Annie's Promise

by Margaret Graham

  CHAPTER 3

  The next month passed quickly. Annie sold most of the Gosforn furniture to Don because there was so little room in Wassingham Terrace.

  ‘Don’t let him have it,’ Georgie said on their last night but she shook her head.

  ‘No, he’s so sorry, you can see he can’t even look us in the eye. If we don’t let him have it we’re being petty and vindictive and it will only lead to a real breach between us all.’

  As well as the walnut hall table she kept the small tables, the pictures, all the things that were Sarah Beeston. She arranged to keep on the Gosforn stall, and took on two others on the route to Wassingham, talking another stallholder into trying her goods, sale or return. Soon there would be more, there must be more.

  ‘It’s too much,’ Georgie murmured into her neck as the moonlight played on his body, on his scars.

  ‘No, not enough,’ she whispered, holding him close, touching his skin, wondering how much more torn it would become when he started in the pit on Monday. He had passed his medical which she had prayed he would fail. He did not need to retrain because of the apprenticeship he had already served. She must see to it that the business thrived because he must get out of that pit and stop playing these stupid games.

  In the morning Annie did not look back at the Jaguar which was pulling in behind them. She did not look back at the home which she had shared with Sarah and Val but reached across and held Sarah’s hand.

  ‘We’re going home then, bonny lass.’ She felt her daughter’s hand tighten on hers.

  ‘It’s going to be so good, Mum.’

  When they were scrubbing the kitchen floor the next morning Annie looked across at Sarah, hearing Georgie’s hammering, his curse, a crash.

  ‘Bet you didn’t think it was going to be as good as this, did you?’ she laughed, settling back on her heels, dragging the hair from her eyes.

  Sarah’s hands were red from the water, her dungarees were splashed and dirty. ‘This isn’t good, this is awful. Davy’s out playing, Mum, it isn’t fair. They’re going up to the farm after lunch, said we could go too.’ Sarah dropped the brush back into the water. ‘I bet you didn’t have to do this when you lived here.’

  Annie nodded. ‘It’s as well we didn’t have money on that, my girl. I scrubbed, brushed, washed dishes, fed the pigeons …’

  There was another crash from upstairs. Annie raised her eyebrows. ‘You’d better go up and see if you can hold something. He’s trying to put up a shelf in your room. You can put my father’s paper knife on it.’ She smiled as Sarah leapt to her feet, throwing the brush back into the pail, dodging the spray. ‘I hope you thanked Betsy for it too.’

  ‘I did, Mum. She’s going to the farm too, please can we go, please?’ Sarah was hanging on the door, her face flushed and then there was another crash. ‘Goddamn this bloody thing,’ they heard again.

  ‘Perhaps we’d better if the house is going to survive. Go and tell him he has only another half an hour.’

  Annie finished the floor, carried the pail into the yard, tipped the water down the drain, sat on the step feeling the sun on her face as she looked at the pigeon loft, remembering Uncle Eric banging, crashing, cursing as he repaired it one year, remembering the cooing of the birds, the gentleness of his hands, his leg which had been irreparably damaged in the trenches.

  ‘That dreadful war,’ Aunt Sophie had said. ‘It ruined so much.’

  Annie leaned forward now and touched the lavender plant she had dug up and brought with her from Gosforn. So, Sophie, has Eric got a smithy at some mine or in an outback town, or are you in Melbourne, or Sydney? Oh God, I wish I’d kept in touch, I wish I’d written back.

  She remembered the old railway prints on the wall, the best white table cloth, and then the tears Sophie had cried as Annie left to go to the shop with Da.

  Annie’s shoulders tightened at the memory. She had never seen an adult cry before and it was as though the ground had lurched beneath her feet, as though there was no safety, no certainty left in the world, and she shook off the memory, watered the lavender, swept the step, polished the mantelpiece and the fireguard which was still as it had been when Sophie had hung her tea towels on it to dry.

  When she and Betsy were walking together past the oaks later that day, she asked her if she had heard anything of Sophie, but Bet had not.

  ‘You could try and find her though, lass. Not all that many people in Australia you know. Mind, she’d be getting on a bit, in her seventies, and Eric too. Lovely they were, kind to me, kind to you.’

  The sheep grazed around them as they walked up the hill and the wind took their breath as they breasted the rise. The sky was light in the distance, over the sea, the rocks cut through the scant soil, the gorse-bushes, yellow spiked, jigged in the breeze. Yes, she would try when she had more time but this week there were garments to make up, deliver, sell, there were the days to get through while Georgie was down beneath the ground they were standing on.

  ‘Varies each time you know,’ Tom said in her ear, his arm creeping round her waist, his finger pointing to the broken-down cart in the farm-yard beneath the hill, the tractor splashing its colour on the scene, the slipped tiles on the farmhouse showing up dark.

  ‘You should know, you’ve painted it often enough.’ Annie’s voice was cold.

  His grip tightened. ‘Don’t be cross, bonny lass. He wanted it.’

  ‘You needn’t have talked them into taking him, you needn’t have vouched for him, wriggled him in.’ Annie shrugged herself away from him and stood, watching the children playing tag on the hill, hearing Tom coming up behind her again.

  ‘No, I didn’t have to, but it’s what he wants. Stop sulking, if the wind changes you’ll stay looking like that and it’s not a pretty sight, Annie Manon.’

  Annie turned now, gripping Tom’s arms. ‘I remember you being smashed up beneath coal, I remember the lads in the hospital. You’re a bunch of kids, all of you, just a bunch of stupid kids but without the sense of that lot down there.’

  They both turned and looked at their children and again Tom put his arm around her and this time she leant into him. ‘Remember us, Annie, at their age, always together, always up to something, always just managing to rescue the situation. If you don’t, I do. I remember how you always looked after me so d’you think I’d not make it as safe as I can for him if he’s set on it – and he is you know. I’ve put Frank on with him and he’ll have the good seams, the easy seams. I took him into the lamp room, down the shaft to try and put him off but he just breathed in the air and said “Ambrosia”. Trust me, and for God’s sake put a smile on your face.’

  Annie watched Sarah being chased by Davy, was she going to get back to the stump, was she? Yes, she’d made it and Annie kissed her brother’s cheek. ‘You’re a good boy, Tom Ryan, and my daughter can run faster than your son, just like her mother.’

  She grinned at Tom because he was right, she must smile, she must rise at five, pack Georgie’s bait tin, watch him leave, wait for his return, and smile, just like every other woman in Wassingham had always done and always would do. But more than that, she must work.

  Sarah and Davy sat panting on the stump while Rob blew on blades of grass, his cheeks straining with the effort, the sheep nearby moving away as he did so.

  ‘Just look at your mam run,’ Davy said, coughing and pointing.

  Sarah shaded her eyes, holding her throat as her breath rasped in and out, in and out, she nodded but couldn’t speak, not yet. She had beaten Davy but she’d thought her lungs would burst out of her while she did so.

  ‘She’s faster than you, Sarah,’ Rob said, then blew the grass again.

  ‘Not as fast as Da though, look at him go,’ Davy was standing now, laughing. ‘Look he’s almost caught her. Your dad’s chasing them now, and Mam.’

  ‘Blimey, it’ll be Bet next,’ Rob said, standing too, no longer whistling, just shaking his head. ‘Parents are embarrassing. I mean, they’re too old.’ He looke
d around. ‘No one can see them anyway or you lot would never hear the end of it. Doesn’t matter to me. They wouldn’t hear about it at the grammar.’

  Sarah laughed now, her breathing easier. ‘Unless we told them.’

  Rob turned on her. ‘Don’t you dare. Don’t you bloody dare, it’s going to be bad enough without that.’

  ‘You worried then?’ Davy was sitting on the ground now, flicking grass at a stone.

  ‘Course not, it’s just new, that’s all.’

  Rob walked off, up to the crest of the hill, his hands in his pockets, his head down.

  ‘Spect your da feels the same too,’ Davy said watching his brother, then the adults still chasing one another.

  Sarah squatted at his side, rubbing the dry soil with her fingers, forcing it into the cracks. ‘Don’t know why he’s going into the pit, Terry said Mum should have nursed, said no one would really want to go down the pit. It’s dirty and smelly. She says there are no lavs, that’s horrid.’

  Davy looked at her, then up at their parents. ‘He wants to though, he said that.’

  ‘Terry said her mum said he would say that. I don’t want him to go down. How could anyone want to go down under this.’ She pushed more soil into a crack. An ant ran over her finger. She cupped it in her hands, letting it run, but not escape. ‘She says Mum should have nursed.’

  ‘Since when have you listened to Terry or her mum. I told you, he wants to go down and it’s daft, but then, grown ups are daft, look at them.’

  Sarah watched her mother trip and fall, watched Tom and Georgie stop, pick her up, one by the shoulders, one by the feet and give her the bumps.

  They both looked round now to see that there was no one from town to see it. Yes, they are daft, she thought, stupid and daft and she put her hands on the ground, letting the ant run on to the ground.

  ‘People die though, don’t they Davy? It’s like Dad’s bombs. You never know which one it will be that’s going to get you.’ She squashed the ant, rubbing her finger over and over it until there was nothing left.

  ‘Well, my da was in the pit for ages and he looks all right and Frank, his marrer, still goes down. All the Wassingham men do, seems right somehow. They do get cut and the scars go blue, but I don’t think it’s like the bombs. No, not the bombs.’

  ‘But people do die?’ Sarah was looking at him now, holding his arm.

  Davy was quiet, then he nodded. ‘Yes, they die.’

  There was a silence between them and then Sarah felt his hand holding her arm, his fingers tight, his skin warm, his eyes troubled but only for a moment because then they heard the shouts, the laughter, felt the pounding feet and her father scooped her up as Tom grabbed Davy, and swirled them around until they gasped, set them on their feet, held their hands and ran them down to the bottom. It felt as though she was flying, as though she would never stop and at the bottom she hugged her father.

  ‘I love you Da, I love you,’ she shouted.

  Annie was up before Georgie, stoking the range, cooking him bacon, eggs, sausage, not thinking, just doing. She checked the clock. Five a.m. She heard him in the hall, padding through in his socks. She held out his boots as he came through the doorway.

  ‘There’s no need to get up, Annie, you’ve a busy day.’ He took the boots, sat down, shoved his feet into them and ate his breakfast, pulling a face at the milk she gave him.

  ‘Drink it, it’ll line your stomach against the dust.’

  She packed his bait tin, filled his water bottle, his cold tea flask. She stood behind him as he drank, wanting to hold him, press his strong body against hers, wanting to run her hands down his chest, his thighs, wanting to make him forget all this and stay here. But she did nothing except hand him his tin, his old clothes stuffed into a holdall and his flask. She kissed his mouth, touched his face and smiled, opening the door into the yard at Frank’s whistle, walking with them to the gate, watching as they walked together towards the pit, joining others as they came from their yards. Georgie did not walk as they walked, he did not hold himself as they did. Couldn’t he see he wasn’t one of them any more?

  Their boots were loud on the cobbles as they walked to the pit-yard, the buildings crowded in on them and Georgie and Frank nodded to each man as they joined the group. There was no talk, it was too early, too grey, these were not men on a ramble, they were workers facing a full day, heavy with sleep. There was no surprise in their faces at his presence, word spun round quickly in a pit town. There was wariness though as he had known there would be and he was glad that he was here, proving himself to them, proving that his family had the right to come back into their midst but more importantly, proving something to himself.

  Once inside the entrance they passed the canteen, then clattered into the locker rooms and Frank pointed out the one that would be his from now on. He changed into old clothes, locked up, then walked with the others to the supply room, collecting his helmet, kneepads, steel-capped boots, gloves, belts. It was like the Army again, it was like coming back into the team.

  ‘Come on man, let’s get your lamp.’ Frank shouldered past the other men, leading the way into the lamp room. Tom had shown him this last week but he still felt the same surge, the same sense of being a boy again. He handed in his metal tag to old Jock who exchanged it for a lamp.

  ‘Good to see you, lad. You keep your bleeding head and back down, and your feet up and your wits about you. I don’t want to be left with a spare tag at the end of the shift, your Annie’ll have me guts for garters.’

  Georgie grinned. ‘No she won’t, bra straps perhaps. You’ve not aged at all, you old devil.’

  ‘You have, you were a boy last time, just you remember that, Georgie Armstrong. Reckon you need your head examined, what d’you think, Frank?’

  Georgie was moving along now, being pushed from behind.

  ‘Too right, Jock, but I reckon he thinks it’s good for the soul, or maybe he thinks he can talk us into buying Annie’s bras for ourselves.’

  The men were laughing and Georgie stood at the cage while he was frisked for matches, lighters, cigarettes. He’d left his Kensitas in his trousers and the checker flung them in the bin and growled. Georgie flushed and Frank dug him in the ribs. ‘Nice one, lad. Don’t happen to have a bomb in the other one, do you?’

  There was more laughter but it was good humoured and Georgie relaxed. Bloody fool, don’t do that again, he told himself, knowing he’d have had more to say if it had been one of his bomb team.

  He waited with Frank whilst the miners queued for the cage. There was the low hum of the dynamos running the air pumps, he’d forgotten that, but not the feeling in his stomach as he waited to plunge into the darkness.

  ‘You OK, lad?’ Frank murmured, shifting his weight from one foot to the other waiting for the banksman to get the men in, the wire guard shut. Georgie nodded, his arms hanging loose, emptying his head as he had taught his men to do. They were all in now, the gates were closed, the cage dropped. Jesus Christ, he’d forgotten how your heart lifted, how silence fell, how the faint surface light faded, how quickly you travelled, how the light from the helmet lamps flickered on the surface of the shaft, the cables, the pipes, how your mind persuaded you the earth was closing over you, how the ground bounced beneath you as the cage stopped, how you breathed out as the cage door opened. Jesus Christ, he’d forgotten and now he was grinning, stepping out with the others, their bait tins clanking against one another, their batteries too.

  He breathed in the air, sensing its motion, its warm lifelessness. Yes, it was the same. He blinked, then narrowed his eyes in the brightness of the light. He’d forgotten how like a tube station it was.

  ‘Need a few advertisements, Frank lad,’ he said quietly as they headed for the paddy train.

  ‘None of this comfort when you were down last, eh Georgie? Shanks’s pony then,’ Frank grinned, squashing himself into a seat, pulling Georgie in.

  ‘Shove over, let a tiddler in,’ Bernie Walters grunted, sinking b
ack as the train started. ‘Bloody Ritz for you, isn’t it, Georgie?’ He stuck out his hand, shook Georgie’s. ‘Worked in the old seam with your brothers. Like Nottingham, do they? Good thing you came back down, lad, they’ll open up to you now, would’ve been difficult otherwise.’

  Georgie nodded, smiled. He knew he’d been right. He looked to the sides, electricity still lit their way, they passed stores of fire-fighting equipment and first-aid stations. He moved with the motion of the train knowing that any minute they would be plunged into darkness and now they were and their lamps picked out steel pit girders and unpainted brickwork.

  ‘You’ll be working with wood props at the pit face,’ Frank said.

  Gorgie nodded. Tom had told him. He saw traces of coal on the walls, the roof. There was already stone dust on his lips, in his throat. Thank God for that, flash fires were less likely. The train stopped, they eased themselves out, their feet kicking up the dust, tasting it in their mouths.

  He moved along the roadway, his lamp picking out Frank’s back, the roof, the walls. ‘Pick your feet up, man,’ Bernie hissed behind him, ‘it’s like a sandstorm back here, and keep up.’

  He moved more quickly now, remembering to feel with his feet, bending as the roof lowered to four foot, remembering the pain that dug into his back and legs. His lamp was picking up the roof and the floor and the sides, but in front there was nothing but a wall of blackness because Frank had left him behind. Bernie turned off down another roadway. God, he was alone. He moved more quickly, carelessly, caught his back on the roof, felt the jagged slash, the sharpness, the dampness of blood, black blood. He moved even faster, straining his back as he kept low, straining his thighs. Come on, come on, keep moving until his lamp at last picked up Frank and now the roof was higher, they were upright, but it was so hot.

  ‘We’ll strip off here, gets too bloody hot, d’you remember?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Aye.’ He could do do more than grunt in the heat and tiredness and he hadn’t even lifted a shovel yet.