inside. No Errol. No Gloria. Then she saw her lying through the windscreen, with the top half of her body on the bonnet. She looked broken. She looked dead.

  ‘Gloria,’ Ailsa whispered. ‘Gloria,’ she screamed.

  One of the men was a medical student. His girlfriend was a nurse. They shielded her and studied her and the man cried for an ambulance.

  ‘Hurry,’ he said. He began murmuring close to her face.

  ‘Gloria,’ Ailsa whispered.

  ‘Stay back. Keep everyone back.’

  ‘Do what he says,’ Mrs McGowan cried. ‘Give them some space.’

  The crash had thrown Ron Stock over the wall. His hands appeared as he climbed back, with his face covered in a film of blood. He shook it from his eyes. Looked at Gloria and turned away.

  ‘Where is he?’ he said thickly.

  Calum arrived on his bike. ‘I think he went through the windscreen too. Over the wall.’

  ‘He’s lucky the steering wheel didn’t get him,’ a man said.

  ‘There’s no one there,’ another cried, peering over.

  Ron Stock turned and walked away, limping as though he too wore callipers. He looked like a dog searching for a scent. He went 50 yards along the grass at the side of the road, then started to run with a broken gait, his left shoulder lowered, the arm hanging useless at his side. Ahead, in the shadows at the edge of the trees, a figure moved: Errol Parkinson, bent in a painful walk, knuckles almost brushing the ground.

  ‘He’s hurt,’
Ailsa said.

  ‘They both are,’ Calum said.

  Ron Stock turned and yelled, ‘No one come. I’m after him.’ He ran again, closing the gap between him and Errol. A group of young men set off in pursuit.

  ‘Come on,’ Calum said. ‘Hop on my bike.’

  ‘I want to stay with Gloria.’

  ‘There’s hundreds of people looking after her.’

  He wheeled his bike up the overbridge. Ailsa flung a look at Gloria, then followed him. She paused again, halfway up, and saw the student and the nurse easing her off the bonnet on to the ground. She still looked dead.

  Calum waited at the top of the bridge, astride his bike. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I bet he tries to get across the lines. We can see where he goes. Hop on the bar.’

  He doubled her down into Oxford Terrace. Woburn station hid the crash from sight.

  ‘Should you be using your leg like that?’

  ‘Shut up about it.’

  Calum rode fast, trying to see across the railway line. The trees blocked his view. In Waterloo a unit from Upper Hutt pulled into the station. Sirens were wailing towards Lower Hutt and the young men on the other side of the line shouted back and forth like boys in a playground. They seemed to be searching in the trees.

  ‘He must have got away,’ Calum said. He stopped the bike and Ailsa jumped off. They ran towards the place where the illegal path crossed the railway track.

  ‘There he is.’

  Errol Parkinson reached the fence on the other side. Blood smeared one side of his face, making it seem half white and half black. They thought they could hear him panting; throwing gasps from his mouth like handfuls of torn paper. He tried to climb and fell back — everything in slow motion; and Ron Stock, coming round the trees, ran in slow motion too. They were like two insects, half-crushed, moving by instinct.

  ‘We can see you,’ Calum cried.

  Errol Parkinson did not hear. He pulled himself upright on the wires and climbed again. Straddled the top; fell sideways on to the rusty stones sloping down from the railway line. He began to crawl, even slower, while Ron Stock, behind him, made the wires shriek as he started to climb.

  ‘Do we stop him?’ Ailsa said.

  ‘He can’t go far.’

  ‘Ron will kill him. Leave him, Ron,’ she cried.

  Errol reached the top of the stones and crawled on to the lines. He looked at the shining rail under his hands and seemed to realise where he was. Ron Stock lurched and fell on him, then struggled up and tried to roll him over. Men from the dance were scrambling over the fence.