Moral Fibre

As they finished the first course, Georgina tossed Kit an pear and settled herself more comfortably. The sun shining from a near cloudless sky made her drowsy. She lay back and closed her eyes to soak in the unusual warmth. After a moment, she opened her eyes and turned her head in Kit’s direction to tease, “It’s so hot, I almost feel like I’m on safari.”

Kit laughed and took a bite from his pear. He was sitting beside her, his elbows on his knees, gazing into the distance. Dressed in her brother’s breeches and boots, he looked much more like the young man in the safari pictures she’d seen last night than the RAF officer Georgina had known up to now. The photos had revealed a different Kit, Georgina reflected, someone more youthful and more easy-going, almost jaunty. His father was a taller, older version of Kit, always in immaculate tropical kit with wiry, muscular arms and hands, and skin dark with tan. The affinity between father and son had been obvious in the photos: in the identical way they held their guns, their casual yet comparable poses around the fire, the way they sat shoulder to shoulder on an old log, or worked side-by-side pushing their vehicle out of a muddy gully.

Yet it had been the photos of Kit’s mother that most surprised and fascinated Georgina. Mrs Moran was much shorter than her two men, and her tan even deeper than Kit’s father’s. It had made her broad, white smile stand out, and her pride in Kit shone from every picture. Georgina had been particularly attracted by a picture of Mrs Moran surrounded by an excited crowd of little black children. They clustered around her, their faces alight with curiosity, some pushing and squeezing to get nearer. Mrs Moran was showing them something not obvious in the picture, bending over and utterly at ease with the children.

“I wish I could meet your mother.” Georgina announced as Kit chewed silently on his pear. “She looks like just the kind of teacher I’d like to be one day.”

Kit looked over astonished, as though he couldn’t believe his ears. “What makes you say that?”

“The photos last night.” Georgina thought about that and added, “And what you wrote in your letters. I particularly loved that picture of her with the children.”

“Oh, that.” Kit looked down and brushed an insect off one of his borrowed riding boots. “That’s not formal education. She just tries to make people interested in the world around them, to inspire them to want to learn.” He bit into his pear again.

“But that’s exactly what I feel is important!” Georgina replied, sitting up. “Here in England, schooling seems to be so much more about getting ahead, wearing the right ‘school tie,’ building an ‘old boys’ network. Most people don’t care if they actually learn anything at all. Even at university, everyone seems more impressed by sports than scholarship.”

“There’s some truth in that, I suppose,” Kit ventured cautiously, “but England still offers some of the best education in the world.”

“Only for those who come from the right class and can afford it, or the few who can win a scholarship. Most children in this country still leave school at fourteen. So much potential is being wasted!” Georgina spoke passionately, adding, “That’s why I’ve volunteered to do my apprenticeship in a council school.”

Kit looked over frowning slightly, although he didn’t comment. He just asked, “Do you know where you’ll be?”

“Not yet, but I hope to remain in Lincoln,” Georgina admitted.

“Because of Don?”

Georgina shrugged in embarrassment. “Yes. For the memories, I suppose. So many places in Lincoln have an association with him. I’m afraid that if I move away, I’ll start to forget Don.”

There was silence, almost like a moment of mourning, and then Kit said, softly but surely, “No, you won’t.”

“Or maybe I’m just afraid of the unfamiliar.” Georgina suggested self-critically, tossing away the core of her pear and clutching her knees as she gazed across the Yorkshire countryside. “I think I should try to be more like your mother.”

“In what way?” he asked back warily.

“Well, you said that whenever your father was transferred to a new post, she had to pack everything and move. Every time she had to start her whole life all over again.”

“We all did,” Kit noted dryly.

“Yes, of course, but I think it must have been particularly hard for your mother. Children are adaptable and your father always had his job, but your mother had to hold everything together. She had to make new friends, hire new staff, find medical care, schools, church — everything. She must have been very flexible, open-minded and inventive.”

“She didn’t have much choice,” Kit retorted sharply.

Georgina couldn’t fathom why Kit sounded so curt, almost hostile. She supposed he just didn’t understand how difficult it could be for a woman to move around. “She could have closed her mind and heart and simply created an ‘English’ bubble around her,” Georgina pointed out. “I’ve known so many women like that: totally inflexible and close-minded. They think there is only one ‘right’ way to do everything. Indeed, most teachers are like that. All they do is repeat what they learnt decades ago and make their pupils repeat it back to them parrot-fashion. It’s that attitude that makes so many children uninterested in learning. A teacher should set a good example by being curious and eager to learn. Surely you agree with that?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t ever thought about it.” Kit hesitated and then he turned his head to look straight at Georgina and something in his gaze and his tone warned her that he was about to say something that was both serious and unwelcome. “My mother could never be like those Englishwomen you described, creating a ‘bubble’ of Englishness around her, because she’s not English — despite her passport. You see, my mother isn’t white. She’s what the South Africans call ‘coloured.’ Her father was English, but her mother was a South African native, a black.”

Georgina was startled. Nothing about Kit’s looks suggested he had African blood. He was fair skinned, tall and bony with silky, straight, dark hair. Yet, now that she thought about it, his mother had looked more exotic — darker, and curly-haired. She frowned slightly as she grasped the significance of what he’d said. Yet, this revelation only made Kit’s mother more interesting, even inspiring to her. What a young woman she must have been to capture the heart of a colonial officer! How courageous to face the bigotry of the other colonial officials’ wives.

“She must be amazing!” Georgina declared. “One day you must tell me how your parents met and fell in love — and how her parents did too. You can’t seriously think that knowing she isn’t white would make me think less of her? Surely her heritage doesn’t matter to you?” Georgina asked him.

“Yes. It does matter.” Kit countered caustically. “It affects her entire life — our lives. My parents flew all the way down from Nigeria to attend the wings’ parade, only to have the staff at the station make her feel unwelcome. There I was, wearing my new wings, recently promoted to Flying Officer, and they treated my mother as though she was one of the cleaning staff! They literally asked my father and me what we wanted to drink while refusing to acknowledge that she was standing between us.”

“That’s outrageous!” Georgina gasped.

“I’m slow to anger,” Kit told her, “But I came so close to causing a scene that my father felt he had to hold me back physically. Then the Chief Flying Instructor, who was British, swept over and introduced himself to my mother and starting blathering nonsense about how exceptional I was. He insisted that my mother join him at the head table, seated directly beside him where he personally ensured she was properly served. My British colleagues also made a point of coming over and being friendly, but it was too late. My mother was so distressed that she refused to stay for the rest of the day’s programme.”

“I can understand,” Georgina murmured. She would have felt the same way.

“We left immediately after the meal, and I vowed to myself that I’d never return to South Africa. Not for any reason. Certainly not after the war.”

Georgina could sense how angry and bitter he felt about the incident. Her natural instinct was to reach out to him in a gesture of solidarity and support, but Fiona’s voice in her head made her hand drop.