Annie drove along the coast road, down the track, seeing the white-capped waves rolling, fragmenting, sucking the sand back into their depths.
They struggled against the wind as they walked down to the beach, sheltering in the dunes, seeing the sand whipping, dusting, along the beach.
‘Are you sure, Annie? This early season bathing seems a bit stoic for me. We can come again.’ Georgie’s voice was low and Annie heard uncertainty as well as cold, but it was no surprise, she had known that he too needed today.
She nodded. ‘I’m coming in too, darling. Just think of that – that no woman, in the field of human …’
He groaned. ‘I thought you might just say that,’ then raised his voice, looking across at Sarah. ‘This dune is as good as any, gives us a bit more shelter than the last. Come on, let’s get ’em off.’
He eased his trousers down over his bathing costume. Sarah watched as he unhitched his leg. She’d never seen his stump before. She’d never seen him stand like this, balancing on crutches not his stick, with that great gap there, where his leg should have been. She turned and Annie watched her do so, as did Georgie.
He nodded to her. ‘Come on then, Annie, get your clothes off, I’m getting cold hanging about for the pair of you. I’ll meet you down there.’
Tom had put a base to each of his crutches to stop them sinking into the sand and he swung himself along, feeling the cold, feeling Sarah’s eyes on his body and knew she would be feeling the same revulsion that he had felt, but knowing that she must face it, come to terms with it in all its forms. He looked either way. No others thank God, or perhaps he couldn’t have gone through with it.
Sarah watched him, swinging across the great expanse of beach, all alone. So alone. She looked either way, remembering how he’d chased them last year, how he’d played cricket, how he’d swung her up in the air on Bell’s Farm Hill.
Swing, swing, swing his leg was going now and he was so alone down there.
She turned. ‘Come on, Mum.’
‘You go on, darling.’ Annie was doing up a strap, watching Georgie nearing the sea. He couldn’t go into the water on crutches, he might fall.
‘Quickly, someone needs to be with him,’ she gasped, wrenching at her strap, the cold drawing her skin up into goose bumps, knowing she must stand and fiddle for a while longer.
Sarah looked either way again and saw another family coming down from the dunes, the children running on, then seeing Georgie, stopping. Annie saw them too. Well done, Bernie, hope the grandchildren are wrapped up well. ‘He’s too near the sea and he’s alone,’ she called to Sarah. ‘Don’t worry about the other people. There are these accidents so often in the pit. Remember Gracie’s da?’
Sarah watched the children stare, then turn, call to the adults and point at Georgie. ‘But you never saw him without his leg, like this, did you?’ she shouted at her mother. ‘Those kids haven’t either.’
‘It’s another world now. Men like your father have a right to paddle without fear, without embarrassment.’
Sarah was still standing. Georgie was nearing the sea. He’d fall if the waves caught him. Annie ran as fast as she could, down the beach, but then Sarah passed her, her breath heaving in her chest, the sand squeezing up between her toes, slowing her, but then she reached him, held his arm, looked up into his face.
‘Don’t let the sea knock you over,’ she shouted above the noise of the surf and the wind, though what she wanted to tell him was how much she loved him, how proud she was of him, because he was about to paddle in the sea and that other man, with two legs, had a damn great coat on and two silly kids with wellingtons.
They came back to Wassingham, their skin stinging from the wind, the sand and the sea spray, their hair thick with it and Sarah was laughing and saying that they should bring the gang in the summer, then Georgie could get out really deep with them all around him, that people would scream and think he’d been bitten by a shark when he came out.
They lugged the empty picnic box through into the yard and there was a man there, in a dark suit and briefcase, measuring the pigeon loft. He turned.
Georgie said, ‘Just what’s going on? What’re you doing?’
Annie put down the picnic and stood with her hand on Sarah’s shoulder, listening as the man told them he was John Evans, from the planning office. They’d received a complaint about the height of the pigeon loft from a prospective purchaser of the property next door.
‘They claim it takes their light,’ he said. ‘It is higher than usual.’
Annie looked from Evans to the house, to the pigeon loft, then started to laugh. ‘You’ve got to be joking. This is ridiculous.’
‘I’m most certainly not joking but I do agree, it does seem ridiculous, though we’ve had stranger things happen. The thing is, you’re going to have to take it down, or lower the roof.’
Georgie touched the loft. ‘The pigeons are about to hatch out. There’s no way I’m taking this roof off. Who’s buying the bloody house? I’ll go and speak to them.’
Annie left the yard now, tried the door into next door’s yard. ‘Come here, Georgie, give me a bunk up.’
She stood by the gate, waiting, hearing him limp up to her.
‘What’re you doing, Annie?’
‘I’m going over to open the gate so that Mr Evans can see that we’re not taking anyone’s light. I’m just not having it. Now give me a bump up.’ Her voice was angry now because no one would tell her husband to lower a roof after he’d had a leg off.
Sarah came out, and Mr Evans too. ‘Oh, Mum, you’ll show your knickers.’
‘Good advertisement – they’re ours,’ Annie grunted, putting her foot in Georgie’s hands after he’d wedged himself against the wall. ‘Get over here, Mr Evans, in case he falls.’ It was not a request, but an order. Georgie was lifting her up.
‘Well, I don’t know …’
‘Get over here. There’s a man with only one leg under me.’ She looked down at Georgie and winked, he grinned.
She was up then, straddling the wall, swinging herself over, unbolting the gate, pulling Mr Evans in. She pointed to the loft. ‘Look, you can see for yourself, it takes no light from them at all.’
Mr Evans looked around, up at the sun, measured, then smiled. ‘You’re right. Quite right. You’re quite safe – keep the loft as it is. I’ll report back.’
As he left Annie asked who it was who’d lodged the complaint. ‘A Mr Jones,’ he said.
She rang Bill at the estate agent’s. He’d shown quite a few people round, but hadn’t a Mr Jones on the list, but if he was lodging a complaint perhaps he’d used a false name – or perhaps he was a disgruntled neighbour.
‘Never a dull moment,’ she murmured to Georgie. ‘For heaven’s sake, who’d do something so petty?’ They stood outside the loft with its especially wide doors, its extra height. ‘Everyone knows you need it as it is, for God’s sake.’
Georgie was standing quietly, looking from the loft to the back alley. All their neighbours had had plenty of time to complain. The only person who’d been recently was Don – but no, not even he would do that.
The phone was ringing and Annie answered it. It was Tom. ‘Jurgen Schmidt’s been in touch. He’ll be over soon he says, and would prefer to visit our showroom since he can come via Newcastle to Edinburgh.’
‘Our what?’
‘Exactly. We’ll need to set one up. Jones wants to come up too so it would be worth it. Did you have a good day at the sea, did it work?’ His voice was anxious.
Annie shook her head to clear it. There was so much to think about. ‘Yes, it worked,’ she said. ‘And yes, we’ll get a showroom, somehow. When’s he coming exactly?’
‘Within the next three weeks. He’s going to confirm.’
Annie nodded. ‘Fine, we’ll sort it out.’ She didn’t know how but they would. It was their entry into the export market, but who had tried to mess up Georgie’s life?
CHAPTER 11
On t
he Monday of the following week, Jurgen Schmidt rang to say that he would be in Wassingham in two weeks’ time, on 14 April. Annie had located an old haberdashery off Armore Terrace, just round the corner from Briggs’ Warehouse.
‘We don’t want him coming to the machine shop,’ she told Bill, the estate agent. ‘There are too many designs, too many samples, too much hassle.’ She sat back in the chair. ‘OK, break it to me gently. Has the lease tripled on this, just because we’re after it?’ She was grinning but tension was pulling at her neck.
Bill shook his head. ‘Don’t go paranoid on me, Annie, that was just business. No, this is fine. Really cheap. It’s been hanging around for ages and I’ve more news for you. There was a Mr Jones, my wife took the call. He was from Whitley Bay apparently and he hasn’t been back. A rather nice elderly couple are buying it so you can relax.’
Annie told Tom and Georgie in the afternoon as they sat round her desk at the office. They looked at one another and Tom said, ‘Maybe I’ll buy him a cigar.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Annie asked, checking the small print of the lease, signing where their solicitor had marked with a cross, passing it across to Tom.
‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Georgie replied, reading over Tom’s shoulder, adding his signature when they had finished, passing it on to Brenda to sign as witness.
That evening, Georgie lifted the hen and the eggs were hatched, there was a squeaker covered with down. ‘A right little beauty,’ he breathed, leaning to one side so that Annie could see, and then Sarah.
There were bits of white shell in the nesting bowl.
‘It must prick them,’ Sarah said, trying to pick them out.
‘Leave it, lass, they’ll sort it out.’
‘How’ll it feed – should we put out some food?’ Sarah whispered.
‘No, it’ll put its beak in her mouth and her mam will throw up into it.’
Sarah snatched away her hand, stepping back, looking up at Annie and Georgie. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘Mm, the things we mothers do for you,’ Annie said, ‘Now, get back to homework please and only then can you come with us to give Tiger a toss.’
While Sarah worked in the front room Annie and Georgie went through the designs for Schmidt at the kitchen table, hearing the kettle simmering on the range and the shouts of children in the back alley. ‘I’ll make up the samples myself,’ Annie said. ‘The girls have too much work on and Brenda’s on holiday next week. Can you help Gracie and me check through the work, and we’ll need to pack too, though Sarah and Davy can do some at the weekend. It boosts their pocket money.’
‘Shall we put the other stock forward as well?’ Georgie was looking at one. ‘I don’t like this.’ He passed it to Annie.
She looked. ‘Yes, you’re right. It’s a young style and the fabric’s wrong. We need a really fresh design on it – cotton can be so versatile but this is dreary. We’d better talk to Tom about it.’
Georgie leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. ‘We need to design our own fabric as soon as we can – it would give us so much more flexibility and our own voice. It would boost the mail order division an’ all.’
Annie laughed. ‘Wouldn’t hurt mine either, or are we in competition?’
Georgie reached across, took her hand, kissed it. ‘Never in competition, my darling, but now that you mention it, there is a race planned for the eighth of April. Just to get the “new boys” used to the procedures.’
Annie shook her head. ‘Tiger knows all about the procedures – he just has to flap his wings and tuck his legs up.’ Georgie grinned. ‘No, the human “new boys”. The committee’s arranged a practice run. I’m taking the time clock round tonight for it to be checked. The trouble is the eighth is the Saturday before Jurgen’s visit.’ He looked down. ‘It was set up before we knew about Schmidt and I didn’t quite know how to tell you then and I don’t now.’
Annie leaned back in her chair. ‘I’m not surprised you didn’t – that’s when all the hard work needs to be done. We’ve got to decorate and fit out the shop.’
‘I won’t go of course. I’ll just do the best I can in the youngster races.’ Georgie was leafing through the designs again.
Annie was laughing now. ‘Don’t be so daft. Of course you can go. Take Sarah and Davy too, have a day out. Is Frank going to be convoyer?’
Georgie looked up, his face in a grin. ‘Yes, it’s his first time. He’s nervous.’
‘Then how could you not go and hold his hand, my love, but tell the committee from me that if they ever coincide with Schmidt again I shall personally murder the lot of them. You’d better be the one to tell Tom and duck while you do it.’
Georgie nodded at her. ‘I’ve told him and he’s OK. He wants time off in the winter to see Sunderland play.’
Annie crunched up a sheet of spare paper and threw it at him. ‘Fine, just fine. So Gracie and I need a few days off too eh, and incidentally, what did you mean about a cigar today?’
Georgie told her that he had suspected Don had been ‘Mr Jones’, just for a moment that was all, and now she really was angry and wouldn’t go with them to toss Tiger but stayed in the house, not turning the light on as darkness fell, because she knew her brother would never hurt anyone like that. But her anger was directed at herself because she too had thought it for a brief moment and she was shocked at herself.
Another bird hatched the next night and by the next weekend their Union Rings were fitted and each evening they checked to see how the nestlings were ‘making up’.
Annie showed Sarah how to pinch the youngster’s crop. ‘This is Button’s nestling, so you must look after the bairn, grandmother,’ Annie said gently, watching as Sarah pinched the crop lightly, hoping that it would appear to be full. It was.
She showed her how to lift it, belly upwards, to check that the breastbone was straight and the skin wasn’t blue, it was red. It was fine.
‘Put it back in the nestbowl now,’ Annie instructed, noticing how carefully Sarah did this – she was a gentle child as well as a handful.
She looked at Sarah’s nestling again. It wasn’t standing up in the bowl, it was crouching. Good. ‘Now put your finger near it. Don’t touch it, just near.’
Sarah looked at her. ‘Why?’
‘I want to make sure it rocks back, and doesn’t stand up. If it’s feeding properly its crop will be full of soaked grain, and it’ll be too heavy to scramble to its feet.’
‘Did Da say that?’
‘Yes, don’t worry, he showed me last night.’
‘I was still up, he could have shown me too.’
Annie nodded, surprised at the anger in her daughter’s voice. ‘I know, we were so busy talking we forgot. I’m sorry, darling.’
‘You always forget me when you’re together.’
Sarah turned away, put her finger forward and the nestling rocked backwards. She grinned at Annie, who felt her tension ease, not only because the bird was ‘making up’ and would not have to be destroyed but because the anger was gone from Sarah. Though the child was quite right, they did forget and it was unforgivable.
The next week was busy. Sarah had to be reminded to do Miss Simpson’s work and the exams were getting nearer but Gracie put her foot down with Davy too, and sent Paul home to do his work, so that made it easier.
They had a new order in from Edinburgh too, and were organising the next mail shot. Late into the night she and Georgie planned the showroom with Tom and Gracie and wished they’d their own fabrics to hang at the windows, and wallpaper to match.
‘One step at a time,’ Tom said. ‘We haven’t the capital yet. Let’s see how the export order goes, if it goes at all.’
Georgie checked with Annie that he’d ordered enough fabric for the apron and gloves mail shot, and she said he had. He checked with her that there was a car available to collect Herr Schmidt. There was, Tom’s.
They talked then about a converted car for him. ‘You need one,’ Annie said. ‘For b
usiness and for pleasure.’ For your dignity too, she thought and your daughter, because she had decided that he must take Sarah, not her, out with him on training tosses and races – she must never feel forgotten as Annie had done as a child.
She discussed it with Tom when Georgie was talking to the newspaper about the mail shot, coaxing them into a feature. Ringing another, telling them about the possibility of an export order, arranging to ring them the following week if it was confirmed.
‘Yes, he should have one,’ Tom said, sitting on the corner of her desk, smiling as she flicked a piece of gum into her mouth. ‘What’s it worth not to tell the kids that Auntie Annie is chewing like a Yank?’ he asked.
‘Anything you care to name, my lad. But if I don’t chew I shall smoke right now. It’s the Schmidt thing. I want it Tom. I want it because then we’ll be that much nearer the textiles. It’s what you and Georgie want. It means we’ve done what we said we’d do. But I want that car more and I can’t have it without the order.’
She ran Georgie and the children to the station on Saturday morning. They had been to the club the night before and a member of the committee had set the clock by Greenwich Mean Time, it had then been sealed and handed back to Georgie. Annie had smiled at the tension of those who stood around her, but she had felt it too and was glad she’d held Tiger this morning, stroked him, wished him well, told him to beat those wings hard for Georgie and Sarah, duck the hawks, for God’s sake, duck the hawks.
‘Did you remove his hopper after supper last night?’ she asked now.
Georgie nodded. ‘Just as Frank said.’
‘Is the forecast good? You won’t let him out if it’s too windy?’
Georgie shook his head, he was laughing. Why was he laughing?
‘Fifty miles seems such a long way. He’s still so young.’
‘Oh, Mum, no he’s not. He’ll be past it in a few years, stop fussing. You always fuss, doesn’t she, Da? Fuss, fuss, fuss, no one can get a word in edgeways.’
Was she fussing? It was only a bird for heaven’s sake. Of course she wasn’t fussing but Sarah was right, no one else had squeezed a word in.
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