Rosie (33 page)

Rosie’s drink was passed over heads to her, and as more people pushed their way towards the bar so the distance between her and her friends grew larger. She wasn’t alarmed as she could still see both girls: Mary was gazing up at the big man and fluttering her eyelashes, and Linda was right next to her, waving her hand from time to time to let Rosie know they hadn’t forgotten her. But Rosie was happy just to sip her drink and watch the other people in the bar. After the cold outside it was good to feel her toes getting warmer. Everyone was very jovial, considering the crush; she really didn’t mind if they stayed right here until twelve instead of going down to Trafalgar Square as they’d planned.

It was some ten minutes later that Rosie noticed Mitch was leaning very close to Mary, saying something in her ear. She stood on tiptoe for a moment and saw Mary clearly; she was laughing and appeared to be agreeing with the man. A few people left the bar, creating a space and in that brief instant Rosie caught sight of Linda. Unlike Mary she wasn’t laughing, in fact she looked frosty-faced. Rosie was just about to edge her way closer to find out what was going on when Linda suddenly caught hold of Mary’s arm and began to drag her through the crowd, away from the man.

Rosie looked back to Mitch. As he stood a head taller than any other man around him she could see his face clearly; he looked astonished and he was saying something, but she couldn’t hear what it was over all the other noise around her.

‘Drink up, we’re going,’ Linda said curtly as she reached Rosie, still holding on tightly to Mary who looked none too pleased. Rosie obediently downed the rest of her drink in one and followed them outside.

It was less crowded on the pavement outside the pub compared with how it had been when they went in. It felt very cold after the heat inside and everyone was surging in one direction, she assumed down to Trafalgar Square.

Mary struggled to get free of Linda’s grip. ‘I don’t want to go down there,’ she said in a sullen voice. ‘It’s too cold and it will be more fun at his party. You two go to Trafalgar Square if that’s what you want. I’m staying with Mitch.’

Rosie was very surprised. It had been Mary’s idea to come to the West End tonight, she who had persuaded Matron to extend the ten-thirty curfew by a couple of hours. She was just about to ask what was going on, when Linda rounded on Mary.

‘You bloody ain’t goin’ nowhere with that bloke,’ she snapped, catching hold of her friend and shaking her. ‘Sometimes I think you’ve got bleedin’ sawdust between your ears. If you get in a bloke like that’s car, ‘eaven knows where you’ll end up. There ain’t no party. ‘E’s just looking for someone to shag. Surely you can see that?’

‘You’re just cross because he didn’t fancy you,’ Mary retorted.

‘Blimey, girl, I know you’re a sodding Mick, but try and use your noddle,’ Linda said, grabbing Mary’s arm and forcing her to walk with her. ‘That bloke is a ponce. ’E ’eard your Irish accent, saw your pretty blonde ’air and big blue eyes and thought ’e won first prize in the raffle. Now come on, we’re going to Trafalgar Square, we’ll sing “Auld Lang Syne”, ’ave a bit of a knees-up, then we’re off ’ome on the last tube.’

Mary fell asleep on the tube home, her head falling on to Rosie’s shoulder. Linda was sitting opposite them. The carriage had been crammed to capacity at the Strand, but now they were past Camden Town there were only around ten people left.

‘Enjoy yourself?’ Linda asked, lighting up a cigarette and stretching her feet up to tuck them between the two other girls.

‘It was marvellous,’ Rosie sighed happily. She had never experienced such an enormous, yet happy crowd. Everyone kissing each other, dancing and shouting. It made her feel that 1953 would be a wonderful year. ‘I never thought there were so many people in the world, let alone London.’

‘You ain’t seen ’alf of it yet,’ Linda said with a smile. ‘It’s about time I showed you round a bit more and taught you a thing or two.’

Rosie liked the sound of that and said so. They chatted a little more, Linda talking about dance halls, big shops in Oxford Street and Battersea Pleasure Gardens on the other side of the river.

‘Linda,’ Rosie asked tentatively, ‘what’s a ponce?’ The word she’d heard earlier had stuck in her mind. She vaguely remembered Heather using it too, in connection with Seth. But then Linda and Heather had a very similar vocabulary.

‘It’s a bloke what makes girls go on the game, then takes the money they earn,’ Linda said.

‘The game! What game?’ Rosie asked.

‘Prostitution,’ Linda said with a deep frown, then went on to graphically explain what that meant.

Rosie’s eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Women do that for money? How could they?’

‘Because they are ’ungry, because they’ve got kids to feed. Sometimes they do it because they don’t know any better,’ Linda said. ‘But what I ’ate is the geezers who get ’em into it in the first place. And there nearly always is a geezer too. See, sometimes when you’re lonely, a bit scared or just plain daft, you forget stuff you’ve been told by your ma. Most men are animals. Don’t you forget that, Rosemary. Your Dad might’ve been a good ’un, same as mine is, but there’s more nasty ones than good and they’ll do anything, say anything, to get your knickers off.’

Linda lapsed into silence after that little outburst and Rosie didn’t press her further. She wondered how Linda had come to be so cynical. Had she met a few Seths and Normans in her life too?

Although 1953 started well for Rosie, on the 28th of January she was jolted back to her father’s execution when Derek Bentley was hanged for the murder of policeman Sidney Miles at Wandsworth prison. She shared his parents’ and sister’s grief, and felt utter rage that the legal system was so warped it could send a simple-minded boy to his death, even when he hadn’t killed anyone.

Just days after Bentley’s hanging there were more tragedies to make her weep: an Irish ferry sank and one hundred and twenty-eight people drowned; in early February widespread flooding in Holland caused over a thousand deaths; and at the same time a hurricane hit the east coast of England and three hundred people died. Mary and Gladys, both Roman Catholics, rushed off to church to pray for the souls of these people. Rosie wondered how they could even think of praying to a God that had allowed such things to happen, and gave her entire week’s wages to a fund to help the survivors.

It was her sense of impotence at these disasters which made Rosie remember the resolution she’d made at New Year. While she could do nothing to prevent injustice, or acts of God, she had got the ability to take her own life in hand and strike out for what she wanted. While thinking about what that might be, she looked long and hard at herself in the mirror. She saw a pale freckled face, an untidy mop of uncontrollable hair and a boyish shape. It certainly wasn’t the kind of look to open doors to a job with better prospects.

Throughout the cold bitter weather in February, Rosie spent her spare time studying fashion magazines and discovered there were two distinct looks at present. One was the voluptuous, busty blonde kind, created by Diana Dors, and then there was the cool sophisticated look of the model Barbara Goalen with her swept-back hair, elegant hats and long gloves.

Rosie knew both of these styles were out of reach. She had only the tiniest of breasts, she couldn’t think of taking a bottle of peroxide to her hair, even though two thirds of the women in Britain seemed to be doing so. As for the sophisticated look, that was way beyond her too. Her hair didn’t stay swept back, stray curls always crept out, and besides she’d never seen anyone who was only five-foot-three with freckles across their nose look sophisticated.

Then she saw a picture of a French model and read that the
gamine
look with very short hair was much favoured in Paris. Linda, Mary and Maureen didn’t believe such a drastic style would suit her, and said that her hair was too pretty to cut off. But night after night Rosie wet her hair and pinned it back, teasing only tiny tendrils around her cheeks to see how it looked. She believed it was right for her.

On the 1st of March she opened the curtains to find a touch of spring in the air on her day off. The sun was shining again at last and she could see the first tiny green buds coming on the trees and bulbs pushing their way through the soil. That decided her, and less than an hour later she was walking out the gates towards the bus stop and the smart hairdresser’s she’d seen in Finchley Road.

The only hairdresser’s Rosie had been to before was the men’s barber in Bridgwater. It was a gloomy, scary place – the men lying back in chairs with their faces covered in shaving soap, while the razors, clippers and sharp snipping scissors all had a kind of menace. It was no wonder Alan always cried when she took him there for a haircut.

The hairdresser’s in the Finchley Road called Sally’s Salon was quite different. Rosie had seen into it from the bus as she passed by and admired the pink and white décor, the glass-topped gilt reception desk and the Hollywood-style photographs of elegant models on one wall. She had to assume that the haircutting and setting business went on behind the pink curtain, as the photographs and a display of setting lotions were the only real evidence it was in fact in the business of doing hair at all.

A sophisticated Barbara Goalen lookalike was sitting behind the desk as Rosie went in. She had chiselled cheekbones and eyebrows that were just a stroke of pencil and wore her dark hair in a sleek chignon. She agreed they could fit Madam in now as they’d had a cancellation and she looked at the magazine picture Rosie had brought with her and nodded.

‘Oh yes, Madam, that style is absolutely perfect for you,’ she agreed.

A strong smell of something was wafting out from behind the pink curtain. Rosie thought it must be perming lotion. She was whisked through the curtain, her coat removed and replaced by a pink overall and towel, then led down past a row of cubicles with several ladies sitting under huge domed hair-dryers to meet Miss Sally.

Miss Sally was about thirty. She was a peroxide blonde, with conical breasts and a wide belt pulling her waist in to a handspan. Her skin was like white marble, and her eyebrows were thin, surprised-looking arches. Rosie immediately felt awkward, plain and embarrassed, as the woman looked at the picture she’d brought with her, sighed as she looked back at Rosie, then beckoned for her to sit down.

She spent a moment or two combing Rosie’s hair through and examining it closely. ‘Are you sure you want it cut that short?’ she asked eventually.

Rosie assumed the woman didn’t believe it would suit her, but she had no intention of backing down now. ‘Yes,’ she said, more bravely than she felt. ‘I’m tired of it the way it is.’

As the coppery curls fell to the floor making a thick rug around the chair, Rosie tried not to consider that it might be a disaster. Miss Sally asked her a great many questions as she snipped away. Where did she work? Had she a boyfriend? Where did she come from? Rosie could hear other women shouting over the noise of the hair-dryers, so she thought question-and-answer time must be the order of the day in a hairdresser’s.

However, once she told Miss Sally she worked in a mental asylum the questions stopped abruptly. Rosie was quite glad. She wanted Miss Sally to concentrate on her hair.

It was the lightness of her head which struck Rosie most as she left the salon over an hour later. Miss Sally had enthused about how the short ‘urchin’ style showed off her delicate features and drew attention to her pretty blue eyes. But Rosie felt an affinity with a shorn sheep.

She stopped in front of a jeweller’s window to look at herself more objectively and to her delight she saw that Miss Sally’s opinion and her own intuition had been right. Her long, curly hair had always been her most remarkable feature. It dominated everything else – she couldn’t count how many people had described her only as ‘the girl with the hair’. Without that fiery mane she had a whole new identity. Less pasty-faced, more adult. Her hair was shinier, and with just a hint of curl rather than a halo of frizz. She decided she loved it and as she walked around that day in the spring sunshine she felt a surge of new confidence and optimism.

Two weeks later Rosie received a letter from ‘Auntie Molly’ asking if she could come down for a holiday with her at Easter at the end of March. As usual she’d worded her letter carefully with only the most casual reference to Alan. But reading between the lines Rosie felt Miss Pemberton’s reason for inviting her down was that she wanted to take her to see Alan and perhaps discuss both his and Rosie’s futures.

Straight after her dinner break, Rosie went to Matron’s office. She usually shrank from any contact with the woman and today she was even more nervous of speaking to her than usual. She fully expected Matron to fly off the handle at her request for time off and dismiss her out of hand.

Matron was sitting behind her desk, her arms crossed just below her big bosom, creating the effect that she was pushing them up. The close-set eyes swept over Rosie as if she were a small rodent and her thin lips were pursed in readiness to deny any request, however humble.

Rosie had learned to accept many of the things she didn’t like in Carrington Hall, but she was no closer to finding common ground with this woman than she had been on the day of her arrival. She stammered out her request, half expecting a slap round the face for her cheek.

‘A week’s holiday!’ Matron exclaimed, before she’d even finished, unfolding her arms and placing her hands on her hips in indignation. ‘But you’ve only been here seven months.’

Rosie squirmed. She wanted to go so badly she didn’t know what she’d do if Matron refused. ‘I won’t ask for another holiday,’ she pleaded.

‘You won’t get it if you do,’ Matron said curtly.

In fact she had seen the letter for Smith amongst the post that morning and ironically she hadn’t steamed this one open, mainly because previous letters had been so disappointing. She wanted to refuse this request point-blank just to assert her authority, but she had a strong feeling the girl would get her ‘aunt’ to intervene on her behalf, and that could only result in loss of face, just like the regrettable incident with the sanitary towels.