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. Men and women were enlisted. Mixed race people could work with whites, even though they had a ‘black African’ mixed heredity.  

Brady Barracks. Bulawayo. Rhodesia. Africa. 1973

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

Paddy swaggered across the road to their office, pausing to salute the supplies truck heading out of the gate boom. 

“There’s an urgent consignment of supplies for the border. Needs to be dealt with at once.”

He spilled the order sheets onto George’s desk.

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

George nodded.

Paddy turned to leave. He had to send some kitchen staff up to the valley to cook for the men. Soldiers need to be fed to fight the terrorists crossing the border from Zambia . Paddy often thought of the battle for Irish independence- using the same-guerrilla warfare to weaken the oppressors.

“Today is the big day, hey Paddy? It’s St Patricks Day!”

Paddy shrugged good naturedly.

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

“I’ll make a shamrock out of a cabbage leaf,” said Signals.

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

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

Some tried to change her life.

“You must be a little more outgoing!” They arranged visits to hairdressers, boutiques, or single clubs. 

But she had come to terms with herself as her body spread, rounding out swimmers’ broad shoulders and narrow hips. 

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. 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. 

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?”

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

She’d left the letter lying about the cookery class, accidentally-on-purpose.

There was a 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.

Suddenly the loud music and shrill laughter faded into the background as she saw him. 

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.

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 dancefloor for a slow grab and grip number.

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

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.

“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. 

She felt her cheeks flame. 

“Hi,” he said. She tried to say something. She couldn’t breathe. Her throat was closed. The boys laughed, “Doesn’t look as if she’s pitched.” And they began to guffaw again.

“We sent this really ugly broad, a love letter, and Pat here was pretending to be Douglas-the-date.”

“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.

Her heart broke in tiny pieces in that bathroom. 

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

Hugging her knees.

But it was too late. Something had gone.

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

She picked up her purse and slipped away. 

No one - not even her mum must ever know.

She left school and settled for a typewriter, a small flat and baking an occasional cake for a school gala or charity. 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. It was romantic. 

Perhaps that was why she left the insurance company and joined the army. Just as the men went off for military service, so did George. It was romantic.

But George learnt her post would be the same as in the insurance company, except the typewriter wasn’t electric. But they trained her how to use a gun (weapon) and how to march.

She even forgot she was Coloured.

The men in her office had been a little distant at first, confused by the influx of women allowed into the forces to free up the men in to go to the border to fight. 

The signalman was typical.  

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. He decided she must be sexless. Therefore she was safe. 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.

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 man. 

So, George found herself in 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.

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.

She felt small beside him as he regaled them with Irish jokes and songs. 

Paddy consumed vast quantities of beer. For every one he bought, he got one for George too. She felt normal around Paddy, like a different person, foolishly expectant, as if something would happen.

The black barman beamed at them toasting St Patrick’s ancestral shades.

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

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

George had never seen anything like this before. 

The telephone rang.

“Sergeant’s mess. Hello?”

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

“Boss Paddy!” Paddy looked up.

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

The bar cheered. 

“My wife?” he asked.

The Barman nodded.

They had all seen this before. 

Paddy pursed his lips. “Tell her I’m at a prayer meeting.” He winked broadly at George. 

“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.

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

“Come on George!” They all yelled.

They wanted her to arm wrestle Paddy.  They wanted her to play in their game. 

The room felt warm, exciting. 

But there were 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.

George laughed.

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

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

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. 

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

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. 

“Use your back! “Shouted Signals. 

Paddy prepared for the last push. 

 “Take the strain with your back!” 

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

‘Come on George! Don’t give up!”

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.

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. Someone might beat the champion. 

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!”

Waiting for the final thrust.

Something flickered at the corner of his mouth.

Was it a smile?

Intimate. Totally alone. Held together. 

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

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.

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.”

*