The Forgotten Girl

Chapter 3
1966

‘Bye, Dad,’ I called as I shut the front door. There was no reply but I wasn’t surprised. I’d put a cup of tea next to his bed before I left and he’d barely stirred. Sleeping off last night’s whisky, I assumed. I guessed his assistant, Trev, would’ve already gone to the shop to open up. No doubt Dad would drag himself along when he finally fell out of bed.

I checked my watch. I was going to have to hurry to catch my train and I didn’t want to be late for work. Deftly, I picked up the hold-all I kept stowed in the bin shelter in our front garden and set off.

I made it to the station with seconds to spare – thank goodness – and immediately shut myself in the tiny toilet on board the train. My journey from Beckenham – the sleepy suburb of south-east London where I lived – to the centre of town where I worked, took exactly half an hour. Which gave me more than enough time to transform myself from the accounts assistant in an insurance company based just off Oxford Street that I pretended to be, into the junior writer on a magazine in Soho that I really was.

Things at home were … difficult. We’d been a happy family, once. At least, Mum worked hard to make sure me and my brother Dennis were happy. Dad just worked hard. He was a stickler for appearances and making sure we were all respectable. But he had a temper that he didn’t always keep under control.

And then Mum died. I was only thirteen when she got ill. Dennis was seventeen and doing his A-levels, and he went off to university not long after. So it was just Dad and me.

It was hard, without Mum. I missed her with a quiet intensity that never really went away. In the early days I’d unthinkingly set four places at the table and then have to put one set of cutlery back in the drawer, or shout hello when I came home from school, only to have my voice echo round the empty hall. I learned to cook and to clean and to sew because Dad was traditional. And he fell apart when Mum died, spending some days in silent grief and others in a furious rage, lashing out at the world – and me.

When the girls at school said their mums wouldn’t allow them to do something, I pretended my dad was strict too. Actually he didn’t really care what I did, as long as things looked okay on the surface. As the years without Mum went by, his periods of silence got worse, so did his drinking, and so did his temper. I learned to keep out of his way when he’d had a drink, never to talk back to him or disagree, and to have his dinner on the table when he wanted it. The one thing I’d dug my heels in about had been my job. He’d not been keen on me taking a job in town instead of working in the family newsagents, so I’d lied that working in accounts would be valuable experience that could help us expand the business and he’d eventually agreed.

‘Just until you and Bill are married,’ Dad had said, his lip curling with disdain. ‘London is no place for a married woman.’

I’d smiled and agreed, confident I’d never be foolish enough to marry anyone, let alone my devoted but dull boyfriend, Billy.

So I left home every day dressed neatly and wearing sensible shoes, with my hair pulled back into a ponytail. I arrived home looking the same.

But in between, I had a very different life.

Shut in the tiny loo, I unzipped my bag and took out a burgundy knitted dress, tights and boots. Wriggling in the small space, I pulled off the beige suit and blouse I was wearing and swapped it for the mini dress. I slipped on the tights and shoes, folded up my boring clothes and tucked them into my bag for later.

I pulled out my ponytail and brushed my straight dark hair and heavy fringe so it fell flat to my shoulders. If I got a slower train I sometimes backcombed it, but there was no time for that today.

I powdered my face quickly, then painted on a swoosh of liquid eyeliner. A slick of frosted-pink lipstick and I was finished. As the train pulled into Charing Cross, I slipped off my engagement ring and dropped it into my make-up bag. Done.

I breathed out in satisfaction. It wasn’t easy living my double life, but there was no doubt I was getting better at it. It made it even worse that I couldn’t see any way of it continuing much longer.

‘Morning Nancy,’ our receptionist, Gayle, shouted as I walked into the building. ‘Love the shoes.’

I grinned. Gayle and I were the only young women in the whole office. The rest of our team – the team that put together Home & Hearth magazine every month – were older women. They were all well turned-out and interested in fashion, but none of them were what I considered cutting edge. I hung up my coat and stowed my hold-all under my desk.

I was normally one of the first people in work, which I liked. I made myself a cup of coffee in the tiny kitchen and settled at my desk. Junior writer sounded thrilling, but there was a lot of filing and typing. I didn’t mind, though. I was learning so much that sometimes I felt like my head could explode.

Today I had a pile of recipes to type up. It was normally a dull, mindless task, but today’s were all based on locations our readers might have gone to on holiday so they were full of odd ingredients that I’d never tasted which meant I had to concentrate. I’d never been abroad. When we were kids, Mum took Dennis and me to stay with her parents in Eastbourne for two weeks every August. Dad never left the shop. Those two weeks every year – when it was just me, Dennis and Mum, were some of the happiest times we ever had.

I finished the last recipe for something called moussaka, and added it to the pile on my desk.

‘Nancy?’ My editor, Rosemary, had a sixth sense when it came to knowing when I was about to relax.

She stood in the door of her office looking chic in her camel-coloured twinset and tweed skirt. Her blonde hair was twisted up at the back and high on her crown. I had no idea how old she was. Late forties? Perhaps fifty? She was very glamorous and I hoped I would be like her one day.

‘Can you pick up some prints from Frank?’ she asked.

‘Course,’ I said. Frank was the photographer we used most often. His studio was just down Carnaby Street so I never minded going for a walk down there. It felt like the place where everything was happening, and I loved just watching what was going on. ‘Can I just make a quick phone call?’

Rosemary nodded.

‘Take him an issue,’ she said, gesturing towards the teetering pile of magazines next to my desk, and disappeared back into her office.

I checked my watch, then I picked up the phone on my desk and dialled Dennis’s number. He answered almost straight away.

‘Landsdowne Grammar School.’

‘Den, it’s me,’ I said. ‘Can you talk?’

‘I can spare five minutes,’ my brother said. ‘If the headmaster comes back, I’ll pretend you’re trying to sell me exercise books.’

I giggled.

‘So come on then. How was the big engagement do?’

I groaned.

‘It was a lovely party,’ I said mechanically.

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ I said more firmly.

It had been a nice party, if you liked that sort of thing. Which I definitely didn’t. I wasn’t even sure I liked Billy very much and I still wasn’t completely sure how I’d ended up engaged to him, other than I hadn’t really liked to say no when he asked me and I’d had a vague idea that getting married could have been an escape of sorts. Except it seemed to have ended up trapping me.

‘Did Dad behave?’ Dennis asked.

‘He was on good form,’ I said. Dad was always gregarious and generous in company. ‘He charmed Billy’s nan, he bought everyone a drink … you know what he’s like.’

Dennis snorted.

‘Do you need any money?’ he said.

‘No, I’m okay,’ I said. He always looked out for me, my big brother. ‘I’m saving up to get my own place.’

‘In London?’

‘Of course in London.’

‘Come to Leeds,’ he said

‘I can’t, Den,’ I said for the millionth time. ‘My job’s here.’

He wasn’t offended.

‘The offer’s there,’ he said. ‘I have to go, I’m teaching this afternoon and the head’s going to observe, check I’m doing it right.’

‘Good luck,’ I said. ‘You’ll be great.’

‘You too,’ he said. ‘Stay out of Dad’s way, okay?’

‘I will,’ I promised.

I said goodbye and I dropped the receiver back onto the cradle. I picked up my coat and bag, and grabbed a copy of the magazine to give to Frank, thinking about the stupid mess I’d got myself tangled up in and envying Dennis for his simple life in Leeds, far, far away from Dad …

‘Oooph!’

I walked out of the building and straight into a girl who was coming the other way. She shrieked in horror and dived onto the pavement.

‘Sorry,’ I said, starting to walk round her.

‘Sorry?’ she said. ‘Sorry? Look what you’ve done.’

She stood up and thrust some dripping wet papers at me. I backed away.

‘This is the best story I’ve ever written and you made me drop it in a puddle,’ she wailed. ‘It’s ruined, look.’

She unfolded the wet pages and held them up to my face. Some of the ink had run and the words were difficult to read. I felt a glimmer of sympathy for her. Losing work was never nice.

The girl looked at me properly for the first time, and I looked back at her. She was a similar height and age to me, but her dark hair was very short and she was wearing a dress without a coat over the top, despite the rain. Her thick black mascara was running down her cheeks.

‘Are you a writer?’ she said. ‘Do you work for Home & Hearth?’

I smiled in what I hoped was a writerly fashion.

‘I do,’ I said.

She gripped my arm so tightly it made me gasp.

‘You have to help me,’ she said. ‘You have to help me get a job.’

Chapter 4

I stared at her hand, which was digging into my arm through my mac. Her fingernails were bitten down, and there was a smear of mascara and eyeliner across the back of her hand. I tried not to recoil from the dirt.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I can help you.’

The girl let go, much to my relief.

‘Really?’ she said. She ran her fingers through her short hair and made it stick up at the front. ‘I’m just so desperate for a job, you see. I wrote this article and I think it’s really good – at least I thought it was really good. No one will be able to read it now.’

I shrugged.

‘Don’t you have a copy?’

‘No,’ the girl wailed.

I subtly glanced at my watch. Rosemary would be expecting those proofs and I really wanted time to have a chat with Frank’s assistant, George. I needed to get rid of this girl.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m the lowest of the low at Home & Hearth. I don’t get to decide who works there. But if you write another feature and send it to me, I’ll make sure Rosemary, the editor, sees it.’

The girl grabbed my arm again, this time in excitement.

‘Would you?’ she said. ‘Would you really do that?’

‘Sure,’ I said. I noticed for the first time how thin she was, and how she was shivering violently because she wasn’t wearing a coat. Again I felt a flash of sympathy for this funny-looking urchin girl.

‘Have you got any money?’ I asked.

The girl raised her chin and looked at me through defiant eyes.

‘Why do you ask?’

I was too embarrassed to say I felt sorry for her.

‘Thought you might have rushed out in a hurry, and forgotten your purse,’ I lied, nodding towards her. ‘No coat.’

‘Oh,’ she said. She let go of my arm – thank goodness – and smoothed down her damp dress. ‘Yes, I didn’t realise it was raining.’

I opened my black patent bag – my pride and joy – and dug about for my purse. I found a ten-shilling note and thrust it at her.

‘I’m really sorry about your article,’ I said. ‘But I’ve got to go and run an errand for my editor. There’s a cafe there …’ I pointed across the road to a narrow shopfront, nestled in between two offices. ‘… go and get yourself a coffee and warm up.’

She looked doubtful, but she took the note anyway.

‘I’ll pay you back,’ she said.

I nodded, even though I was fairly sure that would never happen.

‘Tell Bruno that you’re my friend and he might throw in a free slice of cake,’ I said.

She grinned at me.

‘What’s your name?’ she said.

‘Nancy Harrison.’

‘I’m Suze,’ she said. ‘Suzanne Williams.’

I smiled back.

‘Hi Suze,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I have to go.’

I patted her briefly on her soggy arm and headed towards Carnaby Street.

‘It was nice to meet you,’ Suze called, over her shoulder as she crossed the Soho cobbles to Bruno’s. ‘See you soon.’

‘Not likely,’ I muttered.

I dashed down the road towards Frank’s studio, pleased to have got away from the girl. I would miss the ten shillings but I couldn’t help thinking I’d got off likely as I climbed the many stairs to Frank’s attic and rapped on the door.

George answered and my stomach did the usual flutter it did every time I saw him. He had longish dark hair that curled over his collar at the back – Dad would call him a hippy even though he wasn’t – and a cheeky smile that he rewarded me with now.

‘Hoped Rosemary would send you,’ he said. ‘Frank’s in the darkroom, just sorting the prints out. Tea?’

I followed him inside, shrugging off my damp mac and hanging it on a hook behind the door. I spent so much time in Frank’s studio, I felt very at home there.

George made me a cup of tea and we sat on the battered sofa together, waiting for Frank to finish.

‘I just met someone who thought I could get her a job on Home & Hearth,’ I said.

George raised an eyebrow.

‘She thought you were Rosemary?’ he said. ‘I can see why someone would mix you two up …’

I gave him a friendly shove and he laughed.

‘She was hanging about outside the office,’ I said. ‘She’d brought an article to show us, but I knocked her and she dropped it in a puddle.’

‘Unlucky.’

I made a face.

‘I felt a bit bad, so I bought her a coffee,’ I said.

George laughed.

‘You’re such a sucker,’ he said. ‘You’re way too nice.’

I laughed too.

‘She might be an editor one day,’ I pointed out. ‘She might remember I was nice to her, and give me a job.’

George shook his head.

‘You’ll be the editor,’ he said. ‘You’re going places, Nancy Harrison.’

‘You’re right,’ I said, only half joking. ‘I’m going to be a big name in the magazine world. I’ll run my own mag, and maybe – just maybe – I’ll need a good photographer.’

George nodded mock-gravely.

‘I’ll think to myself, who do I know in the photography business,’ I said. ‘And I’ll remember George. And I’ll think, I know – I’ll ask George …’

I paused.

‘I’ll ask George, if he knows any good photographers.’

George threw his head back and laughed. I was pleased. I got a real thrill from making him laugh and he obviously felt the same about me. We were sitting closer together now, I noticed. His long thigh was touching my leg. I knew I should move away – I was engaged after all, even if George didn’t know that – but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to shift along.

We looked at each other for a moment – a long moment.

Then Frank threw open the door to the darkroom.

‘Prints,’ he announced. ‘Hi, kid.’

‘Hi Frank,’ I said, annoyed and relieved in equal measures that he’d interrupted me and George.

‘Fashion,’ he said, giving me a large envelope. ‘I’m pleased with them. Get Rosemary to call and tell me what she thinks.’

I nodded.

‘Did you bring me an issue?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said, I’d thrown it on a side table when I came in, so I fetched it now. Frank – who was in his forties with a bushy beard that he claimed he’d cultivated to make him look like a grown-up – held the issue at arm’s length and looked at the cover. It was a photograph of a pie, taken from above, on a dark-brown background.

‘Fucking dreadful,’ he said.

I grinned. I agreed entirely.

‘Why don’t you put people on the cover?’

I shrugged.

‘Not up to me,’ I said.

‘One day it will be up to you,’ George said.

‘One day,’ I laughed. I pulled on my mac again and picked up the envelope of prints.

‘I’ll get Rosemary to ring you,’ I said. ‘Bye George.’

George blew me a kiss and I floated on air all the way back to the office.

As I was walking past Bruno’s though, a shout made me look round.

‘Nancy,’ Bruno called from the door of the café. ‘Nancy! I need you.’

Oh god, had that Suze stolen something or caused a commotion? Heart sinking, I crossed the road.

‘Your friend,’ Bruno said, his Italian accent heavier than usual. ‘She is sick. You have to help her.’

Chapter 5

I can’t lie, for a moment I thought about telling Bruno I barely knew Suze, and going back to work. But then I remembered the slump of her shoulders when she picked up her wet article, and I knew I couldn’t abandon her. What had George called me? A sucker. Sounded about right.

‘Nancy!’ Bruno sounded panicky. ‘She’s at the back.’

I went into the long narrow café, enjoying the warmth after being outside in the rain. The windows were fogged up and there was a buzz of chatter fighting with the hiss of Bruno’s fancy coffee machine that he’d brought with him from Italy.

The left side of the room was lined with booths with maroon, PVC benches. It was close to lunchtime now, so the café was busy and I glanced at the customers as I walked past, appraising their hairstyles, their clothes and their shoes. The counter was on the right, and at the back of the café, past the serving hatch, there were another two booths. That’s where Suze was – right at the back – curled up on one of the PVC benches.

‘She came in, all bouncy,’ Bruno said. ‘She said she was your friend, ordered a coffee and then she fainted. We put her here and gave her some water.’

‘Is she asleep?’ I said, looking at the top of Suze’s dark head, which was all I could see.

‘No,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘I’m awake. I just feel woozy when I sit up.’

‘Sit up, and put your head between your legs,’ I said, remembering my friend Delia from school, who fainted all the time. ‘It gets blood to your brain, or something.’

Suze didn’t reply, but she slowly sat up, giving me a glimpse of her very pale face, then spun her legs round so they were outside the booth, and lowered her head in between her bony knees.

‘Suze,’ I said, studying her shoulder blades, which stuck up like chicken wings. ‘Did you have breakfast?’

She moved slightly – a brief shake of her head.

‘Bruno, can you get her some orange juice and a sandwich?’ I said, wondering if Suze still had that ten-shilling note – junior writer wasn’t a very well paid job. ‘I think she needs to eat something.’

Bruno looked relieved that I was taking charge. He slunk off behind the counter, poured an orange juice, which he handed to me, and busied himself making a sandwich.

I sat down opposite Suze. From the look of her, it wasn’t just breakfast she’d skipped. I wondered if she’d eaten anything all week.

‘Suze,’ I said. She raised her head and I was pleased to see some colour coming back into her cheeks. I pushed the glass of orange juice towards her and she drank it all in one go. ‘Suze, is there anyone I should phone for you?’

She shook her head.

‘A friend?’ I said. ‘Boyfriend? Parents?’

She smiled at me, weakly.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sort of a loner.’

Bruno put the sandwich in front of her and she tore into it. She ate like a child, holding her sandwich two-handed, not worried about how she looked. If my mum had been here to see her, she’d have been horrified at her lack of table manners.

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I only live round the corner. I’ll just go home and sleep. I was up late finishing my article.’

I looked at my watch. It was lunchtime now, so Rosemary would assume I’d taken my break after going to Frank’s.

‘Round the corner?’ I said.

‘Peter Street,’ she said, through a mouthful of bread.

That really was just round the corner. I was surprised and impressed that she actually lived in Soho and I wondered if she was one of those society kids who’d dropped out of their rich world but were still supported by their parents.

‘Finish your sandwich and I’ll walk you home,’ I said, partly out of concern for her and partly because I was curious to see where she lived. ‘Make sure you’re okay.’

Suze’s eyes widened in horror.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Honestly, I’m fine now. You go back to work and I’ll pay Bruno and get home.’

‘I’ll walk you home,’ I said firmly.

Suze had finished her sandwich. She looked at me, her head tilted to one side, like she was sizing me up. Then she nodded.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll just pay Bruno.’

She eased the 10/- note out of her pocket and I grabbed her hand.

‘Keep it,’ I said. Like I said, sucker. ‘I’ll pay.’

I settled the bill and with Suze hanging on to my arm like an old lady, we left the café and headed for Berwick Street.

Suze knew everyone. The market traders all called out to her as we passed, and she had quick responses to their questions and jokes.

‘Had one too many?’ the guy on the fruit stall shouted. He had tattoos all over his arms and one crawling up the back of his neck, but his smile as he looked at Suze was kind. I’d probably walked past him every day for a year, but I’d never seen him before.

‘Ha ha,’ Suze said. ‘Just feeling a bit off.’

He threw her a bag and she caught it deftly.

‘Can’t sell these, they’re all bashed,’ he said, winking.

Suze grinned.

‘Thanks.’

She put her mouth close to my ear.

‘Nothing wrong with them,’ she said. ‘He’s such a softie, though you’d never know to look at him.’

I glanced at the greengrocer over my shoulder. She was right about that.

Peter Street ran along the bottom of Berwick Street. One end led to Wardour Street, and the other was a dead-end. Suze led me that way, to a barber’s shop, tucked right in the corner. There was a boarded-up door in between the entrance to the barber and the shop next to it and that was where she headed. She stuck her hand down the neck of her dress and pulled out a tiny key.

‘I keep it in my bra,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’d lose it otherwise.’

Then she unlocked the padlock that was keeping the plywood door firmly shut and pushed me inside, shutting the door behind us and moving the padlock from the outside to the inside.

‘It’s best to keep it locked,’ she said, in a tone that told me she hadn’t always done that.

She led the way up the narrow stairs in front of us. They were covered in threadbare carpet, and the only light came from a dirty, skinny window on the landing.

At the top was a bed-sitting room. It had fabric draped at the two large windows and the day was gloomy so it was hard to see properly. I looked at Suze and she gasped.

‘Oh I’m not being a very good host, am I?’ she said. ‘Come in, come in, sit down.’

She scurried over to the corner of the room and switched on a tall lamp. I was surprised she had electricity in what was clearly a squat, but I didn’t say anything.

Suze, though, read my mind.

‘One of the guys on the market sorted it for me,’ she said. ‘I think he’s connected it to a streetlight.’

I wasn’t sure what to say. Instead, I looked round at the room.

Suze, who was still looking a bit wobbly, threw her arms out.

‘Mia casa,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

It was a fairly large, square room with two big windows that looked out over Peter Street and a bit of the market. I could hear the buzz of chatter and music from the barber shop below, and the shouts of stallholders and shoppers at the market. The windows were covered in offcuts of material – as was the single bed in the corner to my right – I guessed Suze had begged, borrowed or stolen them from the many fabric shops nearby. Piled up near the bed were rows of battered paperbacks. Off to one side was a tiny toilet with a small sink and straight ahead of me was a tiny, two-ring electric hob with one pan, a couple of plates and two mugs neatly stacked next to it.

Beneath one window was a big table with a typewriter on top.

‘My pride and joy,’ Suze said, seeing me looking.

I grinned.

‘I’ve got the same one at home.’

Mine was covered in stickers, though, and my desk at work wasn’t nearly as tidy as Suze’s. She had a stack of blank paper next to the typewriter and two thick cardboard folders on the table, along with a notepad and a pot of pens and pencils.

‘What do you think?’ Suze said. ‘I’ve never had a guest before.’

I smiled at her.

‘It’s lovely,’ I said honestly. ‘It’s perfect.’