Authors: Lucinda Riley
She finished the cigarette and stubbed it out, glancing at her watch once more. If Max hadn’t turned up by midnight, she would go home and wait for him there. He knew where she lived
– he’d collected her from her lodging house on a couple of occasions – and she was sure he’d have a good reason for not showing up.
Midnight came and went, and the cocktail bar emptied. She stood up slowly and left, too. When she got home, she was disappointed not to see Max waiting for her outside. She let herself in and
put the kettle on the small stove.
‘Don’t panic,’ she told herself as she spooned a tiny amount of the precious coffee powder Max had given her into a cup. ‘He’s bound to be here soon.’
Greta sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, jumping at every tap-tap of footsteps that passed the house and willing them to stop in front of it and mount the steps. She didn’t want to change
or to take off her make-up in case the bell rang. Finally, at three o’clock, shivering with cold and fear, she lay down on the bed, tears coming to her eyes as she gazed at the damp, peeling
wallpaper.
Panic rose inside her: she had no idea how to contact Max. His ship was sailing from Southampton and she knew he had to report to it by ten o’clock this morning. What if he didn’t
get in touch with her before then? She didn’t even have his address in America. He’d promised to give her all the details of her passage and onward journey over dinner.
As the stars disappeared with the dawn, so did Greta’s dreams of her new life. She knew now for certain that Max wouldn’t be coming; by now he was surely on his way to Southampton,
ready to sail out of her life forever.
Greta arrived at the Windmill the following morning, feeling numb and exhausted.
‘What’s the matter, love? GI sailed off into the sunset and left poor little you behind?’ cooed Doris.
‘Leave me alone!’ cried Greta sharply. ‘Anyway, you know he’s not a GI, he’s an officer.’
‘No need to get nasty, I was only asking.’ Doris stared at her, clearly offended. ‘Did Max enjoy the show yesterday?’ she enquired.
‘I . . . What do you mean?’
‘Your boyfriend was in the audience last night.’ Doris turned away from Greta and concentrated on applying her eyeliner. ‘I presumed you’d invited him,’ she added
pointedly.
Greta swallowed, torn between wanting to conceal the fact that she hadn’t known Max was there and making sure that what Doris had said was true.
‘Yes, I . . . of course I did. But I never look into the audience. Where was he sitting?’
‘Oh, on the left-hand side. I noticed him because just after the curtain went up on us
jolies mesdames
he got up and left.’ Doris shrugged. ‘There’s none so
strange as folk, ’specially menfolk.’
Later that night Greta let herself into her room, knowing with absolute certainty she would never hear from Max Landers again.
Eight weeks later Greta realised that Max had left her a legacy which would mean she was unlikely ever to forget their brief but passionate affair. She was absolutely sure she
was pregnant.
Miserably, she entered the stage door of the Windmill. She felt dreadful, having spent the early morning fighting sickness and, in between running to the lavatory, trying to work out what on
earth she was going to do. Apart from anything else, a burgeoning stomach would cut short her employment at the Windmill in a matter of weeks.
She hadn’t slept at all last night, the fear in the pit of her stomach making it impossible. As she’d tossed and turned, Greta had even considered going back home. But she knew in
her heart that could never be an option.
Shuddering at the unbidden memory, she forced herself to concentrate on her current predicament. As she sat in front of the mirror in the dressing room, despair overwhelmed her. It was all very
well to leave the Windmill to go into the arms of a wealthy American husband, but what she faced now was, at best, a place in one of the homes that dealt with women in her position. Although the
management were kind, the moral rules laid down for the girls at the Windmill were unbreakable. And being unmarried and pregnant was the biggest sin a girl could commit.
Greta knew her life was in ruins. All her plans for a future marriage or a film career were over if she had this baby. Unless . . . she stared at her terrified reflection in the mirror but
realised there was nothing else for it. She would have to ask Doris for the address of a ‘Mr Fix-it’. Surely it would be fairer on her unborn baby? She had nothing to give it: no home,
no money and no father.
The curtain came down at ten forty-five and the girls made their way back wearily to the dressing room.
‘Doris,’ Greta whispered, ‘can I have a quick word?’
‘Of course, love.’
Greta waited until the other girls had gone into the dressing room before she spoke. As calmly as she could, she asked for the address she needed.
Doris’s beady eyes scrutinised her closely. ‘Oh, dearie me. That GI gave you a goodbye present, didn’t he?’
Greta hung her head and nodded. Doris sighed and laid a sympathetic hand on Greta’s arm. She could be as hard as nails on occasion, but underneath the brashness there beat a heart of
gold.
‘Of course I’ll give you the address, dear. But it’ll cost you, you know.’
‘How much?’
‘Depends. Tell him you’re a friend of mine and he might do it cheaper.’
Greta shuddered again. Doris made it sound as if she were going for a perm. ‘Is it safe?’ she ventured.
‘Well, I’ve had two and I’m still here to tell the tale, but I have heard some horror stories,’ Doris remarked. ‘When he’s done it, go home and lie down until
the bleeding stops. If it doesn’t, get yourself to a hospital sharpish. Come on, I’ll write down the address. Pop along and see him tomorrow and he’ll fix you up with an
appointment. Do you want me come with you?’
‘No, I’ll be fine. But thanks, Doris,’ Greta said gratefully.
‘No problem. Us girls have got to look after each other, haven’t we? And remember, dear, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last.’
Early the following morning Greta took a bus up the Edgware Road to Cricklewood. She found the street where Mr Fix-it lived and walked slowly along it. Stopping in front of a
gate, she glanced up at a small red-brick house. Taking a deep breath, she opened the gate, walked up the path and knocked on the front door. After a moment, she saw a net curtain twitch, then
heard the sound of a bolt being drawn back.
‘Yes?’
A diminutive man, who bore an unsettling resemblance to the pictures of Rumpelstiltskin from Greta’s childhood storybooks, answered the door.
‘Hello. I . . . er . . . Doris sent me.’
‘You’d better come in, then.’ The man opened the door wider to let Greta through and she entered a small, dingy hall.
‘Please wait in there. I’m just finishing with a patient,’ he said, indicating a sparsely furnished front room. Greta sat down in a stained armchair and, wrinkling her nose at
the smell of cat and old carpet, picked up a tatty copy of
Woman
and flicked through the pages. She found herself looking at a knitting pattern for a baby’s matinée jacket and
abruptly closed the magazine. She sank back into the armchair and stared at the ceiling, her heart pounding against her chest.
A few minutes later, she heard someone moaning softly from a room nearby. She swallowed hard as the man came back into the front room and shut the door.
‘Now, miss, what can I do for you?’
It was a silly question, and they both knew it. The moaning was still audible, despite the closed door. Greta’s nerves were in shreds.
‘Doris says you maybe could sort out my . . . er, problem.’
‘Perhaps.’ The man stared at her intently, his fingers moving to his head and smoothing the few greasy brown strands that covered his bald patch. ‘How far gone are
you?’
‘About eight weeks, I think.’
‘That’s good, good.’ The man nodded.
‘How much will it cost, please?’
‘Well, I normally charge three guineas but, seeing as you’re a friend of Doris, I’ll do it for two.’
Greta dug her nails into the armchair and nodded her acceptance.
‘Good. Well, if you care to hang on for half an hour or so, I could fit you in immediately. No time like the present, is there?’ he said with a shrug.
‘Will I be able to go to work tomorrow?’
‘That depends on how things go. Some girls bleed a lot, others hardly at all.’
There was a knock at the door and a dour-looking woman poked her head around it. Ignoring Greta, she beckoned the man with her finger.
‘Excuse me, I have to go and check on my patient.’ He stood up and abruptly left the room.
Greta put her head in her hands.
Some girls bleed a lot, others hardly at all . . .
She stood up, stumbled out of the grim front room and ran along the hall to open the front door. She slid back the rusty bolt, turned the latch and opened it.
‘Miss, miss! Where are you goi—’
Greta slammed the door behind her and fled away up the street, tears blurring her vision.
That night, after the show, Doris sidled up to her.
‘Did you see him?’
Greta nodded.
‘When are you . . . you know?’
‘I . . . some time next week.’
Doris patted her on the shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine, dear, honest you will.’
Greta sat without moving until the other girls had left the dressing room. Once the room was empty, she laid her head on the table and wept. The sound of the unseen woman she’d heard
moaning had haunted her since she’d left the miserable house. And even though she knew she was sentencing herself to dreadful uncertainty, she knew she couldn’t go through with an
abortion.
Greta didn’t hear the soft tap-tap on the dressing-room door and jumped violently when a hand was laid on her shoulder.
‘Hey! Steady on, it’s only me, Taffy. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just checking to see that you’d all left. What’s wrong, Greta?’
She looked up at Taffy’s kind face watching her sympathetically in the mirror and searched for something to wipe her running nose. She was touched by his concern, especially since she knew
she’d hardly given him a backward glance since she’d met Max. A spotlessly clean checked handkerchief was passed to her.
‘There you go. Would you like me to leave?’ He hovered behind her.
‘Yes, er, no . . . oh, Taffy . . .’ she sobbed miserably. ‘I’m in such trouble!’
‘Then why don’t you tell me about it? It’ll make you feel better, whatever it is.’
Greta turned to face him, shaking her head. ‘I don’t deserve sympathy,’ she whimpered.
‘Now you’re being silly. Come here and let me give you a hug.’ His strong arms closed around Greta’s shoulders, and he held her until her sobs were little more than
hiccups. Then he began to wipe away her tear-streaked make-up. ‘We are in a state, aren’t we? Well, as my old nanny used to say, nothing’s ever as bad as it seems.’
Greta pulled away from him, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry about this, Taffy. I’ll be fine now, really.’
He looked at her, unconvinced. ‘Have you eaten? You could pour out your sorrows over a nice plate of pie and mash. I find it always helps with affairs of the heart. Which I presume is
where your problem lies.’
‘Try a little further down,’ mumbled Greta, then regretted it immediately.
He did his best not to let his true emotions register on his face. ‘I see. And that Yank’s upped and left you, has he?’
‘Yes, but—’ She looked at him in astonishment. ‘How did you know about him?’
‘Greta, you work in a theatre. Everyone from the doorkeeper to the manager knows everyone else’s business. A nun on a vow of silence couldn’t keep a secret in this
place.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about him. I should have, but—’
‘What’s past is past. Now, I’m going to wait outside while you change and then I’m going to take you for some supper.’
‘But, Taffy, I—’
‘Yes?’
Greta offered him a weak smile. ‘Thank you for being so kind.’
‘That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?’
He took her to their usual café across the road from the theatre. Greta found she was starving and devoured her pie and mash as she recounted her plight to him.
‘So, I got the address from Doris and I went to see him this morning. But, Taffy, you have no idea what it was like there. This Mr Fix-it . . . he had dirty fingernails. I can’t . .
. I can’t—’
‘I understand,’ he soothed. ‘And your American doesn’t know you’re pregnant?’
‘No. He shipped out the morning after he went to the Windmill and saw me starkers. I don’t have an address for him in America and, even if I did, after seeing me on stage he’s
hardly likely to take me back, is he? He comes from a very traditional family.’
‘Do you know whereabouts he lives in the States?’
‘Yes, in a town called Charleston. It’s somewhere in the South, apparently. Oh, Taffy, I was so excited about seeing the bright lights of New York.’
‘Greta, if Max lived where you say, I doubt you’d ever have seen New York. It’s hundreds of miles away from Charleston, nearly as far as London is from Italy. America’s a
vast country.’
‘I know, but all the Americans I’ve met seem to be so forward-thinking and not at all stuffy like us Brits. I think it would have suited me.’
He gazed at her, his emotions a conflicting mixture of irritation and sympathy at her naivety. ‘Well, if it makes you feel better, dear girl, the town you were about to move to is slap
bang in the centre of what is known as the Bible Belt. Its inhabitants adhere so rigidly to the Scriptures that they make the morals of even our most devout English souls seem relaxed.’
‘Max did say he was a Baptist,’ Greta mused.
‘There you are, then. I know it’s no consolation, but honestly Greta, Charleston is about as far from the atmosphere of New York as my family home in the wilds of the Welsh mountains
is from London. You’d have been a fish out of water there, especially after the life you’ve lived here. Personally, I think you’ve had a lucky escape.’
‘Perhaps.’ Greta understood that he was trying to comfort her, but everyone knew America was the New World, the land of opportunity, whichever part of it you lived in. ‘But if
you say they have such strict morals, then why did Max . . . well, you know . . .’ Greta blushed.