Bad Girls Good Women. Rosie Thomas

She closed her eyes, and let the ridiculous song bridge the years back to Blick Road school. She loved Mattie. This was her family now, she thought, prophetically. Mattie, and Jessie, and Felix.

      ‘Mama, he’s kissing me!’

      There was no terrible silence this time. There were whistles and shouts and applause. Near Felix a small, thin man with a little thin moustache was clapping too.

      ‘That girl packs quite a punch,’ he murmured, to no one in particular. ‘She can’t sing, but she must have plenty of other talents. What can I find for her to do?’

      Two important things happened that evening, although at the time they seemed hardly more important than the other snatches of talk, promises and pleas and evasions, that rose with the plumes of cigarette smoke.

      Mr Mogridge’s friend eased Felix into a corner. He had looked carefully around the flat, and now he said, ‘Did this place up yourself, didn’t you? Tommy Bull told me. Made quite a nice job of it, I must say. Listen, I’ve got a proposition. I’ve got some flats, I want ’em done up and furnished for letting. Quality letting, mind. Tasteful, but nothing too fancy. Like this place. Do you want to take the job on for me? I pay well.’

      Felix studied the man. He didn’t like him any better than he liked Mr Mogridge or Mr Bull, and when the man said quality letting he knew that he meant No Blacks or Irish, like the signs in the landladies’ windows. Then he thought about the life studio, and the art school exercises languishing in his portfolio.

      ‘All right,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll take the job on for you.’

      The man with the thin moustache went over to Mattie when the storm following her song had died down. He took a card out of his wallet and handed it to her. Mattie read the name, Francis Willoughby, and the title, Manager, Headline Repertory Companies.

      ‘I’ve got three companies on the road at the moment,’ he said grandly. ‘I need a girl Friday to help me out in our London offices. All aspects of theatre work, on the administration side. You interested?’

      ‘Yes,’ Mattie whispered. She reached out for the card as if it was the Holy Grail.

      ‘Give me a tinkle, then.’ The man peeled his lips back in a smile.

      Jessie fell into her sudden sleep not long after that, and the crowds began to trickle away.

      Julia stood with Johnny’s arms around her. She wasn’t sure that she could hold herself up without his support. His mouth felt very hot on her neck, and he was excited. She could feel him pushing against her. Over his shoulder, she saw Felix. He bent down to pick up an empty glass, and then he walked away.

      This wasn’t what she had planned for tonight, Julia realised. It shouldn’t be like this. But she was too tired now, and too drunk, to change anything.

      ‘Come on, darling,’ Johnny begged her.

      ‘No. I can’t. Tomorrow.’

      ‘Okay.’ He sighed. ‘Not tonight. But tomorrow, or sooner. You can’t keep me gasping for you like this, baby. Look. It’s bad for me.’

      Julia shut her eyes.

      Johnny picked her up and carried her to her bed. He laid her down and pulled the covers over her, kimono and all, and left her there.

      Julia opened her eyes once more and saw that she was safe, although Felix wasn’t there. The room was spinning around her but she shut her eyes again anyway, and plunged down into the revolving tunnel of sleep.

       Four

      It was the party that made Julia feel, now I do belong here. It was gratifying to have been part of a success that was still talked about in the Rocket and Blue Heaven. Out of a new, buoyant sense of security she wrote to Betty and Vernon.

      The letter said no more than I’m here, with Mattie, and I’m all right. Betty would be worried, and even in the confusion of her feelings about her mother Julia didn’t want her to be anxious for no reason. She put the address of the flat at the top of the letter because it sounded so fixed, a long way from Fairmile Road.

      Betty saw the envelope at once, lying on the rug behind the front door with a church newsletter and a bill addressed to Vernon. Her hands were shaking as she picked it up. She held on to it, crumpling it a little, while she fetched her glasses and the Brighton souvenir letter opener.

      Betty read Julia’s brief message, and re-read it, and then sat down abruptly on the upright chair beside the telephone.

      She remembered that she had done exactly the same thing when she had read the first note, the few words that Julia had scribbled before she disappeared. It had made no sense then, and she had turned the envelope over in her fingers. The gum on the flap was still damp and she saw her daughter licking it to seal in her goodbye, with her dark hair loose about her face.

      ‘No,’ Betty had said aloud into the quiet of the house. ‘Oh, no. Julia, where are you?’ The words echoed back at her. Betty had dropped the note and run up the stairs. In Julia’s pretty, schoolgirl bedroom the drawers and cupboards were half empty. The neat cardigans and pinafore dresses that Betty had bought for her were still there, and the strange, defiant clothes that they had quarrelled about were all gone.

      Betty stood in the silent room, trying to understand what had happened. It was as if her Julia, the pretty, clever schoolgirl, was still there in the house, with all her clothes and the white furry lamb that always sat on her candlewick counterpane. It was someone else, a stranger who she didn’t know or understand, who had run away from her.

      ‘Julia!’

      Betty turned and ran frantically through the house. A series of pictures danced in front of her eyes, faster and faster, like a slide show running out of control. Her first sight of Julia, a bundle of blankets put into her arms. Julia’s first steps, wobbling across the hearthrug towards her. Picnics, and an outing to the sea. Julia making her first cake, frowning solemnly over the mixing bowl. Then Julia in her new grammar school uniform, when Vernon had said, ‘She’ll be someone, Betty. She’s got a head on her shoulders.’

      And then, darker pictures slipping between the sunlit ones, there was another Julia who looked at Betty as if she hated her. Betty saw more and more of that Julia, a sullen, silent interloper in her skirts that were too short and too tight, her pretty face shadowed by too much make-up.

      ‘Julia!’

      Betty had searched in every room, flinging open the cupboard doors. The tidy contents displayed themselves, yielding nothing. The garden, grass and roses in the sunshine, winked emptily back at her.

      Julia had gone.

      She remembered all that, because it had replayed endlessly in her head in the weeks that had gone by since then. And now there was this new message, hardly any more words, but they were headed by the reality of an address, after all Betty’s imaginings. She read it again, London W1, fixing it in her memory in case the letter should disappear. And then, for the first time in twenty-five years, she did something important without waiting to consult Vernon first. She put on her brown coat, and the hat she always wore with it, and went up to London to look for her daughter. To look for her, and to bring her back home.

      The square surprised her, when she reached it at last. People didn’t live in places like this. They lived in houses set behind clipped hedges, or else they lived on the estate. She faltered for an instant, the first time since leaving Fairmile Road, but then she collected herself and marched round the railings, under the plane trees, counting the house numbers. When she reached the right door she saw that it was already standing open, revealing a hallway with a strip of shabby carpet and a shelf piled with circulars and manila envelopes.

      These were offices, then, and not homes at all. She could hear typewriters, and a telephone ringing somewhere. She looked at the number on the peeling, black-painted door to make