George

Rhodesia declared a unilateral declaration of Independence from Britain in 1965 to avoid black rule. 

A bush war erupted. Black freedom fighters attacked the white Rhodesian forces for control of the country which they called Zimbabwe.

.

Brady Barracks. Bulawayo. Rhodesia. Africa. 1973

“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.”

George giggled, clicked shut the mottled file, the mustiness gone. The old black Remington clacked loudly on the table as Signals banged the keys, bouncing the full wire tray.

“And… Look at these !” piped the man. “They must date back to when the old Queen Mother arrived here! ”

George looked at the forms he threw into the tray. There was a British Home Office Crest at the top.

“That was years ago. You must remember those days, George?Everyone came to cheer, blacks whites and colureds.”

. 

She nodded. Mixed race people loved the queen, it made them forget they were not white, when they watched the wave from a pretty lady.

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

“There’s an urgent consignment of supplies for the border. Needs to be dealt with at once.” Paddy's Irish bulk blocked out the light from the door.

He spilled the order sheets onto George’s desk.

“Getting to be busy now,” piped Signals man.

Paddy nodded. Soldiers need to be fed to fight the terrorists crossing the border from Zambia . You wouldn’t really notice in the towns, but the battles were fierce and bloody. Paddy often thought of the battle for Irish independence- using the same-guerrilla warfare to weaken the oppressors.

“Have to get the supplies on transport before opening time at the Mess.” He glanced at his watch. 

“Today is the big day, hey Paddy?”

He turned, his massive frame plunging them into darkness again.

“What’s that, Bucko?”

“The wearing of the Green…” The signals man tried an Irish accent.

Paddy shrugged good naturedly.

“Everyone at the Sergeants Mess then?” 

“Drinks on you!”

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

“We should all wear Green! “The Signals man was in his element.

“Your uniform’s green, you ejit,” laughed Paddy as he left.

‘I’ll make a shamrock out of cabbage leaves.” Signals disappeared to the canteen. 

“He’s so creative,” said one of the typists. The others laughed. They knew what ‘creative’ meant.

“Who is Paddy?” asked George, running forms and carbon paper through the typewriter.

“Oh. Sorry George…I should have introduced you. Lots of kids. Funny wife….”

George backspaced to correct an error. 

“I forget you’re new here…you fit in so well…”

She had been a typist with an insurance company before Rhodesia went to war against Mugabe and Nkomo.

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. She occasionally humoured them,  to keep them quiet.

It was only a token nod that she bothered to shave her legs. 

She had come to terms with herself as her body spread, rounding out swimmers’ broad shoulders and narrow hips. She had learnt strong lessons in the days of Cliff Richard, Bobby-Sox, and full skirts.

“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 in Bulawayo, 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’, back-combing her hair and putting on more make up than parents or teachers allowed.

Just like the other girls.

“Meeting anyone here tonight, George?”

George tried to smile mysteriously, blushed instead. “Someone told me you had a love letter from a guy at that school in the suburbs.”

The coloured skirts swished past her to the dance floor.

George left the letter lying about the cookery class, accidentally-on-purpose.

“Well George? Will he be here?

George shrugged.

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. “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 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 .

He was standing in the corner, smoking a cigarette.

Dangerously close to his lips.

He was tall and lean, like a pop star.  He had a baby face.

She just wanted to watch him.

His lips, his jeans, his baby face.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw other girls looking at him too,  as he tapped out another cigarette from the pack, snapped the match against the wall to light it. He was so grown up. 

Some of her friends were coyly letting her know that they were ‘Going Outside’ with a boy.

“I think Deidre is going to have her first French kiss tonight!” Sarah laughed into George’s ear before she was tugged onto the dance floor .

The lights dimmed.

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

A couple of boys sat down beside her, swiftly appraising, glancing away, fidgeting.

His cigarette had a long ash. Smoking at school dances was forbidden. To watch him smoking like an adult was thrilling. She thought she would send him an ashtray as a secret present.

“Nothing happened yet?” One of the boys, lounged himself in the chair next to her,  rearranged himself in his jeans. “Nah…maybe it won’t work.” 

The other boys  began guffawing. Sprawling out thin legs , “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.

“Hi,” he said. She tried to say something. She couldn’t breathe. Her throat was closed. “Still breathing, Douglas?” the others laughed, “Doesn’t look as if she’s pitched.” And they began to guffaw again, attracting a group around them. “What’s the story?” 

“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!”

“She’s also got a bit of the tar brush.”

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

“Coloureds can be so ugly.”

Laughter.

“Can’t be worse than this one sitting here,” whispered one. They turned to the empty chair and laughed all over again.

George looked at her shocked face in the mirror. She screwed her eyes shut, blocked out the reflection.

Her heart broke in tiny pieces in that bathroom. Her mother would ask, but she would not tell. Anyone.

The smell of hairspray hung in the air; the rustle of petticoats whispered at her. It was cruel. She wanted to sag down in the corner of the bathroom. Safe against the cool tiles.

But it was too late. Something had gone.

Her smart flat shoes stared back at her. Everything too large. Even for one dream. Her eyes filled.

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

No one must ever know.

Instead, she settled for a typewriter, a small apartment and baking an occasional cake for a school gala or  charity.

Until the war.

The war for freedom for the blacks. She knew Nkomo was the local black man who wanted black rule. The white government hated him. She never read newspapers and rarely listened to the news. The radio was full of women with English gardening voices, talking about  'Support our Troops'. Don’t gossip. 

But on a Saturday afternoon she made an exception. She listened to Forces Requests  on the radio, where soldiers’ letters were read, or girlfriends sending wishes to their ‘man in the bush’, protecting the country from the terrorists. She loved the friendly voice of the presenter who made her feel as if every message was for her. It was romantic. 

Maybe that was the reason she got up from her desk at the insurance company and joined the army. Just as the men went off for military service, so did George. 

It would give her some meaning. 

At first it was difficult to relate, to see things through sweat and camouflage. But as she wasn’t considered a potential conquest , either in bed or on the field, she found it easier to become part of their inside-out life, where fear never spoke, and orders were orders. Her body was almost tailor made for the uniform.

Dressed up like a soldier.

 However George learnt her post would be the same as in the insurance company, except the typewriter wasn’t electric.

But every day was positive when she drove under the boom at Brady Barracks. She even forgot she was Coloured.

The men in her office had been a little distant at first. 

They were mystified by the sudden influx of women allowed into the forces.  The army needed to free up the men in admin to go to the border to fight. So, women were essential.

The signalman was typical.  He had a limp, so they could not send him to battle. Instead, he monitored radio messages and transcribed them for HQ.

He took two months to speak to her. He didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t a ‘lady’ or someone to lift a leg over. She wasn’t a man. She was a soldier and he wouldn’t treat a soldier like a lady, regardless of rank. He decided she must be sexless. He could fart and swear in front her as if she was one of the blokes.

He found she did have one advantage. He could talk to her about ‘sensitive ‘things like feelings and home furnishings. And why he would never marry.

And she wouldn’t laugh.

‘We have to take Paddy up on his drinks,’ chirped the little man. George scrolled the last piece of paper out of the typewriter and stood up to leave.

“I have… another...” 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 was steered to the Sergeants mess.

Paddy was leaning, big-bellied, against the bar. He smiled with genuine delight at the vegetable shamrock, a pack of bacon and the card.

“Bacon and cabbage for me tomorrow!’ he smiled.

Everyone laughed.

“Paddy’s wife wouldn’t find that funny at all,’ whispered Signals. ‘She calls this place the Den of Iniquity.’

A feeling of awkwardness, ungainliness, began to creep up on her. She wanted to leave.

“What’ll it be lass?’

A pause.

Everyone looked.

“A beer,’ quickly, the first thing that came into her head.

‘Come and sit here me darlin’, he guided her to a stool . She felt small beside him as he regaled them with Irish jokes and songs.

The bar filled up and became an enormous party. Paddy consumed vast quantities of beer. For every one he bought, he got one for George too. She felt normal around Paddy. A bit lightheaded, unguarded. she felt foolishly expectant, as if something would happen.

“Let the arm wrestling begin!’ Yelled a bleary Quartermaster.

“I’ll try the champ,” A man called Aubrey stumbled over to Paddy.

“Come on, then!”

George had never seen anything like this before. The barman cleared up as Indian arm wrestling began. He had  seen it all before. Paddy would win. He always did.

The telephone rang.

“Sergeant’s mess. Hello?”

The barman could hardly hear through the cheering. “You want who?’

Within seconds Paddy pushed Aubrey’s arm to the bar counter.

“Boss !” Paddy looked up.

“Telephone.” 

“My wife?” he asked.

The Barman nodded.

Paddy pursed his lips. “Tell her I’m at a prayer meeting.” He winked broadly at George. More drinks all round and she was suddenly on her fifth 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. The signalman found it so funny he dropped his glass of rum and coke into his lap.

“You’re such a wet!” laughed the Quartermaster.

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

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

“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.

The bar was silent.

“Well George?”

“I don’t want to do this,” George started to say. But the Signals man waggled his eyebrows at her. Then waved the bar towel from his damp crotch like a stripper.

 “You don’t want to be the ruining of Paddy’s party.” 

George frowned. Then laughed.

“Ok Paddy. Alright then.”

It was a sober decision. That’s what she said later. Signals never agreed. He said he saw it coming. She was drunk.

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

The crowd hushed. Signals propped up George’s elbow on bar mats for support. 

Now her hand was the same height as Paddy.

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.

“Butcher’s hands, lassie, they say we absorb fat from the meat through our nails.”

With the first pressure she knew that she had no chance at all. His forearms rippled, knots of muscles twitching with each push downwards. Her arm felt like plasticine.

“Come on George!’ shouted the damp signals man. “You’re not even trying!”

Beads of perspiration began to form on her brow, but she felt her challenge weakening. 

How had this happened? 

Signals was absently wiping his crotch with the bar towel.

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. Backing one, then the other. The barman smiled.

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

“Stop bumping the bar!” said the barman.

Signals was beside himself.

“George! Are you bloody deaf! Fight!”

Her arm trembled with fatigue.

“Use your back! “Shouted Signals. 

Paddy prepared for the last push. 

 “Take the strain with your back!” said the barman.

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.

‘Come on George! Don’t give up!”

A smell of consumed beer.

Cigarette smoke.

Breathing deeply, she shifted her weight, leaning into her arm. Using her back.

Nothing to lose.

Paddy felt the change.

He glanced up at her and smiled.

So slight, no one noticed.

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

The bar went wild.

“Once you’ve got it upright, shove quickly and you’ve won!” screeched Signals.

Paddy’s eyes crinkled at the corners. 

The muscles under her breasts started to ache. The noise level at the bar washed over her. The barman began to take bets. This was new. Someone might beat the champion. A coloured 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.

“Four!”

She felt it deeply. 

“Five! Six!”

Waiting for the final thrust.

“Seven!”

She returned his stare. Savoured it.

Something flickered at the corner of his mouth.

“Eight!” yelled the mouths beside them.

Was it a smile?

“Nine!”

Intimate . Totally alone. 

The barman clutched the bets, eyes darting. This was too close. 

“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.

“Well done, George! We’ll arrange another session after we’ve given you some training,” cooed Signals.

The barman paid out the winners. The losers demanded a rematch.

A telephone jangled.

Paddy looked at her.

“I’d better go,” he said.

She wiped the sweat from her hand. 

Slowly.

“Drinks on you tomorrow Georgina?”

“Maybe Paddy.”

She laughed up at him.

“Maybe.”

*