George

Brady Barracks Military Office. 1980.

“Why don’t they ever clean these shelves, George?”

George shrugged. She expected musty smells and silverfish when she sorted through old files

A comfortable feeling.

“I suppose the dust must be antique now.”

“Just like this office. Not even computers here..” George laughed.

‘All the things we didn’t learn…before we took this job!’

The thin soldier pointed to the sagging shelves. “Just because we’re Army, we’re not supposed to have taste? I mean…Look at the decor!”

He caressed the government gloss smudged thickly on the walls, like a lover.

George smiled through the sun slanting through the open door.

Their military office in Brady Barracks was an old colonial red brick building, built as a chapel but now their workplace.

The stark sunlight outside was flat. Like another world. The tar shimmered through the dwarf marigolds at the base of the flagpole.

Paddy swaggered across the road to their office, pausing to salute the supplies truck heading out of the gate boom. He stepped up into the shade, his bulk blocking out the light from the door.

“New provisions needed.” he said. George took the forms and scrolled them into her typewriter.

He spilled more order sheets onto George’s desk.

“Can you do it now? One to HQ, one to Supplies, one to Quartermaster. In triplicate.”

George nodded.

“Today is the big day, hey Paddy?”

He turned, his massive frame plunging them into darkness again. “The wearing of the Green…” The signals man tried an Irish accent.

“Jesus!” Paddy shifted uncomfortably, spilling a shaft of light across the friendly freckled face.

“It’s St Patricks Day! How could you forget?”

Paddy shrugged.

“Will we see you in the Sergeants Mess then?” Paddy smiled.

“Drinks on you!”

“Sure,” he smiled, “See you at four-thirsty!”

‘Including you, George!’

George backspaced to correct an error. She shook her head.

It was in the past.

She had been a typist with the Old Mutual insurance company. She was quick, accurate and received a fair salary at the end of each month.

That was her life. Work. Home. Work. Waiting for a pension.

Some tried to change her life.

“You must be a little more outgoing!” They arranged visits to hairdressers, boutiques, or single clubs. They even tried to get her to call herself by her birth name ‘Georgina’. She occasionally humoured them, to keep them quiet.

But she had chosen her life, only a gesture that she bothered to shave her legs.

She had grown accustomed to her life, had come to terms with herself as her body spread, rounding out swimmers’ broad shoulders and narrow hips.

“I wonder has she ever had a boyfriend?” The secretaries murmured, “Do you think she has any idea what she looks like?

Her friends would never know.

It was at the Young Ones Club, on Grey Street. The floor was a glory of swirling bodies, pencilled eyebrows, and petticoats. She was watching, excited, clutching a neat black purse. It was her first party, her first time allowed out by her parents. She felt like a butterfly poised for flight. Just like any other girl on the dance floor. Her mother had made a full flounced black taffeta skirt and a Broderie Anglaise blouse, and, as a treat, had bought her a neat patent leather evening purse. Her hair was freshly curled.

She felt pretty.

She followed the gaggle to the Ladies room and pretended to know about boys ‘giving her looks’, backcombing her hair and putting on more make up than parents or teachers allowed.

Just like the other girls.

“Meeting anyone here tonight, George?” She pretended not to hear them, but she’d

left the letter lying about the cookery class, accidentally-on-purpose. Meeting a blind date. Her first date. Arch eyebrows in the mirror. She thought of the heart drawn at the top of the letter from Douglas. It was outlined in red ink, and it must have taken him hours. There were flowers and curls with her initials in the centre. “I’ll be the boy smoking in the far corner,” he had written.

It had sounded so grown up, wicked somehow, and it was a few minutes before she could make herself walk out to the dance floor. When she did her face was high with colour.

Suddenly the loud music and shrill laughter faded into the background as if the world had suddenly ceased to turn.

He was standing in the corner, smoking a cigarette.

Dangerously close to his lips. George knew it was him.

His lips, his jeans, his baby face.

His cigarette had a long ash. There were no ashtrays around. Smoking at school dances was forbidden. So, to watch him smoking like an adult was thrilling. She thought she would send him an ashtray as a secret present.

She sat down on a creaking chair, next to a group of boys, not knowing what to do next.

The lights dimmed. “I think Deidre is going to have her first French kiss tonight!” Sarah laughed into George’s ear before she was tugged onto the dancefloor for a slow grab and grip number.

George was enchanted. No one could have prepared her for the feelings coursing through her.

She was very happy.

She just watched.

“Nothing happened yet?” One of the boys lounged himself in the chair next to her, rearranged himself in his jeans.

The other boys began guffawing. Sprawling out thin legs awkwardly, “I dunno how many smokes he can go through before dying!”

Cackles all round.

“Where can she be?”

George shifted in the wooden chair. It was suddenly uncomfortably hot and her back hurt.

And then she saw him move towards her. He had no reason to. She hadn’t told him in her secret letter what she would be wearing.

And still he kept on coming. She felt her cheeks flame.

“Doesn’t look as if she’s pitched.”

“We sent this really ugly broad, a love letter, and Pat here was pretending to be Douglas-the-Date. So, he’s been standing in the corner for half an hour, smoking his head off!

“Is she really ugly?”

“A fat hairy grunt!”

“Her mates say she’s the worst thing in the school.”

Laughter.

“Can’t be worse than this one sitting here,” whispered one.

They turned to the empty chair and laughed all over again.

She ran to the bathroom.

The smell of hairspray hung in the air; the rustle of petticoats whispered at her. It was a cruel night. She wanted to sag down in the corner, safe against the cool tiles. Hugging her knees. Denying it all.

But she knew it was too late. Something had gone.

Her smart flat shoes stared back at her. Banana Boats. Everything too large. Even for one dream. Her eyes filled. It was not fair.

She picked up her purse and slipped away. She hoped that one day her mind would accept its body.

No one - not even her mum must ever know... As she got older, she settled into routine but found the gaggle of secretaries tiring. She left the insurance company and joined the army admin branch. No pool of women who wanted to change her appearance. No one to disappoint. She wore army uniform, and it fitted just fine. She would never dress up again.

*

The sunset glinted through the door into the office as George scrolled the last piece of paper out of the typewriter and stood up to leave.

‘We have to take Paddy up on his drinks,’ chirped the little signals man.

“I have… another...I can’t…” George covered the typewriter with a cloth for the dust.

‘Come on George! Paddy’s like a big American car – his consumption is terrible! So, when he orders, we get drinks too!’

George shook her head.

‘We promised,’ squealed the little man. “I will be your date.”

“Can’t….”

The Signals man looked hurt. ‘Please. I need you to come.’ He grabbed George by the hand.

So, she found herself in the Sergeants mess. Paddy was leaning, big-bellied, against the bar.

“What’ll it be lass?’

She was the only woman there, and she felt that everyone looked. A feeling of awkwardness, ungainliness, began to creep up on her. She wanted to leave.

“What’ll it be lass?’ Paddy said again.

“A beer,’ quickly, the first thing that came into her head. He lifted a bar stool for her to sit beside him.

She felt lightheaded, unguarded.

“Let the Indian arm wrestling begin!’ The bar cleared a space for the men faced to lock arms in combat.

George was fascinated. She had never seen anything like this before.

More drinks all round and George was suddenly on her third beer.

“May all of this be on St Patrick’s head Paddy,” chirped Signals.

“May his head feel like mine in the morning,” said George and the bar loved her for it.

“Sure, I’ve not been challenged by your section yet”, said Paddy ordering a drink for the signals man.

“I can’t wrestle,” he piped and volunteered George.

She was taken aback.

“Come on George!” They all yelled.

Still flushed by her own joke, she struggled to understand. They wanted her to arm wrestle Paddy. They wanted her to play in their game.

The room felt warm, exciting.

But there were echoes. Dangerous echoes.

It was a sober decision, she said later, as she stretched her arm across the bar towards Paddy.

Paddy chuckled merrily, “That’s me girl.”

As their hands touched, Paddy’s eyes twinkled. “You’ve got a good grip there, lass”

George felt the width of his hands and fingers.

And the battle began.

With the first pressure she knew that she had no chance at all.

“Come on George! You’re not even trying!’ The Signals man was bouncing up and down trying to encourage her.

She looked at Paddy.

Intent only on the locked fists in front of him, his bottom lip thrust out.

“You’re losing George!” yelped Signals.

The bar cheered.

“You’re not putting your back into it! that’s why!”

Her arm trembled with fatigue.

“Use your back!” Shouted Signals.

Paddy’s arm smothered hers. She was only inches away from the counter.

“George! you’re not fighting back!”

Her arm began to give way. She had nowhere to go.

Breathing deeply, she shifted her weight. Using her swimmer’s back.

Paddy glanced up at her and smiled.

So slight, no one noticed.

George’s arm slowly lifted, pushing Paddy’s upwards.

The bar went wild.

Someone might beat the champion. A woman.

Drops of sweat on his lips.

A cold trickle from her armpits.

“Ready for the push! Breathe deeply!” urged Signals.

Paddy’s arm knotted as he prepared for his final assault. George’s thighs throbbed from the pressure, but her back held firm.

The bar began to count in unison. “One!”

Their arms were levers between them. There was no one else in the room.

“Two! Three!” swelling into thunder.

And suddenly, George knew that she had won.

Totally alone. Held together.

“Ten!”

They both grunted with exertion as she let her arm be forced to the bar.

Explosions of applause, cheers and drinks all round.

George ached.

Paddy breathed out at the floor.

Their hands lay loosely entwined.

She wiped the sweat from her hand.

Slowly.

“Drinks on you tomorrow Georgina?”

“Maybe Paddy.”

She laughed up at him.

“Maybe.”

*