After the Storm (20 page)

‘You listen to me girl. You’re my person now. I bloody own you. And what would he think of that, the blue-eyed boy, the father’s pet.’ His voice was grinding the words out. His finger was stabbing the air but he had come no closer.

‘He had brown eyes, and I’m me own person,’ Annie repeated, not understanding his hatred. He’s barmy, she thought. She rushed on, ‘I can go into service anywhere I like. I don’t have to stay here. I’d have a starched pinny an’ all.’

He laughed at her then and sank back into his chair. The room seemed lighter all of a sudden.

‘Oh no, you slaggy little bitch. That you can’t. Not at your age. You should be in school, so no one would touch you with a barge-pole. You’d better wake up to the fact that no one wants you. Joe don’t and Sarah bloody Beeston can’t. I won’t let her, you’re mine, see. You’re mine to clean up me mess. At last it’s my turn, you see, and I’ve waited a long time for it too, one of his brats skivvying for me.’ He was shouting now, leaning forward with his hands between his knees. They hung down with big knuckles.

‘You wait then, just wait until …’

‘Just get me tea, for God’s sake,’ he interrupted, and pulled himself out of his chair. She braced herself for a blow but he pushed passed her and opened the door into the shop.

‘Bring me tea out to the shop,’ he grunted, ‘and remember to keep your mouth shut. You’ve got more wind than sense and you’ll have to learn to keep your place like the rest of us had to, all but your bleeding da.’ He slammed the door behind him.

‘I’ll make good and sure none of me precious sixpence goes into your till, anyway, you miserable old bugger,’ she hissed, but not loud enough for him to hear. She felt better for fighting him but there was no doubt who had been the winner. So, she thought as she filled the kettle, her da had rattled the old misery’s cage good and proper and it looked as though she was going to have to pay the price. Her stomach tightened and she was afraid.

That night, when she was in bed and the chores were finished, she let the tears come again. She had decided, before she left for Albert’s, that she would only cry in bed at night. That she would live her life in sections until the pain had eased and was not a constant ache which covered everything in a dull grey. She would keep her da in the black box with the blue-veined legs, tight shut it would be, right at the back of her mind.

She had been pleased to fight her uncle. She had been pleased to feel frightened because it meant that she was not dead inside. The house was quiet, there was no rustle from a
bedroom that had been Tom’s, no hug goodnight from him. She drew the bedclothes over her head and thought how, on her Sunday off, she would go to Grace’s and they would fetch Tom and walk and talk, but not about her da. They would walk past the church along the graveyard and listen to the bells as the ringers practised. Annie forced herself to think of the sound which was one that she loved, but which Grace said drove her da mad, which was a shame because they lived just round the back of the church.

She felt her limbs going loose and stretched her legs down into the cold part of the bed. If I live from Sunday to Sunday it will be all right. As long as I see them Sunday, it will be something to hang on for.

Her jaw was slackening now and sleep would not be far off and she wondered whether they would see Don again soon. He had said not to bank on it, he had a lot of rides coming up. He might write.

‘I’m off now, Uncle,’ she called behind her, expecting no answer and receiving none. The spring evening was fresh but milder than it had been for what seemed like years. It was Sally’s party and she hoped her hands were not too red and chapped, but in any case her cardigan was too big and the cuffs sat low on her hands hiding her wrists. She liked it better loose than tight and the stars were making her feel good to be free but how would it be meeting the others after all this time? She had seen Grace of course but no one else. She had not wanted to see them after the funeral and even less when she was up to her elbows in Albert’s dirty drains but Sally had seen her in the corner shop and insisted she come. Nice that was, Annie thought. She’d always been a bit flighty at school but she had been kind.

Come over Friday, Annie, she’d said, we haven’t seen you for, what is it, four months. Most of the lads will be there but not too many girls. Scared, I expect, or their mums are anyway, can’t think of what, she’d giggled and nudged. Anyway, no one sitting at home to make a prig of you, is there, Annie, and Annie had smiled at the bobbing yellow curls as they minced away but wondered at the ache the words had caused.

Sally lived a mile away and the evening was fading fast as she walked through the streets. She could hear the shouts of children in the back alley and had to dodge a group of boys as they kicked a ball.

There was noise but not much light coming into the yard from Sally’s kitchen window. Annie dropped behind the privy, changing her boots for the sandals she had carried in newspaper. She stuck the boots in the corner where they were hidden by the shadow and walked on feet that felt as though they were
bulging grotesquely between taut straps. Her feet and legs were bare and she hoped no one would notice feet that were puffing out of shoes a size too small and being rubbed red by the straps.

She had not noticed she had grown so since last year. She certainly hadn’t got much of a bosom or a bum yet. From the back or front she still looked like an errand-boy, or so Ma Gillow had said when she came into the shop for two pennyworth of glucose drops the other week. For the indigestion, she had offered, as she poked her nose further into everything.

At her knock, the door opened. ‘Come in, lass.’ Sally pulled her in and shut the door. Her long ear-rings were dangling nearly to her shoulders, Annie thought, and matched her red dress and red shoes. Sally was laughing to someone over her shoulder and pointed Annie to the table which held some beer and lime cordial. ‘All right, I’m coming,’ she called to the boy who was tugging at her arm. She raised her eyebrows at Annie and giggled, ‘He’s so impatient,’ and turned from her and was gone into the bobbing shapes which circled and flowed and filled the room.

The room was lit only by a low oil lamp but the heat was oppressive. Her feet throbbed and her eyes took in no one person but filled themselves with the hissing phonograph, and the movement which had swallowed Sally completely.

She edged sideways to the table wanting to choose the lime but the jug was full so no one else had. She poured a beer. She stood with her back against the wall which ran on from the sink and smiled, feeling her face widening and stiffening. She held the glass with both hands to stop the trembling and still it was as though she had not entered, for the movement continued unchecked and bodies flowed amongst it, their mouths working but the sound milling with the greater noise through which laughter threaded like the pink silk borders on Auntie Sophie’s antimacassars. Annie fixed and held her smile while she brought the glass to her lips. Aunt Sophie; why had she not thought of her for so long? But here was warmth like those days which were now blurred and distant.

It wasn’t so bad at Albert’s now, she thought. He had stopped his shouting and seemed to have accepted that he couldn’t make her cry so he just made her work harder instead and that seemed to satisfy him. He didn’t hit her now, just took
away her sixpence if she cheeked him, so she didn’t. Just kept her mouth shut and hated him. She did not cry every night now, either. It still swept over her like a storm but far less often and she had worked out how she could snatch an extra moment with Tom when she was supposed to be fetching a drop of dripping from the corner shop. She’d rush to the school and they would walk home to May’s together, her arm would rest on his shoulders, but only just, for he seemed to have sprouted and thickened since he had been there. It was amazing what six months could do, she thought. They would laugh or be silent together and she would tell him she was all right, as happy as he was at May’s.

When they arrived at May’s he would plead for her to come in and May too, but she never did. It looked too warm, too happy and she was afraid that if she saw what life could be like then she would cry in front of him.

She looked down at the beer, away from the circling laughter, and took a sip. It was sour and harsh and stung her throat and she felt the retch begin but pressed the cold glass hard to her lips and forced it down, feeling the sweat break out under her arms. She pressed her elbows to her sides. For God’s sake, don’t lift your arms, bairn, she ordered herself, mimicking Don, you’ll bring down the wallpaper. It made her laugh and the tightness at the base of her neck softened and she felt her body ease. The music seemed louder now and the sink she leant against was cold and her smile became easy and meant but still at no face which sought her out.

Figures whirled past, some very close together, but still moving in time to the music. Snatches of conversation escaped to float past her.

‘They’ll get in this time. There’ll be a Labour government, you mark my words,’ merged with soft dance-time. ‘They’d better, things won’t improve under this little lot. We need improved dole if more bloody pits are closing and the shipyards.’

She hummed to herself to drown the talk which was the same, day and night, on every street corner where men squatted on their hunkers or stamped from foot to foot in the cold. ‘Nothing else would matter in the world today, we would go on loving in the same old way,’ she mouthed the words now. Not tonight, no politics tonight.

‘Burns your tonsils out, Don used to say.’

The boy was broad and shut out the dancers from her. In the dim light she saw large black eyes with lines which deepened as he smiled at her. He was tall now for a Geordie, not as wiry as most, and his voice had deepened, but not changed. His smile still turned up on one side.

‘You’ve grown, lad. I would hardly have recognised you.’ It was Georgie. He reached forward and stroked her cheek with one finger. She wanted to be like a cat and wind herself round his hand.

‘I’d have recognised you anywhere, hinny. You’ve barely grown at all.’

Try telling that to me feet she thought and forced more beer down to prove that she was nearly 14 and was glad when the noise hid the explosion and Georgie’s handkerchief dried her eyes and dress. Then she could breathe again.

She laughed before he could, but he did not. People danced to a quickened tempo, they jostled closer to her. Georgie moved to shield her.

‘Takes time to get used to, beer does. Come and have a dance.’

He smelt of the mines. It was a hard smell and Annie was surprised since it was all that was strong and big and adult to her. His hand was hard, unlike the hand that had beaten coins and created daisy-chains when summers were hot and Annie knew that time had passed, years had passed, but inside she felt just the same, just as far away from everyone. His arm was loosely round her waist and his breath was faintly beery on her forehead and she could think of nothing to say.

She had not danced before but she had watched and now followed his slight sidesteps tensely. He had hairs on his upper lip which were downy and his neck was thick and she liked his collar with its top button undone. She could feel that his chest was warm beneath his shirt and she was proud to be dancing with Georgie and felt her flesh melt in a way which was peculiar to her. She wanted to flow all over and into him but that was just plain daft. Still Georgie had not spoken but his head dropped on to the top of her hair gently, and he pulled her closer.

‘You’re such a bonny lass,’ he murmured and she felt the tingle through each of her limbs. Should she say something?
She did not know. She could see and hear the other dancers but they did not intrude.

‘It’s been a long time since you were in the gang, bonny lad,’ she replied and shook her head when he asked if she had seen Don. ‘I see Grace and Tom every week though,’ she said. ‘Don has a lot of rides and rides are money.’ She raised her eyebrows and they both laughed. She barely noticed the pain in her feet when he walked her home still in her sandals because she felt too ashamed to collect the boots from their hiding-place.

The bed was cold but she could still feel his head on hers and you’re a bonny lass, he had said. On the way home they had held hands and she would not wash that hand just yet in case it removed the feel of him. Georgie had kissed her softly and gone, his face wet from the drizzle and until then she had not realised there was any. He had said nothing about seeing her again but she wondered what had filled her thoughts before the shape of his face and the sound of his voice had soaked into every space of her being.

In the morning, the sun was shining though it was a bitter grey dawn and Albert wanted his egg.

‘We’ll be needing some more coal soon, Uncle,’ she said as she poured his second mug of tea. He did not look up from spooning out the runny yolk with a jagged piece of crust. It dripped on to the plate, hardened and darkened.

‘I’ll need to go out later for a bit of sugar, Uncle.’

‘Don’t be long about it. I want me dinner on time and there’s work you can be doing. Take a walk up to the slag later. Pick out some coal.’ He threw down his spoon. ‘Just hope this new idea of that flabby fool Baldwin will stop the strikes now. Business is bad.’ He pointed his toast at her. ‘Longer hours and less pay, that’s all they got for their troubles last time and when their money goes down, so does mine.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘High time they brought in something to stop their nonsense and thank God they’ve done it. Trade Disputes Act, they call it. High-faluting name but it’ll stop sympathy strikes and reduce picketing. That’ll sort the buggers out.’

As he rose he said, ‘Can’t beat the owners, you remember that. And what am I?’

Annie said as she had done many times before:

‘You’re an owner, Uncle.’

‘And what’s an owner?’

‘An owner is a boss.’

‘And what do bosses do?’

‘Hire and fire, Uncle.’ And stuff their bloody faces with eggs that’d be a bloody banquet for most of them round here. Her face was set. She would never look at him because she knew it made him feel as though he wasn’t winning.