Annie's Promise

by Margaret Graham

  He looked at her now. ‘I didn’t tell you this this afternoon because I was still hoping against hope that I could sort something out but I couldn’t. There’s no easy way of saying this.’ Don looked at Georgie, then back to Annie. ‘There is no money, Annie, none at all.’

  Annie tried to laugh. She hadn’t known him to have a sense of humour before. Perhaps he was learning after today’s fiasco, but it wasn’t amusing.

  ‘Come on, Don, get on with it,’ she said, prodding his arm.

  He looked at her again, and then at Georgie before looking back at her. ‘Don’t be stupid, Annie. This is hard enough for me as it is. I’m not joking. I have to tell you that there is no money. I invested it but the stocks have crashed. You have nothing, nothing at all. I’m so sorry.’

  Annie felt first the cold shock of his words, and then a searing panic.

  CHAPTER 2

  Breakfast was a silent affair. Annie’s lids were heavy as she watched Georgie put one, two, three, four, sugars in his tea.

  ‘Too many my love,’ she said.

  ‘Ichi, ni, san, yong,’ he replied, stirring, stirring again and again.

  Her hand tightened on her cup. Yes, all right, she’d dreamed of the camps, of roll call, of the terror, the camp hospital, but for heaven’s sake their future had gone, in a few short words, it had gone and it was her own fault. She felt despair rise in her as it had done again and again throughout the night, but there was no time for it, she must keep telling herself that.

  ‘I know I dreamt, it does me good. It’s not serious, Georgie.’

  ‘I’d call it a nightmare not a dream and when I hear my wife scream and chant in her sleep I call it serious.’ He wouldn’t look at her, couldn’t look at her because she had been hurt in Singapore and he hadn’t been able to stop it, she had been hurt again in India and he had allowed that to happen. She had been hurt last night, they had all been hurt and he could murder that bloody brother of hers.

  Annie sipped her tea. She didn’t want it, how could she want it after Don had told them his news? She sipped again, then looked at Georgie, how could so much have changed in such a short time?

  ‘I could have smashed his face in, Annie, sitting there with his cigar, apologising, simpering. God, he almost bloody wept.’

  ‘We all nearly wept didn’t we, and it wasn’t his fault, it was mine. I signed the form he sent me, didn’t I?’ The cup slipped and fell, chipping the saucer, spilling tea. She ignored it. ‘It was me. He was trying to please me by investing in a local firm, putting all my eggs in one basket because I’d prattled on about supporting the community. He knew it was what I’d want.’

  The tea was dripping on to the floor, she watched it, heard it, counting one two three, ichi, ni, san – no, not that, there was no time for that. She turned from it. ‘It was me. He wanted to be sure it was what I meant, which is why he sent me the letter explaining it all, and the form to sign. He knew there was a risk, he told us this last night, for God’s sake. I read it, signed it, sent it back and was so damn busy sewing knickers I didn’t think about it, and now I can’t even remember doing it.’

  She picked up the spoon and saucer, cutting her hand. Georgie came towards her and she pushed him aside, grabbing the cloth from the sink, wiping the table, throwing the saucer into the bin. ‘I’m just so damn stupid, so stupid – I mean, just look at this mess. We’re having a crisis so I spill the tea.’ Her voice was rising, tears were near and she stopped.

  ‘He shouldn’t have done it. He should have had more sense. Tom Mallet for God’s sake. He’s one of his black market friends. I’m sure it sounded good, rebuilding the bomb sites, but he should have known he’d scarper and his mates with him.’ Georgie wrung the dishcloth tighter and tighter. ‘He should have known.’

  Annie sat down. What was the point of talking about it any more, they’d gone round and round it last night and at midnight and at two, and at four in the morning until at last they’d slept, if you could call it sleep. She leaned back in the chair, stretching her neck, her eyes throbbing. No, there was no point in talking about it any more, it was gone, finished, or their original plans were but she was damned if she’d let it all go, not after all the years of waiting, and in the long hours of the night she’d thought, planned, made decisions.

  ‘Georgie, I want you to listen to me carefully, hear me out.’ Her mouth was still, her hand hurting, she wrapped her handkerchief round it.

  ‘Whatever way you look at it I agreed, sanctioned the investment. I was stupid, clumsy, careless.’

  ‘Don’t say that. You’re not careless. So you muffed a paper, what’s that? It doesn’t do any good to keep on blaming yourself.’

  ‘Then stop blaming Don,’ she flared at him.

  Georgie leaned back now against the window, his jaw set, his eyes cold, then he looked away from her out into the garden where the house martins were swooping and Annie wanted to take back the anger, take back last night, the form, Tom Mallet, but all she could say was, ‘I’m sorry, but you see I’m not a leader, I get muddled, confused, I allow myself to shout and scream, I allow myself to make mistakes.’ Georgie started to speak but she shook her head. ‘Please let me finish. I decided last night that I want you to run the business. You’re trained for it. You can organise, you’re methodical. You weren’t born to fiddle about in Gosforn doing any piddling little job, you were trained as an officer, you know how to manage.’

  He turned now, leaning back against the sill. ‘Don’t be so daft, darling.’ His voice was gentle now, all coldness gone. ‘I can’t sew, or cut, or talk design with Tom and aren’t you forgetting something rather crucial? A small matter of capital? We’re broke.’

  ‘Please – just listen.’ Annie sat quite still. She could hear the ticking of the clock they had brought back from Cyprus. ‘OK, so we haven’t any capital, or very little anyway. We will sell the house – as we decided last night. We’ll buy a smaller one.’

  Georgie scratched his chin and took a packet of Kensitas from his pocket. He looked across at Annie then brought the packet over, lit hers, lit his own, and returned to his seat drawing in the nicotine, blowing smoke up above his head.

  The first of the day always tasted good she thought as she spun the ashtray in front of her, even on a day like this.

  ‘You see, my love, we can still start the business, but in a different way that won’t depend on capital. We’ll work from home, extend our list of customers, then set up homeworkers as the business expands, always ploughing profits back in, taking just enough to live on and making sure we build up a capital reserve as we go along. That way we can set up premises eventually.’ He was listening to her, nodding, and she drew on her cigarette then continued. ‘It will take longer but there’s a market for our stuff – we know that. It can be done, should be done, for the sake of us all, for Wassingham. They need our sort of industry. We mustn’t let this hiccup crush us.’

  ‘Sounds good in theory, my love,’ he said, flicking his ash out of the window, catching her eye as he did so. ‘Good for the roses, they like a bit of potash.’

  She laughed and was surprised – she’d thought that today she would not hear that sound.

  ‘But there’s no way we can both do it. I’ll keep on looking for work, you do all this,’ Georgie said.

  ‘No, that’s the point. I can’t, not any more.’ Annie stubbed her cigarette, squashing and grinding it until there were only shreds. ‘You wouldn’t have made that mistake. You wouldn’t have signed. You’ve got to take it over. The army trained you to take control.’

  Georgie was laughing now. ‘Oh yes, I’ll cut out, shall I, or sew on flowers? Give me a break, Annie, you’re being daft. Of course you can do it.’

  Annie shook her head, she knew she couldn’t, she knew she’d been ridiculous to think she could. Oh yes, she could cut out, sew, come up with ideas, but manage – forget it, Don had shown her that.

  ‘I rang Don first thing, he’s buying the house.’

 
Annie paused, rubbed the table, it was still damp. ‘I also rang the local hospital. I worked there in the holidays while I was at school. They’re taking me – I’m going back to nursing, Georgie.’

  He said nothing, then straightened, moved and came towards her, his body tense, his shoulders set, his mouth hard. ‘You’re bloody not. You’re not going back. It’ll kill you. It’ll all start …’

  He was at her side now, gripping her arms, pulling her up, ‘It’ll all start, it’ll kill you. This time it’ll kill you.’ His face was contorted, he shook her. ‘This was why you had that dream, you’d got nursing in your mind and it all came back. For God’s sake, if the thought of it does that to you, what about the reality? It’ll be the end.’

  ‘Of course it won’t, I keep telling you it’s over, this will show you that it is. I’ll do the cutting out when I’m off shift, I’ll help, I’ve worked it all out. Look, you were born to lead, for goodness sake, it makes sense, you’ve got to see that it makes sense. You’re hurting, Georgie.’ His fingers were too tight, he was shaking her harder. His face was too close, too angry.

  ‘Georgie, listen to me.’ She wrenched free, shoving the chair out of her way, backing from him, putting the table between them. ‘Listen. I’m going back to nursing. I’m going to prove to you that I’m all right, I’m going to earn the money while you get the business going. It’s the only sensible thing.’

  He was walking away, out into the hall, his feet clicking against the tiles. ‘Don’t turn your back on me,’ she shouted. ‘Come back here. You’ve got to let me do this, it’s the only way.’

  He stopped, turned. ‘You were nursing when the Japs came to Singapore. You were nursing when they cut off Lorna Briggs’ head, and smashed your finger, when you buried – how many of your friends, breaking their bodies so that they’d fit into the boxes? What do you think it will do to you, to go back. It’ll flip you over again.’ He wasn’t shouting, he was speaking so softly she had to move into the hall to hear him.

  ‘I’m nursing. You are setting up the business because I can’t – I’m no good at that. You’re so much better suited.’ She put her hand out to him but he had turned from her, was walking away again.

  ‘Georgie, come back,’ she called as he opened the front door.

  ‘I’m going to Tom’s to tell him we’ve lost the money.’

  Annie ran after him. ‘I lost the money. I lost the bloody money, not we, Georgie. That’s the point. It was me.’

  He was opening the car door. ‘Are you coming?’ His face was cold.

  ‘Of course I’m coming.’

  ‘I thought it was the market this morning.’

  ‘Damn the market.’

  They drove in silence, through villages and ironworks that belched foul smoke. She could see the chimneys of Newcastle in the distance. There were sweeps of fields too, darkening and lightening as clouds scudded between the earth and the sun. The barley waved as the wind caught it and all the time Annie’s stomach was taut and her head ached with the tension of their row, with the strain of the silence which hung between them and she wanted to reach out and touch his hand which was tanned and powerful on the gear stick, but she must not give in. Once and for all, she must show him that she was strong, that the shadows of the past had gone, and that, since yesterday, she realised that the future was best in his hands.

  Georgie pulled in for petrol, not looking at her. He stood with the attendant, chatting about the weather, about the north east.

  ‘Born round here, were you?’ the man asked.

  ‘Aye, born a pitman,’ Georgie said, and she knew that that was for her ears too and the row was not over yet.

  They drove on, through a pit village with mean dark streets where children played or lounged. George drove carefully, meticulously for mile after mile until at last he was changing gear for the long climb up the hill which overlooked Wassingham. At the top he pulled in, stopped, opened his window, and rested his arm on it but said nothing.

  Annie looked out across their birthplace, seeing the bombed site which had been Garrods Used Goods, the gap where Gracie’s library had once stood, seeing the school where they had all sat at desks and where Davy, Rob and Paul now sat. She could see the football pitch where Da had led out his team of unemployed miners, and way over in the distance she could see the lightening of the sky where the sea washed the shore.

  They sat and out of the silence came the voices of the past, the images, the laughter and tears and now she remembered the warmth of Aunt Sophie’s arms as she held her in that small warm house in Wassingham Terrace, consoling her after her mother’s death, putting aside her own grief at the death of her sister, taking her into her home to live, Don too – baking scones and making toast, rubbing wintergreen on her toes, loving her with every breath she took.

  She remembered leaving Aunt Sophie and Uncle Eric to live with her father and Bet, but at the shop there had been Tom and love and laughter again to soothe the darker days. There had been the heat of the sun in the allotment, the smell of leeks, the sound of metal coins being banged out for the fair, the sound of the bees in the nettles, Georgie’s daisy chains around her neck at the beck, the gangs, Georgie’s kisses as they grew, and such love had grown between them.

  Then there were the tears when Sarah Beeston came and Annie had run to Tom in the morning as he stood outside school, her misery jagged in her chest. She had held him, told him she was leaving but he wouldn’t listen, instead he had pulled at her undone bootlace, shouting at her that she’d get blisters. The tears ran down their cheeks and all the time the cables were grinding up the slag heap, clanging and tipping. ‘It’s like a big black gaping hole in me belly,’ he had said, ‘to think of you gone from here.’

  There had been agony when Georgie had come to the yard to say goodbye. He had leant against the wall, taken out his cigarette paper, rolled it round the tobacco teased along its centre while she had stood close enough to touch the length of her body against his as he licked and lit the cigarette. She had breathed in the scent of sulphur as he sucked in the smoke. She had opened her lips as he slipped it from his mouth to hers and she felt his moisture. They stood and remembered without words those months, weeks and every minute they had spent together.

  He hadn’t kissed her, he had cupped his hand about her cheek and laid his face against hers. ‘I’ve still to teach you to swing on that bar,’ he had said, and she had replied, ‘I’ll love you all my life, my love.’ He had smiled and made it easy for her to go, and she had driven away with Sarah up the hill that she and Georgie now looked down from but how her heart had been breaking, and his too.

  She felt Georgie’s hand now on hers. It was warm, he was always warm and now she couldn’t see Wassingham for the tears which hadn’t yet spilled from her eyes.

  Georgie lifted her hand to his lips, she felt his kiss, and his tongue running between her fingers, and then his arms which drew her to him. He kissed her eyes. She heard his voice. ‘We need some fish ’n’ chips to go with all that salt, bonny lass.’

  Then his mouth was on hers, his scent was close. ‘I’d like to come back here, lass. I want to come home,’ he said against her mouth.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s been so obvious, how could we not see it?’ Now her daughter could tread the same paths, the same fields, the same streets. She could hear the same sounds, smell the coal, feel the kindness of Wassingham’s people.

  ‘So we’re going for it are we, darling?’ she said softly, her hand stroking his head, his neck, his lips, kissing lashes which she had thought were as thick as hedgerows when she had first seen him, and still thought so. ‘You’ll do it then – Wassingham Textiles is on the way?’

  ‘Yes, it’s really on the way, this time.’ He kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, her mouth. ‘I love you for what you’ve offered me today. I love you for your courage.’

  There was a light in his eyes, a zest in his voice which had been missing since the Army and she was at peace because now
they both had challenges to face and that was as it should be.

  Georgie started the engine. ‘We’ll go home, shall we, bonny lass?’

  She nodded, and they started down the hill to Wassingham.

  Tom shouted, swore, banged Bet’s table with his fist in his rage at Don. He fell silent when Annie said she was going to nurse, that Georgie was going to run the business. He stared at her, then began to speak but Sarah and Davy ran through the yard from the back alley, hurling themselves amongst the adults, Sarah hugging Georgie and then Annie.

  ‘We’re going fishing for minnows, Bet’s tied us up some jam jars. Are you coming?’ She looked from one to the other.

  ‘Not now, darling. Not just yet, this afternoon perhaps,’ Annie said, twisting Sarah’s plaits round one another. ‘Off you go now, see you soon.’

  Sarah grabbed Davy’s arm. ‘Come on, Bet left them in the stable.’ They ran out again.

  ‘I could kill that bloody sod, he’s just cocked everything up. And stop being so daft, Annie, it’s not your fault. You’re crazy to even think it is, crazy to think of going back.’ Tom was speaking quietly now, slumping down into the carver chair that Bet used as her own. ‘Don Manon’s as much a crook as that crony of his. By God, I remember Tom Mallet all right, Don’s got air between his ears, must have to trust that bugger.’

  Annie went round to Tom, gripping his shoulders, telling him Don had only tried to help, that it would be better with Georgie and he in charge.

  She felt his hand on hers now, gripping it, then holding it more gently as he rubbed his cheek against her broken finger. ‘You can’t nurse, bonny lass. You can’t, not after the camps.’

  Sarah called through the door, ‘What camps?’

  Georgie, Tom and Annie looked round.

  Davy peered over her shoulder into the kitchen, at his father, his uncle and aunt. ‘When’re Bet and Mum back, Dad? Can we go now? We’ll be back for tea.’