Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  The other three girls had backed right away now, clearly terrified of being involved.

  The circle of spectators moved in closer.

  ‘Wack her, little’un,’ someone shouted. ‘It’s about time someone stood up to her.’

  Georgia sat astride Bev’s back, holding the girl firmly by the hair.

  ‘Hurts doesn’t it?’ she asked, teeth gritted. ‘It hurts black girls too, or did you think we feel nothing?’

  ‘Get off,’ Bev called out, her voice shaky as if on the point of tears. ‘We was only teasing you.’

  ‘And I’m only teasing you,’ Georgia pushed her head back down to touch the pavement. ‘But I’ll stop if you apologize and tell me you’ll leave me alone in future.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Bev shouted, wriggling and trying to turn under Georgia. An unpleasant smell of sweat wafted up to Georgia.

  ‘That is very rude,’ Georgia said, grinning round at her audience. ‘You smell of B.O. too. Looks like I’ll have to give you another taste.’ She pulled sharply on the girl’s hair, then crashed her head down again to the pavement.

  This time Bev was sobbing.

  ‘You’ll apologize?’ Georgia looked around at the crowd. ‘In front of witnesses?’

  ‘Yes,’ the word came out like a groan.

  ‘Right. Repeat after me. Bev is a bully. She is also a fat, smelly slut.’

  ‘Bev is a bully,’ the girl whimpered.

  ‘Louder,’ Georgia tightened her grip again.

  ‘Bev is a bully,’ the girl said.

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘She is also a fat, smelly slut.’

  ‘Very good. I will never, or allow my friends …’

  ‘I will never, or allow my friends,’ Bev was crying freely now.

  ‘To bully, or frighten anyone, especially black girls.’

  Georgia waited until Bev had finished. Still sitting on Bev’s back she looked across at the other three girls who cowered against the wall.

  ‘That goes for you three too,’ she said, lowering her voice to one of menace as she’d been taught in drama classes. ‘I’ll be watching.’

  Calmly she got up, crossed over to the tree to collect her satchel, slipped her blazer out, and swaggered off towards the bus stop.

  She allowed herself only one glance back.

  Bev stood alone, crying and dabbing at her forehead. Her friends had vanished, the rest of the girls were standing talking in small groups.

  Once on the bus she could not stop shaking. She had been lucky, if Bev hadn’t been like a charging rhinoceros she would have noticed that it wasn’t physical strength that beat her, but preparation and speed. If Bev or another bully caught her unawares the next time she might be the loser.

  *

  ‘Is everything all right Georgia?’ Celia came up to her bedroom after tea as Georgia was doing her homework. ‘You didn’t seem yourself yesterday or today. Is there something you want to tell me?’

  ‘No, Mummy,’ Georgia looked up and smiled. ‘I was just worried about all this homework. I don’t know whether I’ll have time for dancing and singing now.’

  Celia sat down on the bed.

  ‘You’ll make time.’ She picked up the teddy bear she’d given Georgia on her first day in the house and looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Come on, the truth. I know something happened at school. Has someone bullied you?’

  Georgia hadn’t expected much the day she left St Joseph’s in Celia’s car. There was no picture in her mind of a house, or the kind of life she would lead with Mr and Mrs Anderson. She remembered the moment when the car stopped, the huge expanse of snow-covered heath on one side of the road, and the grey stone houses on the other.

  ‘This is ours,’ Celia had taken her hand again and led her up to a red front door. It seemed tiny after the convent door, little panes of coloured glass and the porch with old blue and white tiles. She had hardly noticed Mr Anderson, all she had seen and felt was warmth and comfort. Soft carpet under her feet, a big fire in the grate and the piano standing by the window.

  Those first few weeks had been so exciting. New kinds of wonderful food, clothes that were brand new and toys that were all for her. Later there had been the dancing and singing lessons to give her new heights of happiness. But above all else it had been having a mother, someone who cared about her, listened and talked to her as if she was someone special.

  ‘There was just a little trouble yesterday,’ she admitted. She knew her mother too well, she wouldn’t give up until she got to the truth. ‘But everything’s okay now.’

  ‘Someone slapped you! I knew it,’ Celia stiffened, dropping the teddy bear in her hands. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Mum, I’m a big girl now,’ Georgia laughed. ‘I can stand up for myself. I talked to the girl today, it’s over.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘My posh voice, if you must know.’ Georgia wasn’t exactly lying, but she thought her mother could take that better than the issue of colour. She grinned cheekily. ‘Maybe I’d best go back to talking like what I used to.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Celia smiled. ‘After all the coaching I’ve given you!’

  Chapter 3

  December 1959

  Georgia hurried to the church. The grass on the heath was thick with frost and the moon hung over the church spire as if endeavouring to impale itself. It was the last practice for the anthem the choir was going to sing at midnight mass on Christmas Eve.

  She wore a grey duffel coat over a polo-necked white sweater and jeans, hair tied up in a pony-tail with a white ribbon, a long red scarf knotted round her neck.

  Peter was waiting on the church steps. Just the sight of him made her heart beat a little faster. He was so beautiful, gold blond hair gleaming under the porch lamp, his peachy skin as clear as her own. She could hardly wait to get up close and see those forget-me-not blue eyes and his wide, soft lips.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’ His face broke into a relieved smile as she turned on to the church path.

  ‘I got held up,’ she said breathlessly.

  Four months had passed since they’d met at a youth club debate, and since then there hadn’t been one day when she hadn’t thought about him. Was it possible to want someone so badly and not have the longing returned?

  ‘Mr Grey’s having kittens,’ he grinned, his soft lips parting to show perfect white teeth. ‘We’d better go in.’

  As Georgia stepped into the church she closed her eyes for a second and inhaled deeply. She loved churches. The incense, the candles, all the rich embroidery on the altar cloths, the smell of polish and flowers. Religion didn’t come into it. To her it was a wonderful theatre, the choir part of a show they put on each weekend.

  Flinging her coat on a pew she slipped into the choir stalls, grinning sheepishly at the others. Eight women, six men and eight scruffy little boys. On Christmas Eve they would be transformed with starched ruffles and red cassocks, but for now they were just ordinary people who liked to sing just like her.

  The choir master tapped his stick on a pew.

  ‘I’m glad you could make it Georgia,’ Mr Grey’s deep baritone was at odds with his stooped elderly body. His sarcasm unusual for such a gentle man. He wore a new Fair Isle cardigan in heathery shades, his pipe hanging out of one of the pockets. ‘Now take it slowly. It’s not a pop song, but a beautiful piece of music. I want the people in the back rows to hear you. Head up, chest out.’

  It was the first time anyone in the choir had been chosen to sing a solo. She knew it was a great honour and she wanted it to be perfect.

  She took a deep breath as the organ wheezed into life. The introduction filled the church with sound and Peter winked at her.

  Her voice reached each corner. Pure and clear, every word annunciated in the way Mr Grey had taught her.

  The choir joined her. Sopranos soaring above her contralto, the tenors and bass giving it richness and warmth.

  ‘Very good,’ Mr Grey shuffled f
orward up the step. He held his back as if it hurt, but his old face was alight with pleasure. ‘If you sing it like that on Christmas Eve I should think Father O’Brady will get enough in the collection for his new roof. We’ll do it once more, then a quick run through the carols, then you can all go early.’

  ‘You were very good tonight,’ Peter walked out through the church door with her. ‘I love to hear you sing.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled up at him, wondering if tonight she could find the words to ask him to her party.

  He was always waiting for her. He walked home with her from choir practice, talked about anything and everything, yet he had never attempted to take it further.

  ‘Do you have to go straight home?’

  His question took her by surprise. Peter was looking at his feet, he sounded as unsure of himself as she felt. ‘I mean, could we go for a walk?’

  ‘Where?’ she asked, not caring where it was as long as he was with her. She felt a flush creeping up her neck. Her teeth began to chatter more from anxiety than cold.

  ‘Over to the boating pond?’

  The heath yawned in front of them. A big, empty dark space that was all theirs. A huge Christmas tree at the church steps lit up the darkness with tiny green, red, yellow and blue sparks of colour. The frosty grass scrunched beneath their feet and as they moved away from the light, so their shadows disappeared.

  ‘You’re cold?’ Peter paused and looked round at her.

  Her scarf was tied tightly round her neck, her breath like steam from a kettle.

  ‘My hands are,’ she said, not wanting to admit she was freezing. ‘I forgot my gloves.’

  He took one of her hands and felt it.

  ‘Like ice,’ he smiled. ‘Put it in my pocket with mine.’

  He held her hand in his pocket, running his thumb across her palm. A tiny shiver went down her spine, but this time it had nothing to do with the cold. She moved closer to him, huddling against his shoulder.

  ‘Better now?’

  ‘Much,’ she smiled up at him. His ripe wide mouth made her feel weak inside. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you Peter. Would you like to come to my birthday party on January 6th?’

  He didn’t reply for a second, he looked straight ahead of him and she wondered if she’d asked too soon.

  ‘I thought you’d left me out. One of the boys at school mentioned it.’

  Now she felt foolish. Did he think she was only inviting him now out of politeness?

  ‘I didn’t actually invite any boys,’ she blushed. ‘I just asked the girls to bring a partner.’

  ‘Does that mean I’d be your partner?’

  ‘Yes. If you want to be.’ It was too late now for flirting and pretending disinterest as Christine suggested. ‘I didn’t ask you before because I was afraid you’d refuse.’

  She hung her head, afraid to meet his eyes.

  His fingers brushed her cheek as he lifted her face up to his.

  ‘Does that mean I can say you are my girl?’

  No words came, just a nod of her head. His eyes almost closed and his hand cupped her head drawing her to him.

  His lips touched hers tentatively, so light it could have been the touch of a moth’s wing.

  Closing her eyes she just stood there, her heart pounding, her legs shaking. One moment his other hand was still in his pocket with hers, the next he withdrew it and crushed her to him, lips covering hers.

  The deserted heath, the church behind them and her home in the distance fell away. All she could feel, see and smell was Peter. A soft, warm mouth on hers, the touch of stubble against her chin, the ecstasy of being in his arms at last.

  Four months of dreaming and hoping and at last the moment was here.

  ‘Let’s run?’ he whispered to her, his nose rubbing against hers. ‘Maybe we won’t notice the cold.’

  The wind caught her hair and scarf as they ran hand in hand. They were laughing like small children, racing over the crisp grass.

  ‘I knew there was a shelter here,’ he said breathlessly as they approached the silver pond. He pointed to a dark shape at one end, near a bus stop. ‘It might not be so cold and at least we can sit down.’

  Within seconds she was in his arms again. The soft inexperienced kisses soon becoming more adventurous and bolder.

  They weren’t aware of a man walking his dog, or the lone streetlamp casting a pool of golden light over a litter bin. The shelter smelled of mould and someone’s abandoned chips in newspaper, but all they felt was one another’s warm breath and the sweet agony of needing to get closer.

  His tongue flickered over her lips, and she parted them, slipping her hands under his jacket for warmth.

  She pressed closer to him, a warm, shaky feeling creeping all over her. Her breasts throbbed, she ached for him to touch them, yet was frightened that he would. Each kiss was longer than the last, tongues bolder, gaining experience with each one. Her body fitted to his, her fingers stroking, loving him. The hard boniness of his chest, the smell of soap and toothpaste. His fingers caressing her neck and the rough texture of his sweater.

  ‘We ought to get back,’ he whispered, his lips buried in her neck. ‘It’s nearly half past nine.’

  Reality came back with a jolt. Georgia jumped up, holding her watch towards the dim yellow light. Her eyes widened with fear as she saw he was right.

  ‘Dad will go mad,’ she gasped. ‘It feels as if we’ve only been here for minutes.’

  Peter stood in front of her, buttoning up her coat and winding the scarf back round her neck.

  ‘It’s only just after our usual time,’ he sounded calm and protective. ‘Tell them we were talking.’

  They ran then, hand in hand back across the heath, not stopping till they reached her house.

  ‘Ask them if you can come to the pictures tomorrow,’ he said, smiling down at her, both panting from the run. ‘I’ll come and pick you up at seven.’

  ‘What if they say no?’ she was torn between staying out with him and rushing in to make apologies.

  ‘I’ll come anyway,’ he laughed, bending to kiss her once more. ‘Now go on in before you catch cold.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me out before?’ she whispered, poised to run in.

  ‘I was afraid you’d turn me down,’ he whispered back.

  ‘You’re late!’ Celia said reprovingly.

  Her parents were watching television by the fire. The Christmas tree lights twinkled against the dark red curtains. Celia was already in her dressing-gown, pale blue wool, with a snippet of long winceyette showing beneath, her feet in slippers. She was knitting a pair of grey socks. Brian wore the brown cardigan he always put on when he took off his office suit, yet his tie was knotted as neatly as when he left for the office earlier that day. He had a glass of brandy on the small table by his side and he looked sleepy, glasses sliding down his nose.

  By day the room was almost an extension of the garden, light streaming in the French windows, bushes just outside blending with plants inside. But by night it took on a different character, shrinking in size as the heavy curtains were drawn. A snug room that somehow embodied her parents’ joint personalities. Celia in the baby grand piano, the Chinese vase lamps and the warmth of the roaring fire. Brian the plump, chintz-covered armchairs and settee, the delicate water colours on the walls, the leather-bound books close to his elbow.

  Georgia looked from Celia to Brian as she unwound her scarf and unbuttoned her coat.

  Her father’s love of order ran not only to arranging books in size, the fringe on the hearth rug brushed out flat, but also to timekeeping. Yet for once he didn’t seem aware she was late.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Georgia panted. ‘I was talking to Peter.’

  ‘Did you pluck up courage to invite him to the party?’ Celia raised one eyebrow, letting her knitting droop to her lap. Georgia had spoken of this boy so often she felt she knew him almost as well as her daughter.

  ‘Yes,’ Georgia wanted to sit on her mother’s
knee, wrap her arms round her and tell her everything. But the child in her was gone now, left back at the church steps when Peter took her hand. ‘And he asked if he could take me to the pictures tomorrow.’

  ‘Did he now,’ Celia’s eyes were more green than grey in the light of the fire, twinkling like the Christmas tree lights.

  ‘Can I go then?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ Celia’s soft pale lips curved into a smile. ‘As long as he brings you straight home afterwards.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ Brian sat up sharply and took off his glasses. ‘Don’t I have any say in this?’

  Georgia gulped. She and Celia rarely asked Brian’s opinion about anything and just lately he seemed to have noticed. His face had a polished look in the soft light, faded blue eyes puckered with irritation.

  ‘I’m sorry, Daddy,’ Georgia went over to him and perched on the arm of his chair. His sandy hair was getting very thin and from her position slightly above him, she could see a bald patch as big as a half crown. She slid her arm around his neck, fondling his ears. ‘Please don’t be a grouch. I didn’t ask you first because I was embarrassed.’

  ‘Who is this boy?’ Brian’s eyes softened just enough for her to know he was at least receptive.

  ‘Peter Radcliffe, he sings in the choir. You’d like him Daddy! He plays cricket.’

  ‘I’ll reserve my judgement until I’ve met him,’ Brian half smiled. ‘If he isn’t one of those ton-up boys and he can be trusted to behave himself with you, I can’t really think of any reason to say no.’

  As Georgia got into bed that night she could scarcely contain her excitement. If she closed her eyes she could taste Peter’s lips again, feel that strange tugging sensation inside her.

  Was she in love? She had all the symptoms they mentioned in magazines. She could hardly wait till tomorrow to phone Christine and tell her Peter had finally kissed her.

  She lay on her back looking at the new party dress hanging on the wardrobe. Celia had bought it just two days earlier and she couldn’t wait to wear it.

  It was beautiful. Red satin with a billowing underskirt of net. The bodice was tight and low cut, with just tiny cap sleeves. No one else would have a dress quite like it.