Annie's Promise (21 page)

‘Does it matter that Jones wants exclusives?’ Georgie asked and Annie felt Tom’s eyes on her, because they had wondered when Georgie would say this.

Annie chose her words carefully. ‘Jones is dealing with an established company. If he messes us up, it will do him more harm that it will us. From the business point of view, you know, it was a blessing that Manners happened when it did. It shook us up, it made us very careful with our quality, taught us a few lessons.’

She looked at Georgie, then at Tom.

Georgie said, ‘Set you up with the mail order anyway, didn’t it?’

The children were running up the beach now, trailing wet seaweed behind them.

‘Not exactly,’ Tom said and Annie looked at Georgie, at Gracie who was sitting quite still, as she was now, because she knew Tom was going to tell Georgie the truth about the loan. ‘We’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you about this but you see, we had to put the houses against a loan to get mail order underway and we saved the exclusives for the second shot. We couldn’t risk Manners putting the word about that we were selling rejects. It all worked out, Georgie, and we paid off the loan, but had to put up the houses again for the premises.’

They told him then about the consortium, about the need to keep their salaries right down in order to repay their debts and build up their capital reserves again in order to update the machines, increase bonuses, and then go on into textiles.

Georgie’s face was set. The children were close now, Sarah was panting, laughing and then suddenly Georgie was too.
‘I thought, way back in hospital, that you’d both lost your touch when you said you’d used the rejects for the first shot. Seemed crazy to me but I was too busy trying to live at the time and then I forgot. Sounds about right, all of it. Sounds pretty bloody wonderful. Now let’s have this picnic.’

They ate chicken with sand in it, bread and butter with sand in it and laughed as it grated between their teeth because there were no lies between them any more, the last hurdle had gone. ‘Ambrosia,’ said Tom. ‘Bloody ambrosia. Now all we need is Jones’ order.’

‘Come into the sea now, Uncle Georgie,’ Davy said, throwing his crusts to the gulls.

Sarah looked at her father, at the trousers he wore, at the other children on the beach, some from Wassingham.

Georgie watched the gulls calling, swooping, soaring, then the fathers wading into the surf with their children, jumping the waves. He felt Annie’s hand on his, the softness of her grasp, her love. ‘No, not this year, lad. Me leg would go rusty.’ He smiled but cutting through the laughter of the afternoon came the pain as they had both known it would, on some days.

Sarah looked away, at the men who were lifting their children and dipping them into the sea and felt anger so sharp that it took her breath away and when her mother brought strawberry ice cream out from the bag, unwrapped sheet after sheet of newspaper, and passed one to her, she pushed it back.

‘I hate strawberries. I hate them,’ she shouted and ran down to the sea, away from them all, away from the memory of her mother feeding her father strawberry ice cream and shouting at him in the hospital. Glad that he hadn’t paddled, glad that her friends hadn’t seen him hopping with his stick because you couldn’t go into the sea with a false leg, didn’t Davy know anything? And she wondered where all the anger had come from.

The Central Buyer of T. Jones and Son confirmed his order
in early November and Brenda insisted that the machines needed updating immediately.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ Annie said and rang the supplier, ordering them for immediate delivery, explaining to Tom and Georgie, vetoing another worker at this stage in favour of better machinery, showing them the outgoings against the incomings. ‘It’ll be cheaper and the girls are coping. They’re interested, busy, and the new machines will be a better investment right now. Brenda is doing a training session when they arrive to get maximum efficiency, though it might be an idea to do that on a regular basis anyway, just to keep them up to the mark. I’ll talk to her, but not tonight, it’s five-thirty, time we were home.’

She drove them, taking the accounts and designs with her. She and Georgie would discuss these later, but only when Sarah was in bed. The beach had shown them that Sarah needed to make her own adjustments and that they must be there for her.

‘Sarah’s been very good and done half Miss Simpson’s work,’ Bet said as she put supper on the table. ‘But only half mind.’

Sarah pulled a face. ‘I don’t have to get it in until Friday and it’s only for this eleven plus and I might not want to pass, even if I do.’

‘I think perhaps you need to finish that work, judging from the muddle you got yourself into there,’ Annie said, easing herself on to the chair next to Bet.

‘Frank brought round those three youngsters for you Georgie,’ Bet said, shaking pepper on to her stew.

‘Sit down,’ Annie laughed as he started to get up again, nodding as Sarah pleaded to be able to see them before the next round of homework.

They ate, talked, laughed and then later they held the birds in their hands, pulling out their wings, fanning their tails, listening to Georgie’s plans for his Red Chequers, feeling the silkiness of their feathers as he told them that they
would fly dry even in the wettest weather. ‘They’ll win, I know that, but they’ll not beat Tiger. He’s just a beaut.’

‘When are you going to teach them to trap, Da?’ Sarah said, holding the bird against her chest, stroking it gently.

‘Pretty soon.’

‘Can I help?’

‘Course, and Davy too, and your mam.’ Georgie put the youngsters back in the loft. ‘But finish Miss Simpson’s work first. It’s good of her to give it to you, she doesn’t have to, you know.’

‘Oh, can’t I stay? Go on, Mum.’

Annie smiled at her, ‘Homework, or you can clean the loft if you’d really rather.’

It was no contest and Sarah was in the kitchen faster than she’d ever been whilst Annie laughed softly, cleaning the loft with the scraper, hearing the fluttering, the cooing, the soft sound of Georgie’s voice. ‘Ambrosia,’ Annie said quietly, blessing Frank for all the months he had talked pigeons to Georgie in the darkness of the pit, because it had bred the same love in him for them and in Sarah too. It was holding them all together, it was pulling them forward because Georgie’s disability made no difference in this sport.

All through the early winter they gained new orders, working themselves hard, their staff hard, and in the early evening and weekends they trained the pigeons lightly. ‘But never when my washing’s out,’ Annie insisted.

They trained them to trap – taking them from the loft, keeping them in their basket overnight across the other side of the yard. Annie barely slept that night, glad that their neighbours had moved and taken their damn great cat with them and hoping that whoever bought the house kept goldfish instead.

Before work they released them, watching them flap and flutter. Would they go to the landing board or soar away, into the freedom of the skies? Sarah clung to her hand and they watched as they lifted.

‘Oh no,’ Sarah wailed.

‘Sh,’ Georgie said.

The pigeons were straining up, up, then they came back down, on to the landing board, then through the trap, heads deep into the food hoppers.

‘Greedy little pigs,’ Annie murmured.

The next week, before feeding time, they allowed them out of the loft on their own, having cut their morning feed in half. Again they stood and watched and Annie whispered between clenched teeth.

‘Your bloody pigeons are going to give me a nervous breakdown one day. It’s worse than Manners’ orders, all this. What if they fly away and cats get them? What about the hawks?’

Georgie laughed softly. ‘That’s why I’ve got Red Chequers. Hawks like white ones, they’re always picked off first.’

‘I’m glad I’m a brunette,’ Sarah said, holding her da’s hand, feeling his warmth, her eyes on her own bird, Buttons, as he flew higher and higher.

‘OK,’ Georgie said. ‘Call them, Sarah. Use the feeding tin, rattle it and call as well.’

Sarah looked at him. She didn’t want to, what if they didn’t come? What if she wasn’t loud enough?

‘You do it, Da.’

Georgie didn’t want to. What if they ignored him, what if they kept on flying?

‘Go on, Sarah, pretend it’s Terry running off with your drum sticks.’ Annie’s voice was gentle. ‘They’ll come back, kids always do when they’re hungry, just think of yourself.’

Sarah called them, again and again, until they circled lower and lower and trapped.

‘Greedy little pigs,’ Annie murmured again, feeling her muscles relax.

On the weekend before Christmas they put them in their basket, hearing their scratching, their fluttering, driving out past the slag heaps towards the north. Only one mile, Frank had said, then turn left, down the track. They bumped and
rocked and Sarah and Davy said the birds must wish they were flying already.

They stood in the whipping wind and Annie’s hands were numb as she fumbled with the leather straps because Georgie still found it difficult to reach to the ground.

‘God, worse than your harness, Georgie,’ she grimaced, smiling as he laughed, noticing that Sarah laughed too and she felt relief wash over her.

‘I hope they’re ready for this, Uncle Georgie,’ Davy said, squatting next to Annie.

‘So do I lad, but they had no supper last night and they’ve been flying round in a flock for a week or so now, so they should be fine. They’ll race against one another, just like you kids. If they’re on their own, they’ll mess about.’

‘Just like you kids,’ Annie laughed, looking up at Georgie. ‘Shall I let them go?’

He nodded, checked his watch and she lifted the lid, letting it drop back, standing up as the birds left, watching them soar, dip, rise again, keeping together. Just like Sarah’s gang. She looked at her daughter, at Davy. Yes, they’d all keep together but would they if some got through to the grammar? She still wished that Don had not pulled apart as he had.

The birds were at home, waiting for them and Frank’s grin was all they needed when they told him the exact time that they had been tossed.

‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ Georgie said.

‘They’ll do,’ Frank replied.

By Christmas, Jones had re-ordered because their exclusives had sold so well.

‘The wholesale division,’ Tom called out over the remains of the Christmas lunch at Bet’s, waving his cigarless hand, blowing imaginary smoke rings. ‘The wholesale division is thriving.’

‘Mail order could still do better,’ Georgie said patting his stomach.

‘Your stomach’s really fat, Da,’ Sarah said. ‘You’re gross.’

Georgie grinned and patted it. ‘There, sounds better than your drums.’

‘Urgh. It’s because you’ve only got one leg for all the food to go down. You’ll have to eat less, Da.’ Sarah was laughing, they were all laughing because there had only been humour in Sarah’s voice, and acceptance again.

Annie caught Georgie’s eye and they both knew what the other was feeling and, if they could, they’d have tangoed round the kitchen. She grinned, watched Tom lean forward, hand Georgie the wishbone, saw their little fingers pull, leaving Tom with the wish. It didn’t matter, they had all they wanted.

She looked round the kitchen at the red and green decorations, there was tinsel on the tree that they’d helped to hang last night and the smell of turkey all around. No cigars this year.

‘Don looked well, and Maud.’

‘They should have come today instead of last night, then they’d have seen the gramophone,’ Sarah said.

‘We could have taken Terry down to the club, let her have a go on the drums.’

‘Does she go to a Youth Club?’ Bet asked.

Sarah shook her head. ‘No, she says her mother wouldn’t like it, she might meet the wrong people. People like us, she meant.’ She and Davy were laughing, Rob too, but Annie, Tom and the others looked at one another, seeing the same anger until the children pulled them to their feet, dragging them out through the yard, down to the football field where Georgie refereed as they kicked a ball around on the frost stiffened grass until the breath jogged in their bodies.

Tom looked at his watch. ‘Time you kids were at the club,’ he called and Annie sank on to the cold ground, grateful that there was a halt, moving her toes inside her shoes, walking back slowly with Georgie, taking his arm in case he slipped on the frost.

‘It’s OK for you,’ she murmured against his sleeve. ‘You only get chilblains on one foot, we get them on both.’

Georgie laughed, ‘But I’ve got a fat stomach, your daughter said.’

‘She’s always my daughter when she’s in trouble.’

Georgie squeezed her arm, then called to Tom. ‘You know mail order needs perking up – what about an outsize department? I know we wouldn’t get enough response to make it worth a special mail shot but what about a special catalogue mailed out to all those who’ve ordered outsize before, plus including it in all the orders sent out.’ He turned to Annie. ‘What d’you think?’

‘Good idea and we could extend the ordinary offers to include outsizes, not just respond to specific queries.’ They were nearing Bet’s, walking through the yard, into the house, stripping off their coats, drinking the tea Bet brought over, working out figures on the paper she brought to them when she heard their conversation. They decided on a thirty per cent ratio to hold ready. Tom would run up catalogues. Not glossy, they decided. Keep that expense for the tour. Just run off some copies.

‘And what about a special kitchen mail shot next year, using red and green fabric and special Christmas motif. I haven’t seen any but maybe we could find some?’

‘Or maybe we’ll be able to set up the printing sooner than we thought, make our own?’ Georgie said, grinning at Tom.

They drank more tea, smiling, talking, feeling the same excitement, loving it.

Outsize went well. By the end of January 1958 the turnover was higher but Brenda said that the girls were bored with underwear and aprons. What about fashions – would that be a good idea?

Annie put it to them all at one of the monthly meetings which had been held since the firm began but explaining that there was no falling off in underwear demand, no reason to take a risk just at the moment. They needed to consolidate, because their profit margins were still tight. ‘Remember how small the bonuses have been?’