Charity

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘You should have looked after it.’ The warden’s wheezy voice had more than a trace of irritation. ‘Don’t come bothering me. I’ve got more than enough to worry about.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Miss Gullick turned to see Charity still hovering in the doorway. She stuck her face up close to Charity’s, blasting her with foul breath. ‘I thought you had a job to go to?’

  Charity recoiled. The woman was gross: greasy skin peppered with blackheads, bulging frog-like eyes and a wet slack mouth with a dark moustache.

  ‘I haven’t got to be there until ten,’ Charity said, trying to smile pleasantly, because she wanted this fearsome woman on her side. ‘I wondered how much notice I had to give if I find a flat or a room somewhere?’

  ‘Not good enough for you here?’ Miss Gullick sneered. ‘Or have you got a bloke you want to shack up with?’

  Charity’s eyes widened, appalled by the woman’s crudity.

  Her first night’s impression of Greystones as a dangerous place was uncannily accurate. It was a dumping ground for severely disturbed and difficult girls. She’d been right to hide her purse too. Her manicure set went the next morning, and now there was the cardigan. Daily she heard the wails of girls who’d lost sweets, clothes, cigarettes and money. Charity now kept her money tucked into her blouse pocket, and photographs and letters she wanted to keep she’d sewn into the lining of her handbag for safety.

  On her second day, after she’d found a job, she took the precaution of packing everything she valued into her case and took it to the left luggage office in Hammersmith Broadway for safe keeping.

  Social workers and police called frequently. Each night when she got home from work she would hear whispers about someone going to court or being arrested. Words like ‘store detectives’, ‘bail’, ‘fines’ and ‘prison’ seemed an integral part of each girl’s conversation, along with talk of men they’d ‘been with’. Arguments turned to violence in seconds. Joan, the big dark girl who’d spoken about the breakfast on her first night, was the most terrifying. Only a couple of nights earlier she’d gone for another girl with a fork and scraped it down her cheek.

  She was certain some of the girls here would know how to get an abortion, but she couldn’t ask. Even if Hugh had rejected her she felt too much loyalty to him and his child to bandy around intimate details.

  But as Charity heard whispered malicious remarks about her clothes, accent and looks, she sensed she was a target. All they were waiting for was an excuse and an opportunity to hurt her.

  Perhaps she ought to feel some affinity: after all, she was as unwanted as any of them. But a stronger voice told her that each person had to fight to keep their dignity, not wallow in self-pity and degrade themselves further.

  ‘We don’t go much on notice here,’ Miss Gullick gave her a withering look. ‘But don’t expect a refund of your rent if you leave before the end of the week.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this evening, is that all right?’ Charity wondered if she’d even bother to change the sheets before a new girl came. They hadn’t looked clean when she got here.

  The woman didn’t reply, just slouched off into the kitchen.

  Charity made her way down Shepherd’s Bush Road towards Hammersmith Broadway, her mind on Lou and Geoff. Their comfortable home, their wisdom and kindness felt like a magnet, drawing her towards the tube station. But she knew she didn’t dare go there, or even telephone them. This was something she had to handle alone.

  ‘Do you know anywhere I could get a room?’ Charity asked Marjorie, her employer, soon after she got to work.

  Bell’s Diner, in King Street, just two minutes’ walk from Hammersmith Broadway, was a very popular place because it was cheap and the food good, plain cooking. It was somewhere between a transport café and a tea shop in its appearance, with net curtains on the windows, as many tables and chairs as they could squeeze in, but the tablecloths were always clean and you did get waitress service.

  Martin, Marjorie’s husband did all the cooking. Roasts, shepherd’s pie, toad in the hole and braised steak. Majorie was always trying to vary the menu, with curry or salads, but day after day most of the customers ordered what Martin did best: great piles of meat and vegetables with a river of gravy around them.

  During the afternoon they did snacks, then in the evening most of the food was fried to order, anything from beefburgers to steak. But from twelve until two they were rushed off their feet and quite often there was a queue of people waiting for tables.

  Marjorie was a frayed-looking woman of forty with dyed red hair and pale skin which reflected a lack of fresh air. The day Charity had come in for the job advertised on the window, Marjorie had asked her few questions and given the reference only a cursory glance. At the time Charity had seen this as indifference, but during her first week she found she was mistaken.

  Marjorie was a diplomat. She gleaned a great deal of information about her regulars, but never passed it on as gossip. She was the kind of person who bided her time and waited for others to open up.

  ‘Is the hostel that bad?’ she asked, sitting down at one of the tables and indicating that Charity should join her.

  She’d probably been pretty as a girl. Her eyes were bluey green and her nose turned up at the tip. Even now if she was to get her hair cut and styled properly, instead of just tying it back with a rubber band, and put on a little makeup she could be attractive. Hard work had kept her slim, and her black skirt and white blouse were always spotless. Yet it was the weariness people noticed, not her good points.

  ‘Make us a couple of cups of coffee, love?’ she yelled back to Martin in the kitchen. ‘Charity’s got a problem.’

  ‘It’s awful.’ Charity gave her a quick rundown of the stealing, the filth and her general fear. ‘I can’t bear it another minute.’

  Time and again since starting here she’d thought of taking Marjorie into her confidence to ask for advice. But even though she knew she was pregnant, somehow it didn’t seem real. Finding somewhere to live was the first priority. Maybe once she was over that hurdle, she could face the next.

  Marjorie lit a cigarette and drew in reflectively.

  ‘Always been a bad place, that.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought it had improved when you said you lived there. I’ve had girls from there ordering a dinner then do a runner on me.’

  Charity sensed as she looked into those calm eyes that Marjorie would give her good advice. She was blunt, never dressed things up, and above all she could be trusted.

  ‘There’s a place on the Broadway that’s got proper flats in its window. Do you think they do just rooms?’

  It hadn’t taken Charity long to cotton on to the reality of life in London. Just a glimpse of the advertisements in the evening paper proved that decent flats at low rent were as difficult to find as nice people.

  Hammersmith was so dingy: rows of houses once as smart as those on Clapham Common, but falling into neglect as the owners let them out. The Broadway shops must once have been select establishments, but they had gone the same way as the houses. Soot blackened their fancy brickwork and they now catered just for the constantly changing population. Rubbish lay in the subways uncleared. Drunks staggered about at night clutching bottles. Pubs blasted out pop music and the traffic roared round in a never-ending stream.

  ‘I’ve just thought.’ Marjorie smiled, suddenly animated. ‘There’s a bloke comes in here every day that runs a flat letting agency, we could ask him. But rooms cost a few bob, love! You ain’t gonna get much change out of three quid. That only leaves you two to live on.’

  ‘I haven’t any choice.’ Charity made a glum face. ‘If I stay in Greystones I’ll probably get everything stolen. Besides if I’m too hard up I could get another job in the evenings.’

  ‘You could work a few more hours for me.’ Marjorie looked round at her husband as he came in with the coffee. ‘Thanks, love, we’ll be out in a minute, but Charity’s just been telling me what that Greystones is like.
We must get her out of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said and sat down next to Charity, glancing first at his wife for approval.

  Martin Bell was a small, tubby man with hazel eyes and a gentle voice. Although he was only around forty like his wife, he’d lost most of his hair and the bald patch on top gleamed under the lights. He was the more outgoing of the couple, given to bursting into song in the kitchen sometimes. He had worked as a chef for many of the leading London hotels before taking on this business, and as they prepared the vegetables he often amused Charity with hilarious disaster tales.

  The three of them discussed Charity’s plight and Martin offered to go straight away to the man’s office and ask him.

  ‘I wish we could offer you a bed.’ He smiled at Charity. ‘But you’ve seen how crowded it is up there.’

  They were living in a two-roomed flat above the restaurant while they saved enough money to buy a house. There was barely enough room for them because an aunt had given them a whole load of furniture ready for the house.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’ Charity smiled weakly. ‘But it’s nice of you to think it.’

  ‘Well you’re the first girl we’ve had for a long time that’s got any idea.’ Marjorie smiled. ‘We don’t want to lose you.’

  Martin scuttled out, still in his striped chef’s trousers and white jacket.

  ‘He’ll see you all right,’ Marjorie assured her. ‘Now, how much money have you got? They’ll probably want a deposit and that agency bloke gets a cut.’

  ‘About twelve pounds,’ Charity replied. ‘I paid for the hostel in advance. So if I leave on Friday I don’t have to give them anything more.’

  ‘If he says you can move in tomorrow, you do it.’ Marjorie patted Charity’s hand. ‘You haven’t told us much about yourself, love. Perhaps one day you’ll feel like opening up. When you do, I’m here.’

  Those few kind words brought a lump to Charity’s throat. If there hadn’t been a rush of people coming in for coffee, she might have spilled out everything. But past experience told her that people didn’t always react as she expected and it didn’t do to trust completely.

  ‘I’d like to tell you the whole story,’ she said, getting up to go into the kitchen. ‘One wet afternoon when there’s nothing to do!’

  ‘You’ve got a date,’ Marjorie laughed and suddenly looked pretty.

  ‘You’re in luck, little girl.’ Martin beamed as he came back in. ‘He’s got a room just a few doors down from here. It’s not too smart, he says, but it’s only two quid, including the electric light. He says you can have it if you bung him a quid, it will save him advertising it.’

  ‘When could I move in?’ Charity’s pulse quickened with sheer relief.

  ‘He suggested tomorrow. He’s coming in for his dinner anyway and then he’ll take you along to see it. So put on a bright smile, darling, and you might earn a few tips today.’

  Charity’s heart plummeted once more as she saw the miserable room, but she knew she’d have to take it.

  It was just along King Street, only four doors from the Bells’ dining rooms, at the back of the house on the second floor.

  ‘It’s grimmer than I realised,’ Mr Rose the agency man said, embarrassed. Charity had served him every day at the restaurant. He looked as smart as a bank manager with his pin-striped navy suit and sparkling white shirt, so he obviously made lots of money. ‘But it’s cheap, Charity, and you can always tart it up.’

  The room was perhaps twelve by nine. An ancient gas fire stuck into an old fireplace, a single bed under the window. The wardrobe was merely a rod fixed across the chimney-breast and a disgusting-looking two-ring burner sat on a rickety table. A washbasin in the corner smelt as if it had been used as a toilet and the chest of drawers had most of its handles gone. Everything was dirty, though to be fair to Mr Rose, he had told her the last tenant had done a moonlight and he hadn’t had time to send someone in to clean it.

  Charity picked up one of the blankets with two fingers. They were so dirty she could never lie under them and she had no sheets or pillowcases.

  ‘I’ll throw those out.’ Mr Rose chucked her under the chin. ‘Cheer up, girl, I’ll bet anything you like Marge has got a few spare ones. If she hasn’t I’ll dig some out.’

  The bathroom next door was cleanish, though antiquated, with a huge sort of geyser on the wall above the bath.

  ‘On the plus side the other tenants are a jolly bunch,’ he grinned at her. ‘To be honest with you, the people here usually introduce their friends. I don’t think I’ve ever had to advertise for someone here. This fella that skipped out owing rent conned me. I thought he was OK.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Charity said, more because he was straight than anything else. ‘But the mattress!’

  He sighed. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t notice that.’ Not only was a spring coming through it, but it was stained as if someone had wet on it. Charity imagined bugs crawling everywhere. ‘Yeah, I’ll get that dumped. I’ve got a couple of new ones in my office. But you do me a favour too. You clean it up. I don’t think anyone I know would do a good enough job for you anyway.’

  ‘OK.’ Charity was pleased that he saw her as a fastidious person. ‘So how much do I have to pay you?’

  ‘Two quid deposit and a quid for the introduction, that’s half-price as you’re a friend of Martin’s. I’ll start the rent from Friday night, because that’s when I collect from everyone. If you aren’t here, leave it on the table for me. I get nasty if you forget.’

  He handed her two keys.

  ‘Don’t lose them.’ He smiled. ‘And I’ll dump the stuff later today.’

  Charity ran back to Greystones on winged feet when she finished work. She intended to pack the few clothes she had there and go back to the room to start cleaning. Marjorie had sorted out sheets, blankets and pillows for her and even promised to find her a pair of curtains once she’d got settled.

  Finding a room was a start. She had stopped feeling sick in the mornings too. Once she was settled then she could think about all her other problems, like finding someone who knew about abortions.

  The moment she got in she went down to the basement to look for Miss Gullick.

  The evening meal was always served at six-thirty and the entire house smelt of cabbage and burnt sausages.

  Miss Gullick was mashing grey-looking potato in a big pan and the kitchen was full of steam. She looked up as Charity came in.

  ‘I’ve found a room.’ Charity tried to give a warm smile, hoping to endear herself to the woman even at this last stage. ‘I can move in tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not giving you a refund!’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Charity shot back, backing away. ‘I’m going round there now to clean up.’

  The radio was booming out from the sitting room and, judging by the wreaths of smoke coming out the door, most of the girls were in there waiting for their tea, which meant she wouldn’t have to run into anyone.

  Her bag was packed, she had changed into jeans and a sweater, and her plain navy skirt and blouse for work were folded on the chair ready for tomorrow.

  At the sound of feet on the stairs, she reached out for her coat, anxious to avoid any confrontation. But suddenly Joan was coming through the door, followed by Sue and Denise, and she knew from their faces it meant trouble.

  ‘Leaving, are we?’ Joan asked in a nasty tone, folding her arms across her chest, flanked by her sidekicks.

  Joan was big with wide, masculine shoulders. As always, she wore men’s jeans and a skinny rib red sweater that showed off her big bust. As she stood there she tapped the lino with the tip of her long black winklepickers.

  ‘Tomorrow.’ Charity tried to smile, but she was scared. ‘I’m just going round to clean the room, it’s filthy.’

  The other two girls were known troublemakers too. Sue was a gangly simple-minded girl, with bad skin and lank, greasy brown hair.

  Denise was a small bleached blonde, one of t
he girls who went with men for money. She was clearly dressed ready to go out in a skin-tight white pencil skirt and short boxy navy jacket, her hair done up in a beehive.

  ‘Lady Muck!’ She gave one of her hysterical giggles. ‘Even Buck ‘ouse wouldn’t suit you.’

  Charity noticed the oddest things about the girls. Denise’s suspenders sticking through her tight skirt, a yellow-headed spot on Sue’s chin and a huge love bite on Joan’s neck.

  Joan sauntered over, the cigarette dangling from her lips. She put one hand on Charity’s bag. ‘You ain’t nicked nuffin, ’ave you?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Charity backed away.

  ‘Well let’s just check, shall we?’ Joan flipped the bag up and over, tipping the contents out on her bed.

  Sue leapt forward like a hyena, big rough hands picking up Charity’s underwear.

  ‘Look at ’er fancy knickers!’ she taunted, holding up a pair of dainty briefs. ‘No skid marks in those. Bet her shit even smells like fuckin’ roses.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ Charity begged them. ‘I must get going.’

  ‘Oh you must, must you!’ Joan leapt forward before Charity had a chance to move away, handing her cigarette to Denise. ‘You fuckin’ poncey cow. You think you’re better than all of us, don’t you?’

  She got Charity by the throat, her big hands squeezing her windpipe. Charity could feel her eyes popping almost out of her head and she desperately clutched the girl’s arms.

  ‘You think you’re so pretty, don’t you?’ Denise came forward, braver now her big friend had Charity in a stranglehold. Her small sharp features were alight with spite. ‘Well I’m going to cut off your bloody hair and mark your face.’

  Charity had lived with people making fun of her all her childhood and had learned at an early age just to laugh it off. But she couldn’t laugh now. These three girls with their evil, grinning faces were like something from her worst nightmares.

  She screamed, but a blow on her cheek silenced her momentarily. She didn’t see it come, just a flash of fist and the impact of bone on bone. It threw her back against the door, slamming it behind her.