Georgy Girl by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2022 The picture may be a little misleading but should make sense towards the end. If you click on it, you'll link to the artist. If you're not familiar with the song, you can listen to it here. This story has nothing to do with either the 1965 novel by Margaret Forster or the 1966 film that was based on it. This is my second entry in the competition. Since it's not being voted on (but rather judged) I'm happy that posting more than one entry isn't going to split the vote. I know any author can only place for one prize, which I think is a great idea, I'm just offering up a bit more choice. This is shorter than 'A Change of Heart', but it probably has a little more of the current me in it. The other was more the me from thirty years ago.

-oOo-

Hey there, Georgy Girl

Swinging down the street so fancy-free

Nobody you meet could ever see the loneliness there inside you.

“George, don’t do that.”

Echoes of Joyce Grenfell.

“Don’t do what, dear?”

I know I sound distracted, but that seems to be the nature of all my communication with Beryl lately.

“You were humming darling. It’s distracting.”

“I’m sorry, dear.” More a reflex than a genuine apology.

“I don’t know why you listen to that rubbish all the time. I mean it must be older than you are.”

Not quite, but close. The Seekers released Georgy Girl in 1966 while I was born in 1963. I stand up, walk over to the record player, press the return button and wait for the arm to settle onto its cradle. The record slides gently back into its sleeve and the sleeve back onto the shelf. I power down my old Rotel.

“There’s no need to turn it off, dear.”

“It’s alright darling, I should sort out the washing up.”

“Oh no, you can leave that. I’ll get to it later.”

“No, no, I’m up now, I might as well.” I head out to the kitchen and the small stack of crockery. With only the two of us, there’s never a lot to do, but that’s no excuse for letting it accumulate.

Passive-aggressive – not a term I’ve ever particularly liked. I believe it was coined by an American Colonel during the Second World War, but simply naming a thing doesn’t give you ownership. I suppose I’d be more inclined to call it Britishness since it runs through our culture like the name in a stick of Blackpool rock.,

I’m sorry, that may be a little ‘niche’ – the sort of thing you'll only understand if you happen to originate in this green and pleasant land and be possessed of a vintage greater than half a century. For any of you that don’t qualify, Blackpool rock is a stick-shaped hard sweet (not unlike candy canes for our colonial cousins, but completely straight and without that barber's pole spiral). It is typically a lurid pink on the outside with a white, minty centre and the name of its place of origin marked out in coloured sugar. What makes it unique among sweets is that this lettering runs the full length of the sweet, put there using a process requiring such skill that, even in the modern age, it cannot be automated.

Anyway, I digress. Passive-aggressive behaviour is a part of the definition of what it means to be British. Originating in a time when a peasant might find him (or indeed her)-self dangling at the end of a noose for showing open defiance to a noble, passing through the ages of self-imposed emotional suppression during the Edwardian and Victorian eras, surfacing in more modern times during work-to-rule actions where workers, not being allowed to protest unfair working conditions through industrial action such as striking, would do absolutely nothing more than the minimum amount of work the rules required of them, downing tools at precisely five o’clock regardless of what stage they had reached in a particular job.

I’m digressing again. Beryl and I have been married for over thirty years now, and rather than air any grievances we may have openly, and potentially resolve them, we find subtler ways of showing that we are unhappy – subliminal salvos that never quite get the full message across. It’s in our nature, it’s inescapable and it’s exceedingly toxic.

Take these kitchen gloves for instance. There was a time Beryl would only buy them in her size – a kind of quiet declaration that she considered the kitchen to be her domain, and that I wasn’t welcome in it. If I wanted to do the washing up then I’d only be able to do so by putting my bare hands in scalding hot water (anything cooler would result in comments to the effect of, ‘how can you expect to clean dishes properly in cold water?’ shortly followed by, ‘here, let me do that,’ and a subsequent demotion on my part to tea-towel duty.) My response? I used to put her gloves on regardless of their being too small and inevitably tearing them after one or two uses. Beryl now buys gloves in my size as well, but in an effort to show her disapproval, she only buys pink ones.

Suits me. I like pink.

Steaming hot water, squeeze of fairly iquid and I’m up to my forearms in suds. I don’t need the hifi to listen to my music. Without fear of interference, I hum along to the tune in my head.

Hey there, Georgy Girl

Why do all the boys just pass you by?

Could it be you just don't try or is it the clothes you wear?

You're always window shopping but never stopping to buy

So shed those dowdy feathers and fly a little bit...

The washing up doesn’t take long. Beryl has to reach the end of a row of knitting before she can join me, and by the time she has done so, the cuttles and crocks are on the draining board and I’m quietly wiping them dry and putting them away. With nothing else to do, she fills the kettle.

“Tea?”

“Please.”

Apparently, we have a short cease fire in our war of attrition. The words of the song have been working on me though, and I’m not sure I’m ready to honour it with the current level of resentment simmering away.

“Am I that much of a disappointment to you?” I ask.

“What?” She looks around for a distraction, but it’s a slow kettle and there really isn’t much to do while waiting for it to develop its head of steam.

“All the little comments like just now in the lounge. You wouldn’t be constantly chucking those barbed arrows of yours at me if you were happy.”

“All I did was ask you to stop humming.”

And so she goes on the defensive as soon as there’s any sign of a change in the status quo. Where did we ever get the idea that World War One tactics had any merit? Hunker down in our bunkers and send out snipers to take pot shots from the shadows, then as soon as one of us goes over the top and tries to make it across no-man’s-land, out come the machineguns ready for the massacre.

I’m committed though. Once you charge, you have to follow through. Maybe I’m hoping for something like the unofficial Christmas Truce of nineteen-fourteen.

“You didn’t ask, you told. And it’s always the same, never enough to demand a response, but always with that hint of, ‘what my life could have been if only…’”

“Is that really what you think of me? Am I such a terrible nag?” A tear escapes from one eye.

Now, there’s a masterclass in passive-aggression. A little deliberate twist in my words, a subtle shift in intent, and suddenly I’m the bad guy.

“I’m not criticising you, darling, but I can see you’re upset. You have been for a while. I thought we should try and work out what’s at the heart of it all.”

She fusses with the teabags, puts them in the pot without warming it. That’ll probably be my fault too when the tea is a little anaemic. The water goes on top while I fetch down a couple of cups and saucers and hunt out the milk from the fridge.

“What’s brought this on?” she asks. “You’re not usually like this?”

Still trying to avoid the issue, but then we’ve both had a lifetime’s practice at doing this. She wouldn't have to fight so hard right now if I wasn’t trying so hard to confront it.

Hey there, Georgy Girl

There's another Georgy deep inside

Bring out all the love you hide and, oh, what a change there'd be

The world would see a new Georgy Girl.

Is that why I’m being so obstinate this time? The words of a song talking to me? It’s a song I’ve always loved, because the first time I heard it, it called to me in a way that nothing and no-one else has ever done and gave me a secret, inner name that I’ve never dared share with anyone. Ever.

Georgy Girl.

Beryl’s hands shake as she pours out the tea – which proves to be just as incipid as I’d expected. She doesn't seem to notice though.

“You're going to leave me, aren't you?”

What! I mean, “What?”

“The same thing happened to Kathy – you remember Kathy Burke from the end of the street?”

I nod dumbly, but... This is such a completely unexpected turn. I might have laughed had I not been so shocked – had she not been so serious.

“She said he was distant and withdrawn at first. I mean you've always been a bit like that – there's always been a part of you you've kept shut away, just out of my reach.

“But then he started finding fault with her. Little things at first. She said it was like he was looking for an excuse to leave without it being his fault.

“Then he did, with some bimbo half his age and twice her cup size.

“Who is it, George? Who's this newer, flashier model you’re looking to trade me in for?”

“There's no-one, Beryl. It's always been you. Only you, and it will always, only be you.”

“But... What's all this nonsense about then?”

She takes a sip of her tea, grimaces and puts it down.

I pick up the pot and pour it down the sink. Teabags in the recycling and a quick rinse out before putting it back on the work surface. The kettle, I empty and refill – water looses dissolved oxygen when it boils, so it's always best to make tea with fresh. With the kettle restarted about its lengthy labour, I take my wife's hands in mine.

“Have I been a good husband, Beryl?”

“Yes, of course, but...”

“I’ve provided for us, fixed what needed fixing around the house?”

“Yes, but...”

“I was a good father?”

“You still are, even now they're gone.”

“And they've been gone some time now, haven't they. What, six years since our youngest married?”

“Seven, but...”

“Seven then. And in all of those seven years since we've been back on our own, in all of the thirty-two years since we were married...” I’d taken time to check my maths on that one, noting the little twitch of dissatisfaction in the corner of her mouth that she couldn't correct me there too. “In all of that time, have I ever given you reason to doubt my devotion to you?”

“Well, no, but you've never criticised me either.”

“Whereas you have – criticised me I mean.” I try to say the words gently and without reproach, but I'm not sure if I'm successful. “You know what the Good Book says about a nagging wife, don't you?”

“Like a dripping tap, isn't it?”

“Well, I think the original is a leaky roof in a rainstorm, but I prefer the dripping tap analogy. Not aggravating enough to do anything about at first, but incessant. Like Chinese water torture, you can ignore it at the start, it even feels petty to mention it, but over time it becomes progressively more unbearable.

“I suppose I reached my limit today, but there has to be a cause, doesn't there? I'm not going to fix it by telling you to stop, so I'm asking you, why do you feel like you have to?”

The kettle nears the end of its journey. I divert some of the almost boiling water into the pot and slosh it around while it strives towards its goal of turning off that switch. Teabags added and properly one-hundred degrees hot water poured over the top.

I glance at my beloved who's making fish-out-of-water gaping motions with her mouth as she tries to find an answer.

I rinse out the two teacups and pour in fresh milk as I wait patiently for either my wife or the teapot to finish brewing.

The teapot wins and I pour out two reassuringly dark cups of the elixir of the gods. These I carry through to our small lounge, using one to lure my good lady back to warmth and comfort.

“Might it have something to do with what you said earlier, about my always keeping a part of me locked away just out of your reach?”

I feel a cold trickle of adrenaline enter my veins. This is something I’ve learned to keep locked away from everyone. I've become so good at it, I'm pretty certain no-one suspects it’s there. Owning up to it now would be a big step for both of us. Maybe too big a step.”

Beryl swallows, then taking a largish swig from her cup, swallows again. Not so much Dutch Courage as British. There's something decidedly fortifying about a good, strong cup of Rosy-Lee.

“You don't need to say anything if you don't want to, dear. I'll try to be a little more considerate.”

“And you’ll no doubt manage until that bit I'm keeping from you begins to weigh on you, then we'll be back to square one. This is something I should really have told you years ago.”

“There must have been a reason why you didn’t.”

“There was. It's one of those things we were all very good at keeping swept under the carpet. Don't mention it and you can pretend it's not real.

“Except it always has been for me.”

“I'm almost too afraid to ask.”

“I'm almost too afraid to say.”

I stand and turn the amplifier back on. The Seekers record comes down off the shelf. It has just been played so it doesn't need cleaning. I do dislodge an accumulation of fluff from the needle before moving it over the beginning of the second side.

“I know I've played this record already this evening. I know it's almost as old as I am, and I know you don't think all that much of it, but please, listen to the lyrics of this one song with a mind that I've always felt they were about me.”

I let the needle drop and step out of the room. It's entirely as much as I can manage. I walk through the kitchen to the back door and step out into the night.

A low overcast obscures the stars but reflects the yellow light of the nearby street lamps, offering a lurid backdrop to the bare branches reaching heavenward.

My parents – possibly my whole upbringing for that matter – had done quite a number on me. There was no way I could have spoken openly about those decades of repressed feelings. It has stretched me to the limit to say what I have and to set in motion this course of events over which I now have no control.

I can still hear the song reaching out to me from the front room. I don't need to, of course. The lyrics are burnt into my mind from the many times I’ve played and replayed this track.

Hey there Georgy Girl

Dreaming of the someone you could be

Life is a reality you can't always run away

Don't be so scared of changing and rearranging yourself

It's time for jumping down from the shelf

A little bit

Hey there Georgy Girl

There's another Georgy deep inside

Bring out all the love you hide

And oh, what a change there’d be

The world would see

A new Georgy Girl

Wake up Georgy Girl

Come on Georgy Girl

Wake up Georgy Girl

Come on Georgy Girl

Wake up Georgy Girl

Come on Georgy Girl

The words fade into silence. Faintly, at the edge of hearing, I can make out the clicks of the record player being turned off. I'm cold, but I don't dare move.

There's a presence beside me, then a hand on the small of my back. If I turn now, she'll see the tears streaming down my face. I can't.

The hand leaves my back and the presence withdraws back into the house.

I don't know how long I stay outside. Beryl closed the door when she went in, but that was just her practical nature not wanting the house to lose its heat.

The lights are off so I creep upstairs. I snag my pyjamas from the end of the bed and take them through to the bathroom, where I make my night-time preparations, then settle into bed.

If she'd wanted to talk, that would have been when she'd have responded. She doesn’t move, meaning she's either asleep or not ready.

I settle as gently as I can on my side and close my eyes. The die is cast – elea iacta est – this will play out however it will. I'm not sure if the sensation suffusing me is anticipation or terror, but at least that decades old burden is gone.

-oOo-

Her side of the bed was empty when I woke in the morning, and so was the house. She'd left the means for me to sort out my breakfast along with the usual plastic lunchbox and thermos.

Nothing more though.

I took my time, washing everything up when I was done. A quick check in the lounge showed she'd turned off the hifi but not put the record away. She'd never felt comfortable handling my records, and I have to admit I hadn't made it easy on her.

I put ‘Come the Day’ away and gathered my paraphernalia together before leaving on my short walk to work. The local shops, which include the small newsagent and greeting card shop that I ran, were half a mile down the road. A pleasant walk when the weather was clement, which unfortunately it wasn’t. Not raining at least, but cold, with a bitter wind making it colder.

At least it was light. That was always the worst part of winter, walking to and from the shop in the dark. A lot of what had allowed me to keep my little business from turning into yet another subsidiary of Clinton or Hallmark was that I designed and sold my own cards. I worked on my designs whenever there wasn't anyone in the shop, and they came out so much better in natural light.

There was nothing particularly special about them, except that they were different from the mass-produced offerings of the bigger publishers. My business was too small to tempt any of those larger corporations into setting up in competition, but it was lucrative enough – between the newsagent sales and the regular customers who liked the nearly individual touch I could give them – for Beryl and me to raise a family. One day I’d be able to sell it for enough to afford us a modest pension, but I wasn't ready to give it up yet.

My card designs all had something of a theme to them. They were cartoony and all featured a cute, if not particularly pretty, little girl doing little girl things. Some of them came from memories of my own daughter growing up, but most were an expression of a little girl who had never been given the chance to live. I won't say I felt any particular regret – I’ve had quite a blessed life after all – but I could never have kept her completely inside me. She had to find some way to live, even if it was in my doodles.

The day ended up being one of those busier than usual days. I'd expected it and had extra stock available, which was just as well since between myself and the florist next door we barely had time to stop for lunch with the constant flow of customers. I certainly didn't have time to sit down with my sketchbook, but that was probably as well since my muse was uncommonly silent.

We had an arrangement this time of year, my neighbour and me. I'd make sure I kept something special for him from among my cards, and he’d do the same for me from his stock. Given the date, we both stayed open an extra hour for those last-minute stragglers whose relief and gratitude made taking the extra time worthwhile.

It was well and truly dark by the time I locked up and dropped in next door where Frank was sweeping up the aftermath of his day’s business. I handed him a box of his wife's favourite chocolates along with one of my large, special edition cards showing my little girl character hugging a limp, scruffy cat with a long-suffering expression on its face. Inside it read, 'You can tell how much you love someone by what you’re prepared to put up with.’

Frank chuckled. “It’s perfect,” he said, then he nodded behind the counter at a solitary bucket with two bouquets of roses in it. “As usual, saved the best for us.”

I picked up the first one that came to hand. The flowers were a rich, blood-red and soft as silk.

“You're a star,” I told him.

I thought of the way I'd left things with Beryl the previous night, of the empty house I’d woken to this morning, and a heavy sense of forboding settled on me. Had I gone too far? Would there be anyone for me to give these to when I made it home? I turned towards the door.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Frank”

“Yup, see you tomorrow when hopefully some semblance of sanity will have re-established itself.”

“You can put up with it for one day a year,” I said, “for the bulging till if nothing else.”

He chuckled again. “Goodnight George.”

“’Night Frank.”

The walk home always seemed longer. Maybe it was a little uphill this way, but tonight in particular it felt further, especially the last hundred yards.

The house was dark.

I let myself in and turned on a few lights. There was a stillness to the place that only succeeded in raising my sense of forboding.

I found a vase and settled the roses into a little water, taking time to arrange them into an attractive spray which I place in the middle of the kitchen table.

Beryl usually cooked during the week, but there was no sign of any food preparation, or indeed any indication that she'd been home at all.

I headed upstairs and checked out room, which was as neat as ever. I opened her side of the wardrobe and allowed myself the luxury of running my fingers over the delicate fabrics of her clothes. Nothing seemed to be missing which was something.

She was quite a lot smaller than me, something I'd appreciated over the years as it dealt with any temptation I might have found looming here. I breathed in her scent for a moment and closed the door.

Back downstairs I wandered aimlessly about the place. No note, no indication of any sort what might have happened to her. I thought of phoning her parents, but decided it was too early yet to worry them.

In the end I made myself a cup of tea and settled into my chair, staring at the blank screen of our television. I could have turned it on, watched the news or something, but even the thought of doing something as simple as that spiked my levels of anxiety.

It sunk home how much Beryl’s and my life revolved around each other. I couldn't imagine carrying on without her and I swallowed down a pang of regret at yesterday's rashness.

We couldn't have carried on the way we were though. Our subtle little war of attrition would have eventually eroded away what love we still shared until all that remained was bitterness and the habit of each other’s company.

All I needed to do was convince myself this was better.

I don't know how long I sat like that. What remained of my tea was cold and undrinkable, and I’d about decided to do something about it when I heard the sound of a key in the front door. I made it into the hallway just as she closed the door behind her.

“The bus was late,” she said by way of apology. “I picked us up some fish and chips, I hope that's okay.”

She pushed past me into the kitchen.

“These are lovely,” she said stroking one of the roses.

“They're for you,” I responded, perhaps somewhat redundantly. “Happy Valentine's Day.”

She smiled wanly and turned to sort out the plates, knives, forks etcetera.

“We could crack open that bottle of Chardonnay,” I suggested.

“Yes. Thanks, I could do with a drink.”

I hunted out a couple of glasses and a corkscrew before retrieving the bottle from the fridge, pouring out two glasses about the time a couple of plates of haddock, chips and mushy peas appeared on the table.

Realisation dawned as to just how ravenous I was. My stomach had unknotted itself the moment she walked into the house, and now it wanted filling. Politeness dictated that I wait until we were both seated and ready. I raised my glass.

“To us?” More of a question than a toast.

She smiled, perhaps a little weakly and raised her own glass.

We ate in silence, her appetite matching mine for once, or perhaps it was her reticence to speak. Filling your face with food only lasts so long as a means of procrastinating though. Eventually we both sat with empty plates and heads full of questions.

“I believe there’s and elephant in the room,” I said conspiratorially.

She laughed, briefly, nervously.

“Would you care to talk about it?” I asked after another short pause.

“Well, I've been walking around all day trying to make sense of it all, unsuccessfully I might add, so I suppose it won't make things worse.”

Not a promising choice of phrase. “What would you like to know?”

“How long...?”

“All my life.”

“You never said anything.”

“It’s not something you talk about, or so my parents taught me.”

“Do they know?”

“I don't believe so. I think my mother suspected at one stage, but she kept dropping little hints to let me know how wrong it was, so I learnt to bury it.”

“So why now? Why after all these years?”

“For the reasons we talked about yesterday. You're unhappy because I'm so distant. This is the only thing I've been keeping from you.”

A chasm of silence yawned wide between us. I waited.

“Does this mean you'll want to, er... want to wear dresses and things?”

“I think we're a little past that,” I said with no small amount of regret. “Besides, what would the neighbours think?”

“But... That song!”

...could it be you just don’t try or is it the clothes you wear?

You’re always window shopping but never stopping to buy

So shed those dowdy feathers and fly a little bit...

...dreaming of the someone you could be

Life is a reality you can’t always run away

Don’t be so scared of changing and rearranging yourself...

...bring out all the love you hide

And oh, what a change there’d be

The world would see...

She had a point.

“It’s not just about clothes,” I said, trying to explain it to myself as much as to her. “I wouldn't want to put on a dress if it meant I’d become a laughingstock, especially if it meant you’d be humiliated too.”

“Then what is it about, George?”

“I suppose it’s about being who I am, all of me. It's about not having to hide a part of me away, not having to be ashamed of something which I can't really help. It's about people seeing all of me. No, it's about you seeing all of me and, I suppose, deciding if you still love me.”

“Well, I suppose I'm not going to be able to make up my mind about that until I do see all of you, am I?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you're still hiding, George. You've told me about... about... you know. But it's not the same as showing. You have to let her out, let me meet her.”

“And how do you propose I do that?”

“I bought you something while I was out.” She rummaged in her bag. She's always preferred big ones with shoulder straps. This one was big enough that I hadn't noticed she had more in it than just our dinner.

She handed me a parcel about the size of a shirt though a little thicker.

“Perhaps you could go and change while I sort out the washing up.” she said with what I can only describe as a brave smile.

-oOo-

What surprised me most was that it actually didn't look ridiculous. Odd perhaps, but not ridiculous.

The entire bodice was burgundy lace with a low cut, scalloped v-neck and long, open-ended sleeves. The skirt was the same colour and feel in full, shimmering folds to my ankles.

I'd had my reservations at first, but since I'd put it on I hadn't been able to pull myself away from my reflection. I'd have to shave – all over – if it was going to look completely right, but...

A movement in the corner of my eye spun me around. Both the feel and look of the nightdress had been steadily dissolving my rigid self-control, and now I felt totally vulnerable and unaccountably shy as my wife – my beautiful wife – stepped into the bedroom wearing a teal version of the same nightdress. There was a softness to her expression, a relaxation and a smile about her eyes that I hadn't seen in so long I’d almost forgotten what it looked like.

She reached up to cup my cheek in her hand

“There you are,” she said in the same gentle tones I remembered from our earliest days courting. “Happy Valentine's Day... Georgy Girl.”