Georgia (24 page)

*

As the spring turned to summer Celia saw less of Peter. He was working hard for his exams and for the moment Georgia was taking second place.

Celia pretended it was the same for her. She had taken on a temporary office job which gave her more time to continue her search.

Night after night she went up to the West End of London, Chelsea and Earl’s Court, wandering about, looking.

Just a glimpse of a black curly mop of hair was enough to send her heart pounding. Each brown-skinned girl was studied closely, questions asked in coffee bars until she began to think she’d spoken to half the young girls in London.

When Peter was accepted at Manchester University she was thrilled for him.

‘A new start,’ she said hugging him. ‘You must work hard now. I’ll be here when you come home for Christmas. She’s bound to write to you then.’

‘But you should find a better job,’ he said, looking at her disapprovingly. ‘It’s no good telling me not to waste my talents when you are doing it too.’

‘After Christmas I will,’ she promised.

In October Peter left for Manchester and Celia pressed twenty pounds into his hand.

‘Just a little nest egg to help you when you get there,’ she said, trying not to dwell on how much she would miss him. ‘Come and see me the moment you get back.’

Christmas came and went without hearing anything. She knew Peter was hanging around by the phone and watching for the postman continually and she found it almost impossible to concentrate on anything.

They both bought birthday presents and cards. Celia made a cake and iced it in readiness.

On January 6th Celia had to go to work, but all day she jumped when the phone rang in the office, fully expecting good news from Peter.

There was nothing. Not that Thursday or the Friday.

‘What are we going to do now?’ Peter telephoned her just before she left for home on Friday night.

‘Maybe she’d been working?’ Celia said. ‘She could be planning it tomorrow as it’s Saturday.’

‘I haven’t left the house,’ he said wearily. ‘Mum’s getting really cheesed off with me. I’ll have to go down to the library tomorrow morning, I’ve got loads of work to do.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Celia said. ‘You can’t stay in for ever. If she phones and you’re out, she’ll ring again.’

The weekend passed without a word, and finally on the Sunday night Peter came down to Celia’s flat in Lewisham around nine.

‘Nothing,’ he sighed, looking dejectedly at the brightly-coloured parcels on the table. ‘She can’t care about me anymore,’ he said, flinging himself down into one of her chairs. ‘It was all a dream after all.’

Celia knelt by his side and cupped his face in her hands. ‘Go back to Manchester. Get involved with things up there. Who knows, a letter might come any day. Your mother will send it on.’

‘But what about you?’ he said, tears glistening in his eyes and his sensitive mouth dropping at the corners. ‘You can’t just wait here. There’s no point in it.’

‘I think I need a new start too,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve applied for a job with the World Health Organization. I was going to back out if Georgia came home, but perhaps I should go.’

‘You should,’ he said sadly. ‘There’s nothing to keep you here now. Where is it?’

‘In Africa. I don’t know whether it will be a big hospital, or a small mission somewhere out in the wilds.’

‘You’re very brave,’ he said in a small voice. ‘That’s a huge step for you. I’m going to miss you so much. You will keep in touch, won’t you?’

‘Of course, you silly boy,’ she smiled and patted his face. ‘I haven’t another soul I want to write to and I’m sure once I’m there I’ll be clinging to you like a life raft. Now if she does get in contact make sure you write immediately.’

‘Who else would I share it with?’ he smiled.

Celia smiled bravely as she kissed Peter goodbye. She knew more about rape victims than Peter could ever know. It was common for them to shy away from their old life. They wanted no reminders of their pain. Georgia was a strong person, but not strong enough to come back and re-live her ordeal. Perhaps one day she would be, but as Peter so rightly pointed out Celia couldn’t just brood until then.

‘You must go,’ she said to herself. ‘Maybe helping other children will fill the void. Let Peter forget her, pack away the past and start afresh.’

She sat down at the table and opened a writing pad.

‘Dear Sirs, I am writing to confirm that I wish to take up the nursing position you recently offered me. I can be ready to leave at any time.

Yours sincerely,

Celia Tutthill.’

Chapter 8

The Middlesex hospital was terrifying. From the smoke-blackened stone outside, to wards full of pain-filled faces.

Georgia looked anxiously at Helen as she climbed into her bed in the new white cotton nightdress Janet had made her. Until that morning excitement had brought a flush to her cheeks, but now she had a greeny tinge, her eyes troubled and afraid.

‘I’ll be round every night,’ Georgia squeezed Helen’s small fragile hand. ‘Just think of all the fun we’ll have when your leg’s fixed.’

‘It reminds me of the Home,’ Helen whispered, glancing along the row of beds. Twenty in all, most of the patients lying still, no talking or laughter, a sense of distress in the air. ‘Look at all those crutches, walking frames and wheelchairs,’ she pointed over to the middle of the ward where a collection of aids was kept. ‘Tell me I’ll be able to walk like you when I get out?’

‘Of course you will,’ Georgia gulped hard. ‘Just rest, and think what you are going to wear to the Acropolis!’

Georgia felt scared without Helen that evening. From down in the street were all the usual noises of car doors banging, people shouting and bursts of loud music as a club opened its doors, but up in her room it was too silent.

She hadn’t fully realized till now how much they needed one another. They had ups and downs, times when they argued and bickered. Yet their lives were intertwined. They were more than just friends, and alone she felt abandoned.

Just outside her window were other young girls meeting friends, going dancing and to parties. At only sixteen life seemed to be passing her by.

Would she ever meet a boy she wouldn’t be frightened of? Why was it impossible to think of any male without holding him up in comparison to Peter?

That night as she lay staring at the ceiling, it seemed dirtier than ever. The paper was peeling off, the brown paintwork on the door scratched and puckered with age. Even the posters they’d put up didn’t hide the fact the room was little more than a slum.

They had made some improvements. Newer bedspreads found at a jumble sale, a bright curtain round the hideous old sink, cushions, and a lampshade hid the naked light. But what it really needed was redecoration.

She woke early the next morning, an idea stopping her from sleeping any later.

Dressing quickly she ran downstairs to the café where Bert was in the middle of frying several breakfasts.

Bert made her think of a bloodhound. Deep lines ran down his cheeks, baggy skin round his eyes, even his eyebrows and mouth drooped. One look at his sallow face was enough to think he’d spent his entire life in misery. But Georgia knew better now, she’d heard him laughing constantly, seen him walking through the market whistling, listened to him telling his customers jokes too many times to take notice of his face. He even made jokes about his sad expression, claiming it stopped anyone asking for protection money, one look at him was enough to buy a three course meal just to cheer him up.

‘Want a bit of help?’ she called out gaily, squeezing behind the counter and pouring tea for the waiting customers before he could refuse her.

Bert and Babs were an odd couple. Bert had been brought up in the café and had run it single-handedly until ten years ago when he married Babs. Now as they moved into middle-age, it had become their entire world.

A steamy, warm place in which comfort, cleanliness and style meant less than cheap, plentiful food. The customers who came in for Babs’ famous steak and kidney pies didn’t mind the spindly chairs or the oilcloth-covered tables. Tea came in giant china mugs, bread was cut in doorsteps and when you ordered a full breakfast you got enough to last you all day.

Bert and Babs lived in a few chaotic rooms above the café. No one would guess that this frowsy pair had the additional income of rents from their property next door.

‘What’s up with you?’ Bert asked, amused by Georgia’s bouncy appearance. ‘In love, or after a free fry-up?’

Helen looked upon Bert and Babs almost as parents and both girls gave them a hand in the café when they needed it. Georgia had often thought privately that Bert could be a better landlord, but Helen never had a bad word to say about him.

Right now Georgia had plans to butter him up.

‘Not love, and it’s not food I’m after. I wanted to know if I could paint the room while Helen’s in hospital?’

‘Gor blimey, Georgie,’ He wiped one hand across his sweaty brow, flipping some fried bread over with the other. Bert didn’t like to spend money. ‘That room’s big, it’ll take more than one coat.’

‘I know,’ she tried to look as if she really did. ‘I used to help at home. Can I?’

‘What colour?’ He looked at her sideways, his eyes narrowed.

‘White,’ she said. ‘With yellow paintwork.’

‘Sit down love and eat this,’ he said, tipping a greasy egg on to the bread and picking up a couple of crispy rashers of bacon with his fingers. ‘Let me get me thinking cap on!’

Georgia wolfed down the food as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks.

She watched him as she ate.

‘Okay,’ he said eventually, his sad, sallow face breaking into a grin. ‘I’ll get you the paint and brushes. But mind you do it proper like!’

‘Can you get it today?’

‘Blimey gal,’ he groaned. Georgia had the appeal of a new puppy sometimes and he found it hard to resist. ‘Ain’t you gotta heart? ’Ow am I supposed to find time today?’

As Georgia came down the street at six, picking her way through the market refuse, Bert was smoking a cigarette at the door of the café. His face broke into a grin and he waved for her to come in.

‘’Ere you are,’ he put his hand round the door and pulled out a huge tin of white paint. ‘The yella’s coming tomorrow. Mind you do it proper!’

It was neither as easy or as much fun as Georgia imagined. She soon discovered the paint wouldn’t stick to the ceiling unless she washed it first and it was soon clear it would take far longer than she imagined.

She could only do one bit at a time, moving the furniture one way, then back another. By the time she got back from seeing Helen it was already dark and hard to see bits she had missed.

‘You’ve got white flecks in yer ’air,’ Sally laughed during the week. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘I’ll tell you when it’s finished,’ Georgia said.

Helen was due to have the operation on Friday, and Georgia had been advised not to visit until Sunday afternoon.

On Saturday morning she got up early. The ceiling was finished now and the brilliant new whiteness was enough to spur her on. All day she worked like a slave and at twelve that night with blisters on her hands, she crawled into bed exhausted.

She woke early on Sunday. A ray of early sunshine bounced off the white walls. For a moment she just lay there looking, smiling to herself.

It looked wonderful, even with everything piled in the middle of the room. It could be an artist’s studio or a nursery, so much more light and so clean she wanted to bounce up and down in the bed.

Georgia had a bath and washed her hair before going to the hospital. Her hands were red and sore but it had been worth it. Everything was back in place but it bore no resemblance to the way she’d seen the room that first night.

She wanted to attack the old furniture now. Paint the wardrobe, the table and chairs, make new curtains. When Helen came home it would be perfect.

‘Hallo dear’, Sister smiled a greeting as Georgia peeped nervously round the door of the ward armed with a bunch of daffodils. ‘Can I have a word before you see Helen?’

Georgia had met Sister Hall when she first brought Helen in. She was very tall and thin, a sharp face, softened only by gentle brown eyes. Yet she had a gracious, kindly manner, almost as if it hurt her personally to see her patients suffering.

‘How is she?’ Georgia’s smile faded as Sister ushered her into her office.

‘I’m afraid she’s feeling very sorry for herself. She’s in a lot of pain and she’s not convinced her leg is any better.’

‘But it is, isn’t it?’ Georgia felt a prickle of fear, wiping out her earlier jubilation.

‘Yes, it’s been more than successful, it’s the nearest thing I’ve ever seen to a miracle. But of course she’s going to need an awful lot of physiotherapy before she can walk a step.’

‘You mean she can’t walk at all now?’ Georgia’s mouth fell open in horror. Somehow she had imagined that Helen would be jumping around in a few days.

‘No, of course not dear.’ Sister Hall looked at Georgia as if she were simple. ‘Besides she mustn’t use the other leg otherwise the weak one will always be carried by the good one. Now go on in and cheer her up. But don’t stay more than half an hour.’

Helen had never looked so pale or ill. If her face hadn’t been surrounded by the mass of red hair she would have disappeared into the pillow.

Her leg was in traction, she looked terribly uncomfortable and her eyes were red-rimmed.

She tried to smile when she saw Georgia.

‘How are you feeling?’ Georgia bent to kiss her.

‘Like hell,’ Helen whispered, wincing at the pain. ‘If I’d known it was as bad as this I would have stayed the way I was.’

‘Sister says it’s a miracle,’ Georgia tried to sound bright.

‘I don’t believe that,’ Helen turned her head to one side away from Georgia. ‘I think they are afraid to tell me the truth.’

Pop had warned her people were often depressed after an operation, he had said it had something to do with the anaesthetic. He had advised her to disregard anything morbid Helen might say.