Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  She was bursting with it, her lined face flushed salmon pink, contrasting vividly with her saxe green sweater.

  ‘She said to send you over there. She did remember a child of the right age. Last night she needed time to think it out.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Sam said, ready to run out the door.

  ‘Buckhurst Hill,’ she said, picking up the address and telephone number and pushing it into his hands. ‘Please phone me and let me know.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that,’ he leaned forward and kissed her soft cheek. ‘If I find her I’ll bring her to see you.’

  Sam straightened his jacket and rubbed his shoes on his trouser legs before pushing open the gate. It had seemed an interminable journey on the tube and he wished he had smarter clothes to see this Tartar.

  It was a small bungalow, painted white with green shutters, set in a lawned garden. Everything was bare now, but it was the sort of garden he knew would be beautiful in summer. The door opened before he even reached it.

  ‘Mr Cameron I presume?’ she said.

  Sam wanted to laugh. She was the type of lady he had seen in British films. Snooty, tall, grey hair cut very short and a masculine set to her features. Her body was encased in men’s cord trousers, with a thick navy sweater, through the thick material he knew it was large and muscular rather than fat. Even at seventy she looked formidable.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am,’ Sam held out his hand. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  He couldn’t make out what she was thinking. A woman of her age and background probably loathed black men, especially ones who impregnated young girls and left them alone to get killed.

  ‘Come in,’ she said crisply. ‘Wipe your feet.’

  Sam followed her down the passage. She walked straight-backed, head held high. She turned into a room and he followed.

  It was a beautiful room. Big French windows looked on to the garden. A green thick carpet which seemed to make it harder to see where the garden began or ended. A stone fireplace with a roaring log fire and fat comfortable-looking chairs. He could see no television or even radio. Just hundreds of books on shelves and an artist’s easel standing by the window.

  ‘Do sit down,’ she said, making a gesture to a chair. ‘Last night when Miss Brice telephoned me I couldn’t remember much. But I’ve thought it over and a little more has come back to me.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Sam leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘I couldn’t say now,’ she said haughtily. ‘I suggest you just listen to me and I’ll tell you all I know.’

  The way she barked out her orders reminded Sam of a woman he once worked for in New Orleans. She was German with an English husband, but she never let him get a word in edgewise either.

  ‘I did take a child away from foster parents. It was in 1946 and the child was around twenty months. She had been in Billericay war orphans home, and she was coloured.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘I can’t recall her Christian name, though I do remember it was the only thing which seemed to really belong to her. She took the surname Barlow from the people who fostered her. Whether she was abandoned or the same child as was found in Hughes Mansions I can’t say for certain. I wasn’t working in England during the war.’

  Sam frowned. Miss Hammick read his mind.

  ‘It’s no good you looking like that,’ she said tersely. ‘England and particularly the East End took a frightful hammering during the war. I know you Americans think you did it all, but I know better. People were buried hurriedly, records weren’t kept that well. We had to conceal disasters to keep up morale.’

  Sam nodded. ‘I was here ma’am, I do understand, it’s just painful to think a baby gets stuck in a home without anyone knowing how or why.’

  ‘If wouldn’t have happened if I’d been there then,’ she said with more than a hint of pride.

  ‘You say you took her from foster parents? To where and why?’ Was she too old to remember clearly? Was this another wild goose chase?

  ‘She was too much of a handful for them,’ Miss Hammick sniffed disdainfully. ‘I can vouch for that in the one day I had her in my car. She never stopped moving.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  Again that strange haughty look.

  ‘Brown of course. With black curly hair. Half-caste I’d say,’ she withered him with one glance. ‘Anyway, I had an awful job placing her. No one knew anything about the child. Everywhere was full. I ended up at St Joseph’s in Grove Park.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘South London,’ Miss Hammick sniffed again. ‘Unfortunately that home has closed since. Not before time too as I believe, most of the nuns were totally unsuitable for child care.’

  Sam blanched. If a woman like her thought someone was unsuitable they must have been fiends. This woman showed no emotion at all. Not even real curiosity.

  ‘How?’ he had to ask.

  ‘Children were beaten. I dare say some of them merited it. Appalling diet, little medical attention. Had I known that then, of course I wouldn’t have taken the child there. You have to understand there weren’t the same standards in child care in those days. I made it my business to root out all those types of homes later on.’

  ‘Did you see her again after that day?’

  ‘No, I never did,’ Miss Hammick spoke thoughtfully. ‘When it was closed I believe most of the girls left were sent to Dr Barnardo’s. But of course this child would have been thirteen or fourteen then. She might have been fostered out.’

  ‘Is there any way I could find out?’

  ‘Well,’ she paused, as if she knew something but wasn’t sure if she should reveal it. ‘I rang Downham’s children’s department this morning. They told me all the names of girls taken over by Barnardo’s, but they had no record of a girl called Barlow.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sam’s face fell. He wondered how a society could lose a child so easily.

  ‘But I did discover the whereabouts of one of the younger nuns from St Joseph’s. In fact she was there the night I handed over the baby. She is with a convent in Hampstead.’

  All these names of places were confusing Sam. Was Hampstead in London?

  He looked blankly at Miss Hammick.

  Nuns were something he feared, he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it had something to do with one who’d beaten him as a boy.

  ‘It’s not a closed order or anything like that,’ she said briskly. ‘An unmarried mothers’ home. From what I understand about Sister Mary you’ll find her helpful and kind-hearted. It was she alone who kept any kind of standard in St Joseph’s. She’s still young enough to remember the details I may have forgotten.’

  ‘Can I go there now?’ he said.

  ‘No, that wouldn’t be prudent,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘Write to Sister Mary giving her all the information I have given you. She’ll arrange to meet you somewhere away from there.’

  She paused again. ‘Of course, it’s very likely this child isn’t yours. There is an even greater possibility that Sister Mary knows nothing of the girl’s whereabouts. There were a great many war orphans. I don’t know the percentage of coloured ones. But she wasn’t the only one. Before you go claiming her, remember this. I’d hate to think I started something that ultimately brought disappointment.’

  ‘I’m very grateful to you ma’am,’ Sam said. He knew the interview was terminated. He was even amused that she thought it unseemly for him to go to a home for unmarried mothers. Was she protecting him, or the girls?

  ‘We only call the Queen “Ma’am”,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘Miss Hammick is sufficient.’

  She picked up a piece of paper from her writing desk.

  ‘The address in Hampstead,’ she said. ‘I’d be pleased to hear the outcome of this quest. For both your sakes I hope it will have a happy ending.’

  It was torture waiting for Sister Mary to reply. Should he have suggested a meeting place, told her more about his background? Would he find hi
s child was one who’d been ill-treated?

  On Friday morning at nine, he stumbled down the stairs hopefully, as he had each morning for four days as soon as he heard the click of the letterbox.

  Endless bills for other tenants, an air letter for the woman below him. But amongst them was a blue one addressed to him. Thin, spidery writing that could only be Sister Mary, he tore it open and pulled out the single sheet.

  ‘Dear Mr Cameron,

  Thank you for your letter. I do remember the child you spoke of and I would be happy to meet you to discuss this further.

  I usually go to Hampstead village on Saturday afternoons for some shopping. We could meet in the Half Moon tea shop up near the Heath. Shall we say at three thirty? I look forward to meeting you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Sister Mary

  It was a temptation to go out and get roaring drunk, but reason got the better of him. Better to phone Miss Brice and Clive to share his news, than to risk a hangover when he met the nun.

  She was already in the tea shop when he got there. A slight, dark little figure sitting at a table by the window, her eyes downcast in front of her.

  ‘Sister Mary?’ he said, feeling too large and clumsy for such a small, quaint place.

  Delicate pink and white walls, dainty lace curtains on a brass rail. Snowy white cloths and a glass cabinet at the back of the shop piled high with home-made cakes.

  ‘Yes, Mr Cameron,’ she looked up at him and took his outstretched hand. Hers was tiny, her eyes a bright blue set in a pink and white face which matched the decor.

  ‘I imagined you old,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘I am,’ she laughed, like a trickle of water over pebbles. ‘The Lord saw fit to give me a youthful face. But do sit down, I took the liberty of ordering tea.’

  He could see at closer inspection she was well over fifty. Tiny lines round her eyes and mouth and her hands were veined and reddened from rough work. Her starched wimple gave her an ethereal look, enhanced by the lovely eyes.

  ‘I don’t know where to begin,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything you know, quickly.’

  Her soft, small mouth curved into a smile. She said nothing, just looked at his face.

  ‘Well?’ Sam felt a blush creeping up his neck, but still she studied him.

  ‘Just the way you are in such a hurry makes me sure we have the right child,’ she said. ‘But describe her mother please.’

  Sam hadn’t expected this. Once he’d had a photograph of her, but Ellie had destroyed it.

  ‘Small, slender,’ he said. ‘Dark shiny hair and eyes. Her face was kinda heart-shaped. You know, with one of those little pointy chins. She had long legs and a tiny waist. And a dimple here,’ he pointed to his right cheek.

  ‘The chin and the dimple are enough,’ she said. ‘The rest I can see in your own face.’

  A sharp pain stabbed at Sam’s heart. He hadn’t felt anything like that since losing Katy.

  ‘You mean you believe she is my child?’

  ‘I do indeed, Mr Cameron,’ she smiled gravely. ‘I was reminded the moment you sprang in the door. What you have told me about Katy fills in the missing part.’

  ‘What was she called?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that for a moment,’ she said. ‘First you must tell me exactly what happened between you, and your circumstances now.’

  It was irritating to have to explain when and how they met. Even more distressing to explain their parting and his subsequent reasons for thinking she had changed her mind. He spoke of his marriage, his other two children and all the time Sister Mary listened carefully.

  When he’d finished, she poured the tea and passed a plate of hot buttered crumpets.

  ‘Do you know where she is now?’

  Sam had this terrible feeling the woman was going to give him a name but nothing more. He hadn’t much time left now. How many years did it take to find a missing person?

  ‘I know who she is,’ Sister Mary said dropping her eyes from his. ‘And it’s because of this I feel I have to tread with caution.’

  A dozen different things ran through his mind. Was she in trouble? Had she been taken by someone who’d brought her up as their own?

  ‘So bad, huh?’ he said, sipping his tea.

  ‘Oh no,’ she smiled and shook her head. ‘Your daughter is everything you could want. Beautiful, talented. But let me explain first.’

  Sam listened to the story about how this woman called Celia Anderson took her away.

  ‘I have to admit I loved that child more than any other, even if I should feel ashamed for admitting favouritism.’ She smiled as if the memory was very dear to her. ‘I missed her so much. She was on my mind constantly. But I was happy because she was. Sometime after her fifteenth birthday I went to Blackheath on an errand, and taking a welcome chance to see her again I stopped off at her house.’

  ‘Did you see her?’

  ‘No, but what I did see worried me greatly. I’d never met her foster father until that day. He came to the door wrapped in a blanket. He looked ill, and he had been drinking. I asked for Mrs Anderson and he snapped at me. He said she had left him. I asked about the girl and he flew into a rage. He pulled up his shirt and showed me a fearful scar. He claimed she had stabbed him, then run away.’

  Sam just stared. Nothing had prepared him for this.

  ‘I met Mrs Anderson on several occasions,’ Sister Mary said gravely. ‘She was a fine, honourable woman and I knew if she’d left that house, it was in disgust at something he had done to the girl. I believed at that time they were together somewhere. I tried to find Celia myself later on when I had given the matter more thought. Only then did I discover she’d left her job to search for the girl.’

  ‘Why do you keep calling her the girl?’ Sam said gently.

  ‘Because her name is a household word now, and I have to be sure you can handle a reunion properly.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Your daughter changed her surname. She has never given anyone details of her background. Her foster father had a knife wound in here,’ she touched her stomach. ‘I’m not a worldly woman Mr Cameron. Yet I managed to reach an understanding of what happened in that house.’

  Sam’s eyes shot open wide.

  ‘You mean,’ he covered his eyes with his hand.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, softly lowering hers. ‘I found out from the police that an incident had taken place.’ She blushed furiously, her hand reaching for her rosary. ‘No charges were ever made because she refused to speak about it. Mr Anderson claimed it was someone else and that she attacked him out of spite when he chastised her. Days later she ran away and was never found.’

  ‘But you have found her?’

  ‘I know who she is now, and follow her life with love, admiration and a sense of guilt that I was party to a child being placed with such a man. I believe she kept quiet in a misplaced sense of honour. Not for him so much, but her mother, and the boyfriend she had at the time.’

  ‘The b –’ Sam stopped short, his early upbringing reminding him he couldn’t say words like that in front of a nun. ‘I’ll swing for him.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she said firmly. ‘I want you to be rational about this. Your daughter has kept that secret for six years. All her life she has thought she was an abandoned child. She doesn’t even know which of her parents was black. I believe the shock of hearing you are her father could unbalance her. Fathers to her may still mean pain.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’ He felt humbled by this little woman’s understanding and strength of character.

  ‘You are well placed to get close to her,’ she said. ‘Try to get closer still and win her confidence. Be there for her, because she is surrounded by people who may not have her best interests at heart. God will guide you then.’

  She picked up her rosary and held it between her worn red hands as if gaining strength from it.

  ‘Your daughter is Georgia James.’


  For a moment the room spun round. The girl he had seen at the airport. That beautiful mulatto with the voice of an angel.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure of this?’ he whispered. Tears were welling up in his eyes, he brushed them away almost angrily.

  ‘Look,’ she said gently, pulling out of her habit a worn old photograph of a child with short curly hair.

  ‘This was my Georgia. I loved her as if I was her own mother. Can you tell me I’m mistaken now? She kept her real Christian name too. She dropped the Anderson because of its connections, but she couldn’t change the name her mother gave her. She sang to me so often as a little girl. I recognised her voice on the radio, even without a picture of this new star. I knew her from the voice Sam, but her face confirms it.’

  Sam took the picture in his hands. She was so thin, yet he could see Katy, and even Jasmine in the face before him.

  ‘Celia Anderson sent this one to me with a Christmas card.’ Another picture appeared in her hands. ‘She was almost fifteen then.’

  Sam gasped. The face before him now was a dark-skinned version of Katy’s. Her hair was past her shoulders, the dimple in her cheek, the heart-shaped face, all served to confirm her parentage. But her eyes were his, and the chiselled cheek-bones, like looking in a mirror and seeing his own reflection.

  So many times he’d stopped to look at this same face in the record shop windows, idly wondering if she would get back to sit in at Ronnie Scott’s before he left to go home. He’d listened to her records on the radio, even written to his kids and suggested they buy her latest album. Now this sweet little nun was telling him it was his daughter!

  ‘She’s in the States now,’ he whispered. ‘I may have to go back. I’ve only got a contract for six weeks.’

  ‘I checked on you, too,’ she smiled. ‘You’ve been getting some startling reviews yourself. Surely you can engineer something to keep you here till she gets back?’

  ‘But how do I get to see her?’ he whispered. ‘No one gets near her from what I’ve read.’

  ‘I believe in good coming out of evil,’ she said simply. ‘Something made you come to England, then you went to check in the East End. Did you plan to do that before you came?’