Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  Georgia had no fight left. She submitted to being dragged up and scrubbed.

  ‘Now, dry yourself and get up to bed!’ Sister hissed. ‘And don’t take long about it.’

  The door slammed behind her and Georgia groped blindly for the towel. She was shaking with cold. Her eyes stung and her body was on fire. Slowly she hauled herself out of the bath, and sunk on to a small stool. Her earlier happiness glugged down the drain with the bath water, and was replaced by tears of despair.

  ‘Georgia?’

  She blinked at the sound of Sister Mary’s voice at the door.

  ‘What is it?’ Sister moved across the wet floor, arms outstretched, her face a picture of concern.

  ‘Sis –, Sister Agnes,’ Georgia stuttered.

  A dry, softer towel was wrapped round her, the smaller one deftly removed and wound round her hair like a turban.

  ‘What happened?’ Sister asked, her tone gentle as always, in sharp contrast to Agnes’s.

  Georgia tried to explain. Another coughing fit engulfed her, this time coming in great whoops, bringing with it large quantities of fluid she had swallowed.

  Sister Mary turned the child deftly onto her stomach across her own lap, patting her back until the attack stopped. Georgia could feel her soothing her wounds gently with the towel.

  ‘What did you do?’ Sister’s voice was soft, yet with a touch of steel.

  ‘I was singing and dancing, she said I was admiring myself. She called me a nigger.’ Georgia sobbed.

  Sister made no comment. Just lifted the child up into her arms and held her tightly against her chest, soothing her with endearments.

  ‘Let me get you dry and into bed,’ her voice shook a little. ‘You’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow. Sister Agnes won’t touch you again.’

  Scooping up Georgia in her arms, still only wrapped in the towel, she walked swiftly up the stairs with her in the direction of the isolation room.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ she said as she dropped the child on the bed. ‘I’ll just go and find some pyjamas.’

  The room was cosy at night. A small bedside lamp and a lighted gas fire gave the sparsely furnished room warmth that every other room in the convent lacked.

  Although she hurt all over, Georgia noticed that clean clothes had been placed on the chair for the morning. A tartan kilt and a much nicer jumper than she normally got to wear. Her sobs faded to hiccups.

  ‘Here we are,’ Sister Mary bustled back into the room, a pair of pyjamas and vest over her arm.

  In one hand she held a pot of ointment.

  ‘Lay down on your tummy,’ she said gently. ‘This will help the soreness.’

  At first Georgia winced at each soft touch, but gradually under Sister Mary’s healing hands, the pain lessened. Firmly, Sister turned her and more ointment was applied to her stomach, chest and arms.

  ‘That’s better,’ Sister said, picking up the vest and popping it over her head, quickly followed by the warm pyjamas. ‘Now into bed with you and I’ll dry your hair a bit more.’

  ‘Why is Sister Agnes so mean?’ Georgia plucked up courage to ask, as her hair was rubbed vigorously.

  ‘I can’t say anything about another Sister,’ Mary said reprovingly with a twinkle in her eye. ‘But you will find the world is full of all kinds of people, some nice, some plain nasty. Let’s just say that maybe Sister Agnes isn’t as happy inside as me.’

  ‘Why are you happy?’ Georgia twisted her head round to look Mary full in the face.

  ‘Because God saw fit to send me here,’ Sister smiled, her blue eyes twinkling. ‘How else would I have met you?’

  ‘Why is this lady taking me to her home?’

  Sister laughed, showing small even white teeth in the half light. ‘So many questions! I expect she liked your courage and enthusiasm, just like I do.’

  ‘So does that mean I will be her little girl for ever?’ Georgia’s eyes were shining now, her sore body forgotten.

  ‘I think so,’ Sister Mary wound a curl round her finger. ‘She is a strong, caring woman Georgia, you’ll have a good home with her and her husband. All you have to do is be a good girl and she’ll take care of everything else.’

  ‘If I’m bad will she send me back here?’ Georgia’s eyes widened with fright.

  ‘I doubt that somehow,’ Sister laughed soft and low. ‘I don’t think she’s the type to give up on anything or anyone. But don’t you get any ideas about testing her will you? Even the nicest people have their breaking point.’

  She pulled a comb out of her pocket and ran it through Georgia’s damp hair. Georgia glanced up and saw a tear trickling down the nun’s cheek.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m just sad to know this is the last night I’ll spend with you,’ Sister replied, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘We’ve been friends a long time. I was the one who undressed you the first night you came here. You clung to me like a little monkey.’

  She smiled as she remembered.

  It was a wild November night when Georgia arrived with a social worker. Just twenty-one months old, plump, with a halo of jet black curls, her thumb firmly planted in her mouth, her eyes as black as night.

  Whether she had been abandoned or orphaned wasn’t known, just the name ‘Georgia’ passed on, her birth date of January 6th 1945 just an approximation.

  Sister Mary had only been at St Joseph’s a few weeks and she was appalled by the conditions. No toys, precious little warm clothing or bedding, children with running sores, threadworms and lice. She had been sent here because of her nursing training and youth, yet so far she had been unable to make a dent in the mountain of things wrong with the place.

  She took Georgia into her arms, rocking her against her breast and watched her dark eyes beginning to droop. She knew she should insist the child was taken somewhere with proper facilities for babies, but she heard the exasperation in the social worker’s voice, the complaints that every home was full, and her heart went out to the child.

  It was love from that first night. Bathing, dressing, teaching and feeding, this was no longer duty, but joy. Small brown arms wrapped around her neck, damp sweet kisses, a constant reminder of everything she had given up by taking her vows.

  But as the years passed, joy was tinged with fear. She saw Georgia’s character forming, a bold clown, leader and entertainer, a child that rushed to the defence of anyone weaker and she knew Sister Agnes had the power and hate to crush it.

  Mary had managed to change many things for the better in St Joseph’s. Diet, hygiene and health were all improved, but still Mother Superior turned a blind eye to the sadistic cruelty of Sister Agnes, refusing to admit that women of her character had no place with children.

  When she heard Mrs Anderson wished to foster Georgia, Mary felt as if her heart was being torn out. Yet at the same time she wasn’t prepared to sit by and watch while Georgia’s proud spirit was broken, hear her voice silenced and see her turn into a cringing, empty shell.

  ‘Goodnight, my darling,’ Sister Mary bent down over Georgia and kissed her cheek. ‘Remember me in your prayers sometimes, maybe write to me when you have the time.’

  ‘I’ll come back and visit you,’ Georgia said sleepily, her eyelashes dropping over her cheeks.

  ‘Just sing for me once in a while,’ Sister wiped back a tear from her cheek. ‘I’ll hear you wherever I am. God bless you.’

  Georgia was asleep by the time she got to the door. Her dark tight curls forming a black halo on the pillow, one arm curled round her head. In that instant Sister Mary saw a glimpse of the beauty which was to come. Coffee skin with pink undertones, perfect bone structure. Features too angular for a mere child of nine, but the basic materials for a real beauty.

  Silently she closed the door, pausing for one moment to compose herself.

  When Mrs Anderson saw the weals on the child’s body tomorrow, she knew with utter certainty that the caring woman would act fast and without mercy.
Perhaps out of one child’s misery, many others would be spared.

  ‘Protect and keep her Lord,’ she whispered. ‘And give me the strength to deal with Sister Agnes.’

  Chapter 2

  September 1956

  ‘Drop me off here Daddy!’ Georgia’s voice had a tremor of apprehension as they turned into Kidbrooke Lane and the playing fields of the comprehensive school loomed in front of them.

  It was a hot sunny morning, vivid splashes of colour in the suburban gardens, dahlias at their best as if trying to outdo one another in their brilliance.

  ‘Don’t you want me to come in with you?’ Brian Anderson pulled up, turning towards Georgia in his seat.

  ‘I’ll look like a baby if you do.’

  ‘You are our baby,’ Brian chuckled. ‘But I know what you mean. Some things are better tackled alone.’

  ‘Were you scared on your first day at a big school?’ Georgia leaned against his shoulder for a moment, drawing strength from the smell of starched shirt and aftershave.

  ‘Terrified,’ he admitted, patting her small hand with his big one. ‘But it wasn’t as bad as I expected, nothing ever is.’

  ‘I’d better go now,’ she straightened up, then leaned closer to kiss his smooth cheek. ‘Do I really look all right?’

  ‘All right! You look perfect,’ he smiled, wishing he could cuddle her one more time and banish that worried frown. ‘Off you go now, and don’t worry about anything, there will be hundreds of other new girls, just like you.’

  Brian Anderson watched as she crossed the road and walked along the railings to the gate. Scores of other girls were filling the tree-lined avenue, peace halted now the new term had started. But Brian Anderson hardly noticed the other girls, his eyes were just on Georgia.

  In two years she had changed almost beyond recognition. She was taller, her stick-like limbs had filled out with good food, the once cropped hair allowed to curl on her shoulders and her skin had lost that yellowy tinge.

  The navy-blue pleated skirt swung beneath a smart new blazer and she wore her beret at a jaunty angle. Yet the sight of her childish brown legs in long grey socks and the stiff, shiny satchel on her shoulder brought an unexpected lump to his throat.

  ‘Make them accept you Georgia,’ he said softly as he put his car into gear and pulled away. ‘Just the way you did me.’

  Brian Anderson knew better than anyone how it felt to be different. Brought up alone with his widowed mother in the big house on Blackheath where he still lived, he understood a child’s need to be just like everyone else.

  His mother had meant well keeping him away from other children. She wanted to protect him from harm, wrap him in a cocoon of devotion. A small, select private school where rough games were frowned on, evenings spent reading with her by the fire, or long walks in the summer. He had allowed himself to be nudged into banking as a career. Girls, dancing, drinking or sport were things that men did who weren’t gentlemen. Brian didn’t consider himself weak at bowing to his mother’s wishes. He was merely a loner who didn’t need change, new experiences or even challenge. But sometimes he would have preferred to have had a more outgoing life.

  As Brian drove down towards Lewisham across the heath he caught a glimpse of himself in the driving mirror. Sandy thinning hair, neatly combed to one side, a round, plump fresh face which had barely changed from his teens. Pale blue eyes with gingery lashes and eyebrows. A straight small nose and the kind of even white teeth which owed much to his mother’s care and attention. Not a handsome man, but as his mother had always pointed out, ‘Clothes maketh a man.’ His suits were all hand-tailored, navy blue with a feint pin stripe for the bank, light grey for social occasions and a navy blazer for weekends and holidays.

  His shirts always went to the laundry, he liked his collars stiff and starchy, his ties subdued. He had four pairs of identical black leather lace-up shoes which he rotated daily.

  He looked what he was, a fifty-year-old, respectable, dependable bank manager, neat and industrious.

  The traffic was heavy as Brian approached Lewisham High Street, he tutted with irritation, realizing that for the first time ever he was going to be late.

  He parked his Humber in the side road close to the bank, took his briefcase from the back seat and hurriedly locked the car door.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Anderson!’

  Brian looked up at the sound of his secretary’s voice.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Bowden,’ he smiled. ‘I’m afraid I’m a little late. I took Georgia to her new school this morning.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Miss Bowden didn’t miss the frown lines on his forehead. ‘I purposely didn’t make you any appointments this morning until after ten thirty. I anticipated you might get held up.’

  Miss Bowden had been his secretary for five years now. A sensible spinster in her mid-thirties, she was as dedicated to her job as Anderson himself. Her dark suit and white blouse, the sturdy flat shoes and neat brown hair were a constant reminder to the other, younger clerks that this was how a woman in banking should look.

  ‘I just hope Coulson was on time,’ Brian took up his position on the outside of the pavement, irritated still more by the amount of early shoppers pushing their way along to the market. ‘It’s so long since he was expected to unlock the bank, I doubt he remembers how to.’

  ‘Of course he does,’ Miss Bowden reassured her employer. ‘Look, you can see yourself the lights are on.’

  Anderson had no need to be at the bank before nine thirty, but old habits died hard for him, and often he was behind his desk soon after eight thirty, well before the rest of the staff arrived. It had been this sort of reliability which got him promoted to manager, and although Celia kept telling him it was time he sat back and took things easier, he still liked to be there to unlock.

  ‘How was Georgia this morning?’ Miss Bowden asked. ‘Was she nervous? It’s a big step going to such a huge school.’

  ‘A little nervous, but she’ll be fine once she’s settled in.’ Anderson’s expression softened a little. ‘Remind me to telephone my wife later, will you?’

  ‘What a lovely girl she is!’ Miss Bowden smiled warmly as they approached the bank door and rang the bell to be admitted. ‘She’s a credit to you both.’

  ‘Well, thank you Miss Bowden,’ Brian’s plump face beamed at the compliment’. Sometimes he felt a little overshadowed by Georgia and it was nice to know his staff at least felt he was responsible for the way she had shaped up, ‘It hasn’t all been easy you know, but she’s been worth the disruption.’

  No one knew how much he’d dreaded having a child of unknown background in his home, Celia least of all. He hid it away, just the same way he did so many things. Celia was like his mother, it was easier to go along with her wishes than argue.

  Now it made him blush when he remembered the way he reported to friends and colleagues about Georgia’s lacerated back on her arrival. He took all the credit for caring for her, implied he intended to move heaven and earth to get St Joseph’s shut down.

  He had been horrified by her injuries, but it was Celia who coped with it, not him. Why had he been so afraid that one small child would ruin their lovely peaceful home? Why had he sulked silently while Celia threw herself into her new mother role wholeheartedly?

  Of course, he hadn’t known then what benefits one child could bring with her. Perhaps if he’d realized he would lose his tag of ‘Boring Old Anderson’ overnight, he might have been less truculent. It had been like joining an exclusive club. Suddenly he was no longer exempt from conversations centred on family life. His staff took more interest in him and for the first time in his life he felt fully accepted.

  Maybe it had taken a little longer to learn to be a real father than he allowed his colleagues to see, but it had its moments of wonder. Taking Georgia for walks, teaching her to ride a bike and do her sums, gave him a kick he hadn’t expected. Women looked at him in a different way, stopping to speak to him. He felt powerful, a man of acti
on, not just a sandy-haired, middle-aged man clutching a briefcase.

  So maybe the magic didn’t reach as far as Celia responding with any real passion to him. Neither did a half-caste child make up for one of their own. But at least Celia and himself had a common interest. She looked younger, prettier, she laughed more, cuddled up to him at nights. Maybe in time that new warmth would turn to desire.

  His office smelled of fresh polish. A clean sheet of paper was in his blotter and his pens were arranged neatly on a desk tray. Soon one of the junior clerks would bring him in fresh coffee and due to Miss Bowden’s thoughtfulness he had time to collect his thoughts and stop dwelling on Georgia.

  Reminders were all around him. The little pen-wipe she had sewn for him last Christmas with Daddy embroidered on it. A painting of him, carefully framed by Celia. Once he would never have considered hanging a picture of a man with flame red hair on his office wall, but he secretly loved Georgia’s image of him. She’d caught his hidden self, a strong-looking man playing cricket. Almost handsome in his white slacks and sweater. It was a talking point with customers, it loosened them up and made them realize he was more than just a stuffed shirt.

  Finally, there was the photograph of the three of them, taken on holiday in Bournemouth. Celia in a low-cut cocktail dress, he in a dinner jacket and Georgia between them, laughing up at them, all dark curls, big eyes and dimples.

  ‘Your coffee, Mr Anderson,’ he hadn’t heard Miss Bowden come in. She put his cup in front of him and placed his diary beside it. ‘Don’t worry about her,’ she patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘Georgia’s a match for anyone, you know that, and don’t forget to telephone your wife.’

  Georgia looked up at the school as she approached the main doors, her stomach churning with fear. It was the biggest school in South London, all glass and concrete, and although she had assured both her parents some of her old friends from Junior school would be there too, the truth was that most of them had found places elsewhere.

  It was easy to identify the other first-years. Like her their uniforms were brand new, they stood white-faced and anxious, biting back tears, far smaller than the girls who sauntered by shouting to their friends, throwing each other’s berets into the air.