Georgia (8 page)

‘Do you think I ought to go up there?’ Brian looked up from his book. His round, plump face seemed more irritated than anxious, but his eyes held suspicion.

‘No,’ Celia frowned. She had put on a new turquoise wool dress, her hair had been set that afternoon, just in case Georgia asked them to come up later. ‘She won’t get up to anything bad, and she knows where we are if anyone else does. This is her first grown-up party, don’t spoil it for her.’

‘Who said anything about spoiling it?’ His look was surly. He too had put on a clean shirt and his best suit and it felt rather silly being dressed up with nowhere to go. ‘But they could be necking up there. We hardly know any of them! As for that dress!’

‘There’s nothing much wrong with a bit of kissing,’ Celia snapped. ‘And she looks lovely in the dress.’

‘It’s too adult,’ he snapped at her. ‘What are you trying to turn her into?’

Georgia had come into the sitting room to show it off, her hair put up in an elaborate French plait, tiny kiss-curls on her forehead. Toffee-coloured shoulders, her waist no bigger than a handspan and small breasts peeping out of the tight bodice.

‘She looks beautiful,’ Celia retorted. ‘I know it’s sad to see her leave behind little white socks and pigtails. But she’s a young woman now. We can’t hold her back.’

‘I don’t like her seeing so much of Peter either,’ Brian snapped. ‘After tonight I’m clamping down. He’s been here almost every day since that time he took her to the pictures.’

‘Term starts again on Monday,’ Celia said gently. ‘He’ll have homework and exams to think about. Georgia will be back to her dancing and singing lessons. What is it Brian,’ she got up and went over to his chair, perching on the arm. ‘You’ve been grumpy for days. Is it just the party? Or is there something else?’

‘Nothing you’d understand.’

‘Let’s have a drink?’ Celia ignored his cryptic reply. She got up and went over to the drinks cabinet.

‘Is that a good idea?’ Brian raised one eyebrow.

‘Of course we can!’ Celia looked over her shoulder, amused by his worried expression. ‘It’s our home, our daughter’s birthday. I wasn’t suggesting we got plastered.’

She poured herself a small gin and tonic, but gave Brian a larger one, hoping it would make him relax.

‘I don’t like Georgia wearing so much eye makeup,’ he snapped. ‘It makes her look cheap.’

‘Don’t be such a wet blanket,’ Celia returned to her seat by the fire. Any other time she would have found his attitude rather touching, a father afraid that his little girl was turning into a woman. But now it merely irritated her.

‘Put a record on,’ Celia said. The overhead light was swinging with the dancing going on overhead. They couldn’t actually hear the music, just the thumping vibration of the bass notes.

Brian got up slowly. He had put on some weight recently, although his good dark suit covered it well. As he bent down by the radiogram she could see he was getting a paunch which hung over his trousers. Yet even the extra pounds added something. He was actually improving with age. A few lines gave his youthful round face more character. Even the streaks of grey in his sandy hair gave him a note of distinction. Shame he had no remarkable features, his faded blue eyes were small, his nose just a fraction too wide, even his chin and mouth were weak. But he had good skin and neat straight teeth. A perfect face for a bank manager, not handsome enough for anyone to consider he might be indiscreet. Reassuring, neatly average.

‘I wonder if any of the boys can “jive” as well as Georgia and Christine?’ Celia wanted to lighten the mood but she was running out of ideas.

He didn’t comment, just took a record out of its sleeve and dusted it carefully.

Celia was just gritting her teeth at his finicky manner when the phone rang out in the hall.

‘I’ll get it.’ She got up, moving to the door. ‘I expect it’s someone’s mother checking what time the party ends.’

Brian was back in his chair, drink in hand and the opening bars of ‘Swan Lake’ filled the room as Celia came in.

‘That was the police.’ The relaxed wife and mother was replaced by a stern, committed social worker. Even her voice was crisper. ‘I’ll have to go. A child in Stepney has been hurt by his father. The rest of the family are at risk.’ She reached behind an armchair for her briefcase and looked down at her clothes as if wondering if she was suitably dressed.

‘Isn’t there anyone else in the world but you?’

‘Not tonight it seems,’ she didn’t notice his sarcasm, more concerned with a five-year-old with a fractured skull. ‘I don’t know how long this will take. I might even have to bring the kids back here till tomorrow. I hope Georgia won’t mind.’

‘What about me?’ Brian asked. ‘Why don’t you ask if I mind?’

This was the last straw. Everything revolved around Georgia, what she wanted to eat, where she wanted to go. Not once had Celia thought to consult him on anything. Now she was walking out with a hundred feet stamping on the floor above him, more concerned with some damn slum kid than her husband left on his own.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she bent to kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘You know perfectly well I’d rather be here with you. But it’s my job, just like you’d have to go out if they robbed the bank tonight.’

She was gone before he could even think of a reply.

Two boys lounged on the stairs, below them sat a couple of girls talking with their heads close together. Celia hadn’t met any of them before.

‘Everything all right?’ she asked as they moved to let her past. ‘Don’t drop that on the carpet,’ she looked disapprovingly at one of the boys’ cigarettes dangling from his fingers.

Georgia was jiving with Christine, the red dress flaring out showing the layers of net and slim, shapely thighs. Her golden brown face, neck and shoulders glistened with perspiration, her dark eyes full of excitement. The French plait, which she’d spent hours arranging was already the worse for wear. Stray wispy curls were coming loose giving her a tempestuous look, like a gypsy dancer.

Christine had changed since the early days at Kidbrooke. Still shorter than Georgia and a little plumper, but the baby face had gone. Her blonde ‘beehive’ quivered as she danced. She had tossed off her high heels and her shoulders were parting company with her low-necked turquoise dress, even the elaborate Eygptian make-up was smeared.

Georgia grinned as she saw Celia peering in the door, she beckoned for her to come in.

‘I can’t stop,’ Celia was shocked to see the room full of smoke and she was sure there were more than the twenty people her daughter had invited. Gangly lads propped up the walls, more sprawled on the floor. One girl was sitting on a boy’s lap, their mouths glued together. A bunch of girls were giggling around the food table and still more were dancing. ‘I’ve got to go out on an emergency.’

‘Oh, Mum!’ Georgia’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘I hoped you were going to come up and meet all my friends.’

Georgia’s plaintive voice cut through her professional concern as Brian’s never could.

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ Celia tweaked Georgia’s cheek. ‘You know how these things are. I wanted to join you too. But I’m sure all your friends will enjoy themselves far better without me cramping their style.’ She turned and smiled at Christine who offered her a sandwich.

‘No thank you dear, I really must go. I may even have to bring some children with me if there’s no alternative. So make sure everyone leaves at twelve and don’t let them disturb the neighbours. Daddy’s downstairs if you want anything.’

‘Hallo, Mrs Anderson,’ Peter was at her elbow. He was wearing smart grey trousers and a white shirt, the first time she had seen him in anything other than jeans. He had the same flushed, happy expression as Georgia, but mingled with concern. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

Celia liked Peter the first moment she met him. It wasn’t the handsome face, the clear eyes or even the obvious intelligence. There was a kind of openness about him she found refreshing. The odd remark about his parents suggested they were more interested in his earning ability than scholastic achievements, his appreciation of her home was a pointer to his own being far more humble. Yet he didn’t ingratiate himself, retaining his own character and belief in himself, while he soaked up information, from food he wasn’t accustomed to, to Celia’s work in Stepney.

‘Help Georgia to keep things under control,’ she gave him a stern look, just to remind him of his place. ‘Mr Anderson’s downstairs. I’ll be back just as soon as possible.’

‘Don’t worry about us,’ he glanced around the room as if already checking for trouble. ‘Drive carefully won’t you? It’s frosty out there.’

By the time Celia had collected her coat from the bedroom, Georgia was dancing with Peter. She paused on the landing for just a second. Peter was no dancer, he shuffled awkwardly, barely in time to the music, but then her daughter’s eyes were on his face, not his feet and the way Peter smiled at Georgia brought a lump to Celia’s throat.

Brian felt restless. There was nothing he wanted to watch on television and the noise upstairs was getting to him. He opened the drinks cabinet again and poured himself another drink.

He was almost glad Celia had to go out, at least now he had something tangible to base his anger on.

It wasn’t the party upstairs, nor even the fact he hadn’t been consulted about anything that bugged him. Neither had his mood just come on him.

He was well past fifty, hair thinning, body fatter. His staff called him ‘Old Anderson’ as if he already had one foot in the grave and sometimes he felt so lonely he wanted to scream.

Celia was to blame. If she could arrange parties for Georgia, why couldn’t she throw one or two for them? Her life was full, she had friends at her office, her clients from all walks of life, and she had Georgia.

Once she’d invited people to dinner, bought tickets for the theatre. They got invited out, they took walks together, they shared things. But lately the phone never rang except for Georgia or Celia, muffled conversations that made him feel shut out. How long was it since Celia cooked him a special meal, asked him what he’d like to do at the weekend? She only played the piano for Georgia and she cringed away from him as if he had leprosy.

What had he got for being easy-going? A job he’d been pushed into. His youth lost in caring for his mother, a house that cost a fortune to run. A child who was someone else’s reject and a frigid, domineering wife.

He poured himself another drink, curling his fingers round the glass and wincing at the fire.

‘I should have sold up when Mother died,’ he said aloud. ‘Travelled, changed my job, had some fun.’ He glanced up at his parents’ wedding picture on the mantelpiece as if half expecting her to reach out and box his ears for even thinking such thoughts. She looked pretty and guileless, gazing up at her uniformed husband in a classic pose of adoration. Was it becoming a war widow and bringing up her son alone that turned her into such a tyrant? She had approved of Celia, the only woman he ever heard her praise. That alone should have warned him off!

He could remember turning at the altar rail as Celia walked up the aisle on her uncle’s arm, his heart almost bursting with pride.

Stout-shoed, tweed-skirted Nurse Tutthill, the plain, sensible girl who’d been there for him when he needed a friend was gone. In her place was a new Celia, curvy and feminine in a dark green, peplum-waisted costume and matching veiled hat. A soft voluptuous mouth accentuated with lipstick, shapely legs in sheer nylons, high-heeled shoes and a permanent wave.

In that moment he thought he’d got everything. Her husky voice promising to ‘have and to hold’, a waft of jasmine scent, and that small hand quivering as he slipped on the ring.

But just hours later in the hotel in Brighton that glow of pleasure turned to shame.

He could remember every detail of that night. The pale green satin eiderdown, the bedside lamps with silky tassels on the shades. The shiny walnut headboard, even the smell of the starched sheets.

Maybe he was guilty of rushing things, but what man wouldn’t when his fingers touched big firm breasts under silk?

‘Let me put my nightie on?’ she whimpered.

‘You don’t need clothes,’ he said burying his face in her neck as his fingers fumbled to unwrap her.

On the train going to Brighton he had imagined taking her clothes off piece by piece, kissing every inch of soft flesh. Maybe he had only paid for sex before, but he thought he knew how to please women.

He turned out the light because she was embarrassed, sure that in darkness she would respond as passionately as him. But as his chest covered her naked breasts he couldn’t hold back. Her skin was so silky he forgot caution, within moments he was pushing into her, squeezing her plump buttocks, whispering things he said to prostitutes.

It was only after that he realized she was icy, her face turned from him, every muscle and nerve-ending rigid with disgust. He touched her cheeks and found tears and in that moment he felt a complete failure.

‘I tried to please her,’ he said aloud as he reached out for the bottle of gin.

It very nearly ended after the war. No more opportunities to get away and find a more amenable partner for the night. So much pent up excitement in the air as the troops came home, rebuilding all around them, yet for Brian everything stayed the same. Celia wanted a baby, he wanted promotion. A world war was fought and won against all odds, yet still he had a wife who stared blankly at the ceiling while he made love to her. Never actually refusing, but somehow that dutiful subservience made him feel dirty.

Perhaps he should have let her leave back then, divorce wasn’t such a big deal anymore.

He felt that uncomfortable feeling of frustration now. Yesterday at the bank it had been so strong he almost went up to the West End after work. Eight hours of working alongside ten women, watching breasts jiggle as they typed. Miss Baldwin the new clerk with her tight skirts and long slender legs curling round her stool as she served customers. At the Christmas party she’d wanted to kiss him, but always he had to be aware of his position. Clerks, assistant managers, they could have affairs, but not the manager, especially one with a social worker for a wife.