no one’s care. Where should they go? Where turn?
I became homeless at sixteen because Grandma Varady died. My father had already died three years earlier. Grandma had been the tenant of the flat and the landlord wanted me out. He didn’t care where I went. He advised me to ‘go down the council’. I didn’t want to share hostel space with drug addicts and the mentally ill. I slept in a local park. Later I shared the first of many squats. After a while I got a place to live with the help of someone I’d helped. That didn’t last but I was offered my present place by a charity which, among other projects, had run the hospice in which my mother had died. I had a kind of security at last. But obviously my days of being ‘of no fixed address’ had stamped its mark on me.
‘Snap out of it, Fran!’ I told myself. ‘Don’t start brooding. The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be able to get back to London.’ That was where I belonged. There no one cared what I looked like or what my past had been. That is the blessed anonymity of big cities, their magnet-like appeal.
It didn’t take me long to unpack my bag. I pushed Hari’s map in my pocket and made my way back downstairs.
Beryl hadn’t told me exactly where to find her but logic took me to the rear of the building and the rattle of teacups guided me there into a large, bright kitchen. The landlady was putting the pot and milk jug on a round pine table which was already set with the cups and a plate of chocolate biscuits.
I sat down, accepted a cup of tea and tackled the situation head on. There really was no other way. ‘I don’t know how much Mickey told you . . .’ I began.
She waved her scarlet-tipped nails at me. ‘I don’t worry about Mickey’s business. You don’t have to tell me anything. I said to Mickey I’d be happy to have you here and if you want to know anything about Oxford, just ask. I can’t do any more than that because of my leg.’ She reached down with a teaspoon and tapped her lower left leg. It made a dull hard sound. ‘Lost it,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Below the knee.’
‘Was that in an accident at the club?’ I asked in horror. Perhaps Ganesh had been on the right track, after all.
She shook her head vigorously. ‘Bless you, no. I fell off a bus at Marble Arch. It was Christmastime and you know how busy that area is at that time of year. The pavements were crowded. They had police out with loud hailers doing crowd control. I was on the bus and I thought I’d be clever and just jump off when it slowed down. But that’s not as easy as you think. I stumbled and then a taxi hit me. It was my own fault. The leg wouldn’t mend. In the end they chopped it off, just below the knee and gave me a false one. Of course, my dancing career was over. Things would have been bleak but, as it happened, an auntie died and left me this house here in Oxford. So I had the idea to set up a Band B. I was already over thirty and well, if you work the clubs, you need your looks and your figure. Mickey came up trumps. He gave me a bit of money to see me over while I got the business going. He’s a good sort, Mickey, if you play fair by him.’
I didn’t ask her what happened to people who didn’t ‘play fair’. It was even clearer that Beryl thought Allerton was the bee’s knees. I’d have to be careful what I said. She was a nice woman, but she was a direct line back to the Silver Circle. I imagined that either Mickey would be on the phone daily to her to check on my progress or she’d received orders to bring him up to speed. I’d have to make it obvious that I was trying my best to carry out Mickey’s errand. However, as someone who had not only known Mickey Allerton but had also worked for him, perhaps Beryl was uniquely able to give me some indication as to why Lisa Stallard might have bolted back to Oxford; if indeed that was what she had done. It would make my job so much easier if I
I became homeless at sixteen because Grandma Varady died. My father had already died three years earlier. Grandma had been the tenant of the flat and the landlord wanted me out. He didn’t care where I went. He advised me to ‘go down the council’. I didn’t want to share hostel space with drug addicts and the mentally ill. I slept in a local park. Later I shared the first of many squats. After a while I got a place to live with the help of someone I’d helped. That didn’t last but I was offered my present place by a charity which, among other projects, had run the hospice in which my mother had died. I had a kind of security at last. But obviously my days of being ‘of no fixed address’ had stamped its mark on me.
‘Snap out of it, Fran!’ I told myself. ‘Don’t start brooding. The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be able to get back to London.’ That was where I belonged. There no one cared what I looked like or what my past had been. That is the blessed anonymity of big cities, their magnet-like appeal.
It didn’t take me long to unpack my bag. I pushed Hari’s map in my pocket and made my way back downstairs.
Beryl hadn’t told me exactly where to find her but logic took me to the rear of the building and the rattle of teacups guided me there into a large, bright kitchen. The landlady was putting the pot and milk jug on a round pine table which was already set with the cups and a plate of chocolate biscuits.
I sat down, accepted a cup of tea and tackled the situation head on. There really was no other way. ‘I don’t know how much Mickey told you . . .’ I began.
She waved her scarlet-tipped nails at me. ‘I don’t worry about Mickey’s business. You don’t have to tell me anything. I said to Mickey I’d be happy to have you here and if you want to know anything about Oxford, just ask. I can’t do any more than that because of my leg.’ She reached down with a teaspoon and tapped her lower left leg. It made a dull hard sound. ‘Lost it,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Below the knee.’
‘Was that in an accident at the club?’ I asked in horror. Perhaps Ganesh had been on the right track, after all.
She shook her head vigorously. ‘Bless you, no. I fell off a bus at Marble Arch. It was Christmastime and you know how busy that area is at that time of year. The pavements were crowded. They had police out with loud hailers doing crowd control. I was on the bus and I thought I’d be clever and just jump off when it slowed down. But that’s not as easy as you think. I stumbled and then a taxi hit me. It was my own fault. The leg wouldn’t mend. In the end they chopped it off, just below the knee and gave me a false one. Of course, my dancing career was over. Things would have been bleak but, as it happened, an auntie died and left me this house here in Oxford. So I had the idea to set up a Band B. I was already over thirty and well, if you work the clubs, you need your looks and your figure. Mickey came up trumps. He gave me a bit of money to see me over while I got the business going. He’s a good sort, Mickey, if you play fair by him.’
I didn’t ask her what happened to people who didn’t ‘play fair’. It was even clearer that Beryl thought Allerton was the bee’s knees. I’d have to be careful what I said. She was a nice woman, but she was a direct line back to the Silver Circle. I imagined that either Mickey would be on the phone daily to her to check on my progress or she’d received orders to bring him up to speed. I’d have to make it obvious that I was trying my best to carry out Mickey’s errand. However, as someone who had not only known Mickey Allerton but had also worked for him, perhaps Beryl was uniquely able to give me some indication as to why Lisa Stallard might have bolted back to Oxford; if indeed that was what she had done. It would make my job so much easier if I
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