After the Storm

by Margaret Graham

  ‘You’re on dripping then? Are the boys out of work again?’

  Grace nodded. ‘All but young Frank and he brings in a pittance. Me da’s getting right fed up and me mam wants to know how she can feed a family on a few shillings a week. That’s why I’m starting at the library next week. At least I’ll bring in a little.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ asked Tom, taking some bread from her and laying some of his cheese on it before passing it back.

  She shook her head. ‘It’s what I want. It’s stupid staying on when I know what I want.’

  Tom nodded and lay back, his arms over his head, listening to the sounds of the sheep; there were no insects to buzz and click in his ear at this time of year.

  What was it Davy had said last night when he had sneaked him into the snug with his mates? He frowned as he went over the scene, trying to capture the flow which had rolled round and across the table.

  He could still taste the beer which had bulged down his throat and the excitement of being included and what Davy said had made sense, all that about families needing an extra allowance from the state to make sure that no one starved. Frank, Davy’s mate, had been right too when he’d said that would be a chance for the owners to drop the pay again.

  Tom sat up and stared down at the farm, not seeing it, not hearing Grace as she told him to sit still, for God’s sake, she was trying to have a sleep. She settled down again, pulling her cardigan tighter round herself. He took off his jacket and put it over her.

  Aye, it had been interesting right enough and it had been grand to see Davy’s face when he’d suggested that along with the allowance the unions should press for a decent basic minimum wage so that the bosses couldn’t try that trick. Tom grinned to himself as he recaptured the look of surprise on Davy’s face, surprise which changed to respect but after all they were only ideas which Davy himself had taught him. Davy had gone along with that but had come up with an even better idea himself; that the allowance should be paid to the women so there was no way the bosses could carp that it was supplementing the men’s wage packet. Tom looked across at Grace. It wouldn’t half help her ma, an idea like that, help everyone, especially up here, whether they were in work or not.

  Davy still had no job but he was talking about taking one at Lutters Pit. There was talk of the owners opening it to get what they could out of the bottom seam. It was better than nothing, Davy had said, when May protested and Uncle Henry had banged the table. It was danger money Uncle Henry had shouted. That pit’s been closed too long, there’s too much water to weaken the props and loosen the coal.

  Tom had said to him later that night that he should go away like Georgie, like his brothers, but he wouldn’t. Who would help with the union if he went, he had replied? He was in line for union representative and someone had to stay.

  Tom turned now and looked down at Grace. ‘Our Davy says, if you start at the library, get ’em not to black out the racing in the papers will you?’

  She laughed. ‘Tell him I’ll bring round the dailies after work if you like but I can’t stop them blacking the runners. Can’t have men on the dole finding a bit of pleasure in gambling, can they! Anyway, your Davy likes coming into the library. It gets him out of the house and he can find more facts to cause trouble with.’ She poked her tongue out at him and grinned. Aye, the lad liked the library right enough, and tinkering with his old motor bike which he refused to sell however much he needed to.

  The farmhouse was bordered by outbuildings and today there was washing on the line and a dog lying over the back doorstep. The cart was slewed at right angles to the barn, half full of sawn logs; its wheels looked as though they were growing out of the mud which covered the yard. There was an old plough rusted in the lee of the barn, almost grown over with nettles. He took out his pad and drew in sweeping lines.

  ‘I had a letter from Annie today,’ he said.

  ‘Another,’ replied Grace. ‘I had one too last week.’

  ‘Aye, she told me. She sent me the pencils and another pad. The hens are laying well and now she sells some off to the old sisters who live next door. Their cat got stuck up the monkey-puzzle tree further down the road and they had to get the fire service out. Caused quite a stir.’

  Grace smiled and moved her arm arcoss her eyes as she lay back, almost asleep.

  He still missed Annie, he thought, though it wasn’t such a raw ache and it helped have Grace to walk with on a Sunday, though she hadn’t let him kiss her mouth yet. He chewed his lip as he wondered how he was going to tell Annie that Georgie had left.

  ‘Does she know Don’s back?’ Grace asked through lips heavy with sleep.

  ‘I wrote and told her,’ he replied. ‘I dropped into Albert’s the other day to see him. He looks well enough and has taken to the shop like a duck to water.’

  Grace clambered on to one elbow. ‘Can you pass us the tea then, Tom?’

  He unhooked the cup from the top and poured the brown milky liquid, took a sip first, then handed it across. ‘There’s no sugar, Grace.’

  She shrugged and sipped.

  ‘I had a letter from Annie.’

  Grace laughed. ‘You’ve just told me that.’

  He put his pencil down and balanced his pad on his knee whilst he dug the blue paper from his pocket. It was written in pen and the ink was black. ‘She talks about Betsy. I’ll read you that bit if you like?’

  Grace was looking at him quizzically and nodded when he looked at her. She tucked her hair behind her ear and adjusted his jacket over her legs.

  He smoothed the pages and looked through the first one, then put it to the back and stopped halfway down the second page.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘ “I’ve been thinking about your mam, Tom. Just imagine how it must have been having to slave away for me da, putting up with all the work, the booze and the misery. Looking after Don and me as well as her own bairn and it wasn’t until the end that she belted me, when her hands were like balloons and the booze had got to her.

  ‘She must have felt so beholden to Da because he had taken you too. That’s why she could never say what she felt, never stand up for herself, so she got drunk and angry. Then he killed himself and left her with the mess and nowhere to go. At least Joe gave her a job and some money so she can pay May for your keep. She couldn’t keep us, you must see that. How could we have lived in some poky room on a pittance she picked up skivvying?

  ‘I feel bad about the way we didn’t go to her. We should have done and I’m going to write to her. I think you should go and see her Tom, I really do. She loves you and what else could she do?

  ‘See you when you come next week. Is Grace coming too? Thanks for telling me Don is back. I’ve written to him at Albert’s. I hope he’s all right there. It worries me to think of him with that man but he always seemed to like him.

  ‘All my love to you, Tom.” ’

  He handed the letter over to Grace and looked again at the farm. The farmer was out now, loading more logs from a pile by the cart. He used his hands and never seemed to pause between swinging the logs through the air and picking up more.

  ‘Will you then?’ Grace asked, when she had finished reading through it again.

  Tom shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  He took up his pencil again and shaded in the side of the barn.

  ‘Did you know she paid towards your keep?’

  ‘Oh yes, me Aunt May told me when I was going on one day, just after I moved in.’

  He tore the page out and handed it to Grace. ‘What do you think of that?’

  He was drawing again, this time trying to capture the farmer in action. It wasn’t working and he threw himself back and watched the clouds as they scudded darkly against the grey sky. It wouldn’t rain though, the clouds were too high.

  ‘I wonder what me da was like,’ he mused. ‘Poor old Barney.’ It was hardly his fault he’d been killed in the war but what would he have thought of Betsy palming off his son. He thought of his mother, bl
owsy and overblown and he could not imagine, did not want to imagine, her locked in passion with a man; that gross body all panting and eager. He shuddered and flopped over on to his side, pulling at the grass.

  He remembered her clouting Annie, shouting at her and at him, again and again. She was ugly, in the same way that the woman with the veins at the fair had been ugly. Her hands bulged and he didn’t want to go and see her, didn’t want to go and have to be touched by her. Annie didn’t understand. Betsy was not her mother, she was his and had given him away. He wasn’t interested in whether she felt beholden, she should have kept him.

  Had Annie, he wondered, forgiven her father yet for killing himself? He, Tom, had because Archie had not been his real father. Oh yes, he had been upset, he had grieved but he had forgiven him, but he doubted whether Annie had, whether she ever would. He remembered her saying that she hated him and could never forgive him. Well, he wasn’t about to forgive his ma. It was the same thing, he would write and tell her or perhaps he would keep it all inside. It was better there.

  He felt Grace’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Me da knows who your father was, you know. Barney Grant he was, their family came up from the Welsh mines years ago. He had a lovely singing voice me da says. Blue eyes and black hair.’

  Tom saw the breath from the nostrils of the sheep grazing nearby. He turned over and said sharply.

  ‘Is that all he knows?’ So his surname should have been Grant should it. He had often wanted to know his name.

  ‘That’s all he’ll tell you.’ She sighed and stroked his face. ‘He thinks you should go and make it up with Betsy too. He says it’s not right for a boy to hate his mam.’

  Tom stood up, brushing his trousers free of grass. The farmer was hitching the cart to his horse now, urging him to the track which led eventually to Wassingham. Tom stooped and packed the flask away, offering it wordlessly to Grace before he did so. She shook her head, watching him anxiously. His mouth was set in a thin line, his brow was furrowed in a scowl and his movements were rapid and sharp, almost violent. He was seldom angry and she felt the tears come to her eyes.

  She stood up and he snatched the blanket from beneath her, shaking it. The grass flew up and into her eyes; she buried her head in her hands and tried to blink the dust from them. Tom saw and dropped the blanket, brought her hands from her face and lifted her eyes.

  ‘In your eyes is it, Gracie? I’m sorry, lass.’ He dug into his pocket and with the corner of his handkerchief slipped out a piece of grass which was in her eye, then lowered her lid over the bottom one until at last it was clear and the tears had stopped. His face was close, his eyes concentrated on hers as he searched for stray grass and dust. Then, satisfied, he said:

  ‘I’m not a boy any more, Grace. I feel a man and I’ll be doing a man’s job in two months. I can’t change how I feel.’

  He dropped down and secured the clasp of his bag.

  ‘Won’t change,’ Grace corrected.

  He stood up now and took her by the shoulders. The wind was whipping the hair across her face, he felt the cold through his jumper.

  ‘Can’t,’ he shouted. ‘If I could, I would but I bloody can’t. I love me Auntie May but me mam broke me heart when she sent me away and then Annie went and that was her fault too.’

  Grace pushed him away from her and slapped him then, hard across the face and red marks came almost immediately.

  ‘Annie, Annie, Annie. All I ever hear is bloody Annie. I’m here too but for all you care I could be one of them sheep cropping the bloody grass.’

  She was red in the face with rage and he felt the heat and the pain from the slap and kissed her hard on the mouth, pulled her against him so that her warm soft body was pressed to his. It was his first kiss and he had not known that lips were so soft and he wondered whether he should breathe or not. He did not.

  At last they drew apart but he held on to her arms.

  ‘I’m telling you for the last time Grace, you and Annie’s different. She’s me sister just as much as if Barney had been her father. We’re part of one another. I love her, she loves me but when she’s not here I feel as though half me bloody heart’s gone too. If you went, I would probably feel that the other half had gone. But don’t bring Annie up again like that. It’s different, what I feel for you both.’ He was shaking her now and she nodded and then smiled.

  ‘Don’t forget your book,’ she said as a page began to blow away again.

  He raised his arms and galloped after it, stamping his foot hard down on it.

  ‘I’ll take you out for some chips in February, when I’m working,’ he shouted as he came back with it bunched into his pocket. ‘Until then, you can take me.’ He grabbed her to him and kissed her cheek, then picked up the bags and made her wear his jacket as they set off back up the hill.

  ‘I never did get the farmer right,’ he murmured as they turned and watched the cart disappear round the hill. ‘I can’t get me figures to come alive somehow.’

  ‘Annie wants you to go to art school you know. She’s frightened of the pit for you and so am I. Look what it did to me da.’

  ‘It’s not going to get me, bonny lass. Maybe one day I’ll go but it’ll take money you see. Anyway, there’s time enough.’

  ‘And you’ll see your ma, will you?’

  She felt him tense and saw the muscle in his cheek jump.

  ‘Maybe,’ is all he said. ‘Maybe.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Annie was smoothing down her new blue dress which slid over her skin and hung soft from her shoulders. She turned before the long mirror which was screwed to the inside of the mahogany wardrobe in her room and then she heard Tom’s voice.

  ‘I should stay here in the hall,’ replied Sarah. ‘It is somewhat improper to visit a young lady in her bedroom.’

  But his steps were nearer and she faced the door, hiding her laugh in her hands.

  ‘You lovely boy,’ she cried and ran to him. His dark jacket was prickly and his chin rough as he held her tight and swung her clear off the ground.

  ‘Aye, but you’ve grown,’ Tom laughed. ‘In three months you’ve grown, bonny lass. And in quite the right ways too.’

  She held him from her and grinned.

  ‘Don’t be improper,’ she mimicked Sarah and minced from him with one hand on her hip. ‘Come on, is Don downstairs?’

  She grabbed his hand and moved towards the door but he pulled her back. ‘On me back then,’ and her laugh jogged in her throat as he reared towards the stairs with her on his back and then on down, past the prints. She leant her head on the back of his and felt his warmth as he spun to a halt on the bottom step. Don was waiting, his elbow on the banister, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘Not made a lady of you yet, then?’ he drawled and she flung her arm round his neck and kissed his cheek. His moustache was very bushy now and she wondered how he ate without it getting in the way.

  ‘I sometimes feel that day will never arrive, Donald,’ called Sarah as she came through from the kitchen with an apron on. She had been cutting egg sandwiches for tea and Annie could smell them from here.

  ‘She hasn’t got ears, you know,’ Annie whispered to Tom. He hitched her further up his back. ‘She’s just one big flap that picks up everything.’

  Don frowned and Tom laughed. Annie knew it would be all right. Sarah liked to be teased.

  ‘I don’t think we wish to go into my anatomy just yet awhile, Annie. Why don’t you go into the garden and see the hens?’ Sarah smiled and walked back to the kitchen and Annie winked over at Val who had come to the door and was laughing.

  She dug her heels into Tom. ‘Come on then, get a move on.’ Tom edged out through the back door, still with her on his back and then he galloped down the garden, past the rose-bushes which were stunted with pruning and Annie felt the air jogged from her and the garden tipped and lurched. She waved wildly to the Thoms across the fence and turned to look back, beckoning to Don.

  ‘Hurry up,’ she called and her vo
ice sounded as though she was rolling over cobbles.

  He didn’t see her as he talked through the window to Sarah in the kitchen. Tom dumped her by the wire but still kept an arm round her waist as he struggled to regain his breath. She held on to his shoulder and he kissed her cheek. Her hair was loose and kinked, almost curly and he touched it.

  She grinned. ‘I put it in lots of plaits at night. Sandy, one of the girls at school, taught me that little trick. It’s better than just a few. Do you like it? She’s nice; red-haired and blue-eyed but not plump like Grace. Couldn’t she come, Tom?’

  She’d said it all in one breath and her face was wistful as he shook his head.

  ‘She’s working tomorrow, bonny lass, and her Frank was in a fall in the pit, so she’s home nursing him.’

  Annie gripped his arm. ‘Not bad is he, not like his da?’

  Tom smiled and squeezed her to him. ‘Just a bit of a knock. The coal fell behind him and he had to be dug out so he was bloody lucky. She sends her love.’

  Annie bit her nail. Suddenly she was back in Grace’s kitchen, laughing as Tom spilt his pink mice all over the floor, back in the dark streets, the beck and on the moors. Back where the wind tore through her hair on the beach, back where slag-heaps loomed wherever you looked and coal-dust coated the trees. Then Tom slapped her hand from her mouth, lightly, but enough to bring her back to the light and the cleanliness of the garden and the hens, but part of her still called for the past while the other sank back into the space and light of the present.

  ‘Don’t bite your nails, hinny. It’s a disgusting habit, or that’s what our Gracie would say.’ He was smiling at her, his blue eyes deep into hers and she knew she would be all right if she could still feel his arm round her, see his pictures as the years went by. All right if the pit didn’t get him and fear clutched at her and she banged the wire to attract the hens towards them.