Georgia by Lesley Pearse

with his stooped elderly body. His sarcasm unusual for such a gentle man. He wore a new Fair Isle cardigan in heathery shades, his pipe hanging out of one of the pockets. ‘Now take it slowly. It’s not a pop song, but a beautiful piece of music. I want the people in the back rows to hear you. Head up, chest out.’
    It was the first time anyone in the choir had been chosen to sing a solo. She knew it was a great honour and she wanted it to be perfect.
    She took a deep breath as the organ wheezed into life. The introduction filled the church with sound and Peter winked at her.
    Her voice reached each corner. Pure and clear, every word annunciated in the way Mr Grey had taught her.
    The choir joined her. Sopranos soaring above her contralto, the tenors and bass giving it richness and warmth.
    ‘Very good,’ Mr Grey shuffled forward up the step. He held his back as if it hurt, but his old face was alight with pleasure. ‘If you sing it like that on Christmas Eve I should think Father O’Brady will get enough in the collection for his new roof. We’ll do it once more, then a quick run through the carols, then you can all go early.’
    ‘You were very good tonight,’ Peter walked out through the church door with her. ‘I love to hear you sing.’
    ‘Thank you.’ She smiled up at him, wondering if tonight she could find the words to ask him to her party.
    He was always waiting for her. He walked home with her from choir practice, talked about anything and everything, yet he had never attempted to take it further.
    ‘Do you have to go straight home?’
    His question took her by surprise. Peter was looking at his feet, he sounded as unsure of himself as she felt. ‘I mean, could we go for a walk?’
    ‘Where?’ she asked, not caring where it was as long as he was with her. She felt a flush creeping up her neck. Her teeth began to chatter more from anxiety than cold.
    ‘Over to the boating pond?’
    The heath yawned in front of them. A big, empty dark space that was all theirs. A huge Christmas tree at the church steps lit up the darkness with tiny green, red, yellow and blue sparks of colour. The frosty grass scrunched beneath their feet and as they moved away from the light, so their shadows disappeared.
    ‘You’re cold?’ Peter paused and looked round at her.
    Her scarf was tied tightly round her neck, her breath like steam from a kettle.
    ‘My hands are,’ she said, not wanting to admit she was freezing. ‘I forgot my gloves.’
    He took one of her hands and felt it.
    ‘Like ice,’ he smiled. ‘Put it in my pocket with mine.’
    He held her hand in his pocket, running his thumb across her palm. A tiny shiver went down her spine, but this time it had nothing to do with the cold. She moved closer to him, huddling against his shoulder.
    ‘Better now?’
    ‘Much,’ she smiled up at him. His ripe wide mouth made her feel weak inside. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you Peter. Would you like to come to my birthday party on January 6th?’
    He didn’t reply for a second, he looked straight ahead of him and she wondered if she’d asked too soon.
    ‘I thought you’d left me out. One of the boys at school mentioned it.’
    Now she felt foolish. Did he think she was only inviting him now out of politeness?
    ‘I didn’t actually invite any boys,’ she blushed. ‘I just asked the girls to bring a partner.’
    ‘Does that mean I’d be your partner?’
    ‘Yes. If you want to be.’ It was too late now for flirting and pretending disinterest as Christine suggested. ‘I didn’t ask you before because I was afraid you’d refuse.’
    She hung her head, afraid to meet his eyes.
    His fingers brushed her cheek as he lifted her face up to his.
    ‘Does that mean I can say you are my girl?’
    No words came, just a nod of her head. His eyes almost closed and his hand cupped her head drawing her to him.
    His lips touched hers tentatively, so light it could have been the touch of a moth’s wing.
    Closing her eyes