Georgia's English Rose Read Free

lay still,
aware of my hand against my belly, fighting hard to keep it there.
My fingers wanted to creep down and touch that wonderful, sensitive
area between my legs, where I just knew I would find myself
wet.
     
    Two days later we both had a
long weekend pass. Georgia and I arranged to travel to Berkshire
where I had invited her to my parents farm. I told Georgia she must
come and find out what real English country life was about. She had
only ever seen London, where her father was based, and the small
area around the camp we were allowed out to, heavily defended and
thick with troops. As soon as I offered my invitation Georgia
laughed and agreed at once.
    The morning of our departure Georgia was her
usual loud self, shivering in the cold of our small room but still
not putting any more clothes on. She leaned over the tiny sink to
brush her teeth, the sheer nightdress hiding little of what lay
beneath, and I lay in bed waiting my turn and watched guiltily the
curvaceous shape of my roommate.
    Our train was packed with troops even as we
travelled far into the countryside. The whole of the south of
England was temporary home to thousands of soldiers recently
returned from mainland Europe, the majority evacuated from Dunkirk.
They teemed and trained but as yet no one knew quite what to do
with them. The Germans sat in northern France, as close as twenty
miles from the English coast, and everyone waited for them to
attack. As July moved into its last weeks and the weather stayed
fine bombers flew over the English Channel and pounded London and
the southern ports.
    Georgia and I were glad to get a break, even
if only for a few days. Studying that glowing green line running
across the round screen gave me headaches, made worse because so
much depended on our identifying the height and track of
approaching aircraft. Our hushed instructions, passed on, might
result in the death of pilots on both sides, ours and theirs, the
deaths of young men no older than Georgia and I.
    The train pulled into our station and we
pushed our way through the soldiers lining the corridor, expecting,
and receiving, many inappropriate helping hands before we could
step down onto the platform.
    Georgia readjusted her uniform and did up
the buttons that had been loosened. “Goddam troops,” she said. “My
fanny’s got so many bruises I don’t think it’s ever gonna be the
same.”
    I giggled, amused at Georgia’s use of the
word fanny. In England it meant something else. Georgia was
referring to what she called her butt. But my fanny was at the
front, and luckily no one had pinched that. However, my bum, like
Georgia’s, had attracted the attention of a dozen hands. It seemed
the troops were equally considerate when it came to backsides.
Round or skinny, large or small, all were equally worth a fondle.
Men were such pigs, but I couldn’t blame them. At any moment they
might be ordered back onto boats and sent to die.
    We caught our breath as the train whistled
loudly and pulled away in a cloud of steam.
    “I think we may have to walk,” I said.
“Daddy said they don’t have much petrol, what with rationing and
everything.”
    “Gas?” Georgia asked.
    “Yes, gas,” I said. I was slowly becoming
bilingual, and now almost never misunderstood what Georgia meant. I
think she was getting to be the same, but she still enjoyed teasing
me.
    “Is it far?”
    “About three miles, I’m afraid,” I said.
    “Let’s get marching then. Lead the way,
girlfriend.”
    A shiver run through me when Georgia called
me girlfriend, even though she meant nothing by it. We picked up
our small cardboard suitcases and I led the way from the station
and along the narrow main street of the village. It was mid
afternoon and the single pub was closed. The village dozed, still
and peaceful. It was difficult to imagine there was a war on, but
if you looked indications lay everywhere. The butcher’s shop had
little on display in the window, a sign on the door stating