Georgia Brown
All Rights
Reserved/Walker Jackson
Author's
Introduction
This excerpt is
taken from Private Dick Hackney
McTrite, which was published in
May 2002. Lieutenant Hackney
McTrite is in London working with
British Intelligence. They are
working franticly. It's
imperitive that the new German
encrypted code is broken because
D-day is close afoot:
Snow had fallen
for most of the day and all of
London, and half of England, was
dressed in a pure, white coat
adorned with thousands of
sparkling sequins. That supreme
Santa Claus had timed the
delivery perfectly, since it was
the day before the celebration of
the birth of the Christ Child.
Londoners, who had been
constantly terrorized by buzz
bombs and nightly firebombing,
from the Luftwaffe, rejoiced that
something divine and beautiful
had fallen from heaven, which
wouldn’t devastate that
which skilled, caring hands had
tediously constructed.
London nights were
pitch darkness to prevent aiding
the German Luftwaffe that could
appear uninvited at any moment.
Hackney, like others, walked
carefully hoping to evade human
traffic, other obstacles, and
maneuver the curbs. Hackney
walked slowly for another reason.
He was extremely tired. This day
he'd worked twelve hours with
British Intelligence in their
frantic and exhaustive haste to
break improved Nazi's radio
codes, because they were very
close to succeeding and D-day was
close afoot.
Hackney headed for
King Arthur's, a pub standing
just off the Piccadilly
roundabout. He went there often.
The fish ‘n chips they
served wrapped in newspaper were
delicious, a real treat. He was
ten yards away when he felt the
touch of a warm, soft hand.
Startled, he stopped walking. His
fear subsided hearing her
mellifluous voice. "I say
mate, are you a Yank?" The
inflections and tone of her voice
had a blend of Irish and Cockney.
"Why do you
ask?" he answered
cautiously, even though she
sounded like she wouldn't harm a
fly. The hand moved slowly down
his arm to his hand.
"I like you
Yanks. You're sexy, well paid,
and generous," she said, in
a pliant whore tone.
Now, the likes of
the woman dawned on him. She was
one of the notorious Piccadilly
Queens who plied their trade
around the circle. She gently
coaxed Hackney to the wall of the
pub. Hackney had followed
reluctantly, knowing the nature
of her motivation. However,
figuring they stood in the middle
of the sidewalk in danger of
being trampled by pedestrians,
moving away made sense. He didn't
have to yield. Now, he felt her
hands groping in the dark and
Hackney knew she was about to put
forth her best coquetry. He said,
his voice tones higher,
"Thanks darling, but not
tonight. I'm very tired. I'll buy
you a drink and fish ‘n
chips if you'd care to join
me."
Hackney's
circulation and breathing
continued to accelerate because
of her persistence.
"It's only
three quid, mate. Come on, 'ave a
go. I 'ave the rent to pay, you
know."
"The answer's
the same, but if you'll join me,
I'll give you the three-quid for
the rent, no strings attached.
Tomorrow's Christmas and I feel
in a giving mood. Besides, I'm
very lonely and homesick. I need
a soft shoulder to cry on."
"Blimey!
Mate! Might as well. There's no
'bloody' action this close to
payday. You 'bloody' Yanks spend
all your money the first week
after payday."
She took his hand
and they strolled to the glimmer
of light showing under the
doorway's threshold. Opening the
door, the gaiety spilled onto the
street, but little light. Every
Irishman and Cockney, from the
East End, and a sprinkling of
theater attendees were there
celebrating the birthday of the
Christ Child or killing time or
preparing for midnight Mass.
Hackney didn't hear or see the
spontaneous joy happening inside.
He was taken with the pretty,
young woman standing beside him
holding his hand. He couldn't
believe this shapely, petite
cherub, with springy black curls,
which fell inches below her
creamy soft neck, had
propositioned him minutes
earlier. And he erased it from
his mind completely. Tonight, she
was an angel and pure as the
Immaculate Virgin. He believed in
that, and he could make himself
believe the girl was also pure.
"I see a
table for two back there,"
he said, pointing toward the rear
while her transparent,
almond-shaped, blue eyes consumed
him. Sparkling in her eyes were a
mixture of innocence, spawned by
her youth, melancholy,
sensuality, and disappointment.
Hackney wasn't your every day
prince charming, but he was
comely.
Young Hackney was
thin and moderately tall, and he
kept his long wavy hair combed
neatly, but he was pretty sloppy
otherwise. He combed the black
wave to the right side. Although
his facial features were not
august, they were arranged with
great symmetry and
proportionality, and at times,
his facial expressions were
startling. But he had the skimmed
milk shading of a bookworm. His
muscle didn't bulge underneath
his clothes. Young Hackney,
overall, rated at least a seven
on a scale of one to ten.
"The table's
a bit-of-all-right, luv,"
she said softly, smiled weakly,
and led Hackney to the table. She
took the seat facing the front
and he joined her. She looked
over and her pale-blue eyes
widened. "My name's Georgia
Brown."
Hackney looked
through her curiously penetrating
eyes to her soul and discovered
nothing. He still couldn't
understand her plight, why she
walked the streets selling
herself. Suddenly, he felt an
uncontrollable compassion for her
and a compelling desire to know
the reason. "Pleased to meet
you, Georgia," Hackney said,
trying to generate a warm and
friendly quality to his voice,
but he was hoarse from the many
hours he'd worked. London's
inclement weather had invaded his
sinuses, and he came across
coarse. "My name’s
Hackney McTrite. I hail from New
Orleans."
This meant nothing
to Georgia, but she flashed a
beguiling, amiable smile none the
less. It seems as though she
loved to smile.
The waitress, a
stout shapely blonde with sultry,
honey-brown eyes and a balanced
face, arrived during a lull in
their conversation. Her plumpness
might give away her love for the
cheer she served.
"’ello, luv, what'd you
be wanting this evening?"
Yes, she was a Cockney who'd
originated in Ireland.
Hackney would have
loved an Early Times and soda,
but it wasn't available. Hackney
glanced at Georgia, smiled, and
gestured.
"I'll have a
gin and orange, luv." Her
choice had required no thought,
suggesting it was her regular
drink.
"I'll have a
Scotch and soda in a tall
glass." He was about to add,
easy on the ice, but ice wasn't a
choice in London these days. He
asked quickly as she turned to
leave, "Luv, when does the
kitchen clam up?" His effort
to be cute drew a quizzical
stare.
"Closed,
luv?"
"Right."
"Last orders
'ave to be 'n by ten. You've got
'alf an 'our, mate."
"Thanks,
luv." Hackney turned to
Georgia. "You've never heard
of New Orleans have you?"
"No, Hackney.
I come from Hereford. Have you
ever heard of it?"
"No, I'm
afraid not."
"So! We're
even. It's a small village near
Oxford where the college
is."
Hackney found the
comparison ridiculous. He excused
her privately, realizing she was
quite young. If she were twenty,
he'd be surprised. Ironically,
Hackney was just twenty-two.
"Yes, I've
heard of Oxford." Suddenly,
the terrifying buzz of a
buzz-bomb was heard and a deathly
silence fell upon the pub crowd.
Some raised their
hands in supplication and prayed.
Some chewed their
nails.
Some started
sweating.
Some, at least
those in closer harmony with the
Lord, weren’t intimidated.
But everyone drank faster as
though they wanted to make
certain nothing of the glass
remained should fate guide the
lethal bomb to the pub.
Suddenly, the
buzzing ceased and everyone's
fear intensified twenty-fold. The
'bloody' thing fell from the sky.
Hackney looked at Georgia,
sitting with her eyes closed and
her hands clinched. She mumbled
through slightly open lips.
Hackney saw she was terrified. He
covered her hands with his. They
sat silently awaiting fate’s
decision. The deafening explosion
caused the pub to quake. Everyone
pinched themselves and breathed
again.
A young lady rose
from a barstool. She went to the
jukebox positioned on the wall in
the middle of the pub. She
inserted a sixpence. After making
her selections, she returned to
the bar where she sat with a
staff sergeant in the US Army Air
Corp. The first melody was a
beautiful, poignant wartime song,
'The White Cliffs of Dover.'
Hackney took Georgia's hands
across the table. They sat
placidly, listening to the female
vocalist's sweet interpretation:
"There'll be
bluebirds over
The white cliffs
of Dover
Tomorrow just you
wait and see
There'll be love
and laughter
And hope ever
after
Tomorrow just you
wait and see."
Before the second
chorus commenced, tears appeared
in Georgia's pale-blue eyes. When
the song ended, Georgia's dark
mascara had been carried down the
sides of her florid cheeks.
Hackney found his handkerchief
and handed it to her. She took it
and wiped her cheeks clean and
her eyes dry.
"I'm sorry,
luv. Usually I'm not moved to the
point of tears, but I remembered
my older brother who was killed
at Dunkirk. There's no love,
laughter, or hope ever after for
him. I hate this bloody war. I
loathe it. I despise it. It's a
curse." Her calm, placatory
face had become writhed. Her
tongue had been caustic.
Glenn Miller's
band, playing a snappy rendition
of 'In the Mood', pushed the blue
tobacco smoke around and patrons
had come to life again. The
chatter of conversation and roar
of boisterous laughter had
replaced the quiet melancholy and
fear, but the merriment was soon
dampened again. But not as
profoundly as before, even though
the deadly, hellish buzzing of
another bomb was heard. Hackney
was astonished that people were
much less concerned this time.
He thought, it's
tantamount to defiance. I'm
damned if I'll let these stupid
buzz bombs dampen my spirit and
interfere with my pleasure. It
would serve the
‘bloody’ Nazi's
purpose. Hitler can go to hell.
Or a more philosophical attitude,
if it's my turn to go, so be it.
In the mean time, raise a little
hell, get plastered, and make
love. Quite likely the excitement
and energy imparted by the great
swing tune, dominating everyone's
ears, dulled or blocked the
hideous buzzing.
Hackney believed
that further conjecture of what
had altered the crowd's mood
would be spent in vain. He was
moved to work harder after this
serious contemplation. He knew,
finding the key to German's new
radio code would hasten the
silencing of the buzzing forever.
And he could go home to his
beloved New Orleans. He was dying
for a po-boy, RC, and Moonpie.
His feelings were that of every
doughboy fighting in a foreign
land. Many were frightful that
they might never see home or
love-ones again.
Hackney squeezed
her hands and looked into pensive
eyes darkened by thought. He said
compassionately, "I'm very
sorry about your brother,
Georgia."
The waitress
arrived with their drinks and
presented them. "Would you
be wanting anything else for the
moment?" She'd interrupted a
very tender moment.
Hackney smiled
over at Georgia. "Would you
like fish 'n chips, luv?"
"Ta, luv.
Could we order now and 'ave the
cook start it just before the
kitchen closes? I'd like another
drink before we eat. I'd be
disappointed if we missed
out."
Hackney noticed
the waitress nod in the
affirmative. "We'll have two
orders like the lady said."
Hackney had found a crown in his
pocket, which he handed to the
waitress with a gesture to keep
the overage. It was Christmas
time.
"Aye! Aye!
Captain," she said saluting.
She'd been cheeky. Hackney's
dress uniform said he was just a
three-striper. But he'd privately
relished the flattery.
Georgia drank
deeply, then said, "I was
going to say, before the waitress
came, my brother and I were very
close. I was devastated when news
of his death came. Then mother
died shortly after Ted was
killed. My father went completely
berserk. He couldn't handle so
much sorrow so suddenly, and he
started drinking. I tried to
console him, but he didn't
respond. Before long he had lost
his job. A few months later we
were forced out of our apartment.
Then, he was caught stealing and
sent to prison. Realizing little
work was available in the
village, I struck out for London.
Fortunately, I had saved a small
amount of money, most of which I
spent for a train ticket—
" She hesitated and smiled a
smile that almost broke his
heart. "I'm boring you,
aren't I?" She drank until
the drink was gone. Hackney
copied, then held up his glass to
draw the waitress's attention.
"No! No! luv.
Please continue. I care
deeply." Hackney smiled back
as tender a smile as he knew how
to create.
"Well, I
sought work the moment I arrived,
but since I was barely seventeen
and hadn't finished school, my
choices were limited. I was too
young to work in pubs and too
ignorant or inexperienced to find
office work."
Hackney
interjected. "Couldn't you
have found work in a defense
plant?"
"I tried. As
soon as they discovered my age
and that I'd not finished school,
they suggested I return to
school. Pretty stupid, right,
luv? When I told them my
predicament, they seemed not to
believe me."
The waitress's
plump, shapely body suddenly
shaded their space. Hackney now
noticed she wore a miniskirt and
a low-cut, snug fitting sweater.
She sat the drinks around,
proffered a fawning smile,
accepted two shillings and a
sixpence, and toddled away
jiggling rapturously from her
shoulders down to where her
thighs began.
"Where were
we when Mae West appeared?"
Hackney's levity was aimed at
softening Georgia's sorrow.
Georgia flashed an
expression begging, say what? She
didn't know who Mae West was.
Hackney had been a
little foolish.
She continued,
"I said people act pretty
stupid at times."
"I agree. So,
how did you happen to gravitate
to your current profession?"
Hackney's smile was tender and
indulgent.
"Do you
really care, Hackney? Suddenly I
feel ashamed and embarrassed. I
don't know what purpose it may
serve. I wished we could start
over again, and you didn't know
about me. Please, let's forget
about reality and dream like all
the little people all over the
world. Tonight they dream about
what Santa Claus is leaving them
under the tree. Tonight I'm a
princess. You're my prince
charming. Are you Catholic,
Hackney?"
"Yes
luv." He was already
dreaming. He actually felt like
her prince charming.
"Will you
take me to midnight Mass
Hackney?"
"Yes, I'd
love to, but I'll miss my train
home."
Georgia took his
hand across the table and smiled
a sweet compliant smile.
"Luv, you can stay at my
place tonight."
FINI
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