Orphans and Strangers, page 27
William shook his head.
The smell of burning drifted across. The men were finishing up and lighting the brazier against the cool of the evening. The flames leaping in the old barrel, and the men grouped around it, reminded him of the nights he’d helped Andy, his last landlord, in the Seamen’s mission. They’d go out into the night with soup and sandwiches, sometimes blankets, and try to help the homeless who slept rough. William suspected many of them weren’t old seafaring men, but that never stopped Andy from offering what help he could. George spoilt all that, he thought. Andy had asked him to get other lodgings. For a while, he had been like the men at the mission, sleeping rough where he could get it.
“A’ll be back shortly.” William said, wiping the empty cup on the end of his jumper. When the men finish working on their plots, they gather in a clearing for a bottle of beer. That was William’s cue to walk deeper in the plantation.
“Is that how George will end up? Homeless, when they let him out of jail.” he murmured. Rosie refused to even talk about him, let alone let George come and live with them.
A companionable silence fell between him and Ken on the drive back.
“Will you move with the engineering firm?” Ken asked.
William considered the question. The factory was closing down its works in Edgewater and moving to Glasgow.
“Ah don’t know.”
“It would be nearer to your sister.”
William tightened his lips. And nearer Trisha, he thought. Ah don’t want her causin’ trouble between Rosie and me. George makin’ a good enough job of that as it is, he thought.
Ken glanced covertly at William and cleared his throat. “Babs mention the good news?”
William shook his head.
“We’ve been accepted to adopt another baby. Well, she’s not a baby. She’s an older child. Alice was only an infant when we adopted her.”
“Ah didn’t know Alice wasn’t yours,” William couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.
“She is ours. She just wasn’t born to us,” Ken retorted.
“Ah didn’t mean she’s not yours…” Confused, William stopped talking.
“No harm done, mate. It’s a common enough response,” Ken grinned. “It’s just we’ll need extra space.” It was a moment before William understood he was talking about him having to move out.
“Will you need me to go before the cabbages and stuff comes up?”
Ken didn’t answer for a minute as he waited at a level crossing. Releasing the handbrake, he started up again as the train thundered past.
“Did you think about what we talked about, contacting the British Legions Veteran’s Association?”
William grunted. “The last thing ah want to do is parade around glorifyin’ killin’ in the name of war,” he said.
Ken grinned. “They do other things, like supporting people, help you get over things.” Ken hesitated. “Babs and I hear you at night.” Ken plunged on. “No, no, it’s not that you disturb us,” he rushed on. “It’s just we’re worried what’ll happen when you move to new digs.”
William sat, clutching the handle of the door.
“There’s help out there for people who have witnessed what no person should ever have to see or remember,” Ken went on.
“It’s doesn’t happen as much since Rosie and me…” William’s voice petered out. He wondered if Rosie had told Ken about George being in prison. Was that the reason he wanted him to move out?
“Move in with Rosie.” Ken knew he was nagging like an old mother hen, but he couldn’t stop. In his job with the homeless, he saw men like William every night, begging for a handout or curled up in a doorway covered with a cardboard box. “You know it makes sense, mate,” he said, giving William’s knee an encouraging pat. “You spend most of your time there anyway.”
William pulled the crumpled letter from his pocket, written on official prison notepaper, and handed it to Rosie. “George needs a place to live after he’s released.”
Rosie’s shook her head. “You livin’ ‘ere—that’s OK, but not ’im. He ain’t comin’ to live ’ere, Will.”
“It’ll only be for an address after he’s released. He’ll not want to be hangin’ around me or you for long.”
Rosie gave a mirthless laugh. “Oh, I know what ‘e finks about me… and you. It was all in that letter what he wrote from prison. ’Shacking up with a barmaid’—I think was his talk. Meals made for ya and all the comforts of home day and night. Not to mention the ‘air-raisin’ things he accused ya of.” Rosie snorted.
“Maybe, maybe you’d think about it,” William pleaded.
Rosie untied the strings of her apron and took her time folding it. “Didn’t your sister mention she’d moved into a bigger ’ouse, in the last letter you ’ad from her? She can give ’im an address.”
William shuffled his feet. “I never answered it. And anyway, that was the Christmas before last.”
Rosie raised her eyes to the ceiling and reached for her coat. “All I know, darlin’, is that I ain’t ‘avin’ him livin’ in this ’ouse,” she said resolutely. Shaking out her scarf, she fashioned it around her neck. “We’ve been happy goin’ out of a night. We don’t need ’im here messing things up, do we, lovey? You want summit fetched back after I finish work?”
“Do Sheamie Foy and the navvies still come in?”
Rosie stopped in her step. “Things at the works not goin’ well?” she asked perceptively.
“There’s talk they’re moving to Scotland. Some of the workers are already up there training.”
Rosie stared at him. “You kept that close to your chest. When is all this supposed to ’appen?”
William shrugged. “If it closes down altogether, and I decide to go wi’ them, would you move up there with me?”
Rosie stared at him in disbelief. “Have you lost your bleedin’ mind? I’m a Londoner! ’Ardly been out of the sound of Bow Bells since the day I was born! What about this ’ouse and the boys?”
“Your ‘boys’ are men—left home years ago!”
“They’re still my boys. All I have left of their father—killed in that air raid shelter trying to be a good citizen,” Rosie said. “I know you never took to them.”
“They don’t like me either.”
“That’s true enough. The feeling is mutual. Anyways, it’s a daft idea to fink I’d move up north. I’d never see the grandkiddies.”
William snorted. “You don’t see much of them now. Your sons only come when they want to borrow money or want you to look after their spoilt brats while they have a week away in Blackpool.”
Rosie’s face flushed. “Reggie comes on Sundays…”
“Aye, to get bloody fed,” William said, gritting his teeth.
The door shuddered as Rosie banged it behind her.
Chapter 59
“Ma, the peelers are comin’ in here,” Isobel’s voice called. “Stop gawking out through the curtains, Isobel. There’s enough of nosy bisims in this place without you starting.”
“Mrs McKnight?” the serious-faced policeman asked.
Lisa’s heart began to thud. Something had happened to Andrew. He’d been away on a “duty,” as he called it.
“No point in asking where I’m being sent, Ma,” he’d chide her when she pressed him for some more information.
“Is it Andrew?” she asked, her voice quivering.
The policeman stared. “Andrew? No. It’s your daughter.”
Lisa’s heartbeat slowed, relieved it wasn’t Andrew, and then sped up again when she saw Trisha trip over her own feet as she got out of the police car.
“Steady there,” the young copper said, tightening his grip on her arm as he helped her.
Trisha staggered up the footpath and leaned against the jamb of the door.
“Drinking behind the shops wi’ Stuart Moss again,” Isobel said, disgusted.
“It’s a bit more serious than that, I’m afraid. Drunk driving around the estate,” the older copper said.
Trisha glared belligerently at him. “I wasn’t driving. I don’t have my licence yet. I’m going to be sick,” she mumbled, leaning over the low hedge that separated them from their neighbour’s house.
Lisa looked in despair at a drunken Trisha in hot pants, a boob tube and thigh-length boots.
“Thank you for bringing her home. I’ll try and see that she doesn’t keep company like that in the future,” Lisa said, hoping to appeal to the officer’s good nature.
The policeman surveyed Lisa. “Car riding at high speed, especially where drink is involved…” He hesitated. “That a good-looking daughter you have there. Haven’t I seen her picture in the paper?”
“Niece, she’s my niece,” Lisa interjected, stepping back into the hall.
Trisha slouched in the direction of the upstairs. “Don’t go up there. Your uncle BJ has enough to worry about without seeing you looking like a drunken street walker.”
Trisha hiccupped drunkenly. “Oh, pity I’m not like perfect Miss Isobel. Or golden boy Andrew. Well, let me tell you, dear Aunt Lisa, golden boy is not as goody-goody as you think,” Trisha said, giving a drunken giggle. “There are things about him you don’t know, and I do.”
Lisa’s hand itched. She wanted to smack the drunken smirk off Trisha’s face. “Isobel may work in a factory, but she doesn’t dress like a street walker,” she retorted.
“At least they get paid for lying on their back. What did you get the night you lay naked beside Robbie Black in Granny’s bed in Ireland?”
Lisa leapt at her. “Shut your filthy mouth. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
Trisha’s stomach heaved, and she vomited over her own and Lisa’s feet.
“I want to go and live with my father,” she snivelled, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
“Your father can’t…” Lisa stopped. She had been about to say that her father couldn’t stand the sight of her, but the look in Trisha’s eyes, she knew that.
Trisha slumped down onto the floor and tugged at her knee-length boots. Without the boots, and sitting there in the middle of her own vomit, she looked like a lost, vulnerable child, Lisa thought, her anger ebbed away. I’m not able for this anymore, she moaned, sinking into a chair. I’m tired. Tired of attending to BJ and tired of having no love in my life.
“Clean yourself up and call good night to your uncle Billy before you go to bed. He’s been waiting to see you all day.” She sighed, watching Trisha’s wobbly ascent up the stairs.
Halfway up, Trisha stopped. “Did Miss Thomas phone?”
“She did. But don’t think that you are getting to go to London to that fashion show after the showing up you’ve just given me in front of old nosy bag next door,” Lisa retorted.
Chapter 60
Loud, angry words poured from Arianna, the Italian model’s throat. With a guttural stream of words, she flounced out, shouting what Trisha was sure were obscenities at Miss Thomas.
“I heard that there are some film directors, model agency bosses, and even high-profile music stars on the guest list,” Lara, the model who was sharing an apartment with Trisha for the show, whispered under cover of Miss Thomas’ screeching.
“The House of T’ASS is ruined, ruined. And all because of that bitch!” Esther Thomas was screeching.
Trisha’s stomach churned. When Miss Thomas was like this, she picked on the lowest, newest, least important model. That’s me, Trisha thought, trying to take in calming gulps of air.
“Tonight, the House of T’ASS should be showing the world’s fashion gurus and editors the new autumn and winter collection. It cannot happen now. We are ruined, ruined!” Esther Thomas wailed.
“Breathe, breath, my cherub,” Gashcyoin soothed, kneading Miss Thomas’ tense shoulders.
Trisha stifled a nervous giggle. She always wanted to laugh when Gashcyoin called Miss Thomas that. Standing six feet three in her stocking feet and taller than Gashcyoin or any of the models or photographers, she was the least cherub-looking creature you could ever imagine. Ramrod straight and reed-thin, legs up to her armpits and clad in black leggings and a black leotard, she looked more like a demented Russian ballerina than the boss of a top-notch fashion house.
“You, girl,” she hissed. Even in the chaotic noise and fevered activity, Trisha could hear the ice in her voice.
“She means you,” Lara mouthed, giving Trisha a frantic nudge.
“Is she deaf or stupid?” Esther Thomas bawled.
Gashcyoin snapped his fingers, indicating Trisha should come at once.
Esther Thomas studied her as if she was a piece of meat. “She is about the same height,” Gashcyoin soothed. “She’ll do for rehearsal…”
“She is big… up here.”
Trisha stood stock still as Miss Thomas prodded her breasts. She yelped as fingers dug into her buttocks.
“She is skinny, child. Arianna… she is curvy… like a woman. The gown needs curves,” Miss Thomas wailed, tears pouring down her hollow cheeks.
“No, my cherub,” Gashcyoin soothed. “She is the perfect balance. Young, firm breasts and a sexy bottom,” he said, stretching the elastic on Trisha’s nylon briefs. “The men… and the photographers will love her,” he said, kissing Esther Thomas’ hand. “And she will have been your discovery.”
Trisha cupped her breasts with her hands. She didn’t think Gashcyoin would paw her with Miss Thomas watching. But she was taking no chances.
“It is only rehearsal. Arianna will be back in time for the big finale,” he soothed.
“People are starting to arrive and there’s a long queue outside. And there’s an army of photographers!” Lara squealed, peeping out from backstage.
“And no Arianna!” Esther Thomas howled, throwing her hands up in the air. Then, flattening her lips, she turned. Gathering Trisha’s long, glossy curtain of hair in her thin hands, she twisted it up into a knot on top of her head. “Gown, accessories?” she shrieked.
“Flowing gown, virgin seductress,” Gashcyoin puffed, demonstrating with his hands.
Miss Thomas scrutinised Trisha. It might work. The gown was pure silk. It would show off her young body, her vulnerability, and her high breasts. She frowned. Gashcyoin was wrong. This girl was no virgin. She’s known a man. She’s already spoilt. She glanced at the bulge beginning to appear in his pants. She would not tell him. Not yet.
Esther nodded at the dresser.
“Wait!” Gashcyoin panted. He gathered Esther’s hands in his. “She mustn’t wear anything that will impede the flow of the gown.”
Silence fell over the models. Miss Thomas drew herself up to her full height. She knew exactly what Gashcyoin was asking. He had worked hard to produce the guest list. As “production manager”, he was entitled to his perks. But what if it threatened her reputation or her couture collection?
A war raged within her. Other fashion houses were becoming more daring, more adventurous. Some of their models were even wearing topless swimwear. Would it be a step too far or a brave step into the future?
Trisha stood motionless before her. Her heart thudded. This was the break I’ve been waiting for since I modelled the silk suit when I was thirteen. But would she dare to wear nothing beneath the gown? She had seen Arianna model it backstage. Its sheer silk fabric fell in folds, accentuating her curvy body, leaving little to the imagination. But if I didn’t do it, I might never get the chance again.
She visualised how it would shimmer and glow under the lights of the catwalk.
Miss Thomas had hinted that Vogue and Glamour scout photographers would be there tonight. And some of the girls had whispered that the Editor of the newest fashion magazine, Chic Glitz, would be there as well.
I’d sell my soul to be on the front page of Chic Glitz—just once.
The buzz on the front stage and in the auditorium was clearly audible now.
Time was running out. It was time to decide.
Miss Thomas reached a decision. This is no business for the faint-hearted. She snapped her fingers. A dresser materialised, and stripping away Trisha’s bra and briefs, slipped a light body stocking over her naked body. There was an audible gasp from the assembled models.
Trisha felt her throat close over with excitement and trepidation. I’m really going to do it. I’m going to walk down the runway wearing a couture gown. Not one that Lisa had remodelled from somebody else’s design but a gown designed by a top fashion designer.
Her knees trembled and sweat gathered between her breasts. She was afraid to lift her eyes to the mirrors propped around the room. An image of BJ came to her. He’d be shocked. No, he’d be beyond shocked. But he doesn’t understand what you have to do to make it, she reasoned, pushing down her misgivings. I’ll do this. I’ll do it as good as Arianna, she promised herself.
“The theatre is full,” Lara whispered in awe. “But I don’t see anybody… Oh, yes, I do. I see…”
“Enough,” Miss Thomas hissed as she watched the emotions wash across Trisha’s face and body.
“You are very beautiful. You have the black raven beauty of the Celtic race. A beauty inherited from a proud and gallant people. Make your forefathers, and me, proud when you step on that runway,” Esther commanded, towering over Trisha. “I will make sure the lights are caressing, not too revealing…” She stepped so close to Trisha that she could feel the intense heat coming off Miss Thomas. “You know what your body can do for you. Use it tonight,” she said, laying a bejewelled hand on Trisha’s.
Trisha nodded, stiff with nerves.
“You are such a clever woman, my cherub,” Gashcyoin gushed as he watched Trisha prepare her hair and take her appointed place. “She is a natural. And such poise for one so young,” he gushed.
Esther smiled. I’ve seen the hunger in Trisha’s eyes. This little scrap of humanity, this little nobody could be my passport to bigger and greater things, she gloated. She glanced at Gashcyoin. If it works, I’ll need protection, at least for the time being. If it doesn’t work and the fashion press berates the young novice model for her wickedness… so be it. She shrugged. Gashcyoin will find other work for a model willing to sell her soul. No doubt, there will be a few directors and producers in the audience who would be willing to use her beauty and her talent in other ways, she mused.
