‘Shut up, you evil little slag,’ Joan commanded. ‘Bring those scissors here, Sue!’
‘No!’ Charity yelled. ‘No, please don’t!’
Denise came forward to hold her head as Sue danced from one foot to the other like a mad thing.
‘No, please don’t,’ Sue mimicked. ‘Go on Joan, cut it off, the lot of it.’
Hank after hank came away in Joan’s hand.
Charity screamed again, her arms flailing around, trying frantically to protect herself.
At last she heard running footsteps on the stairs, and someone pushing against the door. Joan took a step back, the scissors still in her hand.
Charity moved to let the person in, still screaming in terror, but Joan ran at her, the scissors pointing right at her face.
Covering it was a reflex, but as the door burst open, taking her with it, Joan made a final lunge and the point of the scissors went right through her fingers into her cheek.
‘What’s going on?’ Miss Gullick shouted.
Blood was running through Charity’s fingers and dripping down her hands but she didn’t dare remove them from her face for fear of what had been done to her. She was aware that other girls had come in, and someone put a comforting arm round her shoulders.
‘Ring the police,’ Miss Gullick ordered. ‘You, Pat! Don’t just stand there.’
Charity slowly lowered her hands. Miss Gullick had Joan pushed back on to a bed and was restraining her by sitting on her. Sue stood over by the window smirking, Denise bent over the end of Charity’s bed shoving the clothes back into the bag as if her life depended on it. Five or six other girls were elbowing their way into the room, faces alight with curiosity.
‘Look what they’ve done to her lovely hair,’ a voice piped up.
Tears came then. Charity saw the hanks of hair, white gold on the dark brown lino, and felt with horror the shorn stumps on one side of her head. Her face stung, not just from the cut, but from the punch before it. She didn’t have to look to know she would have a black eye by the morning. But it wasn’t spoiled looks that made her cry, it was a feeling of utter desolation.
She was pregnant, Hugh didn’t want her, and now this!
*
She wouldn’t stay the night, even though the police who came begged her to. She let them bathe her face, but she insisted on going to her new room, even if there would be no sheets or blankets.
‘You can’t stay here, it’s filthy,’ said the policewoman who had come up the stairs with her at King Street.
Charity looked round at the woman’s sympathetic face.
‘It’s not as filthy as Greystones,’ she retorted. ‘But if you’re really worried about me, you could go along to Bell’s dining room four doors down and explain. My boss Marjorie has some sheets and blankets for me and a box of cleaning things I bought today. She’ll give them to you.’
The policewoman came back ten minutes later with Martin carrying the stuff.
He took one look at Charity’s face and hair, put down the pile on the bed and held out his arms.
‘That place ought to be closed down.’ He shook his head in shock as Charity leaned against him. ‘And that woman who runs it should be locked up for not warning you it was a hostel for disturbed girls.’
Martin tried to make her go home with him, but Charity would have none of it.
‘This is my home now,’ she said, needing to hold on to her last vestiges of pride. ‘When I lock that door no one can hurt me, or steal from me. It’s kind of you to offer but this is where I stay.’
It was after eleven when she finally got to bed. The room smelt of bleach and cleaning fluid and it was as bare and comfortless as a monk’s cell.
She had only a tiny handbag mirror in her bag, but it was big enough for her to see her face was a mess. The cut was deep, though small, and it would probably leave a scar. The other cheek was swollen, the eye above it half closed and turning black. Thumbprints on her neck were clearly visible, but it was her hair that concerned her most. On the right side of her face it was cut jagged right up past her ear and there was no alternative but to have it cut short all round.
She was exhausted now, shaking with delayed shock and the punishing cleaning she’d forced herself to do. But the sheets and blankets were clean and aired, and the new mattress was softer than the one at Greystones.
‘Why, Hugh?’ for the millionth time she asked herself. ‘What did I do wrong?’
Chapter Twelve
‘A bit further to the left.’ Marjorie stood back while Charity reached up on the stepladder to pin a gold foil ball to the ceiling. ‘That’s perfect. Make certain it’s fixed, we don’t want it falling into someone’s dinner.’
It was the beginning of December and the restaurant was closed for a couple of hours in the afternoon while they put up the decorations. A big box on the floor was spilling over with paper garlands, tinsel and damaged Chinese lanterns, the tables were stacked in pairs to make more room, and draped over some of them were plastic snowmen and Father Christmases which Marjorie was attempting to sort out.
‘So many of these are broken,’ Marjorie sighed. ‘Every year we say we’ll buy new ones for next year, and each December we find we’ve forgotten once again. Remind me, Charity, to throw this lot out when they come down.’
Charity smiled down at her employer.
‘Well throw all the bad ones away now,’ she suggested, pointing to one of the snowmen. ‘He’s only got half a hat for a start and those lanterns are so decrepit no one would even pinch them if you left them outside the door.’
‘It’s memories, you see,’ Martin chimed in as he struggled to stand the tree in the window. ‘We got those lanterns when we first got married. Did up our one room like a little grotto, didn’t we sweetheart?’
Charity knew exactly what Martin meant. Each one of these decorations had reminded her of past Christmases. Making paper chains with Toby and Prue, arranging the Nativity scene that father brought out of the attic every year. Decorating Babylon Hall with some of the parishioners and putting the special Christmas cloth over the altar.
This year there would be no children to watch opening stockings. Lou and Geoff would be alone with James; Toby and Prue sitting at the big dining table at Studley Priory. Would they talk about her? Did they feel the same sense of loss she did?
Marjorie heard her husband’s remark about their old memories but she didn’t respond. She was looking at Charity up on the stepladder. A light caught her sideways on, and to her surprise she could see a pot belly.
‘You’re putting on weight, my girl,’ Marjorie exclaimed.
‘Don’t be so personal,’ Martin chuckled. The tree just wouldn’t stand up, however hard he ground it into the bucket of sand. ‘It’s my fault, I’m always pushing food on to her.’
Marjorie opened her mouth to apologise for being so blunt, but her words were halted by the expression on Charity’s face. Not embarrassment, but fear!
‘You’d better check the fairy lights, dear.’ Marjorie turned to her husband and away from Charity. She could feel a blush spreading over her pale face and suddenly she understood everything.
The night when the police came in to tell them Charity had been attacked had been a turning point in the relationship between the three of them. Staff came and went, rarely putting much effort into the job; they could be sly, dishonest and most were plain lazy. The Bells had never felt involved with anyone before, but when Charity came in on time that next morning with a sticking plaster over her cheek, and makeup over her black eye, their hearts went out to her for her courage and singlemindedness.
They packed her off to the hairdresser’s to get her hair sorted out, let her work behind the scenes until her face returned to normal and encouraged her to put the nasty experience behind her.
Since then Charity had told them bits of the events that led up to her arrival in Hammersmith. It came out that she and her brothers and sister were orphaned and their uncle had become their
guardian. Later she admitted her distress that she wasn’t allowed to see the children. She had never explained why she left the public school she worked in, or why she ended up in Greystones House, but Marjorie was sure there was a boy at the bottom of it.
She didn’t complain about anything. She worked hard and cheerfully, painted her room to make it as pretty and cosy as possible, but Marjorie often wondered why such an attractive girl had no friends. Now that Marjorie had spotted that tummy everything fell into place. The drawn, anxious look on the girl’s face, the way she rarely spent any money, and the way she never spoke of the future.
‘Give us a hand folding these serviettes,’ Marjorie said. She sat down at a table with a pile in front of her, nodding at Martin to make himself scarce. He had finally got the tree upright, wedged between two bricks, and the fairy lights flashed cheerily, reflecting off the decorations.
Charity sat down opposite Marjorie and began folding the serviettes in triangles. ‘I could make some table decorations for the evening,’ she suggested. ‘A candlestick in plasticine with a bit of holly and glitter. I did some at the school last year.’
‘That would be nice.’ Marjorie looked up at Charity and knew she had to tackle her now.
It was obvious, really; she didn’t understand why she hadn’t realised sooner. Charity’s face was plumper, with a rosy glow about it, and her breasts were bigger too. Of course the new haircut had altered her a great deal. Maybe that was what had distracted her.
The short feather cut emphasised her dainty small features and focused on her big blue eyes. She looked like an elf with all those little tendrils round her face. At a casual glance it was nothing more than a few gained pounds, but Marjorie was certain she was right.
‘Are you pregnant, Charity?’ she said in a low voice.
Charity looked up quickly, fear widening her blue eyes.
‘It’s all right. I’m not asking because I intend to sack you or anything like that,’ Marjorie reassured her. ‘But if you are, you need help, and quickly.’
Charity had wanted to tell Marjorie so many times. Alone in her room at night she worked out what she would say, but the next morning she found she couldn’t. Day by day as she felt her tummy getting bigger she became more scared, but now with Marjorie looking at her in sympathy she felt nothing but relief.
‘Yes. I wanted to tell you before, but I didn’t know how to,’ she admitted, trying hard not to cry.
She had come to like and respect Martin and Marjorie. They were hard-working people. Almost always cheerful, sincere and fair, they had built up a good trade by treating every customer as if he or she were important. The time was right to reveal everything now.
Charity told Marjorie everything: how she had met Hugh, and the summer holiday at the cottage.
‘When he wrote and said he’d had second thoughts I wanted to die.’
‘But you didn’t,’ Marjorie pointed out. ‘And you’ll get through this because you’re brave and sensible. But you can’t just ignore what’s happening.’
‘Do you know anything about abortions?’ Charity whispered.
Marjorie looked shocked.
‘Not much, love, but I know you’re too far gone to even consider that.’
Charity’s lips trembled.
‘Come on, love,’ Marjorie wheedled. ‘You couldn’t have gone through that anyway. What about writing to Hugh again and telling him how things are?’
‘No.’ Charity blanched. ‘If he doesn’t want me I’m not going to try and blackmail him to help.’
Marjorie shook her head in bewilderment. The kid was made of stern stuff, that much was certain; more pride than the changing of the Guard.
‘But it’s his responsibility too!’ she argued.
‘No, I couldn’t,’ Charity insisted. ‘I’d rather have a baby all on my own than have him hating me for showing him up. If I was to see him again I know I’d try and plead with him to love me again.’
‘Then you’ve got to handle this alone, I’m afraid. But we’re here and you aren’t the first girl to fall for a handsome face and a few empty promises. Now, have you been to a doctor yet?’
‘No.’ Charity shook her head. ‘I’ve been too scared to.’
The plaintive look on Charity’s face made Marjorie’s heart prickle with tenderness. She wasn’t one to get involved with other people’s problems, she had enough of her own. The restaurant wasn’t the little gold mine people supposed. A thirteen-hour day, cramped living conditions, health inspectors who thought they were the Gestapo and a mountain of paperwork left very little time even to wash her hair. But Charity was the only girl they’d ever employed who actually made life easier for them, and Marjorie was very fond of her.
‘There’s no need to be scared. The moment you face up to it, the better you’ll feel,’ she said sensibly. ‘I’ll ring my doctor now and make an appointment for you after work.’
‘But my job! I’ve got to keep working.’ Charity was close to crying now with the release of tension.
‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go on working for quite some time.’ Marjorie saw how close she was to breaking down and didn’t want to make things worse. ‘But you must stop carrying heavy things, and wear some flat shoes.’
Everything Marjorie knew about pregnancy had been gleaned from younger sisters and customers. She had never wanted a baby herself; until she met Charity she hadn’t even been aware she had any maternal instincts.
Charity looked down at her three-inch heels. They made her feel older and she was loath to give them up.
‘I mean it.’ Marjorie smiled. ‘And perhaps you should get a looser skirt. That way no one will notice for some time.’
‘You are indeed pregnant.’
Dr Thomas washed his hands at his sink, looking over his shoulder as Charity scuttled back behind the screen to get dressed. ‘Almost four months, which means the baby will arrive in the middle of May.’
Dr Thomas’s surgery was in the basement of a house in Brook Green, reached by a flight of steep stairs with rusting railings. Once inside, leaving behind a faint whiff of dustbins, it was a surprisingly antiseptic place with black and white tiled floor and walls that appeared to have been painted pale green only days before.
The doctor sat down at his desk and waited for the young girl to reappear. He knew she was crying and his heart went out to her. He studied the few notes he’d made. She’d be seventeen when the baby arrived, no husband, no parents and from what he gathered the father had deserted her.
Dr Thomas was well over sixty and in the thirty years he’d been a GP he must have seen thousands of pregnant women. Telling a happily married woman such news was a time for joy, but for girls like Charity there would be no happy ending.
Charity came from behind the screen, dabbing at her eyes.
‘Sit down for a moment,’ he said gently. He might be an old man with white hair, but he couldn’t fail to be moved by such a pretty girl’s distress. ‘Now, I’ve written a letter to Hammersmith hospital, that’s not the one across the road, it’s by Wormwood Scrubs. You must take it there and they’ll sort out your antenatal visits. This is a prescription for some iron tablets, take one with each meal.’
He paused, wishing he could tell her something to ease her mind.
‘Now Charity, there is an almoner at the hospital, she’s the person who will put you in touch with people to help you.’
Charity silently put the letter and prescription into her bag, trying to control a desire to break down.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she whispered.
‘You can come and see me if you have any problems,’ he said gently. ‘Try and eat sensibly, get plenty of fresh air and exercise to make sure you have a healthy baby. Try not to worry too much, there are people out there to help you.’
‘Miss Stratton!’ A beefy, red-faced nurse called out her name, making a point of the ‘Miss’ bit.
Charity got up, blushing. It had been bad enough sitting amongst twe
nty or so older married women, without having her predicament advertised.
The nurse handed her a tall glass.
‘A specimen please!’
Charity didn’t know what the nurse meant and stared blankly.
‘Go in the toilet and pass some urine in here.’ The nurse seemed to think she was deaf as well as stupid. ‘When you’ve done that put it on the table outside and go into the cubicle and undress. There’s a gown inside to put on. Take off everything.’
It seemed to be one humiliation after another. So many questions, so much embarrassment. A whole group of men and women stood around watching while the doctor gave her an internal examination. It wasn’t just the delicate probing that Dr Thomas had done, either: they pushed a huge metal shoehorn-type thing into her, prised her open then peered in. One by one they listened to the baby’s heart through a metal trumpet, just as if she was a side of meat, not a human being.
They took blood from her arm and made her cry. They said she was underweight, as if that was her fault. The doctor said she would have to be checked for venereal diseases because she wasn’t married. When she began to cry the big nurse curtly informed her that she should have thought of the consequences before she had sex.
She felt lower than a prostitute. Unclean, unwanted.
Finally at twelve, after being there since before nine, they sent her to see the almoner.
Dr Thomas had said this was the person who would help, so she began to cheer up while she waited on a row of chairs in a long corridor. But two hours later she was still there and no one seemed to care.
She was bursting to go to the lavatory when finally the door opened.
‘Come in, Miss Stratton.’ A tall thin woman in a tweed suit popped her head out the door.
She just sat behind her desk, drinking coffee and reading notes in front of her. Charity didn’t like the look of her one bit. She had a bony, heavily lined face and a row of pearls round a scraggy neck and the way she avoided looking at Charity suggested she was going to be unpleasant.
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