From the seedy backstreets of London’s Soho in the 60s to the tough, sexy world of international rock-stardom in the 70s, Georgia sees it all…
When nine-year-old orphan Georgia James is unexpectedly fostered by the kindly Celia and her bank manager husband she can hardly believe her luck. But then – on her fifteenth birthday – she suffers the cruellest betrayal of all at the hands of her foster father and is forced to run away, leaving everything she loves behind her.
Penniless, sleeping rough, Georgia is soon introduced to the sleazy Soho world of brassy strippers, sweat shops, camaraderie and hardship. Fired by a fierce ambition, blessed with an extraordinary voice, her long struggle for fame and fortune begins. But even when she reaches the top she finds that the scars of the past can open up to ruin her…
Lesley Pearse was born in Rochester, Kent, but has lived in Bristol for over twenty-five years. She has three daughters and a grandson. She is the bestselling author of nineteen novels, including Ellie, Georgia, Tara, Camellia and Charity, all five of which are published by Arrow. She is one of the UK’s best loved novelists with fans across the globe and sales of over three million copies of her books to date.
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Lesley Pearse
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
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Grove Park, South London, February 1954
Clanking keys and a ponderous step woke Georgia. Her ear was so finely tuned she knew which nun was coming, even her exact position.
It was Sister Agnes. Some of the nuns moved up the stairs in one fluid movement, some panted and huffed, pausing to rest halfway, but Sister Agnes despite her bulk and age ploughed on steadily to the top, her breath wheezing faintly.
She had reached the top now, passing the long, narrow, barred window, on her way to ring the early morning bell.
Georgia sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. A murky grey light showed up twelve iron beds, six to each side of the large room. Small mounds in each, still fast asleep.
The heavy footsteps moved away from her dormitory, down towards where the bell hung on the wall just outside the big girls’ room. Another pair of feet were coming down the stairs from the floor above, this time light and bouncy, almost running as they went on down further. That would be Sister Theresa on her way to make Mother Superior’s early morning tea.
A whimper made Georgia’s head turn to the bed on her left. As the child stirred, so an unmistakable acrid smell of urine wafted across to her nostrils.
‘Pamela!’ she hissed. ‘Aggie will be in here any minute, run for the bathroom. I’ll try and cover for you.’
The bell rang out in the uncarpeted corridor, drowning Pamela’s reply and as the last echo reverberated round the convent, so heavy feet thudded towards them.
Pamela’s first cry had been one of dismay to find she was wet, but her second was one of terror. Instead of shooting out of her bed, and running like a hare out of harm’s way, she just cowered, small arms over her head, waiting for the beating she knew would soon come.
Georgia knew to protect Pamela she had to create a diversion. Tossing back her covers she leapt into the air.
Sister Agnes paused momentarily in the doorway in time to see Georgia’s trial bounce, landing feet apart, hands clutching her pyjama trousers.
‘Get down this minute!’ she shouted. The child looked like a chimney-sweep. As thin as a stick in oversized striped pyjamas, her crop of black curls standing out like a wire brush.
One hand flew up to hold down the starched wimple, the other lifted her habit clear of the floor.
‘How dare you?’ her voice rasped as she swept down the room indignantly.
Georgia merely grinned at her, a yellow-brown face cut in two with the flash of white teeth. Another small bounce quickly followed by a stronger one, and she had flipped herself over and landed on her feet again, just yards from the exasperated nun. She had perfected this somersault only days earlier in the playroom, where she had launched herself from an old couch on to cushions in front of an enthusiastic audience. But landing on cold, hard lino had jarred her legs and back and she toppled back against the bed rail.
‘Morning, Sister Agnes,’ she panted, hauling the baggy trousers back to her waist. ‘Did you see how good it was?’
Sister Agnes was the oldest nun in the convent. Humourless, mean-spirited and cruel. Black hairs sprouted from her white flabby chin, a hooked nose with a jiggling wart next to it vying for attention, and sharp piggy eyes that could spot a misdemeanour almost through a wooden door.
‘This is a dormitory, not a gymnasium,’ she sniffed. ‘You are nine, it’s high time you set a good example to the younger girls.’
Instinctively the old nun knew Georgia was trying to distract her, and insolent interference was something she wouldn’t tolerate. Georgia infuriated her. Not only was she scrawny with huge eyes that dominated her yellowy face, but also endless punishments and beatings couldn’t wipe her ear-to-ear grin away. Despite her skinniness and her mixed blood she had managed to become the leader of the younger girls and worse still she was encouraging them all in acts of disobedience.
‘I’ll deal with you later,’ Sister Agnes swept the dormitory with her sharp eyes. Small girls jumping into their navy blue knickers, eyes avoiding her. ‘What’s been going on in here?’
‘There was a noise,’ Georgia sidled away from the Sister, rolling her eyes round the room in pretended alarm. ‘I think a bird’s got in again.’
It was all she could think of on the spur of the moment. Only last summer a pigeon had found its way in and to the children’s amusement Sister nearly had hysterics. The way she had sped from the room as the bird flapped around her veil was something they still giggled about.
‘We heard it too,’ a chorus of agreement came from three of Georgia’s closest allies. As they struggled into grey skirts and jumpers, they nodded at one another, waving their hands as if to indicate the flight path.
Sister spun round, her hands reaching up to her veil, eyes scanning, ears straining for the sound of wings or cooing. Jennifer, the youngest child in the dormitory, stood with her thumb in her mouth, her pyjama jacket almost reaching her thin, scabby knees.
Every girl was poised expectantly, breath like smoke in the cold air, eyes alternating between the hesitant nun and Georgia. Bravery vanished as the big woman turned slowly. Each girl blanched under her inspection, fingers hastily fumbling for buttons, eyes downcast. At best she was as sour as a crab apple, angry, she was dangerous.
‘Come here, girl.’ Sister’s voice echoed round the bare room. Her chins were quivering ominously, her face turning puce.
Georgia cast one frantic look at Pamela, hoping she had the sense to move now, then sauntered over to Sister.
Sister caught her shoulder with one hand, her other swung out and hit Georgia with her full strength across the face.
Georgia stumbled back against a bed rail catching her side with a crack. A rustle came from Pamela’s bed on the other side of the room. Georgia gritted her teeth, willing Sister not to turn and catch sight of the girl. But Sister’s sharp ears had picked up the sound too. She wheeled round and at the same time her nose twitched furiously. The hasty dressing was halted. Ten mouths dropped open in horror, Jennifer sucked vigorously on her thumb. Pamela just stood by her bed. Pyjamas steaming, fists covering her eyes, whimpering and shaking with fear.
She was a quiet, nervous child, still in the throes of grief from losing her mother. Straggly brown hair, a slight squint and a tendency towards fatness hadn’t endeared her to anyone other than Georgia.
‘Seven years old and you still wet the bed,’ Sister’s bellow caused yet another trickle to splash on to the floor. ‘You are worse than an animal, even they don’t lie in their own filth!’
One claw shot out, grabbing the terrified child who didn’t have the sense to run, and with the other she boxed her ears so hard that Pamela fell to the floor.
The sheer force of Sister’s attack made Georgia spring forward. ‘Don’t you dare!’ she yelled, lungeing at the black habit. She saw one heavy black shoe swing forward to kick the helpless child and she pummelled her fists against the nun’s wide posterior. ‘She can’t help it. You only make her more frightened. Leave her alone you bully!’
The other children hopped from foot to foot on the icy lino. One of the older girls caught hold of Jennifer and began helping her to dress, anxious to get her out of the way.
Sister turned and caught Georgia by the wrists. Her face was purple now, her thin lips curling back.
‘Get downstairs and fill the coal scuttles,’ she roared, spittle spraying the child’s face. ‘You won’t get away with this insolence.’
Georgia backed away to her pile of clothes. If she said another word it was quite likely Sister would lock her in the cupboard they used as a punishment cell. Bread and water only, crouching in that black hole until bedtime, without even a blanket to wrap round her. She couldn’t help Pamela any further and she wanted her breakfast.
Later, as Georgia knelt in the outhouse shovelling coal, she could hear Pamela crying in the bathroom. It wasn’t even screams of anger, just a wail of distress.
She could picture the scene. Sister Agnes would have her standing in a bath of cold water, scrubbing at her with a brush. Pinching, slapping and all the time lashing her with jibes about her bedwetting.
There’d be no breakfast for her. While the other girls ate their porridge, Pamela would be alone in the laundry, crying as she struggled to wash the sheets. Why did Aggie think punishment would make her stop doing it? Even Georgia knew Pamela couldn’t help it.
‘Aggie’s evil,’ she chanted to herself as she wielded the shovel, banging it down hard on the coal, pretending Sister Agnes was under it. ‘Why doesn’t someone stop her?’
Georgia was always being punished, if she dawdled coming home from school, if she talked during meals or giggled in the chapel, so much so that it hardly concerned her any longer. She learned to accept that Sister Agnes would never like her, along with accepting she was a different colour from the other girls. It even amused her when Sister called her ‘Devil’s spawn’; it reminded her of tadpoles in the tank at school.
She had mentioned it to Sister Mary once and her laughter had banished any sinister thoughts.
‘You are like a little tadpole,’ her blue eyes twinkled. ‘But you’ll change into a beautiful woman, just you wait.’
Until she was five or six there had always been the possibility she might be adopted one day. Most Sundays couples came to St Joseph’s looking for a child to love. Some old, some young, some rich with cars and fur coats, some ordinary like the other girls’ mothers at school. But they all had one thing in common, they wanted pretty blonde girls with blue eyes, the younger and sweeter the better.
There had been times when Georgia tried the ploys the other girls used. Climbing on to laps, tugging at clothes, beguiling smiles, letting her eyes fill with tears, but all she ever heard was the same remark.
‘She’s a nice little thing, but we couldn’t cope with mixed race I’m afraid.’
Georgia sighed deeply as she hauled the two heavy coal buckets across the yard and down the stone steps into the kitchen. She was resigned to staying here until she was fifteen and found a job. At least she had school.
Most of the other girls hated school more than the convent. They were singled out as different from other children, not only by the way they were shepherded across the busy main road by one of the nuns, but by their badly fitting clothes, heavy shoes and lack-lustre hair. But to Georgia every day at school was an adventure, a chance to see the outside world, to learn about things and places, to feel normal.
She liked the pictures on the walls and growing beans in blotting paper, mixing powder paint and making puppets, the percussion band and stories. But most of all she liked Miss Powell and her music.
Miss Powell was the headmistress. She had a kind of glamour in her dark suits and white frilly blouses, her blonde wavy hair swept up at the back. But when she sat at the piano and played, that was the very best.
Hymns, sea shanties, folk songs, beautiful haunting melodies that made pictures in Georgia’s head. Without Miss Powell perhaps Georgia would never have found she could sing!
Singing made her feel good. She could forget the convent and Sister Agnes, her dark skin and the people who didn’t want a mixed-race child. When she sang people looked at her and listened, even her own teacher who grumbled because she didn’t learn her multiplication tables looked proud of her.
‘You’ve been given a very special gift Georgia.’ Miss Powell had smiled down at her the day she picked her to be Archangel Gabriel in the school nativity play. ‘I’ve chosen you because your voice can do justice to the beauty of Christmas. I want everyone to be as proud of you as I am.’
That afternoon in December when she had stood on the stage wrapped in a white sheet with a tinsel halo, hearing applause ringing out round the assembly hall, had been the best moment in her life.
‘In the Bleak Mid-Winter’ seemed so appropriate now as she rinsed the coal dust from her hands before joining the other children for breakfast. Her cheeks were icy, her hands and thighs chapped with the cold, and right now Sister Agnes was plotting her punishment.
When Sister Agnes didn’t retaliate immediately after the usual Saturday breakfast of porridge and boiled eggs, Georgia put punishment out of her mind. Keeping warm outside in the playground was more important than worrying what might happen later.
St Joseph’s gave the impression of being a large country house. The gravelled drive, the sweeping lawn, the walled kitchen garden and the old knarled trees were all from a more elegant period.
In fact the large house was only a stone’s throw from Grove Park station in South London. Minutes away were rows of shops and a street busy with cars and buses.
Three floors, with basement and attics, it was too large to heat adequately. The once gracious drawing and dining rooms were now draughty dormitories. Only Mother Superior’s sitting room held any comfort. Even the small chapel on the first floor was gradually becoming dingy through lack of maintenance.
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.
Georgia had no fight left. She submitted to being dragged up and scrubbed.
‘Now, dry yourself and get up to bed!’ Sister hissed. ‘And don’t take long about it.’
The door slammed behind her and Georgia groped blindly for the towel. She was shaking with cold. Her eyes stung and her body was on fire. Slowly she hauled herself out of the bath, and sunk on to a small stool. Her earlier happiness glugged down the drain with the bath water, and was replaced by tears of despair.
‘Georgia?’
She blinked at the sound of Sister Mary’s voice at the door.
‘What is it?’ Sister moved across the wet floor, arms outstretched, her face a picture of concern.
‘Sis –, Sister Agnes,’ Georgia stuttered.
A dry, softer towel was wrapped round her, the smaller one deftly removed and wound round her hair like a turban.
‘What happened?’ Sister asked, her tone gentle as always, in sharp contrast to Agnes’s.
Georgia tried to explain. Another coughing fit engulfed her, this time coming in great whoops, bringing with it large quantities of fluid she had swallowed.
Sister Mary turned the child deftly onto her stomach across her own lap, patting her back until the attack stopped. Georgia could feel her soothing her wounds gently with the towel.
‘What did you do?’ Sister’s voice was soft, yet with a touch of steel.
‘I was singing and dancing, she said I was admiring myself. She called me a nigger.’ Georgia sobbed.
Sister made no comment. Just lifted the child up into her arms and held her tightly against her chest, soothing her with endearments.
‘Let me get you dry and into bed,’ her voice shook a little. ‘You’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow. Sister Agnes won’t touch you again.’
Scooping up Georgia in her arms, still only wrapped in the towel, she walked swiftly up the stairs with her in the direction of the isolation room.
‘Wait a moment,’ she said as she dropped the child on the bed. ‘I’ll just go and find some pyjamas.’
The room was cosy at night. A small bedside lamp and a lighted gas fire gave the sparsely furnished room warmth that every other room in the convent lacked.
Although she hurt all over, Georgia noticed that clean clothes had been placed on the chair for the morning. A tartan kilt and a much nicer jumper than she normally got to wear. Her sobs faded to hiccups.
‘Here we are,’ Sister Mary bustled back into the room, a pair of pyjamas and vest over her arm.
In one hand she held a pot of ointment.
‘Lay down on your tummy,’ she said gently. ‘This will help the soreness.’
At first Georgia winced at each soft touch, but gradually under Sister Mary’s healing hands, the pain lessened. Firmly, Sister turned her and more ointment was applied to her stomach, chest and arms.
‘That’s better,’ Sister said, picking up the vest and popping it over her head, quickly followed by the warm pyjamas. ‘Now into bed with you and I’ll dry your hair a bit more.’
‘Why is Sister Agnes so mean?’ Georgia plucked up courage to ask, as her hair was rubbed vigorously.
‘I can’t say anything about another Sister,’ Mary said reprovingly with a twinkle in her eye. ‘But you will find the world is full of all kinds of people, some nice, some plain nasty. Let’s just say that maybe Sister Agnes isn’t as happy inside as me.’
‘Why are you happy?’ Georgia twisted her head round to look Mary full in the face.
‘Because God saw fit to send me here,’ Sister smiled, her blue eyes twinkling. ‘How else would I have met you?’
‘Why is this lady taking me to her home?’
Sister laughed, showing small even white teeth in the half light. ‘So many questions! I expect she liked your courage and enthusiasm, just like I do.’
‘So does that mean I will be her little girl for ever?’ Georgia’s eyes were shining now, her sore body forgotten.
‘I think so,’ Sister Mary wound a curl round her finger. ‘She is a strong, caring woman Georgia, you’ll have a good home with her and her husband. All you have to do is be a good girl and she’ll take care of everything else.’
‘If I’m bad will she send me back here?’ Georgia’s eyes widened with fright.
‘I doubt that somehow,’ Sister laughed soft and low. ‘I don’t think she’s the type to give up on anything or anyone. But don’t you get any ideas about testing her will you? Even the nicest people have their breaking point.’
She pulled a comb out of her pocket and ran it through Georgia’s damp hair. Georgia glanced up and saw a tear trickling down the nun’s cheek.
‘Why are you crying?’ she whispered.
‘I’m just sad to know this is the last night I’ll spend with you,’ Sister replied, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘We’ve been friends a long time. I was the one who undressed you the first night you came here. You clung to me like a little monkey.’
She smiled as she remembered.
It was a wild November night when Georgia arrived with a social worker. Just twenty-one months old, plump, with a halo of jet black curls, her thumb firmly planted in her mouth, her eyes as black as night.
Whether she had been abandoned or orphaned wasn’t known, just the name ‘Georgia’ passed on, her birth date of January 6th 1945 just an approximation.
Sister Mary had only been at St Joseph’s a few weeks and she was appalled by the conditions. No toys, precious little warm clothing or bedding, children with running sores, threadworms and lice. She had been sent here because of her nursing training and youth, yet so far she had been unable to make a dent in the mountain of things wrong with the place.
She took Georgia into her arms, rocking her against her breast and watched her dark eyes beginning to droop. She knew she should insist the child was taken somewhere with proper facilities for babies, but she heard the exasperation in the social worker’s voice, the complaints that every home was full, and her heart went out to the child.
It was love from that first night. Bathing, dressing, teaching and feeding, this was no longer duty, but joy. Small brown arms wrapped around her neck, damp sweet kisses, a constant reminder of everything she had given up by taking her vows.
But as the years passed, joy was tinged with fear. She saw Georgia’s character forming, a bold clown, leader and entertainer, a child that rushed to the defence of anyone weaker and she knew Sister Agnes had the power and hate to crush it.
Mary had managed to change many things for the better in St Joseph’s. Diet, hygiene and health were all improved, but still Mother Superior turned a blind eye to the sadistic cruelty of Sister Agnes, refusing to admit that women of her character had no place with children.
When she heard Mrs Anderson wished to foster Georgia, Mary felt as if her heart was being torn out. Yet at the same time she wasn’t prepared to sit by and watch while Georgia’s proud spirit was broken, hear her voice silenced and see her turn into a cringing, empty shell.
‘Goodnight, my darling,’ Sister Mary bent down over Georgia and kissed her cheek. ‘Remember me in your prayers sometimes, maybe write to me when you have the time.’
‘I’ll come back and visit you,’ Georgia said sleepily, her eyelashes dropping over her cheeks.
‘Just sing for me once in a while,’ Sister wiped back a tear from her cheek. ‘I’ll hear you wherever I am. God bless you.’
Georgia was asleep by the time she got to the door. Her dark tight curls forming a black halo on the pillow, one arm curled round her head. In that instant Sister Mary saw a glimpse of the beauty which was to come. Coffee skin with pink undertones, perfect bone structure. Features too angular for a mere child of nine, but the basic materials for a real beauty.
Silently she closed the door, pausing for one moment to compose herself.
When Mrs Anderson saw the weals on the child’s body tomorrow, she knew with utter certainty that the caring woman would act fast and without mercy. Perhaps out of one child’s misery, many others would be spared.
‘Protect and keep her Lord,’ she whispered. ‘And give me the strength to deal with Sister Agnes.’
September 1956
‘Drop me off here Daddy!’ Georgia’s voice had a tremor of apprehension as they turned into Kidbrooke Lane and the playing fields of the comprehensive school loomed in front of them.
It was a hot sunny morning, vivid splashes of colour in the suburban gardens, dahlias at their best as if trying to outdo one another in their brilliance.
‘Don’t you want me to come in with you?’ Brian Anderson pulled up, turning towards Georgia in his seat.
‘I’ll look like a baby if you do.’
‘You are our baby,’ Brian chuckled. ‘But I know what you mean. Some things are better tackled alone.’
‘Were you scared on your first day at a big school?’ Georgia leaned against his shoulder for a moment, drawing strength from the smell of starched shirt and aftershave.
‘Terrified,’ he admitted, patting her small hand with his big one. ‘But it wasn’t as bad as I expected, nothing ever is.’
‘I’d better go now,’ she straightened up, then leaned closer to kiss his smooth cheek. ‘Do I really look all right?’
‘All right! You look perfect,’ he smiled, wishing he could cuddle her one more time and banish that worried frown. ‘Off you go now, and don’t worry about anything, there will be hundreds of other new girls, just like you.’
Brian Anderson watched as she crossed the road and walked along the railings to the gate. Scores of other girls were filling the tree-lined avenue, peace halted now the new term had started. But Brian Anderson hardly noticed the other girls, his eyes were just on Georgia.
In two years she had changed almost beyond recognition. She was taller, her stick-like limbs had filled out with good food, the once cropped hair allowed to curl on her shoulders and her skin had lost that yellowy tinge.
The navy-blue pleated skirt swung beneath a smart new blazer and she wore her beret at a jaunty angle. Yet the sight of her childish brown legs in long grey socks and the stiff, shiny satchel on her shoulder brought an unexpected lump to his throat.
‘Make them accept you Georgia,’ he said softly as he put his car into gear and pulled away. ‘Just the way you did me.’
Brian Anderson knew better than anyone how it felt to be different. Brought up alone with his widowed mother in the big house on Blackheath where he still lived, he understood a child’s need to be just like everyone else.
His mother had meant well keeping him away from other children. She wanted to protect him from harm, wrap him in a cocoon of devotion. A small, select private school where rough games were frowned on, evenings spent reading with her by the fire, or long walks in the summer. He had allowed himself to be nudged into banking as a career. Girls, dancing, drinking or sport were things that men did who weren’t gentlemen. Brian didn’t consider himself weak at bowing to his mother’s wishes. He was merely a loner who didn’t need change, new experiences or even challenge. But sometimes he would have preferred to have had a more outgoing life.
As Brian drove down towards Lewisham across the heath he caught a glimpse of himself in the driving mirror. Sandy thinning hair, neatly combed to one side, a round, plump fresh face which had barely changed from his teens. Pale blue eyes with gingery lashes and eyebrows. A straight small nose and the kind of even white teeth which owed much to his mother’s care and attention. Not a handsome man, but as his mother had always pointed out, ‘Clothes maketh a man.’ His suits were all hand-tailored, navy blue with a faint pin stripe for the bank, light grey for social occasions and a navy blazer for weekends and holidays.
His shirts always went to the laundry, he liked his collars stiff and starchy, his ties subdued. He had four pairs of identical black leather lace-up shoes which he rotated daily.
He looked what he was, a fifty-year-old, respectable, dependable bank manager, neat and industrious.
The traffic was heavy as Brian approached Lewisham High Street, he tutted with irritation, realizing that for the first time ever he was going to be late.
He parked his Humber in the side road close to the bank, took his briefcase from the back seat and hurriedly locked the car door.
‘Good morning, Mr Anderson!’
Brian looked up at the sound of his secretary’s voice.
‘Good morning, Miss Bowden,’ he smiled. ‘I’m afraid I’m a little late. I took Georgia to her new school this morning.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Miss Bowden didn’t miss the frown lines on his forehead. ‘I purposely didn’t make you any appointments this morning until after ten thirty. I anticipated you might get held up.’
Miss Bowden had been his secretary for five years now. A sensible spinster in her mid-thirties, she was as dedicated to her job as Anderson himself. Her dark suit and white blouse, the sturdy flat shoes and neat brown hair were a constant reminder to the other, younger clerks that this was how a woman in banking should look.
‘I just hope Coulson was on time,’ Brian took up his position on the outside of the pavement, irritated still more by the amount of early shoppers pushing their way along to the market. ‘It’s so long since he was expected to unlock the bank, I doubt he remembers how to.’
‘Of course he does,’ Miss Bowden reassured her employer. ‘Look, you can see yourself the lights are on.’
Anderson had no need to be at the bank before nine thirty, but old habits died hard for him, and often he was behind his desk soon after eight thirty, well before the rest of the staff arrived. It had been this sort of reliability which got him promoted to manager, and although Celia kept telling him it was time he sat back and took things easier, he still liked to be there to unlock.
‘How was Georgia this morning?’ Miss Bowden asked. ‘Was she nervous? It’s a big step going to such a huge school.’
‘A little nervous, but she’ll be fine once she’s settled in.’ Anderson’s expression softened a little. ‘Remind me to telephone my wife later, will you?’