It felt a little weird admitting the pictures on my desk of the beautiful girl with the pale skin, big grey eyes, and mass of jet-black hair was actually my little sister, not my girlfriend, even though she was my best friend and favourite person in the whole world, so I shut up and said nothing, preferring to let them think what they liked.
My biological father had been killed on a training exercise, a stupid weapon malfunction, when I was less than a year old. His best friend and Sandhurst roomie had brought the news to mum, supported and comforted her, helped her and Mrs. Kinnison raise me, and eventually fallen in love with her. Georgy was their daughter, but she was always just my kid sister, nothing else.
Whenever I got home, she would jump all over me and completely monopolise my time, so much so mum had to ask her to let her and dad (and that’s how I thought of him; he was never my step-dad, he was always just ‘dad’) have some time with me, they missed me too.
I sort of knew dad wasn’t too well; every time I came home he looked older, thinner, more haggard, and his upright, straight-backed cavalryman’s posture was going. He’d taken to leaning on a cane, and his clothes hung on him like limp flags, but when I tried asking him what was wrong he just passed it off with a comment about ‘just getting old, son, it happens to all of us eventually’ which didn’t feel right at all. He was only in his early fifties, younger than some of the drill sergeants, barely even middle-aged, but that was his story and he was sticking to it.
What really drove it home was my Passing-Out Parade. Mum, Dad, and eighteen year-old Georgy were all there to watch me graduate, “pass-out”, as a 2nd Lieutenant preparatory to being sent down to my regiment. As we marched and wheeled in precision formations on the parade ground I saw my family in the stand, mum and Georgy standing on either side of my father, who was sitting in a wheelchair.
I nearly lost step, and I don’t really remember the rest of the ceremonies that afternoon, being confirmed in my selection for formal induction into The Blues and Royals, anything, all I remember is the shock at seeing my poor dad shrunken and huddled in that wheelchair, just a shadow of his former self.
That was the day I found out that dad had Pancreatic Cancer, it had progressed to Stage IV, it was spreading everywhere, and inoperable. Dad had wanted me kept ignorant of what was happening to him, he knew how much Sandhurst meant to me, but also that I would have dumped it all in a heartbeat to be with him, to share in what time was left with him as he ground through that bastard disease that was eating him alive.
He knew that, so he kept it from me until he couldn’t hide it any longer.
My C. O. knew dad, they’d served together, and he knew what dad was going through, so he gave me a deferment so I could take dad home and be with him for as long as it took, but even I wasn’t prepared for how shockingly short was the time he had left. I’d barely gotten the family home when dad’s condition worsened. All the strength he’d carefully husbanded just to see me through my chosen path was finally spent, and I barely had a week at home with him while he reminisced about he and my father and their escapades as young cadets, told me what he wanted me to do, how he wanted me to take care of Georgy and mum.
It was only when he was satisfied he’d passed on everything he thought I needed to know that he’d finally accepted the palliative medication, medication he’d refused because he wanted to keep his mind clear until he’d properly said his farewells.
Dad had refused to go into hospice care; he’d wanted to stay with his family to the end. Just a few days after I took him home, not even a week after he’d proudly shaken my hand as a newly commissioned Queen’s Officer, he finally went to his rest, while Georgy, mum, and I held him and read him passages from his favourite book, ‘Three Men in a Boat’, by Jerome K. Jerome.
Whenever dad was feeling down, or the day seemed too much for him, he’d read a few chapters and he’d be smiling again. It was his happy place, and we sent him on his way to the words of his favourite passages from the one thing his disease couldn’t rob him of.
******
Georgy spent most of her time with me just fetching and carrying, always silently, with no attempts to initiate conversations, no sign of breaking out of the apathetic state she’d sunk into, nothing. She kept and maintained that carefully blank expression she’d had on her face the day they’d convicted that little fucker of the premeditated murder of my helpless mother and I could do nothing to break her out of it.
The sentence, a minimum tariff of 37 years, hardly seemed adequate, and Georgy never even twitched an eyebrow when it was passed; it was like she’d switched the whole episode and its aftermath off. She seemed to be feeling none of the outrage I was feeling; my mother was dead because he murdered her for her money, and he still got to wake up every morning, and breathe, and be alive, and have the best medical care, and three square meals a day, and rehabilitation, and pampering, instead of being properly punished for being a ruthless, venal, murderous piece of dogshit.
I didn’t know how to deal with whatever was going on with her; the sparkling, vital, happy girl I knew and loved was gone, and a sombre, expressionless zombie had taken her place. Even constantly hugging her and telling her I was always going to be there for her, keeping her in close contact, asking her opinion about every least little thing, trying to jolly her along, did nothing to break her out of her apathy, and I was beginning to be seriously concerned for her mental well-being; this was our Georgy-Girl, the fun one, now reduced to a pale, silent ghost.
*****
Time dragged by slowly as Georgy and I orbited around each other, me trying to be as normal as possible, and Georgy just ambling along, no animation or interest on her face, until the day I finally took her home, the home she’d steadfastly refused to enter since the day we’d found our mother the way Max had left her.
I needed to reconnect with any part of my past I could find, and no matter what had so recently happened there, my family home was still full of other, happier memories, memories of a childhood filled with fun and laughter, golden days with mum and dad, and Mrs. Kinnison chasing around after us, checking on us, playing with us, and, as we got older, including us more in the running and management of the house and estate.
I missed those days, I missed the sense of connection we’d shared with the house, with each other, and I reasoned that that was what Georgy needed, reminders of a happy past in that house where love and laughter and warmth had abounded.
When I first took her indoors, the first time she’d been inside the house in almost five months, Georgy became animated, almost agitated; obviously memories of the last time we’d been here were resonating inside her, and her grip on my arm was painful, her nails digging into me even through the material of my jacket. I literally had to walk her in, her feet seemed to be like lead blocks, and she shuffled along, almost falling over in her reluctance to put one foot in front of the other.
Mrs. Kinnison watched us making our slow progress inside, her eyes wide and concerned as she exchanged glances with me. Her expression spoke volumes about the changes in Georgy, so far from the fun-loving, noisy, boisterous child, and lively, warm, attractive girl she’d helped raise and loved so well.
Our first night back in the house was grim indeed. Georgy had a huge, vivid, realistic nightmare; her screaming brought me running, to find Mrs. Kinnison already there with her, holding her, trying desperately to break her out whatever was being played out in front of her and goading her into a paroxysm of terror; I didn’t know what to do, I could only watch as that sweet lady, the only good part left of our shattered lives, of the love we’d had before it was taken from us, cuddled and petted, and held Georgy close the way she had when she was small and she felt blue, or wanted her boo-boo’s kissed better.
Night after night the same story: Georgy in screaming fits of terror, Mrs. Kinnison holding her, trying to soothe her, trying to make her forget the horror and calm down while I stood by helplessly and watched my beautiful sister fracture and disintegrate. I told myself coming back here, bringing Georgy back here had been a mistake, but when I tried to suggest she come and live with me she shot me down; this was her home, this was where mummy and daddy were, this was what she wanted, where she needed to be.
It all finally culminated in the most traumatic night ever; poor Georgy was lucid dreaming, it was so real to her that she screamed herself hoarse, whatever she was dealing with had finally gotten deep enough into her to set off some really horrifying, life-like hallucinations, and there was nothing Mrs. Kinnison or I could do except hold her as she threshed around, almost too strong for both of us to deal with without hurting her.
All I could do was hold her and talk, desperately, quickly, reminding her of us, of her childhood, the things that made her laugh, the day she got her first pony, trivial things, yet supremely meaningful, milestones that only meant something to her, but significant to her at the time, and at last I began to get through to her.
I hugged her to me, which seemed to shake her out of it, and then the tears began, everything she’d held in and held down broke out, and she sobbed piteously, her broken heart finally finding release from the pain that had been torturing her.
Mrs. Kinnison, our ‘Aunt Kay’ and I held her close, the three of us all that was left of our former life, as Georgy’s grief resonated and amplified my own. That dear woman who’d been there for us all our lives held us and hugged us, and shared her compassion the way she always had.