Charity went to the cot and picked up Daniel, wrapping his shawl round him.
‘Come back to see me?’ Miss Mansell wanted to embrace the girl, but she had to try and keep things as matter of fact as possible. ‘You can call me any time, just for a chat.’
Charity’s smile was bleak.
‘Thank you for everything,’ she said in a small voice.
‘It will get easier.’ The older woman put one hand on Charity’s shoulder. ‘I’ve got scores of letters from girls to prove it. You must look onwards and upwards now.’
Charity didn’t look out the window as the car drew away. She didn’t want to see the waving hands at the window or remember past laughter. Instead she kept her eyes on Daniel, photographing his face on her mind indelibly.
The adoption society offices were close to Baker Street. Aside from a discreet plaque on the wall, it was just another Georgian terraced house with black iron railings.
Charity and Miss Frost were ushered into a waiting room towards the back of the house. A heavy old-fashioned lace curtain covered the window; a few wooden-armed chairs were the only furniture. A tank of goldfish stood against one wall and Charity stood looking into it with unseeing eyes, rocking Daniel.
They had been in there for perhaps five minutes when a big lady came in. She wore a bright pink blouse under a grey suit and she smiled brightly.
‘What a beautiful baby,’ she said, holding out her arms. ‘Let me look at you, you handsome boy.’
Charity smiled, pleased at her reaction and let the woman hold him. But to her horror the woman turned and walked with him straight out of the door.
She went to run after him, but Miss Frost was quicker. She moved to the door, shut it and leaned hard against it.
All at once Charity knew. That was it. They’d taken him.
‘But I haven’t kissed him goodbye!’ she cried and lunged at Miss Frost, thumping her with her fists.
‘Charity, shush.’ Miss Frost caught hold of her hands to calm her. ‘Listen. Just listen!’
Tears were still streaming down Charity’s face, but she stood very still.
In the distance she heard the tapping of a typewriter, the hum of traffic in Baker Street and the sound of the woman holding Daniel ascending the stairs.
‘Any moment now she’ll show Daniel to his new parents,’ Miss Frost said. ‘Listen!’ She opened the door a crack, holding firmly on to Charity with one hand.
Suddenly Charity heard laughter. It was laughter that sprang from absolute joy.
The male voice was deep, echoing round the carpetless landing, but above that she heard the sound of a woman’s voice, and it was as pure as water running over stones.
Miss Frost held out her arms and pulled Charity to her. ‘Listen to that joyful sound and be glad for Daniel.’
Chapter Fifteen
January 1963
Beyond the closed door Charity could hear the sounds of the other chambermaids getting ready for a night out. Radios playing, bathwater running and voices calling to one another to borrow a jumper or a hair-drier. She could smell nail varnish, perfume and coffee, but none of these sounds and smells stimulated in her the desire to move from her bed.
There was no evidence she’d been here six whole months. None of the accumulated clutter common to all teenage girls – no makeup, jewellery, pictures of pop stars, magazines or strewn clothing. Aside from a framed photograph of the children taken back at Clapham, talcum powder, shampoo and a pile of library books on the dressing-table it had the severity of a monk’s cell.
It was a narrow room, gloomy with only the strip light above her washbasin. Snow piled up against the small, high window, but there was nothing out there to see except more snow covering rooftops, water tanks and coloured flashes from the neon lights in Piccadilly Circus.
People said it was the worst winter since 1947. Daily reports came in of villages cut off by snow, mail and milk being delivered by helicopter and old people dying of cold, but the bitter weather meant little to Charity, as she seldom went outside the hotel. During her few solitary walks around the West End, picking her way through blackened piles of hard snow, Charity observed that fashion had changed since the summer. The ‘Mod’ craze was under way, fired by the music of The Who. Girls now wore tight, longer skirts, bobbed their hair and winklepickers had been replaced by round-toed, clumpy shoes. The young men seemed to favour sharp suits and drive Lambrettas, but these changes only served to bring on a still deeper sense of isolation.
Her eighteenth birthday a few days earlier had passed unnoticed. That evening all the other chambermaids went dancing at the Empire in Leicester Square. Charity had heard their excited giggles as they set each other’s hair and swapped clothes, but she stayed in her room, immersed in a book.
Charity lifted her head just enough to see her clock. Another five minutes and she must go downstairs to turn down the guests’ beds. She had extra rooms to do tonight so Maureen and Judy could get out earlier.
None of the girls would bang on her door and ask her to join them later. Charity had become almost invisible.
She cleaned her allocated rooms silently, took her meals alone and her spare time was spent up here reading. So deep was she in a black pit of desolation she’d forgotten that life wasn’t always like this. Unopened letters were tucked away in a drawer, belongings still uncollected from Marjorie and Martin. Grief had turned to emptiness; solitude was easier than attempting to get back into the mainstream of life.
Charity had been too numb on her arrival at the hotel to take in anything but her duties. Those first few weeks of July and August were hot, and the ceaseless noise of traffic around Piccadilly kept her awake at night. Sometimes in the afternoons she would walk down to Trafalgar Square, but instead of feeling stimulated by the jostling tourists, the hustle and bustle of a big city, it just made her withdraw further into herself.
She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed and slid her feet into shoes. Standing up, she smoothed down the dark red overall with REGENT PALACE HOTEL embroidered in gold above her right breast, and tied the small white frilly apron round her waist.
Moving over to the washbasin she brushed her hair, then dragged it back, fastening it at her neck with a rubber band. It was over a year since she’d had it cut in Hammersmith; now the urchin cut had grown long and untidy, but she didn’t notice. The white cap went on next. Without bothering to look if it was straight, she picked up her bunch of keys and opened the door.
She’d heard the other chambermaids call her ‘weird’, ‘snooty’ and ‘barmy’ but she hardly registered their giggles and whispers. She’d grown a protective shield that nothing could penetrate.
Miss Frost had given her a lecture only two days earlier when Charity visited her office to sign the final adoption papers. She’d spoken brusquely about her appearance, implored her to pull herself together, but she didn’t seem to understand that the old Charity had died that day they took Daniel from her arms.
Opening the door to the guests’ part of the hotel was like leaving a slum and entering a palace. The staff bedrooms were tiny, furnished with cast-out pieces that guests had ruined. No new decoration had taken place up on the top floor for years, the carpets were so worn you could see the lines in the floorboards; even the lighting was dingy.
Now Charity felt thick red and gold carpet beneath her feet, breathed in that smell of opulence that came with flock wallpaper, soft wall lights, cigars, expensive perfume and people that had some purpose in their lives.
The other chambermaids had a great deal of curiosity about the guests. They whispered amongst themselves about the expensive clothes, jewellery and the amount these people ate and drank. Charity felt nothing: she picked up clothing, tidied cosmetics and cleaned, almost like a blind person. The other girls might help themselves to chocolates, giggle at naughty underwear and spray themselves with perfume, but she was only interested in keeping the rooms immaculate.
Knocking on doors, then using he
r pass key when no one answered, Charity went from room to room. She drew curtains, picked up wet towels, turned the beds down neatly, then passed on.
She knocked on number 212 and waited longer than usual, because Mr Marshall was often in his room at this time. He was one of the few guests she knew by name; in fact she had spoken to him several times during his two-week stay here.
John Marshall was a photographer. According to the hotel gossip, a well-known one whose pictures often appeared in National Geographic. She’d seen him polishing the lenses in his cameras once and out of politeness had asked him about his work. Rather shyly he had shown her some stunning photographs of a stampede of wildebeest in Africa.
But aside from his profession that made him a little more intriguing than the other guests, Mr Marshall was a real gentleman. She guessed his age to be around the mid-forties. He was tall and slim with a permanent suntan and the kind of leather luggage and good shoes that suggested a man of taste. He never made suggestive remarks as many other businessmen did, he kept his room tidy and he was unfailingly courteous, opening doors for her and generally making her workload a little easier.
Getting no answer, she used her key. As she opened the door a blast of icy wind and the roar of traffic surprised her. Assuming that Mr Marshall had opened the windows, perhaps to clear smoky air, and had then forgotten to close them before going out earlier in the day, she switched on the light and moved in.
She had taken only two steps when she saw his naked legs and feet protruding from behind the bed.
‘Mr Marshall?’ she called, nervousness taking the place of apathy. She had often walked in on drunks, once even finding one asleep in a cold bath, but nothing she’d seen of this man had suggested he was a drinker. ‘Mr Marshall, are you all right?’
It was a bit early for anyone to be drunk enough to fall on the floor. Besides, why was he in the dark?
The curtains were flapping, his bed was rumpled as if he’d been in it, yet a quick glance round showed no bottle, just an empty glass on the cabinet by the bed. She shivered and moved forward to close the windows.
As she reached the end of the bed, she gasped, clasping her hand to her mouth involuntarily. Mr Marshall was stark naked.
He lay twisted, halfway between face down and sideways, his naked bottom startlingly white compared with his deep brown back and legs.
Pulling the windows shut quickly, Charity dropped on to her knees beside him, pulling the bedspread down with her to cover him.
‘Mr Marshall,’ she called again, putting one hand gingerly on his shoulder. ‘It’s me, Charity, the chambermaid. Are you ill?’
His skin was icy cold to the touch. Worse still, she saw an open bottle of pills that had rolled under the edge of the bed, a few white tablets gleaming against the dark carpet.
‘Oh no,’ she gasped, grabbing the phone above her. ‘Hold on, I’ll get help.’
‘Mr Marshall in room 212,’ she said urgently to the girl that answered. ‘He’s collapsed in his room, get a doctor quickly.’
Now help was on its way Charity took his hand and felt for a pulse. She had no idea if it was fast or slow, it was just a relief to find there was one.
‘Help’s coming,’ she said, bending close to his ear.
His lips moved and his eyelids flickered but nothing more.
Seen close up without his specs, Mr Marshall looked far younger than Charity had thought. Of course he was pallid now, his lips blue from cold, but his curly brown hair was thick and soft to her touch, with just a sprinkling of grey at the temples.
As she waited, Charity felt an odd sense of comradeship towards the man whose room she had cleaned so often. Perhaps it was merely those tablets on the floor that reminded her of times when she’d been tempted to swallow a whole bottle of aspirin, but his room had the same stark quality as her own. His jacket was hung neatly on the back of the trouser press. Three pairs of shoes were lined up in a row under the dressing-table, even his shirt and underclothes were folded on the chair. There were no personal belongings strewn about, aside from his cameras, nothing to indicate that he’d been staying for some time, or that he was a regular visitor to the hotel.
Every other guest had carrier bags from the big stores, postcards to send to their families and friends, brochures for everything from theatres to car hire, evidence that they were here for pleasure or business. She had been relieved that his room held no such clutter while she was cleaning it, but now she wondered if, like her, he had faced some crisis during his time here.
The assistant manager Mr Cox came barging into the room suddenly, quickly followed by the house doctor.
Charity jumped up, told them how she’d found Mr Marshall, and moved back to let the doctor examine him.
‘You can go,’ Mr Cox said dismissively. ‘And don’t bandy this around.’
Mr Cox was always unpleasant. A tall, gangly man, he had sharp features and a bad temper. She got the impression he was annoyed at being interrupted drinking and toadying with the guests downstairs.
‘Thank you, Charity.’ The doctor looked up from where he knelt beside Mr Marshall, aware the little chambermaid was deeply concerned. ‘It must have been quite a shock to you finding someone like this. I’ll let you know later how he is.’
It was after ten when Charity heard a knock on her door. She’d had a bath and washed her hair and was wearing her pink dressing-gown, but finding Mr Marshall like that had shaken her out of her usual apathy, and she’d been waiting anxiously for news.
‘How is he?’ she asked when she opened the door and saw Dr Cole. ‘Has he gone to hospital?’
‘May I come in for a moment? I don’t want to talk out here.’
Charity let him in and he sat down on the one chair, while she perched on the bed.
Dr Cole was rumoured to be an alcoholic. He was over sixty, small and worn looking.
‘He’s sleeping it off now.’ The doctor smiled wearily at Charity. ‘I didn’t think he needed hospital, he hadn’t taken enough pills for that. He’ll wake up in the morning with a hangover, but that’s all.’
Charity sighed with relief. She’d been thinking about Mr Marshall all the time while she had a bath, remembering how pleasant he’d been. She had learned to freeze out male guests who made provocative suggestions, avert her eyes from saucy magazines and nudity, but with Mr Marshall there had never been any kind of threat, only a desire to make her job easier.
‘Did he mean to kill himself?’ she blurted out.
The doctor looked hard at Charity. He’d used this incident as an excuse to speak to her, because he’d been worried about her for some time. He sensed she’d had some sort of disaster prior to taking up this job and he’d tried to get her to open up on several occasions. She was far too pale and thin, and he knew she never went out or mixed with the other girls.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘From what I can gather he’d just hit a rut in the road.’
Charity frowned, not understanding.
‘It happens to us all at times.’ Dr Cole shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of sympathy. ‘Grief, private worries, a feeling of hopelessness. In Mr Marshall’s case I think he took a couple of pills to sleep, then woke and took some more without knowing what he was doing. Maybe that’s why the window was open when you found him. I think he must have felt ill, got up to open it, then collapsed. It was a good job you found him, he could have died of cold.’
‘I’m so glad he’s all right,’ Charity said. ‘He’s a nice man.’
‘And what about you, young lady?’ Dr Cole looked at her over his glasses.
Charity dropped her gaze.
The doctor rapped one finger on her pile of books.
‘What’s this? Studying, or just for pleasure?’
He was surprised to see Jane Austen, Dickens and Trollope. Most of the girls who worked here would be hard pressed to read an Enid Blyton.
‘I had an uncle once who called it “improving my mind”,’ Charity said and smiled de
spite herself.
‘In my time I’ve met a psychopathic chef, a housekeeper who claimed she was a witch, chambermaids hiding from violent husbands and several barmen who’d been in prison at some time. Now I can add a bluestocking to the list. It seems to me the work attracts the lonely, the sad and even the mad. That’s probably why I’m here too.’
Charity’s lips twitched.
‘Go on, laugh.’ Dr Cole’s pale eyes twinkled.
‘Is Mr Marshall lonely?’ Charity knew the doctor was trying to probe into her past and she wanted to lead him away from it.
‘I suspect he’s got a great deal in common with you,’ the doctor said unexpectedly. Charity jerked her head up in surprise. ‘Someone who has chosen to isolate himself while he tries to sort out where his life has gone wrong.’
Dr Cole observed the flush that spread up from the girl’s slim neck, the way her fingers picked nervously at her dressing-gown.
‘Do you mind if I go to bed now?’ Charity said. She was touched by his interest and compassion, but she had no intention of admitting anything for fear a confession might open gates she could never close again. ‘I have to be up early in the morning.’
‘Of course, my dear.’ He got up to leave. ‘I think Mr Marshall would like to thank you personally for rescuing him, so try and find time to pop in and see him tomorrow. If you want to talk to someone any time, don’t forget me. Goodnight.’
Charity woke as usual at six-thirty to alarm clocks going off all down the corridor. She’d lied to the doctor last night; she didn’t have to get up early as it was her day off. She could hear doors open, lavatories flushing and the usual moaning banter between the girls.
Normally she felt a certain dread on her day off – all those spare hours with nothing to fill them – but for once she felt slightly more alive, even curious about the other girls.
She could hear Judy talking about a man she’d met at a Soho club last night and she leaned up on her elbow to listen.
‘I told him I was a guest here.’ Judy giggled. ‘He wanted to come in for a drink and I didn’t know what to do. So I told him I had a business meeting early this morning and I had to get my beauty sleep. I suppose I’d better tell him the truth tonight when I meet him.’
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