After the Storm (59 page)

‘I ran away when we brought the bread and cheese. Do you remember, little Annie?’ Tom stood next to her and looked across the field to the slag beyond. His cap was pulled down and his scarf was tied in a knot at his neck.

‘I found it hard to forgive meself for leaving you here. It was something I kept feeling I had to wipe away, but I couldn’t. I just had to grow into it somehow.’

He put his arm through hers and she gripped his hand. How strange, there were no large men walking towards them with dragons’ breath, not any longer. There were just boys and white marked lines. No dog pulling at the coat which marked the goal, no Da standing before her, just green grass and so much more sky than she remembered. More light.

‘You have always been so brave, my bonny lass, and I cannot
go on without you.’ Tom said. ‘Your da is dead. He’s found some peace. You must too, Annie Manon.’

She tried to pull away now, tried to push the picture to the back of her mind, into the box, but Tom was hanging on, making it all come back, making her see her da.

‘You must have wanted peace, Annie.’ He had swung her round to face him now. There were the shouts of boys in the background. ‘You must know how he felt. For God’s sake, Annie, you must understand the man.’ He held her chin so that she must look at him.

But she shook her head free. She wouldn’t listen to him. She would carry on stripping the paper, pulling it down strip by strip, piece by piece. She would not let him into her head, would not let him pull out her box, lift the lid, take her secrets out and make her see them. She wouldn’t see the field, only the hallway that needed stripping, but he kept on pulling her back to the black box. He kept on, his voice was pulling the box closer, pushing aside the hall at Gosforn until she could stand no more and screamed until the sound filled her head and she could not hear him any longer but his mouth was opening again and this time she tore from him and his words and ran from the field as he had once done, down the lanes, the alleys but he was still behind her but she couldn’t hear his words, thank God she couldn’t hear his words, but there was his voice as he called:

‘Annie, wait.’

But she couldn’t, not for what he had to say. She could hear his feet, his uneven tread closer now. She ran and ran, her breath hard in her chest, in through the gate past the stable and then Tom reached the yard gate, gasping and clinging to the upright, watching as she checked at the door.

The door was ajar and she stood there, her head on the wall, her breath quick and heavy in her chest. She rolled her head against the brick and felt him come to her. She was home but she could not go in.

‘Beauty’s here,’ Tom panted, and led her over to the stable and Beauty was so small. Her mane was still coarse and she wound it round her fingers and couldn’t see clearly because her eyes were full and the tears might fall and she was not going to cry over him, over her da. He had left her. He had killed himself and left her and it hurt too much to love and then be left. She
could not bear it again, ever again, even with Georgie, and she hated her da for making her as she was.

‘I hate him,’ she shouted, turning to Tom. ‘I hate him. He left me and I hate him for it.’

Tom watched her lips draw back. Her skin was almost transparent, her cheekbones seemed to be breaking through.

‘You don’t. You loved him and he hurt you. You must understand how he could do it. You of all people should understand now.’ He was shouting too. ‘After all you’ve been through, you should understand.’

He was holding her shoulders, shaking her and her hair fell down and across her eyes. She brushed it aside. Anger was forcing its way up through her stomach which tightened against it but still it came, up and through and into her chest and then her head and there was the box again.

‘He filled himself up with gas, didn’t he? And yes, I understand the need for peace, but how am I to have any from him? He’s dead, he can’t hear me when I ask him to leave me alone.’

Tom was still holding her. His lips were as stiff as hers were, his throat felt as though it was swelling.

‘You must just tell him, Annie. It’s up to you,’ he cried. ‘Tell him and then yourself. If you don’t, there is nothing for you but to run away for ever, for the rest of your life. Free but alone.’

‘We’ve always been together, you and me. Why can’t it go on like that?’ She was holding his arm now, her lips were still drawn back as she shouted and her eyes were so dark that they were hazel no longer.

‘That is not enough for you. I don’t ask anything of you and ours is not that sort of love. You need Georgie, you bloody fool. You need the man you’ve always loved. You must let yourself love, Annie, if you are going to be any sort of a person, have a life which means anything. Don’t let your da spoil that.’

His voice was filling the yard, her head. He would not let her think of green stripes, of lamps that must match. His voice was bringing the box closer and closer to the front of her mind. Her da would come soon.

‘Come in with me.’ He was still shouting and she pulled back.

‘No, I can’t face that.’ She held on to the stable door. She would rather be alone, free and alone. She had already decided.

He turned and wrenched her hand away. It was her broken finger but he didn’t care. ‘Get in here with me.’

He pulled her now, took her hand and put his arm round her and forced her to the door which now opened fully.

‘There’ll be no need for that,’ Betsy said, and came to Annie and took her and held her against clothes that smelt of freshness and arms that were soft. Annie tried to find air to breathe as she walked into her father’s house with the wife whom he had despised.

On through a kitchen which was no longer bleak and bare but full of light and colour with Tom’s old cut-down chair still by the fire. Patchwork cushions lay everywhere. On through they went, she and Betsy, up to the hallway and past the clock which had chimed so loudly that first day. She did not want to go further but Betsy would not stop. On up the stairs which were gently lit until they came to the room. The door was shut and the box in her head was opening now. The lid was coming up and he would be here soon, in her head. She would see him coming out with his gaping yellow face if she went into the room which he had filled with gas rather than live with her.

Betsy opened the door and Annie would not look but then she did. The study was gone; the dark table, the prints so faded that there was no picture; all were gone. His chair where he had lolled, yellow and dead was gone.

Tom slipped past them into the room holding out his hand to her. ‘Come into our studio, Annie.’ He would not come and fetch her this time and she had to walk in by herself. And she could not.

Tom watched her, then turned to the easel. ‘This is Bobby,’ he said. ‘I’m doing it for Gracie.’ The smell of linseed oil was strong and from the window he could see the washing hanging out in the yards. He moved on then. ‘Here are the designs I’ve done for the first batch of wallpaper. I thought we could work from here to begin with.’

He was over by the table that stood against the wall, flicking through the paper. It was cool because the room was unheated. His hands felt cold and his foot hurt. His ears strained to catch the sound of her entry and he did not know what more he could do if she did not come in. How else could he bring her back to them?

But then, at last, there she was, next to him and she reached across and took the top design.

‘It’s good, bonny lad,’ she said and there was a shaking in her voice.

He leant over and did not take the paper but held her hand so that it was steady enough for them to look together. ‘Aye, better up the right way though, lass.’ They laughed and it was a gentle sound and Betsy walked back down the stairs. She had a meal to cook for them all this evening.

They stayed in the studio, for that is what it is now, Annie thought, and felt the shadows lift and her stomach was no longer tight and the black box was growing fainter. Her da was not in this room, he was dead and gone. She said it twice and finally believed it.

Slowly, haltingly, they talked about fear, about pain and anger and it was like a river which washed through them both carrying away the debris of years and, as the light waned, it was time for the planning of their future, their dream which they had held for so long. They talked until the sun moved lower in the sky and the shadows were longer, casting themselves across the yard and then she knew it was time for the place she had still to visit, the peace that she still had to make.

There was no barbed wire along the miles of beach and Tom walked with her along the track that she and Georgie had once cycled down, beating against the wind. It still roared and blustered and she gripped Tom’s arm and he held his cap on with his other hand. When the sand met the foreshore she left him and lifted her head into the North-East bite, letting it whip past and round her.

Down through the sand she walked, pulling free as it clutched at her shoes and ran in over the sides. She removed them and felt the sand beneath her feet, felt it run over her as she dug in and took another stride. It was white as far as the eye could see as it had never been in those days of her childhood.

It was cool, so cool and the sky was full of battling clouds and the sea full of buffeting waves which arched, hung, then crashed frothing before sliding back into oblivion with just a few surf remnants fast bursting on the sand. The wind tore at her hair and the gulls screeched but, beyond them, all she could still hear was the crashing sucking waves. She was home now and
there was no anger left in her at da and there was no need for the box ever again. He could stay inside her with the good memories, with Beauty and Peter Pan. He had only wanted peace and she could admit that she knew all about that now. She had tasted the sour pills and the noise and shapes of horrors she could not escape until now. He was not to blame any more.

She sat down near the sea where the sand was not yet wet from the incoming tide. The years had passed quickly but now she allowed herself time to remember every moment tracing her way back from that misty evening to the salt wind of today.

At length she saw that the sky was darkening and the wind began tearing at her body, plucking at her hair and snatching it across her face, stinging her with sand. Her back was stiff and her hands were numb with the lost minutes, or was it hours, that had passed.

The wind lifted her hair again. You’re lucky, she thought. That’s all you carry isn’t it, sand and the scent of brine. We have to carry everything that touches us and sometimes it is too heavy. She picked up a pebble and threw it hard across the waves but it was caught by a crest and dragged under, and now she was shouting to the wind: ‘I’m glad, at last I’m glad that I have something more to carry than grains of sand and the smell of salt.’

She looked round at the hollow curves of the dunes which lay behind her. Memories can be good, Georgie had said and he was right. The wind tugged at her cuffs as she lifted her hands to her hair which was tangled and sticky. She tucked away the flaying strands.

He had stroked her body, but left her whole. He had let her go with Sarah, let her return to England. It was all so simple really but she had not allowed herself to see it; all these years it had been hidden behind dark shadows. She could trust him. For God’s sake, she could trust him and love him safely.

She wanted to hurry now and the wind was behind her as she turned and ran back through the sand. It helped her now, pushing back towards Tom. She ran and her breath was struggling in her chest and her legs were thrusting into the dunes and then Tom was there, helping her, pulling her along. The time for peace was over, there was so much to do, but first she needed Georgie.

The Post Office was closed when they reached it but that didn’t matter; she would break the door down if she had to.

Tom watched as she beat on the door. It was almost dark and lights shone out into the street from the surrounding houses. He was smiling and seeing again the lass who shared out pies. The lights came on in the shop and Mrs Norris opened the door.

‘We’re closed,’ she said.

Annie looked at her. ‘I’ve just come home from the war. I’ve watched my friend have her head cut off. My husband is still in India defusing bombs. I need to send him a telegram. Are you still shut?’ Her voice was fierce. Annie Manon was back, Tom knew that now.

The woman sighed and stood aside, tugging at her grey cardigan which was done up on the wrong buttons so that one side hung below the other. ‘Get yourself in then. I’ll find you a form and then a cup of tea. I know you now, Annie Manon. So like your da you are.’ Her smile was kind now. She shuffled back behind the counter and Annie grinned at Tom.

‘Aye, maybe I am, but I’m Annie Armstrong now.’

Mrs Norris was reaching down into the cupboard behind the counter.

‘I know I have some somewhere,’ she mumbled.

Annie looked round, tapping her foot, wondering why everything was so slow. She was in a hurry, didn’t anyone understand? She looked at the brown wrapping-paper that stood in rolls in the wooden bin to one side of the shop, at the birthday cards that were stacked in the rack to the left of the door, at Tom who was still grinning.

‘Hold your bleeding horses, Annie,’ he whispered. ‘He’ll wait until she finds the form, don’t you fret. Then we can begin again, all of us.’ As she stood there she heard the clink of lead coins, the boy who took her hand, smelt the sun-sweated leeks, saw the red flowers of the setting beans.

In the heat of the midday sun, Georgie opened the telegram which Prue had brought him. His hands were shaking so much that he could barely read the words.

The wallpaper business is safer than bombs Stop I love you darling Stop You never did teach me how to swing from the bar Stop Come home my love and show me Stop Annie

Prue held him as he cried and she smiled. He would be in England soon and not long after she would too with Dick Sanders.

It was time the British went home.

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