After the Storm

by Margaret Graham

  Come over Friday, Annie, she’d said, we haven’t seen you for, what is it, four months. Most of the lads will be there but not too many girls. Scared, I expect, or their mums are anyway, can’t think of what, she’d giggled and nudged. Anyway, no one sitting at home to make a prig of you, is there, Annie, and Annie had smiled at the bobbing yellow curls as they minced away but wondered at the ache the words had caused.

  Sally lived a mile away and the evening was fading fast as she walked through the streets. She could hear the shouts of children in the back alley and had to dodge a group of boys as they kicked a ball.

  There was noise but not much light coming into the yard from Sally’s kitchen window. Annie dropped behind the privy, changing her boots for the sandals she had carried in newspaper. She stuck the boots in the corner where they were hidden by the shadow and walked on feet that felt as though they were bulging grotesquely between taut straps. Her feet and legs were bare and she hoped no one would notice feet that were puffing out of shoes a size too small and being rubbed red by the straps.

  She had not noticed she had grown so since last year. She certainly hadn’t got much of a bosom or a bum yet. From the back or front she still looked like an errand-boy, or so Ma Gillow had said when she came into the shop for two pennyworth of glucose drops the other week. For the indigestion, she had offered, as she poked her nose further into everything.

  At her knock, the door opened. ‘Come in, lass.’ Sally pulled her in and shut the door. Her long ear-rings were dangling nearly to her shoulders, Annie thought, and matched her red dress and red shoes. Sally was laughing to someone over her shoulder and pointed Annie to the table which held some beer and lime cordial. ‘All right, I’m coming,’ she called to the boy who was tugging at her arm. She raised her eyebrows at Annie and giggled, ‘He’s so impatient,’ and turned from her and was gone into the bobbing shapes which circled and flowed and filled the room.

  The room was lit only by a low oil lamp but the heat was oppressive. Her feet throbbed and her eyes took in no one person but filled themselves with the hissing phonograph, and the movement which had swallowed Sally completely.

  She edged sideways to the table wanting to choose the lime but the jug was full so no one else had. She poured a beer. She stood with her back against the wall which ran on from the sink and smiled, feeling her face widening and stiffening. She held the glass with both hands to stop the trembling and still it was as though she had not entered, for the movement continued unchecked and bodies flowed amongst it, their mouths working but the sound milling with the greater noise through which laughter threaded like the pink silk borders on Auntie Sophie’s antimacassars. Annie fixed and held her smile while she brought the glass to her lips. Aunt Sophie; why had she not thought of her for so long? But here was warmth like those days which were now blurred and distant.

  It wasn’t so bad at Albert’s now, she thought. He had stopped his shouting and seemed to have accepted that he couldn’t make her cry so he just made her work harder instead and that seemed to satisfy him. He didn’t hit her now, just took away her sixpence if she cheeked him, so she didn’t. Just kept her mouth shut and hated him. She did not cry every night now, either. It still swept over her like a storm but far less often and she had worked out how she could snatch an extra moment with Tom when she was supposed to be fetching a drop of dripping from the corner shop. She’d rush to the school and they would walk home to May’s together, her arm would rest on his shoulders, but only just, for he seemed to have sprouted and thickened since he had been there. It was amazing what six months could do, she thought. They would laugh or be silent together and she would tell him she was all right, as happy as he was at May’s.

  When they arrived at May’s he would plead for her to come in and May too, but she never did. It looked too warm, too happy and she was afraid that if she saw what life could be like then she would cry in front of him.

  She looked down at the beer, away from the circling laughter, and took a sip. It was sour and harsh and stung her throat and she felt the retch begin but pressed the cold glass hard to her lips and forced it down, feeling the sweat break out under her arms. She pressed her elbows to her sides. For God’s sake, don’t lift your arms, bairn, she ordered herself, mimicking Don, you’ll bring down the wallpaper. It made her laugh and the tightness at the base of her neck softened and she felt her body ease. The music seemed louder now and the sink she leant against was cold and her smile became easy and meant but still at no face which sought her out.

  Figures whirled past, some very close together, but still moving in time to the music. Snatches of conversation escaped to float past her.

  ‘They’ll get in this time. There’ll be a Labour government, you mark my words,’ merged with soft dance-time. ‘They’d better, things won’t improve under this little lot. We need improved dole if more bloody pits are closing and the shipyards.’

  She hummed to herself to drown the talk which was the same, day and night, on every street corner where men squatted on their hunkers or stamped from foot to foot in the cold. ‘Nothing else would matter in the world today, we would go on loving in the same old way,’ she mouthed the words now. Not tonight, no politics tonight.

  ‘Burns your tonsils out, Don used to say.’

  The boy was broad and shut out the dancers from her. In the dim light she saw large black eyes with lines which deepened as he smiled at her. He was tall now for a Geordie, not as wiry as most, and his voice had deepened, but not changed. His smile still turned up on one side.

  ‘You’ve grown, lad. I would hardly have recognised you.’ It was Georgie. He reached forward and stroked her cheek with one finger. She wanted to be like a cat and wind herself round his hand.

  ‘I’d have recognised you anywhere, hinny. You’ve barely grown at all.’

  Try telling that to me feet she thought and forced more beer down to prove that she was nearly 14 and was glad when the noise hid the explosion and Georgie’s handkerchief dried her eyes and dress. Then she could breathe again.

  She laughed before he could, but he did not. People danced to a quickened tempo, they jostled closer to her. Georgie moved to shield her.

  ‘Takes time to get used to, beer does. Come and have a dance.’

  He smelt of the mines. It was a hard smell and Annie was surprised since it was all that was strong and big and adult to her. His hand was hard, unlike the hand that had beaten coins and created daisy-chains when summers were hot and Annie knew that time had passed, years had passed, but inside she felt just the same, just as far away from everyone. His arm was loosely round her waist and his breath was faintly beery on her forehead and she could think of nothing to say.

  She had not danced before but she had watched and now followed his slight sidesteps tensely. He had hairs on his upper lip which were downy and his neck was thick and she liked his collar with its top button undone. She could feel that his chest was warm beneath his shirt and she was proud to be dancing with Georgie and felt her flesh melt in a way which was peculiar to her. She wanted to flow all over and into him but that was just plain daft. Still Georgie had not spoken but his head dropped on to the top of her hair gently, and he pulled her closer.

  ‘You’re such a bonny lass,’ he murmured and she felt the tingle through each of her limbs. Should she say something? She did not know. She could see and hear the other dancers but they did not intrude.

  ‘It’s been a long time since you were in the gang, bonny lad,’ she replied and shook her head when he asked if she had seen Don. ‘I see Grace and Tom every week though,’ she said. ‘Don has a lot of rides and rides are money.’ She raised her eyebrows and they both laughed. She barely noticed the pain in her feet when he walked her home still in her sandals because she felt too ashamed to collect the boots from their hiding-place.

  The bed was cold but she could still feel his head on hers and you’re a bonny lass, he had said. On the way home they had held hands and she would not wash that hand just
yet in case it removed the feel of him. Georgie had kissed her softly and gone, his face wet from the drizzle and until then she had not realised there was any. He had said nothing about seeing her again but she wondered what had filled her thoughts before the shape of his face and the sound of his voice had soaked into every space of her being.

  In the morning, the sun was shining though it was a bitter grey dawn and Albert wanted his egg.

  ‘We’ll be needing some more coal soon, Uncle,’ she said as she poured his second mug of tea. He did not look up from spooning out the runny yolk with a jagged piece of crust. It dripped on to the plate, hardened and darkened.

  ‘I’ll need to go out later for a bit of sugar, Uncle.’

  ‘Don’t be long about it. I want me dinner on time and there’s work you can be doing. Take a walk up to the slag later. Pick out some coal.’ He threw down his spoon. ‘Just hope this new idea of that flabby fool Baldwin will stop the strikes now. Business is bad.’ He pointed his toast at her. ‘Longer hours and less pay, that’s all they got for their troubles last time and when their money goes down, so does mine.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘High time they brought in something to stop their nonsense and thank God they’ve done it. Trade Disputes Act, they call it. High-faluting name but it’ll stop sympathy strikes and reduce picketing. That’ll sort the buggers out.’

  As he rose he said, ‘Can’t beat the owners, you remember that. And what am I?’

  Annie said as she had done many times before:

  ‘You’re an owner, Uncle.’

  ‘And what’s an owner?’

  ‘An owner is a boss.’

  ‘And what do bosses do?’

  ‘Hire and fire, Uncle.’ And stuff their bloody faces with eggs that’d be a bloody banquet for most of them round here. Her face was set. She would never look at him because she knew it made him feel as though he wasn’t winning.

  ‘Just you remember that. If you want a job, you have to do as you’re told. That’s one lesson we should all ’ave learnt by now.’ He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his nose. He dropped it on the floor, watching it as it fell. ‘Boil that up today.’

  He pushed past her to the door. ‘You’re lucky to have such a tolerant boss, Annie. Work, that’s how you survive these days.’

  She shook her hand at his back as he shut the door. And lending money out and adding on a power of interest, you bloody old skinflint. Don’t think I don’t know all about it. You’re a blood-sucking scrooge. She picked up the handkerchief with the shovel and poker and heaved it on to the fire. It might mean a clout but it would be worth it, to show him he didn’t treat her like that. Today it didn’t matter anyway.

  The boots were still there in the corner, the newspaper was soggy from the thawed early spring frost and fell away as she lifted them but she did not put them on although her toes were numb, neither did she hurry as she walked back from Andover Street and shopped at the corner near Wilson Terrace. Georgie lived near here and just maybe she might see him when he came off the midday shift.

  The walk home was long because he was not to be seen although the whistle had blown at the pit for the shift end. The sandals found new areas to rub and she tottered into the yard, the sugar heavy in her hand and he was there, leaning against the shed rolling a Woodbine, his face black from the pit, his cap on the back of his head. Annie knew her nose was red and her legs mottled by now without stockings. She was joyous and ashamed.

  The yard broom had slipped down the wall by the corner of the privy and she set it back in its place. The mortar was crumbling between the bricks and flakes fell where she had disturbed it.

  ‘The pit needed pudding and pie today, then,’ she called and marvelled at these words which came from herself and sounded quite calm.

  He moved from the wall, settling his cap more firmly on his head.

  ‘Never change, our little Annie, do you?’ he drawled.

  This time she could not answer because the words would have found no way to squeeze through the swelling in her throat. Our Annie he had called her.

  ‘Here, try this then.’

  The finished cigarette was thin and flopped in the middle with tobacco straggling from either end. It was still damp from his lick down one side and smelt like her father’s pipe. The taste though of the dark brown shreds was sharp and bitter and when he lit it the paper flared, her mouth opened and it dangled helplessly from her lower lip quite unalight. He reached out and between strong square thumb and forefinger gently peeled it off her lip without tearing the skin.

  ‘Like this, pet,’ he said and placed it between his lips which were pink on the inside but otherwise dust-covered to blend with his face. He lit it with a match picked from amongst others, red-tipped and pale-stalked. The sulphur scent lingered long after the hiss of striking until the mellow breath of lit tobacco replaced its odour. He was the most beautiful creature Annie had ever seen.

  ‘Now breathe this in as though you are sucking them corn stalks we used to pick up peas.’

  Sharp and burning was the drawn breath but his lips had held it as hers were now doing so heaven was in every puff.

  ‘Where’s me bloody lunch and put that fag out of your mouth or I’ll belt your behind, you lazy little strumpet.’

  The door slammed behind Albert as he withdrew his head and the noise of the back alleyway came alive and the yard looked small again.

  He grinned and lazily pushed his bike to the gate.

  ‘See you, bonny lass, and don’t burn his bread and cheese.’

  How had she never noticed his eyes were brown and his lashes as thick as the hedgerows along by the beck?

  Before he rode away, he turned. His face no longer smiling. ‘You tell me if he ever hurts you, Annie.’ He hesitated, his foot on the cobbles, steadying the bike. ‘I won’t have anyone hurt you.’

  The days passed in a rapid pulse of waiting and being with him. The summer evenings were lazy and long and the fish shop had a lamp-post which had known Tom’s swing-rope and now knew their shoulders well. Around their feet the crumpled paper blew and she failed to notice when a scattered sheet would catch against her legs until tugged further by the breeze. Until nine at night she was Albert’s, after that she was Georgie’s and the gang’s. Albert had said she could do whatever she liked and Annie had been deflated; she had expected a battle but he had merely shrugged. Your da wouldn’t have liked it, he had grunted and turned again to his paper.

  When Georgie was on late shift she still passed along Mainline Terrace on shoes bought from Garrod’s used goods shop and lolled and laughed but did not soar and felt tired when she was the last to be dropped at home because no parent would be breathing fire and threatening damnation of bairns of 14 walking home late with lads of 16 at well past the time decent folk were in their beds. Aye, but when the lad was there, then was the time for flights of pleasure as rough hands held hers and arms which thickened daily with twisting muscle lightly pulled her to him and she was special.

  The hours merged into softly breathed air and mirth which melted one girl into one boy and they strolled with occasional words the longest way to the door, then long, closed-mouth, breath-held kisses left her yearning and bereft to see him go. Annie knew he was her summer sun and the only reason she drew breath and that no one in the entire world had felt as she did.

  On Sundays, they would collect Tom and Grace and stroll to the beck with Beauty. She was too small for any of them now but still kept Tom in liquorice and pink mice with her manure and nuzzled Annie as she lounged on the bank. Sometimes Georgie would have some honeycomb and they would lick and suck the honey. They watched one day as Georgie and Mr Thompson smoked out the bees to lift the combs and Annie had never known such fear for another person as when the bees attacked their covered figures. Later she had dabbed bicarbonate of soda on Georgie’s arms where he had red stings up to the elbows. He had brought it in a screw of paper and she used the hem of her skirt, dampened in the beck to whiten the lumps. The swellin
gs were large and angry but he had never referred to them again that day.

  Life’s too short, he would always say, it’s for enjoying, Annie. There’s so much to look at, to find out. And he would kiss her and Tom would look at Grace and they would raise their eyes and pull a face.

  Tom always brought his pad and would sketch and draw the changing season or the fly agaric toadstool which grew under the birches, marking in the white warts on the scarlet cap, and which Georgie explained he must never eat because of the poisons it contained. Or the speckled wood butterfly which Georgie showed him on a sun-spotted leaf. Or the foxglove with its tuber-shaped flowers drooping on one side of the stem only and which Georgie told him contained digitalis which doctors used to heal hearts. Tom had said that Georgie and Annie should have a bit of that since their hearts seemed to be all over the place.

  Grace pulled a face when he picked her feverfew for her headache and made her eat it. Her headache disappeared.

  Summer turned to autumn and winter sharpened the air. Grey overlaid blue warmth but Annie saw only sun and butterflies dancing. She answered an advertisement for a housemaid now that she was 14 but was refused because Albert would not give her a reference. She would go on trying always though, in spite of his rantings. You’re mine, I’ve told you once, he had growled, and she did not tell Georgie what had been said but instead allowed her thoughts to fly high above the cracked ice of the lavatory pan and the soda fumes as she prodded and plunged with the long-handled brush.