Warnings: Trigger warning for abuse (let me know if I should add any more).
Notes: Missing scenes set between the end of Jumping Tracks and the beginning of Armistice. This can be read as a continuation of To Be Brave, although it is not necessary to read one in order to understand the other.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Michael Maclennan and Adrienne Mitchell/Shaw Media.
Kate is standing outside the Sandy Shore Pavilion with Betty and Gladys Witham, hugging herself against the cold. She is trying not to think about what she had to do to be standing here, but it's no use. As the cold air helps her sober up, she can't not think about the envelope in her purse.
Oh, those photos. She can't believe they're true. The first time she looked at them, in Chet's studio, Kate caught a flash of bizarrely knowing eyes that don't resemble her own, of long white limbs and curves she's never felt comfortable with. What had he turned her into? What had she turned herself into?
It made her want to cry, looking at them, knowing what men would think once they saw them. Kate saw the photos for a mere second before she shoved them back in their envelope, hidden them in her purse and tried to forget about them.
Being with Betty helped for a little while, especially after they ran into Gladys and her fiancé, James, at Sandy Shores. In the wake of some extremely hectic days at work, the three women drank and talked together. Gladys has been working the floor for more than a week now. She's woefully unaware of the way things work when you're a floor girl, but she's proven to be made of sterner stuff than anyone could have imagined. Kate likes her. She can admit that to herself. Betty still doesn't trust Gladys, but even Betty couldn't help but be impressed when Gladys pocketed a dead rat rather than fail her bomb-building test.
Gladys is insisting on James dropping Betty and Kate home. James has gone to bring the Packard around, and Gladys and Betty are bantering with each other. Kate finds it difficult to join in. She's never been good at their kind of rapid-fire talk. She's spent so many years accustomed to being quiet, standing on the fringes and watching other people. Right now, though, she hates it, because being quiet is only making her think about the photos again.
Men look at Kate and feel lust in their hearts, and it has always been her fault, her fault, her fault. She tempts men to sin whether she meets their eyes and smiles, or whether she stoops her shoulders and pretends to be blind and deaf. But it is one thing to make men sin in their hearts just by virtue of being female, and quite another to cavort in front of a camera, knowingly and willingly colluding with sinners...
Kate is brought out of her reverie by Gladys touching her cheek. She flinches, then relaxes, then tenses up again at Gladys' intense expression. Gladys proclaims, "You are such a beauty, Kate. You've got magnificent hair, just like Rita Hayworth."
Kate has no idea who Gladys is talking about, but guesses it must be some movie star. She has a mad urge to giggle, but keeps a straight face as she says, "Why, thank you, Gladys."
Betty looks frankly irritated, then taken aback as Gladys turns on her. "And you! You're another Marlene! No wonder all the soldiers want a factory girl." Even after so many, Gladys isn't foolhardy enough to try and touch Betty's face.
"Why is it that girls always feel the need to tell each other they're pretty when they're sauced?" Betty asks loudly, looking straight at Kate as though Gladys isn't there.
"Oh, go on," says Gladys good-naturedly, sitting down on a low ornamental wall. In one movement, she reaches out and pulls Kate down to sit with her, so she can lean her head on Kate's shoulder. "Lord, why can't I stay out all night? Or forever. Forever would be just dreamy."
"Because you've got work at seven sharp and you need to sleep this off," Betty points out.
Gladys acts like she doesn't hear. "I don't wanna go home," she mumbles.
Kate can't help but worry, as she hears, in Gladys' words, an echo of thoughts she had over and over throughout her twenty-four years of childhood. Even so, she tries to keep her shoulder slack so Gladys will be comfortable. "Gladys?"
"It's my mother. My parents. They're insufferable; treat me like I'm made of glass. It's all because of Laurence. They expect me to be perfect for them. God, if they knew I was working the floor..." Gladys swings her feet in their high heels. "I'm so lucky to have James. I love him so much. And Carol. Good friends, you know? People who understand."
Betty looks seriously worried that Gladys is going to start listing the two of them as more good friends, but Gladys mumbles herself into silence. Perhaps, even in her current state, she knows that certain lines can't be crossed just yet. Or perhaps Gladys isn't as drunk as she's making out, because as soon as James pulls up in the Packard, she jumps to her feet, slides into the front passenger seat and says in ringing tones, "Darling, you took an age! And yet, none of us ladies got eaten by wolves. Fancy that!"
Kate doesn't hear James' reply, but it makes Gladys roll her eyes heavenwards, laugh her gilded laugh, and snuggle up to him. Betty shakes her head and pointedly asks James if he minds her smoking, as if to remind the love-birds that there are other people in the car.
Kate is wrong-footed by the abrupt change in Gladys' demeanour. One moment, Gladys was using Kate as a pillow, mumbling about her demanding, controlling parents. The next, she's all sparkling social graces again. It's startling, sometimes, the difference between how people seem and what they're thinking. Kate stares wonderingly out the darkened window and finds herself meeting her own eyes in the glass.
She is starting to appear a little more like how Kate Andrews ought to look. Not a Marion Rowley, relying on her mother's strength to get by. Not a temptress with glittering eyes, intent on leading men to sin. Just a factory girl on a night out with friends, a pretty young woman with hopeful eyes and yes, a beautiful head of hair. And maybe it's the drinks she's had, gallantly provided by Gladys' indulgent fiancé, but her curiosity gets the better of her. Kate takes the envelope out of her purse.
She inches one of the photos out of the envelope, just enough to be able to see her own face, and studies it. It feels all right, as long as she doesn't look any further down than her shoulders. She's laughing in the picture, at some joke Betty made at Chet's expense. Kate's only ever had a handful of photos taken. Mostly stiff family portraits, although she does remember a lovely one she and her brother Richard got taken at a fair about ten years ago, against a backdrop of a paper moon. As far as Kate can remember, this is the first photo she's ever had where she's laughing.
If only she wasn't wearing such a shocking bathing suit, she'd send it home to her mother. Well, she would if her family had a single postal address … or if she was in a position to be able to send letters and photos home to her family. What if I never see them again, she thinks, and she can't even make it a question inside her head, because she knows it's very, very likely that she never will.
Kate grits her teeth and shakes her head against the unwelcome thought. She can't think about everything she's missing, can't think about they wouldn't take her back ever again if they knew the kinds of things she's done...
"Kate?"
She realises with a jolt that Betty is looking right at her. Gladys' head stirs on James' shoulder, and she turns to look around at Kate. "Are you all right?" asks Gladys. "You look flustered."
"I look flustered because you're staring at me like that," Kate wants to snap. Instead, she says, "I just have a headache, that's all."
"Some fresh air'll cure that," says Betty. "James, let us out at this next corner, we'll walk the last couple of blocks."
"You're the boss." James shrugs and prepares to pull over.
"Oh, are you sure?" Gladys pouts. "I wanted to see where you live."
Betty doesn't bother hiding her look of annoyance. "Quite sure, princess."
They clamber out of the car, thanking James for the lift, and stand together on the pavement, watching the Packard's tail lights fade into the night.
Betty breaks the silence. "Good thinking there, faking a headache. I'm not so sure I want Gladys Witham to know my address."
Kate nods, feeling disloyal to Gladys but glad that the subject has been steered away from her obvious discomfort in the car.
They begin the walk back to the rooming house. Betty, who can handle a lot more liquor than Kate or Gladys, doesn't show any signs of being drunk, except for the fact that she's walking quite close to Kate. The sleeves of their winter coats brush together. Kate doesn't mind. It feels cosy. It gives her something else to concentrate on.
Neither one of them speaks until the rooming house comes into view. Kate is just noting that there are still quite a few lights on when Betty ventures, "I saw you looking at the pictures when we were in James' car."
Kate avoids Betty's gaze, but nods and breathes, "Yes..." What's the point in lying about it? Betty was there when they were being taken, after all.
"You still angry?"
"Not with you, no," Kate says. She hesitates, and then continues, "I don't know how I feel about them."
She knows a little about how she feels, but she can't say so. The fact is it didn't feel like filth, to move and pose with her eyes trained on Betty's. It had been almost fun, in way: Betty nodding encouragingly at Kate, saying "Yes" and "Good," suggesting ways for her to stand, demonstrating them in her own way and beaming at Kate's interpretations. She looked at Kate like she was impressed at her daring. Like Kate was something really special. If only Chet hadn't been there, it could have been all fun.
It is wicked to think any such thing. Kate finds herself voicing one tiny snippet of what she's thinking. "What on earth does that say about me? That I … did that. I'm so glad that I'm going to be able to stay, but I keep thinking I should have turned and run as soon as he told me what he wanted, even if it meant going back..."
Betty clears her throat. "Kate, from where I'm standing, I don't give a damn what you had to do to get those papers. What's important to me is that you get to stick around here, where it's safe for you. You're still the same girl to me. I'm proud to know you, no matter what."
Kate is suddenly flooded by a feeling almost like an attack of blushing, except she can feel it all through her. She is so relieved that Betty doesn't see her as tainted by the experience. She didn't realise how important that was to her, until now.
Sometimes it's a little frightening, to like Betty so much even though they haven't known each other very long. Thank goodness Betty seems to feel the same way about her. But again, it confuses Kate, because she doesn't have a frame of reference for feeling so close to someone outside her family. Perhaps Betty is the older sister Kate used to long for as a child, born to another set of parents and finally sent to cross paths with Kate after twenty-four unbearably lonely years?
No, that can't be it. Betty doesn't behave like an older sister. Any older sister of Kate's would never have accompanied her into a pornographer's den, talked her through the wretchedness she felt. As Kate grew up, her pretend big sister turned into yet another person to judge her and find her wanting. The only sister Kate has been able to imagine for some years now would invariably be miles away while Kate shivered in that shocking bathing suit. She would be at home with Mother and Father and the boys, shaking her head over Kate's folly. Or else, she would have walked out like Kate did, abandoning her loving family and never looking back...
She can't think like that, not now. Kate doesn't need her pretend big sister any more. Maybe she never needed one. Because whatever Betty is, it's certainly not an older sister. She is strong, and she is protective, but she is never patronising, never taken aback by Kate and her scars and her murky past. Kate feels stronger just being around her. In fact, as they step through the front door and begin removing their coats, she feels just strong enough to ask, "Betty, would you do something for me?"
"What?"
"Would you look at them with me?"
Betty pauses. "You mean the photos?"
Kate nods. "I think I'd feel less scared, to have someone with me. And I wouldn't usually ask anyone to look at that sort of thing, but well … you have seen them before, in a way, haven't you?"
So, like two prankish schoolgirls, they stand in a corner of the front hallway and huddle over the envelope. Kate slides out the sheaf of photos, and Betty begins shuffling through them. Kate barely looks at the pictures, she's too busy watching Betty's face. Betty does a remarkable job of keeping her face absolutely impassive. It takes her slightly too long to have any kind of reaction, and Kate begins to panic again, thinking, It's because it's dawning on her, she's only just realising how bad it really is-
Betty holds up the one Kate was looking at before, the one where she's laughing. "This one's my favourite."
Kate wasn't expecting that. "You really like it?"
"'Course I do," says Betty. Somehow it feels even better than being compared to Rita Hayworth, that phantom arbiter of beauty who Kate can only assume also has red hair. She dares to beam at Betty, and Betty smiles back.
The spell is broken as Moira and Jeannie come out of the kitchen carrying cups of tea. Kate squeaks, jumps a foot in the air and snatches the photos away from Betty, holding them protectively to her chest. Caught off guard, Moira splashes the floorboards and the toes of her special slippers with hot camomile.
Betty promptly dissolves into laughter, and when Jeannie and Moira throw their hands up in exasperation, Kate can't help but see the funny side too. They laugh and laugh, even after Jeannie and Moira have swept up the stairs to bed.
"Shall we continue this up in my room?" asks Betty. "I know we've gotta be up at six, but it's only ten. I could stand to sit up awhile longer."
"All right," says Kate, taking Betty's hand. It's the first time she's ever volunteered affection with someone outside her family. Kate leads the way upstairs, her envelope of glamour photos in one hand and her friend in the other.