moments of wonder. Taking Georgia for walks, teaching her to ride a bike and do her sums, gave him a kick he hadn’t expected. Women looked at him in a different way, stopping to speak to him. He felt powerful, a man of action, not just a sandy-haired, middle-aged man clutching a briefcase.
So maybe the magic didn’t reach as far as Celia responding with any real passion to him. Neither did a half-caste child make up for one of their own. But at least Celia and himself had a common interest. She looked younger, prettier, she laughed more, cuddled up to him at nights. Maybe in time that new warmth would turn to desire.
His office smelled of fresh polish. A clean sheet of paper was in his blotter and his pens were arranged neatly on a desk tray. Soon one of the junior clerks would bring him in fresh coffee and due to Miss Bowden’s thoughtfulness he had time to collect his thoughts and stop dwelling on Georgia.
Reminders were all around him. The little pen-wipe she had sewn for him last Christmas with Daddy embroidered on it. A painting of him, carefully framed by Celia. Once he would never have considered hanging a picture of a man with flame red hair on his office wall, but he secretly loved Georgia’s image of him. She’d caught his hidden self, a strong-looking man playing cricket. Almost handsome in his white slacks and sweater. It was a talking point with customers, it loosened them up and made them realize he was more than just a stuffed shirt.
Finally, there was the photograph of the three of them, taken on holiday in Bournemouth. Celia in a low-cut cocktail dress, he in a dinner jacket and Georgia between them, laughing up at them, all dark curls, big eyes and dimples.
‘Your coffee, Mr Anderson,’ he hadn’t heard Miss Bowden come in. She put his cup in front of him and placed his diary beside it. ‘Don’t worry about her,’ she patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘Georgia’s a match for anyone, you know that, and don’t forget to telephone your wife.’
Georgia looked up at the school as she approached the main doors, her stomach churning with fear. It was the biggest school in South London, all glass and concrete, and although she had assured both her parents some of her old friends from Junior school would be there too, the truth was that most of them had found places elsewhere.
It was easy to identify the other first-years. Like her their uniforms were brand new, they stood white-faced and anxious, biting back tears, far smaller than the girls who sauntered by shouting to their friends, throwing each other’s berets into the air.
Girls, who looked like grown-up women, wearing prefect badges on their blazers directed the new girls to the main assembly hall. Georgia looked round with trepidation as teachers called out names and ordered the girls to stand in line.
The top class of the Junior school had only twenty-five children. In this hall alone there were nearer three hundred and she couldn’t see one person she knew.
‘Georgia Anderson.’
She put her hand up and was ushered over to a line.
The teacher who had called her name came forward smiling warmly. She was younger than Georgia had expected, probably no more than thirty, and she was very elegant. Her blonde, sleek hair was cut short and swept up at the back, and she wore a black suit with a straight skirt and a white lacy shirt. Her light-brown eyes seemed to miss nothing. She reminded Georgia of Miss Powell, the headmistress who had played the piano, and that seemed a good omen.
‘My name is Miss Underwood,’ she said in a crisp, well-modulated voice. ‘I’ll be your form teacher and I’m taking you now to your form room where I’ll explain everything to you. You are in form 1B, remember that if nothing else, someone will guide you back to your class if you get lost. Follow me.’
Georgia followed the other girls in silence. As they started up the stairs she turned to the girl behind her.
‘Do you know anyone
So maybe the magic didn’t reach as far as Celia responding with any real passion to him. Neither did a half-caste child make up for one of their own. But at least Celia and himself had a common interest. She looked younger, prettier, she laughed more, cuddled up to him at nights. Maybe in time that new warmth would turn to desire.
His office smelled of fresh polish. A clean sheet of paper was in his blotter and his pens were arranged neatly on a desk tray. Soon one of the junior clerks would bring him in fresh coffee and due to Miss Bowden’s thoughtfulness he had time to collect his thoughts and stop dwelling on Georgia.
Reminders were all around him. The little pen-wipe she had sewn for him last Christmas with Daddy embroidered on it. A painting of him, carefully framed by Celia. Once he would never have considered hanging a picture of a man with flame red hair on his office wall, but he secretly loved Georgia’s image of him. She’d caught his hidden self, a strong-looking man playing cricket. Almost handsome in his white slacks and sweater. It was a talking point with customers, it loosened them up and made them realize he was more than just a stuffed shirt.
Finally, there was the photograph of the three of them, taken on holiday in Bournemouth. Celia in a low-cut cocktail dress, he in a dinner jacket and Georgia between them, laughing up at them, all dark curls, big eyes and dimples.
‘Your coffee, Mr Anderson,’ he hadn’t heard Miss Bowden come in. She put his cup in front of him and placed his diary beside it. ‘Don’t worry about her,’ she patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘Georgia’s a match for anyone, you know that, and don’t forget to telephone your wife.’
Georgia looked up at the school as she approached the main doors, her stomach churning with fear. It was the biggest school in South London, all glass and concrete, and although she had assured both her parents some of her old friends from Junior school would be there too, the truth was that most of them had found places elsewhere.
It was easy to identify the other first-years. Like her their uniforms were brand new, they stood white-faced and anxious, biting back tears, far smaller than the girls who sauntered by shouting to their friends, throwing each other’s berets into the air.
Girls, who looked like grown-up women, wearing prefect badges on their blazers directed the new girls to the main assembly hall. Georgia looked round with trepidation as teachers called out names and ordered the girls to stand in line.
The top class of the Junior school had only twenty-five children. In this hall alone there were nearer three hundred and she couldn’t see one person she knew.
‘Georgia Anderson.’
She put her hand up and was ushered over to a line.
The teacher who had called her name came forward smiling warmly. She was younger than Georgia had expected, probably no more than thirty, and she was very elegant. Her blonde, sleek hair was cut short and swept up at the back, and she wore a black suit with a straight skirt and a white lacy shirt. Her light-brown eyes seemed to miss nothing. She reminded Georgia of Miss Powell, the headmistress who had played the piano, and that seemed a good omen.
‘My name is Miss Underwood,’ she said in a crisp, well-modulated voice. ‘I’ll be your form teacher and I’m taking you now to your form room where I’ll explain everything to you. You are in form 1B, remember that if nothing else, someone will guide you back to your class if you get lost. Follow me.’
Georgia followed the other girls in silence. As they started up the stairs she turned to the girl behind her.
‘Do you know anyone
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