Georgia (3 page)

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.