Charity Read online

  They parted after the pub closed. The last thing Rita said was that she was going out to look for a flat the next day and she’d be in touch as soon as she’d found the right one.

  ‘Promise me you won’t let me down?’ she said as she got into a taxi. ‘I’m relying on you.’

  Charity had spent many nights lying awake in the Regent Palace, but this was the first that her thoughts were entirely happy ones.

  Only one tiny thing bothered her. Was Rita being entirely truthful? Her new glamorous appearance, that kind of hard-bitten confidence she’d acquired, was that really entirely due to promotions work she was doing? She hadn’t actually mentioned any of the companies she worked for by name. Charity felt uneasy, despite herself.

  It was snowing again on the first of February. Charity woke to find the roof outside her window glimmering in the darkness and still more snow falling. She’d scarely noticed it in the first few weeks, yet now for some reason she felt a wild elation as she got into her uniform, as if something wonderful was about to happen.

  She skipped through taking early morning tea round to the guests, laughed at Cyril the breakfast chef’s little jokes when normally she ignored them, and when the mail came and she found a letter from John, her heart turned somersaults.

  Just a few lines on one piece of thick hotel paper from Paris:

  I’m flying back into London on the evening of February 1st. I’ll stay at the Hilton because I don’t want to make things awkward for you. Can you ring me there on the morning of the 2nd? I’m looking forward to seeing you again.

  The letter was enough to send her flying through her work doing the bedrooms. An American businessman had left her a five-pound tip and then just as she was going off duty for the afternoon, Rita rang her.

  ‘I’ve found the flat,’ she gasped down the phone. ‘It’s wonderful, Chas, Dad’s paid the key money for us and the first month’s rent.’

  ‘Where is it?’ Charity felt a surge of wild excitement.

  ‘In Earls Court, Barkston Gardens,’ Rita gabbled out. ‘It’s not a grotty place, though it needs a bit of painting. It’s in one of those proper blocks with heating and everything. You wait till you see it. You’ll be jumping up and down with glee.’

  ‘When can I see it?’ Charity said eagerly.

  ‘Meet me at Earls Court tube tonight at eight,’ Rita said. ‘Dad’s signing the lease today and picking up the keys. I’m going to phone Dot at teatime. I bet she’ll be on the next train.’

  It was all so sudden that Charity couldn’t think straight. ‘But what about my job?’ she blurted out.

  ‘Hand in your notice,’ Rita said impatiently. ‘Do it now, otherwise you’ll be agonising over it. I’ll get you a job straight away. They need loads of girls right now. By the way, it’s the Earls Court Road side of the station, not the bit by the exhibition hall. Look, I’ve got to go. See you there at eight.’

  There was no time to ask how she’d get there if snow stopped the tubes, no time for reassurance that she really would get another job, or even to tell Rita about John. But the elation she’d felt earlier that morning was enough to tell her that her future was about to change dramatically.

  ‘I didn’t expect it to be as posh as this,’ Charity gasped as Rita stopped at Barkston Mansions.

  There could have been no better way to see the private gardens in the centre of the square than in the golden glow of the Victorian street lamps: grass hidden under a blanket of thick, untrampled snow, trees weighed down with sparkling frosting. Black railings and a lone snowman turned it into a scene of serenity and beauty straight from a Christmas card, hiding the fact that this area was the heart of rather squalid bedsitter land.

  A couple of wide white marble steps led up to half-glassed double doors and beyond the spacious hall was an old wrought-iron lift, the staircase winding round it, with a red carpet and gleaming brass stair rods.

  Charity looked up. The building had at least five floors, as did all the houses, and the porch was supported by stone pillars. Across the square most of the other houses had damaged stonework and peeling paint, but this was red brick and the lower flats had leaded windows.

  ‘Ours isn’t all that grand,’ Rita said, dragging Charity up the steps. ‘Dad gave me a warning about wild parties. Apparently there’s quite a lot of old forgies living here.’

  Their flat was on the fourth floor to the right of the stairs. A big square hall, with all the other rooms leading off.

  ‘An old lady lived here,’ Rita explained as she led Charity into the hall. ‘Apparently her son whisked her off into a home and he’s sold off all her good stuff, but he told Dad we could have the rest.’

  Charity stood still and just stared. A scratched table and four unmatching chairs stood in the middle of the hall, the dark green carpet had deep dents where heavier furniture had stood and there were clean marks on the faded wallpaper where pictures had been removed.

  A faint whiff of old ladies and mothballs lingered, but even at that first glance Charity knew it had great potential.

  ‘It’s so warm,’ she gasped, taking off her coat and flinging it down on the table before she went to explore.

  ‘The heating and hot water is thrown in with the rent,’ Rita said as she followed her. ‘I was a bit disappointed because it’s only got two bedrooms and when I saw it the first time there was a lot more furniture.’

  A sitting room overlooking the street held only a large shabby sofa and two armchairs. Next to this was a small bedroom with an old-fashioned bed like something from ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’. The second bedroom was at the back, sandwiched between the kitchen and bathroom.

  ‘We could make the hall the lounge,’ Charity suggested. She moved the table and chairs back against the wall between the bedroom and kitchen. The carpet was the best in the entire flat, with only one worn part. ‘If we put the sofa over that to hide it.’

  She could see it repainted, with bright pictures on the wall and a couple of lamps. The doors were all lovely mahogany ones with brass knobs and at night it wouldn’t matter that there were no windows.

  Silence from Rita made her look round.

  Rita was standing by the small pine table, two pretty china plates in her hands, and to Charity’s amazement she was crying.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ Charity went over to her friend and put her arms round her.

  ‘Just being silly,’ Rita sniffed. ‘I’ve pretended for so long that everything was fine. I put on my makeup, tart myself up and show off.’ She didn’t have to add that if her father had helped her like this six months ago, all three of them might have been able to keep their babies.

  Charity held Rita tightly. She too was never going to mention what might have been, or allow herself any bitter backward glances. ‘It’s all going to be wonderful from now on. We three are going to be a family, looking out for one another. Together we can be happy.’

  It was only as they travelled back on the Piccadilly line together that Charity remembered to tell Rita that John would be in London in the morning.

  ‘At the Hilton, eh?’ Rita winked suggestively. ‘Well have a good time. Dorothy’s got some bloke to drive her up on Thursday. Can you meet us at the flat in the evening to do some cleaning? Then we can all move in on Saturday. Try and nick us some sheets and towels!’

  Charity approached the Hilton with butterflies in her stomach and her heart fluttering. It was all very well the other chambermaids telling her she looked like a model in her new black dress, and dabbing some Chanel number 5 on her neck and wrists; inside she felt like the maid dressed up in her mistress’s clothes. Her feet were like ice, shoes already wet with snow and even the new coat offered little protection from the icy wind.

  She ought to have got a taxi instead of walking down Piccadilly and now she was scared stiff of going into somewhere so grand. Suppose John didn’t really want to see her? It was three weeks since that lunch and he’d been upset enough to agree to anything then. It
would be too awful if she found he was only meeting her out of politeness.

  Park Lane looked very pretty. Although the road had been cleared, snow hung on the trees and beyond the railings Hyde Park was one glorious sweep of winter wonderland lit up by the street lamps.

  The liveried doorman was flagging down a cab for a couple in evening dress standing under the hotel canopy and it took all Charity’s courage to walk past them and through the big doors.

  John had said he would be waiting in reception, but she couldn’t see him.

  A porter looked round from the desk where he was talking to one of the clerks, and Charity blushed scarlet. At the Regent Palace they had to be very careful about prostitutes using the hotel and she wondered if they might suspect her of being one.

  Then she saw John and a hot tingle surged through her veins.

  He came towards her smiling, caught hold of her arms and kissed her cheek. ‘It’s so good to see you again. For a moment I didn’t recognise you.’

  ‘I had my hair cut,’ she said in little more than a whisper, feeling flustered as if every one of the dozens of people milling round the foyer were watching them.

  ‘Come and have a drink,’ he said and led her towards the bar.

  John looked so handsome and distinguished in his grey suit and striped tie. His face had a healthy glow that hadn’t been there at their last meeting and Charity found herself gazing at his strong features.

  ‘You look better,’ she said softly as they sat down. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Calmer.’ He smiled. ‘A bit ashamed of myself for letting my emotions get the better of me.’

  Over a drink Charity told him about the flat.

  ‘Well, good for you.’ He reached across the table and put his hand over hers. ‘I wish you every happiness in your new home, it sounds marvellous.’

  Later he took her to another Italian restaurant at the back of Oxford Street and over a leisurely meal he told her about his work and all the countries he’d been to.

  It was like being taken on a magic carpet ride as he talked of palaces in India, the wildlife in Africa, mountains of Nepal and the people in China. He mentioned he was hoping to go back to Africa before long to finish the job he had abandoned when he cut short his last trip.

  ‘Travelling is a love affair for me.’ He smiled. ‘I wish I could settle down in one place, but as soon as I’ve unpacked my bags I start hankering for wide open spaces, for new sights, sounds and smells. Sometimes I think I’ve spent more time in airport lounges than anyone else in the world.’

  Charity studied his face as he was speaking: the way his eyes crinkled up when he laughed, the curve of his lips. She had the desire to run a finger down the deep lines in his cheeks, to touch those springy, grey-frosted brown curls.

  Rita’s words about older men were pricking at her. John had a youthful exuberance that years and experience hadn’t diluted and she found herself wishing she could be with him on one of these trips.

  She told him all about Dorothy and Rita and talked of the flat again, describing it in minute detail.

  ‘It will be the first time I’ve ever been really free,’ she said. ‘I can’t quite imagine being able to come and go as I like with no one to ask questions.’

  ‘I know how it will be for you if you aren’t careful,’ John said gently. ‘You’ll turn that flat into a real home, you’ll collect possessions and be a mother to the other girls, even though you’re the youngest. Try not to do that. Enjoy the fun and be irresponsible.’

  ‘We will have fun,’ she said. ‘But what’s wrong with painting the place and making it nice?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’ He patted her cheek. ‘But supposing someone came along and asked you to drop everything and go on a trip with them. What would your answer be?’

  ‘It would depend who it was, and when they wanted me to go,’ she said.

  ‘Well, for argument’s sake, suppose I asked you to come to Italy with me at the end of next week. Would you come?’

  Charity’s heart turned over. ‘I couldn’t,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got the flat to paint, interviews for jobs, Dorothy and Rita to consider.’

  John looked at Charity and smiled.

  He knew she hadn’t realised his question was a real invitation. She didn’t look like a little waif tonight. The black sheath dress and her new hairstyle gave her a veneer of sophistication, and new-found happiness had made her eyes sparkle. But she had no experience of anything other than drudgery and suddenly he wanted to lift her away from all that, show her the world was a big, beautiful place.

  ‘I’ve got to go to Florence at the end of next week,’ he said. ‘Come with me?’

  Charity just stared in surprise.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said faintly.

  ‘I know. You’ve got the painting and unpacking, the interviews and being with your friends,’ John said. ‘But I’m only talking about a few days, a week at most. All that can wait.’

  Later Charity thought it odd that she hadn’t even considered whether he was asking her to share his bed, or hadn’t even been shocked at the suggestion that he might be.

  ‘I can’t just go like that.’ She giggled, embarrassed now by the intensity in his eyes.

  ‘You can.’ He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, gently kissing the tips of her fingers. ‘You told me yourself it is the first time you’ve been free.’

  He could hardly believe what he was saying. A man of fifty suddenly asking an eighteen-year-old to go away with him. It was madness!

  ‘But Rita and Dorothy –’

  Her flushed face throbbed and the touch of his lips on her fingers was making her feel very peculiar.

  ‘I bet they’d go.’ He laughed softly and continued to nibble at her fingers. ‘Come on, be daring. Say yes.’

  ‘But I hardly know you!’ She thought she ought to remove her hand from his, but she so wanted to keep it there. She felt very confused.

  John had enough experience for both of them. There had been many women in his life, of all nationalities, brief affairs in the main because of the nature of his work. He knew Charity’s becoming blush was a prickle of sexual attraction, even if she didn’t.

  ‘But –’ she stopped short unable to find the right words.

  Her face was so beautiful John had a desire to pull her into his arms there and then, regardless of the other customers. But he knew he mustn’t frighten her.

  ‘It can be however you want it to be,’ he said. ‘As friends with separate rooms, if that’s what you want. I won’t push you into anything you aren’t happy about.’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it.’ She looked down at the table. ‘It’s a big step.’

  ‘It’s not such a big step,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after you, take you back home afterwards. It’s just for fun, Charity, a holiday.’ He didn’t know if he was speaking the truth or not.

  All through coffee Charity kept stealing glances at John. He was speaking in fluent Italian to the waiter and she watched his expressive hands, so long and slender, his smile, the way his lips curled at the corners. She wondered what he would be like to kiss.

  He took her back to the hotel in a taxi and jumped out with her. Piccadilly was a blaze of lights, hundreds of people milling around just the way it always was.

  ‘I’ll walk back to my hotel,’ he said catching her hand in his in a firm grip. ‘But how long have I got to wait for my reply? Have you got a passport? We’ll have to get that organised.’

  Charity stopped just far enough away from the hotel not to be spotted by the doorman.

  ‘If you turn me down we’ll still be friends Charity,’ he said. ‘No strings!’

  He took a step back from her, leaving her with her lips slightly apart waiting for the kiss that never materialised.

  The next day Charity called in to Central Promotions in Oxford Street, at Rita’s suggestion. Almost the moment she stepped into the smart, glossy office she lost her confidence. Anne Rushton, a hard-look
ing blonde in her thirties, looked Charity up and down, then raised one eyebrow when she saw on the application form where Charity was working. Even the fact that she was a friend of Rita’s didn’t seem to impress her.

  ‘As I said, I’m only interviewing now to make a short list of girls I consider suitable for Glamour Girl Cosmetics’ promotion. Bearing in mind your lack of experience in this field I don’t want to build your hopes up. But call in again. I’m sure I shall be able to slot you into some other, less high-profile promotion job.’

  Charity’s heart sank. It sounded very much like total rejection.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me, Miss Rushton.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’ll pop in again soon.’

  Outside the office, Charity turned up the collar of her coat against the cold wind and walked back down Regent Street towards the hotel.

  She was riddled with self-doubt now, wondering if she’d been a little hasty handing in her notice and letting Rita convince her the agency would jump at taking her on. Tonight she was meeting the girls at the flat and though she couldn’t wait to see Dorothy again, and to move in there, she had looked upon getting this job lined up as the deciding factor in whether she went with John to Florence or not.

  ‘Chas!’ Dorothy came hurtling across the box-strewn hall and flung her arms round Charity. ‘I thought you’d never get here.’

  Charity just held her friend tightly for a moment, overcome. ‘I can’t really believe this,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Our flat, us all together again. It’s too much.’

  Rita’s giggle made them both turn to her. She was brandishing a bottle of gin.

  ‘Celebration time,’ she said. ‘I helped myself to this from Dad’s drinks cabinet. It ought to be champagne, but it’ll have to do.’

  Charity took off her coat and perched on the arm of the settee. All three of them were in jeans for the cleaning, but Dorothy looked even more devastatingly lovely than she remembered.

  She was much slimmer and her fine features even more pronounced. Even though she was wearing no makeup and her long, dark brown hair was tied back with an elastic band, she had that enviable elegant look Charity would have died to possess.