Tara (33 page)

He still wasn't quite as he had been in Somerset. Perhaps it was because she'd caught him unexpectedly. Or was it because she looked untidy and grubby? Too young, too country-girlish?

'But I'm not a child. I'm sixteen,' she said indignantly.

'That's a child to people with dirty minds,' he insisted. 'I have to be above reproach, you see.'

He suggested taking her tomorrow to a house he knew in Highgate, where there were lots of girls her age. He also suggested she slept in a spare room downstairs next to Quentin's.

'I want you in my bed really,' he said, stroking her breasts. 'But getting carried away now could wreck everything.'

As sad as she was, Tara saw the sense in everything he said. He talked about taking her away for a weekend somewhere, loving her where no-one knew them, and what fun it would be to keep it secret.

'I bet I can get you some modelling work,' he added. 'In no time you'll be able to afford to rent somewhere really smart, but just for tonight it's the room downstairs.'

It was a tiny room, nothing but a single bed, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe, but Tara was so exhausted by the day's events she dropped off to sleep immediately.

For a second when she woke she didn't know where she was, but then the sounds of London reassured her. It was all so familiar, the sounds she had heard every day until she was twelve – the distant hum of traffic, the rattle of the milk-float, faint BBC voices reading the news in one direction, music coming from another.

This was what she wanted! Not meadows, cows and old Betsy. She was sixteen, she wanted to have fun, be outrageous. She could stay in Somerset till she was ninety and never see half of what she'd see here in a week.

Her excitement grew as she considered the day ahead. She'd read about all the boutiques springing up; she would find them, see if any of them wanted an assistant who could sew and design as well as serve people. Simon would be impressed if she found work immediately.

She showered in a tiny bathroom she found opposite her bedroom and put on an apple green dress with a long droopy collar, the only thing in her bag suitable for job-hunting. She brushed her hair, put it up in a French pleat because it made her look older, then did her make-up.

Her dress needed ironing! However much she tried to smooth out the wrinkles, it looked bad. Her plan had been to slip out unseen leaving a note for Simon explaining what she was doing and that she'd be back by five in the afternoon. That way she hoped he'd be so touched by her adult independence he'd think twice about taking her over to Highgate. But she couldn't go out with such a screwed-up dress.

Hearing the radio coming from Simon's flat was a good sign, at least it meant he was awake. She knocked on the door. No voice came from within, no sound of feet, so she tried the door-handle and to her surprise it turned.

'Simon!' she called timidly, peeping round the door.

The bed under the window was empty, its crumpled covers thrown back, and she could hear the sound of the shower coming from her left along with the music. Tara giggled as she went in. Elvis Presley was belting out 'Teddy Bear' and she had a mental picture of Simon acting out the role in the shower.

She hesitated at the bathroom door. It was open slightly and steam belched out through the crack. Back in the cottage in Stanton Drew they had had some wonderful moments under the shower and she wondered if she could join him. Anticipating him pulling her into the shower with him, she slipped out of her dress and underwear and tip-toed to the bathroom.

The record changed to Cilia Black's 'Anyone who had a heart'. Tara bit her lips so she wouldn't giggle. She pushed open the door, slid her hand round to reach the shower curtain, then with one swift movement pulled back the curtain.

But Simon wasn't alone under the jet of water. Quen-tin was with him.

Tara gasped in horror. Even though the two men jumped apart when they heard her, their erections made it obvious what they had been doing.

For a second Tara froze. She was aware of Quentin's long, thin, purple-tipped penis, a red handprint across his buttocks as he tried to shield himself from her stare. Simon's mouth hung open and clearly the shock was enough for him to lose his excitement as his cock shrivelled before her eyes.

The pictures of the naked boys, the meaning of what she had stumbled on and her own nakedness made her back away in horror, covering her body.

'How could you?' she said weakly, her voice cracking.

'It was all right when he was screwing you, then?' Quentin's shrill voice was loaded with spite.

There was a roaring sound in her ears, her eyes were blinded by tears, yet somehow she managed to grab her clothes and rucksack. She ran down the stairs, pulling them on as she went.

As she reached the hall, a young woman opened the front door with a key and it was clear she lived on the ground floor.

'Do you know what goes on up there?' Tara sobbed out, nodding back up the stairs as she struggled to zip up her dress. 'Do you know what perverts they are?'

The girl shrugged her shoulders, looking nervous, as if Tara was an escaped lunatic.

'They're queer! You should call the police, they need locking up!'

'Queer'! The word kept going round in her head like some kind of crazy password as she ran full-tilt down Goldhawk Road towards the Tube.

People were nulling down the road yet she barely noticed their curious glances.

How could Simon be that way? How could a man who seemed to worship the female body, who had loved to look at her nakedness, possibly make love to another man?

As she ran blindly up the steep steps to the Metropolitan line, Tara knew she needed help. She had felt this way before, when Paul was killed; the same terrible trembling, the need to be held and comforted by someone. Yet who was there?

When a child dies the whole world sympathises, but how could she expect anyone to understand what it felt like to discover not only that your lover was unfaithful, but that it was with a man.

Once on the platform, she realised she didn't even know where this line went, she hadn't even bought a ticket. She sank down on to a bench and sobbed, barely seeing the dozens of people around her.

A dirty feeling crept over her skin, nausea gripped her stomach. If she closed her eyes she saw the two men in the shower. But as disgusting as that image was, there was another far worse. Those boys in that album! Who were they? Why did Simon keep pictures like that? Every mother has pictures of her own naked children, but a businessman keeping them in a file?

She had to tell someone. But who?

She couldn't tell Gran or Mum. Not anyone back in Somerset. That left only Uncle George and Harry. Not George. Fresh tears broke out as she imagined the distress on his big florid face.

Harry!

It was the people going to work who brought her to her senses. Office girls in high heels and summer dresses looked at her curiously. Older women studied her as if any moment they might address her. She got up and walked further along the platform, wiping her eyes, and struggled to control herself.

The years fell away as she walked out of Whitechapel station into the sunshine. The noise was the same, the ceaseless hubbub of people shouting, buses and lorries whizzing past, children clamouring for attention as their mothers dragged them along to the market.

A group of boys stood on the corner, just as they always did. They had been Teddy boys then, with greasy quiffs, bumper-soled shoes and drape jackets. Today's boys were mods, sporting short college-boy haircuts and mohair suits. A couple of Lambrettas were parked close by.

George was on his stall. He was hidden by the crowd yet she could hear his voice. Queenie was with him; Tara caught a glimpse of platinum-blonde curls and that infectious laugh.

She crossed to the other side of the wide road, melting into the crowd. It wouldn't do for George to spot her now. Harry wasn't with them, so he was probably in Tod's Gym, just a few doors down from the flat where she used to live.

Things had changed. There were far more black people, and Indians, too. What had once been the eel and pie shop was now selling fabric for saris and the dilapidated Pavilion Theatre on the corner of Valance Road had finally been pulled down.

Sid's fish and chip shop was now called The Swinging Plaice. Inside it was tiled floor to ceiling, with new fryers right at the back and tables and chairs installed to seat perhaps forty customers.

The door which had once led to her home had been replaced. It was painted bright red, with half glass and even one of those posh entryphone grilles. Tara hesitated outside. Did it still stink? Had the new people installed a bathroom and put carpet on the stairs?

Tod's Gym had seen no such refurbishment; if anything it looked even more seedy. The door was propped open and the narrow, steep staircase straight in front of it obviously rarely saw a broom, much less a wash.

A man in a grey singlet and shorts was coming down the stairs. He looked like a boxer out for a run, muscular, snub-nosed and vicious. But he smiled warmly at her, pale brown eyes flicking over her face and body.

'Looking for somebody?' he asked.

'Is Harry Collins in there?' She blushed under the man's scrutiny, terribly aware of her crushed dress.

'Yeah, he is. Go on up.'

She hesitated, frightened of entering such a male preserve.

'Go on, love,' He smiled, inclining his head towards the stairs. 'I could stand you interrupting my training.'

Tara took a deep breath and made her way up the wooden stairs. She could hear thumping sounds, grunting and a man shouting what sounded very much like abuse.

The gym was far larger than she'd expected, clearly it covered more than just the one shop. Strange-looking equipment covered the floor area to her right, on her left a group of men were lifting weights and in front of her was a raised boxing ring. A man lay on his back quite close to her, pushing his feet against a steel platform which rose and fell with his grunting efforts. He turned his head slightly, sweat streaming down his cheeks.

'What' cha want, darlin'?'

'I'm looking for Harry Collins,' she said.

'Over the back.' He thumbed towards the boxing ring.

She picked her way past men straining under weights, doing press-ups and sit-ups. The smell of sweat made her gag and she was aware that everyone was looking at her.

Harry was practising on a punchbag, head hunched forward, fists shooting out alternately, whacking the bag as if he hated it.

'Harry,' she said hesitantly.

He glanced round while still thumping away, but stopped the moment he saw her.

'Tara!'

He didn't look as handsome as she remembered, but twice as powerful. His bare chest glistened with sweat, his dark hair practically stuck to his head; even the grey shorts he wore had huge damp patches on them which made her feel faintly embarrassed.

'Sweetheart!' He came towards her, arms outstretched, but stopped a foot from her, looking at his boxing gloves.

'I can't hug you,' he grinned. 'Not like this!'

Tara smiled weakly, clutching the strap of her rucksack, hopping from one foot to the other.

'Can I talk to you somewhere? Something awful's happened and I don't know what to do.'

Harry looked over his shoulder, whether it was to see a clock, check up on someone else, or just see who was watching she couldn't guess.

'Yeah, of course, sweetheart. Give me ten minutes to take a shower. Go along to the stall.'

'No.' She shook her head furiously. 'I don't want to see Uncle George. I'll wait in a cafe or somewhere.'

Harry frowned, his deep blue eyes almost black.

'OK.' He looked round again. 'The Black and White, it's about two hundred yards that way.' He pointed down towards Stepney.

'Black and White,' she repeated, backing away. 'Sorry to disturb you.'

'I'll be as quick as I can.' He made towards a chang-ing-room door. 'Ten minutes!'

When she was small the shops along Mile End Road had always seemed wonderful. But now she saw the unpainted fronts and dirty windows, and blushed at some of the goods on display. The lingerie shop with its collection of red and black scanties, the Durex sign in the barber's. Even the newspaper shop displayed far more pin-up magazines than ones with knitting patterns. Had the whole world gone crazy about sex or was it just that she hadn't noticed before?

Harry took her up to a booth right at the back of the cafe and sat down opposite her.

He smelled of soap and his hair was still wet, slicked back, black as a raven's wing. She was beyond admiring any man for now, but even so his sheer animal magnetism was hard to ignore.

'Come on, then. Out with it!' His voice was soft, yet there was an edge to it which demanded she tell the whole truth. His angular face had filled out and matured since she last saw him.

'Oh, Harry.' She hung her head. 'You see, I met this man and ...'

Harry listened without interrupting. Somehow he ordered two teas, and sausage, eggs and chips, and put hers in front of her without disturbing the flow.

'He's queer,' she ended up saying. 'Queer!'

Harry took her hand across the table and squeezed it. He knew she hadn't told him the whole story. She spoke of 'having coffee' back at his cottage as if it had been an innocent romance with a boy her own age, but her comprehension of what the two men had been doing proved to Harry her relationship had been a sexual one.

'You've been a right silly mare.'

Tara's eyes shot wide open at his harsh tone.

'I thought I'd get some sympathy from you,' she stammered.

'Did you now?' Harry frowned, and held her hand even tighter. 'Well, in my opinion you're lucky that you just
saw
something nasty. What were you thinking of having a scene with a man of his age? Can you imagine how your mum felt when she discovered you'd run off?'

'She's been in touch?'

Tara's heart sank. She hadn't given her mother any thought, but of course Amy would have phoned George immediately. And Harry had sat there just listening, without mentioning he already knew she'd run away.