Annie's Promise (5 page)

When Bet arrived ten minutes later she argued and so did Grace when they heard of her plans but Bet, in the end, rang Matron, a friend of hers from the WI.

‘You can go straight there,’ she said to Annie, coming back into the room. ‘But I wish you wouldn’t, bonny lass, and I can’t believe your Georgie agreed.’

Annie brushed her hair, smoothed her skirt, kissed Bet and pretended she hadn’t seen the look her stepmother exchanged with Gracie. ‘He did you know.’

The walk through Wassingham was hot and the climb up the hill to the posh end was hotter still. Her hands were sweaty but not slimy as they had been in India when the darkness in her head had gathered. She touched the palm with her finger. Yes, definitely only sweaty.

She could see the small hospital in the distance. She looked to the right, at the grand stone houses which lined the streets in this part of Wassingham. This is where she had spent the first three years of her life, before her mother’s death.

Annie stopped now, drew a deep breath, then another. The hospital was closer. It was where her mother had died. She ran her hand along the picket fence where once there had been wrought-iron railings.

‘Gone for the war,’ she murmured, running her hand along the newly painted wood. Poor Mam. Poor Da.

Matron’s house was built of stone too, but much smaller than her da’s had been. She stopped to smell the Peace roses which lined the garden. They had greenfly, she began to wipe them off but then the door opened.

‘Annie Manon, or I should say Armstrong.’ A small
stooped elderly woman came out on to the grass holding out her hand.

Annie looked at the greenfly smeared on her own, wiped her hand quickly, and looked down into piercing blue eyes which held laughter and smiled herself as she shook the proffered hand.

‘Well my dear, that’s one way of dealing with pests. I often feel I would like to do that with some of my patients.’ Mrs Antrop took her arm, walked her into the cool of her sitting room and served her barley water.

‘Thought it more appropriate than coffee, just too hot m’dear.’

Annie sat stiffly. She was nervous, tense, frightened that the camps might come back. She might be wrong. She might not be offered the job. She might be offered it. But then Mrs Antrop began to speak.

‘Betsy tells me you wish to work nights at this hospital. I placed a call to the Newcastle Infirmary.’ She lifted her hand as Annie started with surprise. ‘Oh yes, I know all about you, my dear. Betsy and I often talk and I do have tentacles in lots of pies – mixed metaphor but who cares. Newcastle think very highly of you, but much has happened since those days as we both know and it is of this that we must speak because obviously it might have affected your aptitude for the work.’

They talked first though of Annie’s mother who had taken her own life, drinking poison from an unlocked cupboard whilst in the care of the hospital.

‘There are no unlocked cupboards in my hospital. There is no unrecognised despair,’ Mrs Antrop said.

They talked then of the war, of the camps, and of Annie’s despair. Mrs Antrop nodded as Annie told of the nightmares, of the depression which had slowly eased, of the concern of her relatives that she might regress and attempt again to take her own life as her mother and father had done before her.

‘I won’t though,’ Annie said, clenching her hands. ‘I won’t
and I have to prove to them that I won’t. I need the job for that reason, but I also need it so that the business can begin.’ Mrs Antrop reached over, touched her hands. ‘Relax, I’m not an ogre, believe it or not. We have to talk of these things because I have patients to consider and I must satisfy myself that you are capable also of considering them.’

Annie reached forward, drank her lemon barley. It was cool, fresh.

Mrs Antrop went on. ‘I assume you need the night shifts because of your daughter.’

Annie smiled up at Mrs Antrop, then replaced her glass carefully on the lace coaster. Her hand smeared the polished rosewood table.

‘Yes, I must have as much time as possible with her. There are always Bet and Grace, but I love her, I want to be with her as much as I can and I want to be able to help my husband by doing the …’ She had been going to say sewing, but Matron might feel an extra work load would be to the detriment of her patients so instead she said. ‘By being there as a sounding board.’

‘So, we have discussed your well-being and your family’s but what about my patients?’ Mrs Antrop was sitting back, resting her head on an antimacassar, her arms resting quietly on her lap.

‘If, when I start, I do not feel for them what I have always felt I will resign, immediately. If, when I start I feel that I am sliding, I will also resign, immediately.’

Mrs Antrop nodded, tapped her thin fingers but said nothing. Finally, peaking her fingers in front of her chin she said, ‘My sister was in China as a missionary. She was beheaded by the Japanese. Even though I was not there I also dream and rage and I feel it saves my reason. I think what you are about to do is extremely sensible. I have a husband. Sometimes they get in the way of a full recovery, do they not, though we are fortunate their claustrophobic care is informed by love, and not by jealousy.’ She put her hands on her lap again and leant forward. ‘Yes, Annie, I
think you would be an asset to the hospital. You will begin when you move here?’

Annie walked back down the hill and felt a smile on her face, a lightness in her step. One problem to cross off the list, now she just had to make sure it did not unearth a bigger one.

She passed the church without a tower, the space where Garrods Used Goods shop had been. She had bought her shoes there for the party at which Georgie had first danced with her when she was what? Fourteen, so many years ago. Was she really forty-two?

She moved on, walking from light to shade, crossing the cobbles, smiling to the women who were sweeping the pavements or washing coal dust from their sills. Yes, they were coming home, it was working out, they were moving forward again and not before time, Annie Armstrong, she thought. Good grief, you’re almost an old boiler, and suddenly she was impatient to move, to watch Georgie’s eyes brighten even more as he brought the business into being and saw that she needed no more protection.

She was crossing the road alongside the railway line when she heard the sound of running feet behind her and Tom’s laughter, Georgie’s shout of ‘What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?’

Then she felt them each grab an arm, march her between them, panting, laughing. They were too fast, the women in the streets gaped and laughed, leaning on their brooms whilst she struggled and told them to pull themselves together, asking how many pints they’d downed, laughing with them as Georgie kissed her mouth – but there was no smell of beer.

They walked down street after street and they wouldn’t even stop when she called out to them that she had news for them, they could really get on now. Georgie just turned and kissed her again, saying that he knew they could. They were turning a corner into a street with compact terraces either side. She heard the sound of a train, close by, behind the
terraces on the left. She strained to see the name, but they were past. It was all so familiar.

‘Slow down,’ she pleaded, panting.

‘No time,’ Tom said, clamping his hand across her eyes. ‘No looking either.’

‘Then slow down or I’ll break my damn neck, you idiots.’ Annie was giggling, laughing just as they were.

They slowed but their grip was so firm, her trust in them so complete she knew that even if they ran with her she would never fall and in the darkness she revelled in the firm touch of the two adults she loved most.

Georgie stopped, she felt him pulling her to the right, she felt the cobbles beneath her shoes. He turned her round, stopped. Tom took his hands from her eyes and in front of her was a terraced house with a For Sale sign screwed to its front wall. She looked to the right and left, then back at the house. Now she knew where they were. She searched down the street again looking for the name – Wassingham Terrace.

She moved towards the front door. It was Aunt Sophie’s house and inside would be a sitting room which had once had a neat parlour, a kitchen where wintergreen had been kept on the mantel and, in the yard, a pigeon loft. She shut her eyes and could hear the soft coo and flutter of Eric’s birds, she could smell the lavender water which Sophie used, she could feel arms lifting her tight and close.

She opened them, looked from one to the other. ‘How did you know it was for sale?’

Georgie put his arm round her telling her that everyone had known but no one had mentioned it because they had been going to live in Gosforn.

‘Do we want it?’ he asked.

Annie looked at Sophie’s and Eric’s house again. ‘Do we want it? Don’t be daft.’ Her voice was restrained, quiet or else she would weep her pleasure. She peered in through the front room window. Where were Sophie and Eric now? They had left for Australia immediately Da had taken the children from them, unable to bear the loss of Annie in particular,
Bet had said. There had been Christmas cards from Australia then nothing. But Annie knew that had been her fault. She had never replied, wounded at their leaving, jealous at the news of a daughter they had named after her. She had felt that they had replaced her. How cruel children could be.

She turned to Tom but he was backing off, shrugging at Georgie. He saw her looking at him, grinned, then looked again at Georgie. ‘Well, it’s up to you now, man. I’m not going to be here when the bomb goes off. Be gentle with him, Annie.’ Tom was smiling at her. He looked pleased but nervous, as he used to when he’d pinched one of Bet’s scones and knew he’d get a walloping.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked, looking from one to the other, then calling after Tom. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’ll tell you in a minute – have another look,’ Georgie said.

She smiled, shook her head, tugged at his arm and drew him back to the window, peering in, telling him how wonderful he was, how clever, telling him it looked so clean, but would need painting, wondering if the old oven was still in the back room, deciding where they would put the walnut table, their pictures, hearing his voice as he told her that he hadn’t known how much he’d missed Wassingham until he’d talked to the bloke at the garage. And now she looked at his reflection in the window, his eyes, his face, his happiness – but there was something else too – there was nervousness and she felt his hand steer her round now to face the street.

She listened to his voice, now so quiet as he cupped her cheek with his hand. ‘Look at this, Annie, hear it, smell it.’ He paused, then continued. ‘It’s me roots see. All this, even though Mam’s taken the boys to the pits at Nottingham, all this is still me home, me roots, your home, your roots.’

She listened closely now, hearing the Geordie back in his voice as though the years away had not existed, hearing something else as well and now fear took hold.

‘Tell me what you’ve done, Georgie. Just tell me.’ She was no longer looking at the street, no longer listening to its
sounds. She could see Tom, standing by the corner of the street, just standing, waiting.

‘Just tell me what you’ve done,’ she repeated.

‘You heard me say I was born a pitman, Annie. You were going to marry one, remember, you were going to scrub me back for me as me mam did for me da. Well, I’m going back down the pit, you’re running the business, that’s what we’ve been fixing up this morning.’

Annie watched Tom, still standing, waiting. She looked at the woman who was polishing her letter box, a boy who was riding his bike over the cobbles, his cheeks juddering, just as her heart was doing, and her mind. Where were the words she needed, and the breath to speak them?

‘Are you mad?’ she asked quietly at last. ‘Or just stupid?’ She stopped, the boy was turning the corner, the sun was shining on the slag, the filthy dirty slag. ‘Don’t you remember Gracie’s da, and Tom’s marrer?’ She was no longer quiet, she was shouting, gripping his arm, pointing to the winding gear, the steam house, the slag heap. ‘It kills, it takes arms, legs. You’re joking or irresponsible, I said I’d nurse didn’t I, what are you talking about?’

‘Yes, you said you’d nurse. I didn’t say I agreed. Neither did Tom.’

Annie couldn’t speak, what could she say to this man who had given her Sophie’s house and then taken her nursing and perhaps his life from her? There were no words of her own in her brain, or in her mouth. She could only roll his around and around, trying to absorb them, trying to grasp them as more came and now he was holding her hand and telling her that he’d been to Bigham Colliery with Tom, smelt it, seen it, heard the shift going down, the other coming up.

‘It’s a club. They need one another to survive. They’re a team, like the Army. I know the life, it’s in me bones. It’s what I want, I know that now. I knew it when I stopped the car but I think I’ve always felt it.’

Annie found words at last, pointing to the slag, asking why anyone should want to go down some bloody great hole,
asking what was the matter with him, telling him he would go down the mine over her dead body and didn’t anybody care what she wanted?

She felt his kisses on her face, his breath as he said, ‘But you see, I do want to go down that bloody great hole, bonny lass, so you don’t need to nurse.’

She pushed herself from him. ‘Don’t you call me bonny lass, Georgie Armstrong. You’re just messing up our lives so don’t you dare call me that.’ The words were quiet, strained, they hurt her throat, she was gasping for breath and she ran from him then, wanting to catch Tom, wanting to drag him back, make him talk to Georgie, down street after street, it felt like miles. The breath was catching in her throat as she pounded up the back alley, into the yard, into the kitchen. ‘Bet, Tom, Gracie,’ she shouted, leaning on the table, panting hard. She heard Georgie coming in behind her.

She turned, there were so many words now, tumbling out, hurling themselves at him, ‘How could you. I thought you’d accepted the change. How can you be so stupid, how can you do this to us and what about my plans, how dare you just push them aside when they make so much more sense?’