Georgia (73 page)

‘Do you think she’ll marry Peter?’

Celia smiled. It was a bitter irony that people were now so fascinated by Georgia. Six years ago she hadn’t even managed to convince the police this same girl was at risk. Was that what fame meant? In Africa people were dying of starvation, yet the rest of the world hung on news of a singer’s wedding.

‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘If I could choose any man in the world for her, I’d still pick him.’ She could see him so clearly. Those wide, honest blue eyes, his sensitive mouth, floppy blond hair and the proud conviction in his purpose.

Tania hovered, an unspoken question in her eyes. Celia knew she was trying to broach the subject of Brian Anderson, but diplomacy stopped her.

‘Speak up girl,’ she said, imitating Hilary. ‘You want to know about him?’

Tania blushed.

‘It’s all right,’ Celia said in a softer tone. ‘Everyone’s going to ask me that, why not you? But the answer is I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to see him at some stage, we are still married after all. Of course I have the advantage over everyone else. I always knew what he did.’

‘How do you feel about him now?’ Tania said softly.

‘I ought to feel anger, I suppose,’ Celia said slowly. ‘Perhaps I’ve been exposed to too much horror over the years to feel that any longer. In a way I’m glad he surfaced, at least he brought Georgia back to me.’

‘You’re a very strong lady,’ Tania smiled, touching Celia’s hand briefly. ‘I can see now who moulded Georgia!’

The sun was warm on her shoulders as she made her way from the aircraft steps to the tarmac. Celia had been expecting, even welcomed, rain. On steamy nights out in the bush she often pictured the garden in Blackheath. Grass cool and damp under her feet, roses twining round the archway to the vegetable garden, the smell of wet soil, the dewy softness of it all. Her heartrate had been gradually quickening as the plane went over London. The vivid green grass, the silver Thames and all the majesty of Windsor Castle somehow embodied everything in England that was dear to her.

The tarmac spread on seemingly forever, surrounded by dark green grass. The air had freshness never felt in Africa. Luggage piled on trucks, men in blue uniforms standing in groups, an orderliness she wasn’t used to. The plane behind her disgorged more passengers to add to the stream already making their way to the terminal. She wanted to run now, not wait while Customs men looked in her one small bag.

Looking up at the glass and concrete building ahead of her she saw a figure behind glass. Masses of dark hair, a red dress, brown long legs, jumping up and down, waving with both hands.

A lump came to her throat, tears blinded her. She raised her hand to her lips and blew a kiss.

Quickening her pace, she dodged round an elderly couple and ran the rest of the way.

Dark-suited Customs men waved her through. She felt the smiles though she couldn’t see them. All she saw was that finely polished corridor and a glimpse of people waiting beyond.

Hundreds of people pushing and shoving. Cameras flashing, voices shouting out greetings. But all she was aware of was one small voice.

‘Mum! Mum!’

A mop of wild black hair, two dancing wet eyes, arms outstretched running towards her.

The longest minute, yet the quickest. She had grown from skinny-legged colt to an Arabian thoroughbred. So beautiful Celia could barely credit it was the same pitiful child she took away from St Joseph’s that winter morning. A heart-shaped caramel face. Black curls tossed back, dazzling white teeth and a wide smiling mouth. Her red dress so short and tight it could have been sprayed on, matching tight boots that evoked an image of principal boys in pantomime.

She threw herself at Celia like a puppy, lifting Celia off her feet, crushing her into her arms.

‘Mummy,’ was all she heard and all the missing years slipped away.

Cameras flashed like lightning. A barrage of shouted questions, an army of people advancing on them. Yet all they felt was two hearts pounding together. Two pairs of streaming eyes, two cheeks pressed against one another’s.

Celia felt Georgia take her waist, pushing her back to look at her.

‘You’ve shrunk, Mum! Or is it I’ve grown?’ Georgia looked down at Celia, dark chocolate eyes melting with tears, then pulled her fiercely back to her shoulder, enveloping her in the kind of rocking hug she had once given Georgia.

‘My baby,’ Celia whispered. ‘I thought I’d lost you forever.’

‘I was never lost to you,’ Georgia whispered back. ‘I carried you inside me wherever I went, but let’s get home now, away from all this.’

With her arm firmly around Celia’s shoulder, Georgia turned to the fans and press.

‘I want you all to meet my mother,’ she grinned. ‘This is the happiest day of my life.’

A mural of grinning faces. Another firing squad of photographs, Celia blinked, her lips trembling.

Georgia held up one hand, the crowd fell silent.

‘I know you all want to ask questions,’ she said, glancing sideways at Celia. ‘But my mother isn’t used to this kind of publicity and just now we both want to go home and talk and rediscover one another.’

Another blast of flashing lights. Murmurs of disappointment, a predatory closing in.

‘I have just one announcement,’ Georgia smiled round, head held high. ‘Today you’ve seen the reunion with my mother, but last night I also learned who my real father is.’

Silence fell. Two or three hundred people leaning forward to hear.

Georgia grinned, tossing back her hair, using all the timing she’d learned on stage.

‘It’s a sad, wonderful story,’ she said. ‘One I’ll tell you all in a day or two, but for now you’ll all have to be content with just a name. That name is Sam Cameron.’

She didn’t appear to hear the tumult that broke around her, or show any concern that she’d merely whetted their appetite for information. Georgia picked up Celia’s bag and holding her mother closer to her, walked steadily ahead as if they were alone.

‘Well, Mum,’ Georgia said as they swept out on to the forecourt where a liveried chauffeur held open the doors of a sleek black limousine. ‘How does it feel to be home?’

Celia didn’t answer for a moment. She climbed into the back seat and sighed as she sank into the soft leather, waiting for Georgia to sit beside her.

‘Do you remember how you felt that first day when I opened the door at Blackheath and led you in?’ she asked.

Georgia took her hand and lifted it to her cheek.

‘Like I was entering heaven,’ she whispered.

‘Well, darling, that’s just how I feel right now.’ She reached out for Georgia and this time it was she who cradled her child against her breast. ‘Then it was me taking you to my world, now it’s you leading me to yours.’