He felt the blood on his shirt, sweat in his eyes, the taste of it in his mouth. He wanted a drink but not before Frank took one.
They walked on inbye until there it was, the old sow’s black face, scarred and blasted by the night shift who’d cut it and now, together with others, they shovelled the coal on to the clanking rasping conveyor but it wasn’t until ten o’clock that Georgie at last managed to maintain the ceaseless steady rhythm of the others. His throat was dry and his head splitting with the noise of the conveyor but he knew that the cutter would be much worse.
The broken coal came away quickly, leaving the jagged roof exposed. He and Frank propped it, sawing, heaving, banging and it was easier than Sarah’s shelf. It really was, and he laughed and Frank shook his head, then called ‘snap’ which was picked up by Bernie further down, who called it too, and so it was echoed down the line and at last they sat in amongst the coal dust, listening to the creaking roof, checking it with their lamps while they ate and drank and pee-ed.
Georgie’s right hand was sore, blistered through the gloves. Both his hands were so stiff he wondered how he’d ever get them round the shovel shaft again, his back was so stiff he wondered how he’d ever bend again, his legs were shaking so much that Frank laughed and told him the only time he’d shaken like that was when he’d brought Tom back from the beating the fascists gave him at Olympia and delivered him to Annie at the hospital.
‘Thought she’d damn near kill me I did,’ he laughed, squatting on his hunkers.
‘Did she?’ Georgie asked, working his hands, rolling his shoulders.
‘No, but I expect she damn near killed you when you said you were coming back down.’ He tossed Georgie a piece of gum to chew.
‘I guess you could say that but what about you, are you still in politics?’ Georgie didn’t want to think of Annie’s attempt to nurse, her courage, her self-sacrifice, her nightmares, her rage and worry at his plans, he just wanted to be here, in spite of the pain and the tiredness.
Frank shook his head, his jaw moving in the same ceaseless rhythm that he had used when wielding his shovel. ‘Kids’ stuff, you get too old to stand there mouthing off at demonstrations somehow, and with Tom scratching away at the business idea he’s had no time for anything but that and the union. You’ll go into the business, will you?’
Georgie nodded. ‘Aye, this’ll keep us until it’s off the ground.’
‘Canny move too, the blokes’ll get their wives to look out for your stuff, there’s some who’re good with sewing too. Get Tom on to that, then you’ll not get any bad workers to be a bloody nuisance.’
Frank stirred, packed his tin away, looked at his watch but waved Georgie back down. ‘Few minutes yet.’ He leant back against the wall, and Georgie’s lamp picked out the sweat which ran in rivulets down Frank’s black chest and belly, just as it would be running down his. His back was too sore to lean against anything.
‘So what d’you do with yourself now then, Frank?’
‘Pigeons, that’s what I do. Got a real good ’un.’ Frank took his gum out of his mouth and stuck it on the sole of his shoe. ‘Looks what he is, a belter. Got a good eye, make a good racer. You should get that old loft of Eric’s fixed up, he raced a few good ones you know.’ Frank checked his watch again and nodded. ‘Best be getting at it.’
Frank came across and heaved Georgie up and for a moment he thought his legs wouldn’t take his weight but they did and he could straighten his back, just.
After another two hours his blisters burst and Frank took gauze and cream out of his underpants and bound them. ‘Full of surprises, my old lady says. Always happens first day back and you’ll need to use them tomorrow lad, that’s if you’re going to make a real pitman.’ He slapped Georgie’s shoulder. ‘You’re doing well, Georgie, real well.’
He talked above the noise of the conveyor as they worked now and Georgie knew it was to ease the last hour for him. He learned about squeakers and then about ringing, training, and the race which had been spoiled by gale-force winds.
‘You should get yourself a squeaker. Have one of mine if you like.’
Georgie laughed, heaving another shovel load on and then another, then breaking off to help Frank heave in another prop. ‘Fat chance of that, any free hands around our house and you get a pair of pants stuffed into them, or a bra, or if you’re really lucky, an apron.’ They both laughed as the prop went in and picked up the shovels again, though Georgie had to use his to force himself upright and then lean against the prop as a wave of giddiness brought the nausea to his throat.
‘Your Annie’s got it right though you know, got to work hard at the beginning. She deserves success, she’s a right bonny lass, Georgie.’
Georgie knew that she was, knew that she’d say nothing about his hands, his back but her eyes would flare until anxiety overtook the anger. He’d be all right though, and today had shown him that he could listen for the old sow’s mumblings just as well as he’d always been able to, except for the noise of the conveyor.
Annie and Sarah stood at the yard gate waiting and watching for Georgie, Frank and the others and for a moment they couldn’t pick him out because his walk now was that of a miner, measured, feeling the ground.
As he reached them he nodded to Frank, put his cap in his pocket, kissed Annie and stroked Sarah’s hair with his bandaged hand.
‘No need to scrub me back, little Annie, they’ve got pit showers now.’ His smile was tired.
‘Well, you can’t win them all, then,’ Annie said, her smile broad because that was how it must always be, though the anger had flared at his hand before anxiety had taken its place.
‘Never mind, lad, nothing wrong with your fingers, you can still pick out the faulty stitching on the knicks.’
She heard Frank laugh further down the lane and then Georgie and Sarah too and now her smile reached her eyes, and her love was in her lips as she kissed his ear. ‘I love you,’ she whispered and left her relief at his return unspoken.
CHAPTER 4
Annie lay in bed and watched another rocket soar, then explode. Would that mean a stick in their yard in the morning? It was supposed to be good luck wasn’t it? Maybe she’d get that big order they desperately needed.
‘Four months gone and where is it?’ she said softly to herself. ‘Four months of slog and still I can’t get my foot in the door, what on earth am I going to do?’
She ran her hands through her hair and could still smell the sulphur from their own fireworks, hear Sarah’s shrieks as the Catherine Wheel had spun off its stand by the bonfire on the wasteground. Georgie had stepped forward, then stopped as Annie held him back. ‘You’re not defusing that, bonny lad,’ she’d said and handed him a charred baked potato instead.
She turned away from the window, stretching her hands across the emptiness next to her. At least he and Frank had had time to come to the bonfire and at least on night shift they’d be turning over the conveyor rather than working behind the cutter but she still worried and she still missed him.
Annie turned again, then again and heard yet another rocket. Who was still up? Kids probably. She looked at the clock, two a.m. Oh God, she was tired. She must get some sleep or she’d be going to the market traders with bags under her eyes big enough to hold their week’s takings.
She sat up now, resting her head on her knees. She’d try the traders to the west and north of Wassingham in early autumn. They’d taken the pants in the summer – now she would try them with the aprons with Christmas looming.
There were fifteen regular orders from stalls to the south and east but no money up front, that was the problem, and they were still asking for sale or return plus thirty days’ credit and she had to go with that for now. At least though she’d hooked into two new shops in Newcastle. They were keen on the pants and bras which was good but they paid on thirty-day invoices too and even then they had to be chased. At least the markets paid up promptly.
She lay down again, watching the clouds s
cudding across the moon, pulling the bedclothes up around her neck, feeling the cold on her face. Would Georgie be cold? No, it was never cold deep down he said, and it might not be, but it was hard and she could see the tiredness more deeply etched on his face with each passing day and feel new cuts and ridges on his back. If they weren’t getting enough garments into the retail outlets how could they sell? She must try harder, cut their profit margins if necessary, create a need and she just had to crack the big stores.
‘I’ll try offering the department stores a much bigger discount, even extended credit, but not too much, we can’t carry it.’ She could see her breath in the moonlight. Did everyone talk to themselves? But why worry, she wasn’t growing hairs on the palms of her hands yet, Sarah had checked today and had said she might sound mad but so far wasn’t.
She turned again and again but sleep would not come and so she went down to the dining room. There was no point in wasting time if they had to get more garments out. She walked over the thread-strewn floor. She must hoover in the morning – what was it Isaacs had said? ‘A clean workroom is a happy room, Mrs Armstrong,’ and then he’d handed her the Hoover. She touched the boxes of pants Gracie had brought in at the end of the day. She must put them into packs of twelve but that could wait until the morning. There were Bet’s pants on the table, she’d re-do those now.
Her neck ached and her fingers were sore as she began and she wondered how to tell Bet that her hands and eyes could not do the work, but even as she thought it she knew that she could never say the words and so she unpicked, re-sewed, stacked, unpicked, re-sewed, stacked as she always did for Bet, and then checked Gracie’s and her own. The quality must be good right from the start. She stopped and wrote a reminder to ask Gracie to stack her garments into dozens, it would mean one less job for her.
Now she cut out the work for tomorrow and shrugged aside the ache in hands swollen from using the scissors too much. What did banana fingers matter just so long as the work was done – pain was nothing, it would pass but there were tears in her eyes after half an hour.
For a further hour she sewed samples of their bras, of the new pants because she had decided she must tour the Madam shops again. She wouldn’t ring in advance this time, she’d just go. She sewed more aprons and gloves because she’d noticed two new kitchen and craft shops setting up on her way back from Gosforn market last week and she’d call in on them too. She’d do Durham, Newcastle, all the towns.
She needed to sound out Brenda Watson down Edmore Street again, make sure she’d really be available to help her train up the homeworkers if they got the big ones. No, not if, once they got the orders.
Tom and Georgie had talked to the men, they’d got four reliable wives picked out as homeworkers but how long would they wait, they might go and get other jobs.
‘No, there are no other jobs, you idiot woman, that’s why we’re here.’ Annie leant her head forward on her throbbing hands. Her back was stiff, her feet were cold, her lids were heavy.
She packed up the samples, checked through her list of calls, checked off the quantities against the orders – still needed twenty-four more vests and … she checked through the orders again, yes, there was an order for four dozen pants. It was for Fairway Market – how had she missed that? Gracie and she could have done them on Sunday. She gripped the chair. They were to be delivered tomorrow.
‘For God’s sake, we can’t afford to be so careless,’ she groaned and looked at the clock again, it was so late, she was too cold, too tired but then she shook herself. ‘Get on with it.’
She went through to the kitchen, stoked the range, brewed tea, smoked a cigarette, stood in the open door looking out into the yard, there were no spent rockets and so she flicked her cigarette across the yard, watching it arc in the cold November air, watching it smoulder and die – ‘Good as a rocket any day, Annie Armstrong, now sort it out.’
She drank her tea, curling her hands around the mug, ignoring the throbbing, wondering how many pants would be returned from the other stalls? Could she bank on twenty perhaps as part of the four dozen, but no, what if they’d sold the lot? She rinsed her mug, then cut and sewed the full forty-eight, checked and packed them, and the twenty-four vests.
If she had any returns she’d have to put them back into stock and sell those on at the next trader. She checked her route. Yes, she could do Fairway and still be back for Sarah because she stayed for piano until four.
Annie checked the clock again, her mind a blank, her eyelids heavy, she rubbed her eyes. Georgie would be in at half past six, she’d give him breakfast and finish packing before Sarah got up, but then she saw the invoices. She had to do those so that Georgie could look at them before she left. She insisted that all paperwork was checked because she was unable to trust herself. Maybe all orders should be too, but no, everyone had enough to do, she’d just make sure she checked through each evening.
Her hands were shaking as she wrote but then they were all exhausted. Tomorrow she must tell Gracie that they had to produce more than they were doing so that they could build up a reserve to call on, rather than going from hand to mouth like this. Could Gracie produce more? She’d have to, even though she had the two children. Could they work harder without telling Betsy otherwise she’d insist on doing more, which would only mean more unpicking? Annie slept for an hour.
The bacon was crisping and the sausages spitting as Georgie came through the door – safe, thank God, yet again. ‘Sausages are almost ready, the bacon’s crisp, the invoices are there.’ She nodded to the table, then laughed as his arms came round her, as his hands stroked her breasts and he said, ‘Since you don’t have to scrub my back take me straight to bed, Mrs Armstrong. The sausages can wait, the bacon can burn, the invoices don’t need checking.’
He pushed the frying pan off the hotplate and pulled her through the door, undoing her dressing-gown, leading her up the stairs, closing their door with his heel, stripping off his clothes, removing hers. He held her, stroked her, kissed her mouth, her breasts, her thighs and she could still smell the pits on him.
‘I love you bonny lass, little, little Annie,’ he said as he lay on her, moving with her, kissing her eyes now, her hair. ‘I love you, I love you.’
Though she was tired she held him, kissed him and then felt her own passion rise as it always did for this man, for his strength, his kindness, his love. Later, they lay in one another’s arms but only for a moment because Sarah must not be late for school, Annie must not be late for the rounds, so she eased herself from the bed, dressed and crept towards the door. She turned as he spoke.
‘Forgot to tell you, love. An order was phoned through from Fairway on Saturday, I stuck it in at the bottom of the pile – it should have been on the top, shouldn’t it?’
‘Next time, Georgie, I shall murder you!’ Annie blew him a kiss because this time the mistake had not been hers and so perhaps the days of carelessness were over.
Sarah ate Georgie’s breakfast while Annie cooked another for him and packed up sandwiches and an apple for her daughter’s lunch. She pricked the sausages, turned the bacon.
‘D’you need another slice, Sarah?’
‘No thanks, Mum, but I’ll have his rind.’
‘No you won’t, your da likes it, you’ve got your own.’
‘You’re as bad as Miss Simpson. She’s mean too.’ Sarah was buttering her toast, putting on too much marmalade. Annie smiled.
‘Surely not like Miss Simpson, she breathes fire, doesn’t she?’
‘Almost. She’s been going on about the eleven plus but I don’t want to go to the Grammar, it’ll mean breaking up with Davy and …’ Sarah waved her toast at her mother, ‘and, it’ll mean all girls, I’ll get like Terry.’
Annie put Sarah’s lunchbox into her satchel. ‘I don’t think we’d let that happen somehow.’ She checked her watch, ten more minutes before they needed to leave. She turned the sausages, grilled more bread and looked across at Sarah. ‘If you did pass, it would
give you more opportunity you know, both of you. I mean Davy might want to go and if you’re spouting about not splitting up he’d maybe hold back. You’d get the bus in together and meet up afterwards.’
Sarah was quiet as she finished her toast. Then she took Georgie’s tray from Annie and ran upstairs with it while Annie hurried with the boxes out to the car, balancing too many, but Sarah rushed out and caught them as they fell.
‘Well done – but go in and brush your hair, Sarah,’ she laughed, ‘and give Miss Simpson a chance and more importantly, don’t influence Davy. Let him make up his own mind.’
She followed her daughter through to the kitchen and wiped the drainer. Then she shrugged herself into her coat, put on some lipstick and smoothed her hair. She straightened her daughter’s collar.
‘Are my seams straight?’ She turned her back to Sarah.
‘Yes, and Davy’s made up his mind anyway. He wants to go to Art College so I’m going too.’
Annie picked up her handbag and looked carefully at Sarah, smiling gently. ‘But you might not want to do art, darling.’
‘I don’t, not like he does, he wants to paint designs like Uncle Tom. I want to be like you, have ideas, make them work, learn how to move a strap and make something better but I want to stay here with you for the rest of my life. I don’t ever want to leave Wassingham, or this house.’ Sarah was moving towards the door as Annie reached out and pulled her close.
‘I felt just like you when I lived here. I never wanted to leave but I did, and then I came back. You do that when you’re grown up you know but the love never dies between families, it’s always there. And I think it’s a very good idea to go to Art College, if that’s what you want to do but there’s plenty of time to change your ideas. Listen to Miss Simpson though, she’s maybe a wise old dragon. Now scoot, you’ll be late.’
She watched Sarah walk through the yard and out into the alley, knowing she would pick up Davy outside Tom’s, and was moved not only at the thought of the children’s friendship but at the memory of Sarah’s words. That night she wrote to the Australian newspapers in Sydney, Melbourne and Adelaide explaining that she was trying to trace Sophie and Eric Shaw and asking them to print her letter. Later she worked into the small hours because it might not just be the adults’ future she was building up, but the children’s too.
Annie's Promise Page 6