Georgia (7 page)

‘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.

Celia smiled as she peeped into Georgia’s room an hour later.

Brown arms hugging a teddy bear, face buried in the pillow. She had noticed the way Georgia looked at this boy. Guessed the big sighs and long periods of idle dreaming were because of him. Tomorrow she would want endless reassurance that he really did want to take her to the pictures!

Celia closed the door softly and went into her own bedroom. Brian was already in bed, covers up to his chin.

‘What’s this boy like?’ he said unexpectedly.

‘Very nice,’ Celia said sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘Polite, rather handsome, about to do his “A” levels.’

‘She’s a bit young for a boyfriend,’ he said.

‘I don’t know,’ Celia climbed into bed beside him. ‘Most of her friends have one. Better someone like him than some hooligan hanging around on street corners. Don’t get all edgy about it Brian, teenage romances are usually shortlived.’

As she switched out the light Brian turned over and put his arm round her.

‘Don’t,’ she said brusquely, moving away.

‘I only wanted to cuddle you,’ his voice sounded peeved.

‘You always say that,’ she brushed his arm away. ‘And I’m not in the mood.’

‘Are you ever?’ his tone was heavy with sarcasm, and with a sigh he rolled over.

Celia lay there in the dark feeling just a little guilty. So much of their marriage was good, but she found it difficult to respond to him.

Maybe that was why she wanted Georgia to have lots of boyfriends because her own experience was so limited.

Celia Tutthill had always been a ‘sensible’ girl. Clothes chosen for their hard-wearing qualities rather than style, her hair cut short to save bother, swotting for her exams while others danced the night away and fell in love.

She came to this house as a lodger already set into spinsterhood at twenty-seven.

Martha Anderson and her bachelor son Brian were wrapped up in each other and for over a year the only contact she had with either of them was when they passed on the stairs.

It was only when old Mrs Anderson became ill that Celia got involved. Getting shopping for them, helping Brian in the garden, occasionally giving the old lady her medicine and helping her out to the bathroom when Brian was away on business. Martha could be a tyrant, she had kept her son on a tight rein all his life, but Celia was touched by his devotion.

Martha died suddenly one evening. One minute Brian was reading her the paper, the next she was dead, lying back on her lace-trimmed pillows, her wrinkled face suddenly younger.

It was fortunate Celia was off duty. She heard Brian cry out from across the landing and by the time she reached Martha’s bedroom she found him sobbing, his head on his mother’s breast.

She told herself she would stay only until he had got over his grief, then find another home. But without old Martha Anderson bullying him, Celia began to see another side of the lonely bachelor. He was capable yet sensitive, his gentleness was like a soothing balm after a day on the busy ward. She found herself looking forward to her weekends off, accepting his offers to share a meal, to go to the cinema, or even just listening to music together. When he asked her to marry him it seemed a perfect match. They both had their careers, and she could stay on in the house she’d come to love.

In her naïvety Celia hadn’t fully considered what marriage meant. It came as a shock to discover that the sensitive gentleman was also sensuous and demanding.

A glimpse of stocking tops. A hint of nudity. A picture of something titillating in the paper, coupled with a drink or two would arouse him. Before she knew what was happening he was grappling with her, his mouth slobbering over her and suggesting things that made her flesh crawl.

In the new year of 1946 things came to a head. He was angry at being passed over for promotion, perhaps ashamed he’d spent the war behind a desk. But when he began to taunt her with her frigidity, blamed her for not producing a child, she felt leaving him was the answer.

While Brian was away on a course in Brighton, Celia saw it as the perfect opportunity to make the break.

‘I can’t go on the way things are,’ she wrote. ‘I blame myself because I can’t respond to you the way you’d like. Perhaps I was never cut out for marriage. I care for you deeply, but I know that isn’t enough. If I leave you now, maybe you will find happiness with someone else.’

But for once Brian surprised her by being unpredictable. He came home the moment he got the letter, catching her packing.

To this day she could see his face. Weak mouth quivering, eyes full of unshed tears. For once his appearance less than impeccable. He begged her to stay, insisting he wanted her on any terms.

Later that year, Brian was finally promoted to manager of the bank in Lewisham High Street and Celia gave up nursing and became a children’s officer in South London. They learned to compromise. She tried harder to please Brian, he didn’t press her so often. When Georgia arrived, new happiness and purpose made her more loving, at times their lovemaking was tender, if not passionate. But Brian didn’t seem to understand that she found it impossible now Georgia was older. Suppose she heard them? Somehow it seemed indecent at their age!

‘I want Georgia to marry for love,’ Celia said to herself in the darkness. ‘Just liking someone and sharing a home isn’t enough for anyone.’

*

Strains of the Everly Brothers wafted down the stairs.

The door bell had been ringing constantly since eight that evening. Trudging feet, peals of laughter, shouts and giggles made them feel the playroom must now be packed to capacity.