happen when she reached the bright lights of the West End; something brilliant and magical. Perhaps sheâd meet a theatrical agent, and wouldnât you know it? They were looking for a girl just like her to star in the next big show. Or perhaps sheâd meet an exiled foreign prince, and they would strike up an unlikely romance. He would rescue her from the grey, bomb-scarred drudgery of East London, from her hand-me-down clothes and ration books, and sheâd taste champagne for the first time, and wear dresses by Dior, like Rita Hayworth when she married Prince Aly Khan.
In the event, Reenie found herself in a grubby café just off Piccadilly Circus, making a single cup of tea last more than an hour by taking tiny, bird-like sips until it was tepid. The sky grew dark, and the walls of the buildings outside were lit up in gaudy shades of red, pink and blue by the Circusâ electric lights. A man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit propositioned her with words she didnât quite understand, and when she left the café he followed her as far as Charing Cross Road, falling back and vanishing only when she stopped to ask a policeman for directions.
With what little money she had, Reenie checked into a hotel near Covent Garden, and the woman on the reception â large-breasted but haggard, with a towering peroxide blonde bouffant and a rose tattooed on her hand â studied her over the green plastic rims of her cat-eye glasses.
âYouâre not having company in there, are you?â
âCompany?â It took a second or two for Reenie to realise what the older woman meant. âNo. No company.â
By the following night she had almost run out of money, and years later she realised that if there had been an opportunity for her to go back to her father and Vera with a brace of apologies, that was it, that was the night, but she couldnât. Behind her was a force, a momentum, driving her on, further west, further away, and from what? Not just Albert and Vera and the invitation to join them in church. Not just Harold Road and Friday night dances in Bethnal Green and Limehouse. Not just the grim certainty of leaving school to work in an office or â if she didnât do so well in her O Levels â a factory before settling down with a Nice Local Boy and making lots of Nice Children.
No. She ran away from all those things, but above all she ran away from her lifeâs two pillars, the grief and sympathy of others, and in running hoped she might become more than just the young girl on the ferry with the little paisley bag.
âSynchronicity, yeah?â said Womble; eyes bloodshot, eyelids drooping. âEverything happens for a reason, Reenie. Did you know, when they were making The Wizard of Oz , you know⦠the film⦠with Judy Garland⦠the costume department were looking for a coat for the Wizard to wear, and they found this coat in a flea market, and it was perfect. And only when theyâd finished making the film did they find out the coatâs original owner was L. Frank Baum. The guy who wrote The Wizard of Oz . Straight up. True story. He owned the coat. When he died, it got sold on, ended up in a flea market, and then used as a prop in the film based on his book. See what Iâm getting at?â
She nodded, humouring him, but viewed through sober eyes the scene around her was depressing. Womble, Casper and their friends acted as if they were on some sort of quest, attacking each new substance â joints and pills and spindly brown bouquets of dried mushrooms â with an almost military intent. Philosophical rambling gave way to unfinished sentences and bouts of giggling. The girl who had described herself as a traveller spent half an hour staring at a pebble in the palm of her hand, while Shabby Jesus closed his eyes and held up his hands as if shaping some massive, floating ball of clay.
Reenie couldnât quite remember what brought her here
In the event, Reenie found herself in a grubby café just off Piccadilly Circus, making a single cup of tea last more than an hour by taking tiny, bird-like sips until it was tepid. The sky grew dark, and the walls of the buildings outside were lit up in gaudy shades of red, pink and blue by the Circusâ electric lights. A man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit propositioned her with words she didnât quite understand, and when she left the café he followed her as far as Charing Cross Road, falling back and vanishing only when she stopped to ask a policeman for directions.
With what little money she had, Reenie checked into a hotel near Covent Garden, and the woman on the reception â large-breasted but haggard, with a towering peroxide blonde bouffant and a rose tattooed on her hand â studied her over the green plastic rims of her cat-eye glasses.
âYouâre not having company in there, are you?â
âCompany?â It took a second or two for Reenie to realise what the older woman meant. âNo. No company.â
By the following night she had almost run out of money, and years later she realised that if there had been an opportunity for her to go back to her father and Vera with a brace of apologies, that was it, that was the night, but she couldnât. Behind her was a force, a momentum, driving her on, further west, further away, and from what? Not just Albert and Vera and the invitation to join them in church. Not just Harold Road and Friday night dances in Bethnal Green and Limehouse. Not just the grim certainty of leaving school to work in an office or â if she didnât do so well in her O Levels â a factory before settling down with a Nice Local Boy and making lots of Nice Children.
No. She ran away from all those things, but above all she ran away from her lifeâs two pillars, the grief and sympathy of others, and in running hoped she might become more than just the young girl on the ferry with the little paisley bag.
âSynchronicity, yeah?â said Womble; eyes bloodshot, eyelids drooping. âEverything happens for a reason, Reenie. Did you know, when they were making The Wizard of Oz , you know⦠the film⦠with Judy Garland⦠the costume department were looking for a coat for the Wizard to wear, and they found this coat in a flea market, and it was perfect. And only when theyâd finished making the film did they find out the coatâs original owner was L. Frank Baum. The guy who wrote The Wizard of Oz . Straight up. True story. He owned the coat. When he died, it got sold on, ended up in a flea market, and then used as a prop in the film based on his book. See what Iâm getting at?â
She nodded, humouring him, but viewed through sober eyes the scene around her was depressing. Womble, Casper and their friends acted as if they were on some sort of quest, attacking each new substance â joints and pills and spindly brown bouquets of dried mushrooms â with an almost military intent. Philosophical rambling gave way to unfinished sentences and bouts of giggling. The girl who had described herself as a traveller spent half an hour staring at a pebble in the palm of her hand, while Shabby Jesus closed his eyes and held up his hands as if shaping some massive, floating ball of clay.
Reenie couldnât quite remember what brought her here
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