Georgia

  The garden was beautiful in summer. The children ran on the grass, chasing each other around the trees. There was the smell of the flowers, the big bushes they could hide behind, and long days with little supervision.

  But now in February it was torture. The wind whistled through thin gaberdine raincoats, catching sore places on bare legs, nipping at ears and fingers. If they played with the snow brushed up round the playground it soon made them colder. All they could do was huddle closer to the walls. Twenty-four girls from four to twelve waiting for the bell to ring for dinner. Pale, pinched faces, gazing longingly at the steamy laundry where the older girls were privileged enough to be up to their elbows in soapy suds or sweating over hot irons.

  ‘She’ll call you in soon.’ Susan Mullins a carroty-haired eleven-year-old with freckles moved closer to Georgia. ‘Are you scared?’

  The word had even spread to the bigger girls about Georgia’s run-in with Aggie. It was almost worth being punished to see their approval. But however big and tough she felt here surrounded by admiring friends it didn’t stop the need to keep going to the lavatory, or the moments of panic when she saw a nun’s face at the window.

  ‘No,’ Georgia gave a wobbly grin. ‘I’ll get a knife and cut off her wart, then she’ll bleed to death.’

  The door of the playroom opened just before tea-time. Georgia was curled up on one of the old settees reading an ancient comic, younger girls were racing around the big empty room, while older girls huddled in a corner by the hot pipes.

  ‘Georgia,’ Sister Mary’s voice made her jump. ‘Mother Superior wants you.’

  Sister Mary was the youngest of the nuns. Perhaps in her mid-thirties, but it was difficult to put an age to her. She was tall and slender, with a smooth, unlined face. She had the appearance of a china doll, dainty fair eyebrows set above eyes like summer skies, and rosy lips over small white teeth.

  Yet despite Sister Mary’s youth, she was tough enough to act as a mediator between them and Sister Agnes. Her rippling laughter, her understanding of children, her gentleness and soft voice gave each child a feeling of security. She had trained as a nurse. During the war she had been close to enemy lines and the older girls speculated why anyone so pretty had chosen to enter a convent instead of marrying and having children of her own.

  The other girls from the middle dormitory were looking at Georgia in horror. Pamela’s eyes filled up with tears, she clutched Georgia with her small podgy hands.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ she whimpered. ‘You’ll get a beating now, just for sticking up for me.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Georgia said reassuringly, slipping an arm round the smaller child. ‘I’m not afraid of her. Besides, I might be able to tell her how cruel Sister Agnes is to you.’

  ‘You’re so brave,’ Pamela sighed, her good eye on Georgia, the other one on the window. ‘I wish I could be like you.’

  A statue of the Virgin Mary stood at the turn of the stairs, with a small night light in front of it. Georgia genuflected, screwing her eyes up tightly as she made a quick plea for mercy.

  The wide hallway was very dark. It was oak panelled, the only natural light came from the window on the staircase, and a lone candle under a picture of the Sacred Heart. It was no use looking at the front door and considering escape. Even if she could reach the big bolt at the top she couldn’t get far in the snow with only plimsoles on her feet and no coat. Instead she screwed her hands into fists, wiped her nose on her jumper sleeve and knocked at Mother Superior’s door.

  ‘Come in!’ Mother Superior’s faint old voice crackled from within, like ancient parchment.

  Georgia turned the brass knob with two hands, opened it just a crack, and tentatively put her head inside.

  Mother Superior sat by a blazing log fire, her back to the window, a small, bowed figure in an oversized winged armchair.

  ‘Come on in, no one’s going to bite you.’

  To Georgia’s surprise the tone was almost jovial, but then Sister Agnes was probably lurking behind the door.

  Georgia slunk in, eyes down on the carpet, hands still holding the door.

  ‘Close that door,’ Mother Superior snapped. ‘We don’t want to freeze.’

  It was the ‘we’ that made Georgia glance up. A lady was sitting on the settee further back from the fire, looking at her. Mother Superior was wearing the smile she usually only reserved for Christmas and visitors.

  Georgia closed the door carefully, arranging the heavy wool curtain over it to keep the draughts out. She had seen this lady before once or twice at school, yet she wasn’t a teacher. Had Georgia been so bad they needed outside help now, to punish her?

  Mother Superior reached out one tiny, bony hand, in a gesture that said Georgia was to come closer. She was rumoured to be eighty. Whether this was true or not Georgia had no idea, but she certainly was very wrinkled; not just around her eyes, but all over her face, as if she had shrunk a foot or two and all the spare skin remained.

  ‘Mrs Anderson is a children’s officer. She’s come here to talk to you.’

  Georgia stood uneasily on the hearth rug, her stomach churning with fear. She knew what children’s officers did, they were the ones who came and took girls away when they wouldn’t behave. Yet for all that, Mrs Anderson didn’t look fierce. She had that same look of authority Miss Powell had, and she sat as serenely as if she were in her own home. Her face was round and her hair cut almost like a man’s, but her smile and pink cheeks were distinctly feminine.

  ‘Hallo Georgia,’ the woman got up, taking Georgia by surprise as her strong, clear voice filled the room. ‘I don’t suppose you remember me, but I saw you at the Christmas play.’

  ‘You’re going to take me away?’ Georgia stuck out her small pointed chin defiantly. ‘I didn’t do anything but try and help Pamela. Sister Agnes is cruel and mean.’

  The lady looked from both Georgia to Mother Superior in surprise.

  Georgia was baffled now. Her entire childhood had been spent studying adults’ secret looks. Whatever this lady had come for it wasn’t to chastise her further.

  ‘Now then, Georgia,’ Mother Superior’s tone was honeyed, the warning of punishment hidden except to the two of them. She got up unsteadily and put one hand on Georgia’s shoulder, bony fingers digging in her flesh just hard enough to remind her she hadn’t been brought in to reveal secrets about anyone. ‘Mrs Anderson has come here today to offer you a wonderful opportunity. Don’t try to be difficult.’

  ‘Perhaps I should talk to Georgia on her own for a while?’ Mrs Anderson’s suggestion sounded more like a statement.

  Georgia looked from one adult to the other, puzzled, but no longer frightened.

  ‘If you think that is necessary,’ the older woman replied starchly. She straightened up her small, bent frame, her bloodless lips pursed with irritation. ‘I have got some important jobs to do.’ She bustled towards the door, every inch of her showing disapproval.

  Mrs Anderson got up, took Georgia’s hand and led her back to the settee.

  ‘She wasn’t keen to go,’ she said, lifting Georgia’s face up with one finger to study it. ‘So I’ll have to be quick.’

  Georgia liked her touch. It was like her manner, confident, kindly, maybe even motherly. Her eyes were grey, with tiny specks of green, bright and unwavering, a few tiny lines around them, maybe more from laughter than old age.

  There was a lovely fresh smell about her. Like sheets when they had hung outside all day in the sunshine. She was a big woman, with ample hips and a bosom that pushed out the front of her jacket, but not exactly fat. Not as elegant as Miss Powell, but she looked more friendly.

  ‘I saw you at the school concert,’ she said softly. ‘I loved your voice and I couldn’t forget you. When I discovered you had been here for years, I tried to find out if I could adopt you.’

  Georgia’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

  ‘Apparently that isn’t possible. But I still want you to be my little girl. I want you to
come and live with me if you’d like to.’

  It was like a dream, yet the plump, warm hand holding hers was real enough.

  ‘You want me?’ Georgia’s wide mouth split into a grin which spread from ear to ear.

  To her surprise Mrs Anderson’s eyes seemed to be filling with tears.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ Georgia leaned closer, tentatively touching the lady’s face. ‘I can be ready in ten minutes.’

  Mrs Anderson laughed then, the sort of laugh Georgia never heard from the nuns. It was the sound of freedom, a wonderful sound that somehow embodied life outside the convent. Georgia joined in, her nose wrinkling up with merriment.

  ‘Oh, Georgia, I knew you were my little girl when I first saw you,’ she laughed, squeezing Georgia’s hand still tighter. ‘My goodness, you are a tonic.’

  ‘What’s a tonic?’ Georgia’s face was suddenly more serious.

  ‘It’s a kind of medicine you take, to make you feel better,’ Mrs Anderson explained, her eyes still dancing with laughter. ‘You’ve just banished every doubt in my mind.’

  ‘Do you really want to take me with you?’ Georgia’s eyes were wary. Sister Mary and Miss Powell could be relied on but she’d never met any other adults who didn’t change their minds.

  ‘Yes, but I can’t take you now. It will be tomorrow.’

  Georgia thought quickly. She was sure she could trust Mrs Anderson. This wasn’t one of those empty-headed ladies who came here looking for a small, cuddly plaything. She wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone.

  ‘Can you do something for me then?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Well get someone to stop Sister Agnes. She beats Pamela for wetting the bed and she can’t help it.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Mrs Anderson looked shocked. ‘Has she ever beaten you?’

  ‘Loads of times,’ Georgia said nonchalantly. ‘But I’m bigger and tougher. I can stand up for myself. Pamela can’t. She’s only seven and her mummy and daddy are dead.’

  ‘But you haven’t any parents either?’ Mrs Anderson’s voice dropped, she smoothed Georgia’s cheek, then kissed her hair.

  ‘Yes,’ Georgia looked up at her proudly. ‘But I’ve been on my own since I was born. I’ve learnt to cope with things, and anyway I don’t wet the bed.’

  Mrs Anderson seemed to find that amusing.

  ‘Mr Anderson and myself live in a nice big house in Blackheath,’ she explained. ‘I’m very glad you don’t wet the bed as I’ve bought a nice new one for you. You’ll go to school nearby and we have the heath and Greenwich Park just across the road. But once you have settled in with us, I’ll see what I can do for your friend.’

  ‘Have you got lots of children?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘No, I haven’t any,’ Mrs Anderson’s mouth was twitching with merriment at Georgia’s rapt expression. ‘But you’ll soon make new friends at school.’

  ‘Will there be music there?’ There had to be some hidden catch, but maybe Miss Powell and her piano was a small price to pay.

  ‘There certainly will, I play the piano myself and if you like we can arrange music and singing lessons.’

  Georgia’s eyes lit up, her mouth fell open and if it hadn’t been for the door opening again, she would have whooped with delight. But Mother Superior shuffled into the room, her wrinkled face full of suspicion.

  ‘Have we had enough time?’ her sarcasm was not wasted even on Georgia.

  ‘We’ll have all the time in the world soon,’ Mrs Anderson said sweetly. She bent over to kiss Georgia, and whispered in her ear. ‘When you’re my little girl.’

  ‘Run along now Georgia.’ Mother Superior once more put on the expression for visitors, a smarmy smile, a patronizing tone and all the time her bony fingers fiddling with her Rosary. ‘Mrs Anderson will be coming in the morning for you.’

  The white tiled bathroom was full of steam. The floor was awash where less than an hour ago twenty other children had been bathed in the four large baths. Despite the steam the room was freezing, the windows rattling as a gale-force wind howled around the old convent.

  Georgia wanted to dance and sing. She wanted to tell the world this was her last night. Tomorrow she would have her own room. A mother who would tuck her into bed. Someone who liked her singing and could play the piano.

  Since meeting Mrs Anderson earlier on, she had been kept apart from the other children. Mother Superior had even said she was to spend the night in the isolation room at the top of the house. But no one could silence Georgia’s high spirits tonight. Alone in the bathroom she stripped off the matted grey jumper, the long, ugly skirt, her flannel petticoat, liberty bodice and her navy blue baggy knickers. Forgetting the propriety of never standing naked in sight of the Lord, even the shabby old vest was tossed away.

  She picked up a small towel, wrapped it round her middle like a dress, and made believe she was a grown-up lady in front of a big audience.

  ‘In Dublin’s fair city, where the maids are so pretty,’ she sang at the top of her voice, dancing nimbly around the room. ‘That’s where I first set eyes on sweet Molly Malone.’

  The door opened silently. Georgia was so engrossed in her performance, she didn’t see Sister Agnes’s approach, or hear the sharp intake of breath.

  Crack!

  Georgia jumped in the air as if she’d been stung by a wasp, dropping her towel to the floor.

  Sister Agnes had one of her favourite weapons in her hand. It was merely a thin, damp towel, but in her hands it was deadly. She was poised for mischief, flicking it accurately across Georgia’s naked buttocks like a whip.

  ‘Admiring ourselves were we?’ her bloated ugly face was contorted with suspicion. Already she was preparing the small towel for another blow.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ the small girl retorted indignantly, jumping to one side, hands raised to ward off more blows. ‘I was just singing.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me,’ Sister roared, flicking the towel expertly to catch the child yet again. ‘You are a wicked sinful girl with unclean thoughts. How dare you expose yourself?’

  In her excitement Georgia had forgotten the incident in the dormitory, but it was clear Sister Agnes hadn’t. Yet surely she wouldn’t dare hurt her now, not when Mrs Anderson was coming back so soon?

  ‘Don’t you touch me,’ she yelled with all the volume she could muster. ‘I’ve got a mother now!’

  ‘How dare you?’ Sister Agnes dropped the towel and stalked towards her, her several chins quivering round her wimple with rage, beady eyes full of malice.

  Georgia backed into the tiled wall, her bare toes scrabbling to get a grip on the wet floor. She was prepared now to stand her ground, not to let the old woman get the better of her.

  ‘Don’t you hit me,’ she yelled defiantly, her dark eyes blazing with new-found courage. ‘I’ll tell her!’

  ‘Tell her what you like. Do you think anyone will believe some half-witted nigger instead of me?’

  Georgia braced herself. Time and time again Sister Agnes had thrown that word at her.

  ‘I’m not a nigger,’ her eyes filled with tears. ‘That’s an evil word and so are you!’

  Sister stared at her for a moment, clearly surprised at any child answering her back. Georgia’s darkness showed up more clearly in here, against the white walls. Naked, she looked thin to the point of malnutrition, her limbs like sticks, her head seeming too big for her body.

  To Sister Agnes, the child before her was a product of the Devil. A child born out of wedlock, abandoned at a few months, proof in her eyes that the mother was a whore.

  She resented the way Georgia got attention both from adults and the other children by singing and play acting. No other child at St Joseph’s ever had the nerve to answer back as she did and now she had been singled out for a new home with that insolent woman who dared suggest Georgia was undernourished. Mrs Anderson wasn’t even a Catholic. What right did she have to criticise the care in St Joseph’s?

  Georgia hadn’
t reckoned with Sister coming armed with her small cane. Like a snake it appeared out of the folds of Sister’s habit. Some fourteen inches of thin, bendy wood, polished and smooth with years of handling.

  Sister Agnes was old, fat and out of breath. But Georgia was no match for her, not now Sister was filled with righteous indignation.

  Moving back, Georgia found herself trapped in the corner and she watched in horrified fascination as the old woman stooped over the bath and turned the taps on full to drown any noise. Still stooping, cane in one hand, the other on the tap, she turned slightly to look at Georgia, her lips curled into a sneer.

  Georgia tried to slide along the wall. Her heart thumped and she felt as if her legs were embedded in cement.

  One claw-like hand reached out and clamped on to Georgia’s bony shoulder and the other hand lifted the thin cane up high.

  There was a whistling noise and the cane flashed through the air, catching the child’s arm, searing through the skin.

  ‘Please don’t!’ Georgia yelled, dancing in pain.

  ‘Bend over,’ Sister bellowed. ‘You’ve had this coming to you for a long time.’

  ‘Please, Sister,’ Georgia whimpered. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said.’

  ‘Oh yes you did. You think you are special. You always have. It’s about time someone took you to task, beat that proud look out of you.’

  Georgia cowered further into the corner, slumping down onto her haunches, arms raised to protect her head.

  She saw one black shoe shoot out from under the habit, kicking out her legs from under her, and her bottom crashed to the floor.

  The next blow caught her on the thigh. She scrabbled to get away, but made the mistake of presenting her bottom as she did so.

  Again and again the cane cut into her bottom, legs and back. She screamed in terror, but it was drowned by the rush of bath water.

  ‘Get in that bath!’ Sister Agnes yelled.

  Skirting round Sister, Georgia moved quickly to the other side of the bath and jumped in. The water was scalding hot, but she didn’t dare cry out. It came up to her armpits and burnt into the weals left by the cane.