After the Storm

by Margaret Graham

  ‘There you are, bonny lad. A bit of a soak and then a cup of tea.’

  She shook her wet hands at him and he dodged and ducked and laughed. He was always surprised when he laughed because he felt sure that just one more day in the pits would dry all the joy into a black dust.

  The water still had some warmth and he ducked himself down for one more minute then he would sluice himself and climb into the clothes that May had brought and put on the chair which no one would sit on because it was rotten.

  He wondered what it would be like to have Grace scrub his back, her plump soft arms holding one shoulder so that she could have purchase with the brush and the thought of her hand on his body made him flush with heat. They had kissed of course and he had felt the weight of her full breasts in his hands but always through clothes. He had never felt her flesh, her blue-veined flesh, never run his finger from her throat to her nipple and kissed that luscious softness. He dreamt of it more and more because soon he would go to College in Newcastle and then on down to London for three years. Would she come too?

  He stepped out of the bath and held his breath as he poured the last bucket over himself. It would be cold by now and perhaps it was a good thing, he thought grinning.

  And then he stopped. Oh God, he had to go to Don and his face set and he was glad his body had thickened with muscle.

  He walked from May’s, through Beckworth Alley, up past the school and down the alley where Annie had stood when she had come to say goodbye. His boots were noisy in the streets and alleys where children hung about at the back of yards, too thin and tired to play, some just squatting as they copied their fathers, doing nothing. Men were on street corners, propped up against lampposts and Tom walked past quickly, nodding as they said they’d see him tonight at the meeting. He kept his eyes lowered, ashamed of their redness which showed he’d had a day’s work and they hadn’t.

  It made him angry and his jaw was clenched when he came through Don’s backyard. He moved past the privy and into the kitchen. Don would be there doing his books; he was always there in the afternoon while Albert took over the shop. People slipped in the backyard; men with their caps drawn low over their heads, women with their shawls across their faces, barely able to repay the interest let alone the loan.

  He realised that he hadn’t locked the gate and he wanted no interruption for what he had to do this afternoon so he turned as Don looked up, turned without a word and walked back sliding the lock across and entering the kitchen again.

  Don had half risen from his chair. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? I’ve a business to run, Tom.’

  He was resting on his hands which had gone white where the wrists had creased with his weight but his face was tanned by the sun and Tom felt a further spurt of anger that his own had the pallor of a pitman. He stood there facing Don, his cap folded in his hand, then took a chair from the hearth and set it opposite. The kitchen was dirty; there were dishes piled up in the sink and green slime where the tap had dripped. He sat down. Albert had not allowed Annie to have visitors so this was all new to him. There was a low fire in the grate and a kettle was on the hob but not boiling yet, a broom was propped against the wall but the floor was dirty with bits of paper screwed up and scattered around.

  Don was watching him. He had a wooden box and a ledger written up in pencil on the table. His hair was too long and falling in his eyes, his mouth was pinched and he turned a pencil round and round between his two hands.

  ‘Well, what d’you want? A bit short, are you?’ Don laughed.

  Tom felt the heat rising in him, the heat of an anger which was years old.

  ‘No, I’m not, bonny lad, but you’re about to be.’

  Don looked at him and put the pencil down. ‘What d’you mean by that?’ His face was wary.

  Tom told him then about the conversation he had heard in the pub. Explained that the men were in an angry mood, that the means test was pinching and they wanted to get back at someone and that Don would be that person and it looked as though it would be soon.

  Don flicked a pencil across the table and lounged back in his chair.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody daft,’ he sneered. ‘If they were after anyone, they’d be after Albert.’

  But Tom shook his head. ‘Nay lad, it’s you they want. You grew up with them, remember. You’re young and greedy and that’s what they don’t like.’

  His words had become hard; he realised that he wasn’t afraid of Don any more. He had always been, he knew suddenly, and had let Annie do the fighting, but not any more. She was worried about Don and so was he.

  Don said nothing, just tapped the table and then rose and propped himself up against the fender.

  ‘You’re asking me to drop the interest rate, is that it?’

  Tom nodded. ‘If you drop by quite a bit, Don, word would get round by the end of the day and you’d be safe. I could spread it about at the meeting tonight too, if you like.’

  Don was pacing in front of the fire now. ‘Well, I don’t like. I don’t believe a word of it,’ he said. ‘I think you’re making every bloody bit up. You just can’t stand me getting on, that’s it, isn’t it? Annie’s been rabbiting on as well and I reckon you’re both jealous because I’m going up you see. You’ve come to put the dampers on; that’s what Albert’s been saying and I reckon he’s right.’

  Tom leant forward. ‘For God’s sake, man. I’ve come to warn you. I’d get a good belting if anyone knew. I don’t want to see you getting hurt, that’s all. I want to see you doing the right thing by everyone and I want to see you getting on, of course I do, but not like this.’

  Don moved to the door, holding it open.

  ‘I told you, I don’t believe you so you can get out and leave me to get on with my life and you get on with yours and your bloody stupid politics. Just stop siding against me, the pair of you. It’s like Albert says, you both hate me.’

  Tom rose, his cap was still in his hand and he stuffed it in his pocket. Don looked tired he saw, tanned but tired.

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid, no one hates you and I’m not going Don, not until you bring your rates down. I’m not having you beaten up by anyone but me and I’ll do it if you don’t give in any other way. That way you’ll still have your head on your shoulders, not a bloody smashed eggshell to hold in your hands.’ He moved towards Don now. ‘For God’s sake,’ he ground out, ‘don’t be so stubborn. Annie’s right worried about you, you know she is.’

  Don was still holding the door. ‘The pair of you can sod off together. You always were together weren’t you, always. You on the inside, me out there somewhere.’ He flung his hand wide. ‘Now bugger off home, Tom.’

  He moved out into the yard, towards the gate. The shadows were thick today in the light of the sun and Tom took off his jacket and flung it on the ground.

  ‘Don,’ he said softly. ‘We care about you. We don’t want you to be hurt. For God’s sake, you’re family, man.’

  Don turned, his face red and hands bunched. ‘You don’t care, you and she don’t care. Thick as thieves you’ve always been. Haven’t wanted me around.’

  Tom walked towards him. ‘That’s not true.’

  He searched in his mind, looked back at the years which had gone. ‘That’s not true, man. You were older, had your own friends; you had Georgie and then you went to Yorkshire and, by the time you came back, there was no home left. We were all on our own. Think about it, man. We both care for you. I keep telling you, that’s why I’m here.’ He stopped and drew a deep breath. ‘But you’re not that easy to love, Don. You shrug us off. You’re a bit like Albert, you know. He’s made you like this. He did his best to get back at Archie through hurting Annie and now it’s you. You’re going to get hurt now. For God’s sake, I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t me brother and I cared.’

  There was a pause and then Don said slowly and clearly, his mouth thin-lipped. ‘But you’re not me brother, are you? You’re a bastard.’

  Tom
knew he would say it, knew that Don would throw it in his face at some stage but he did not move, just looked and said quietly:

  ‘I’m your brother and I’m not going to have someone come and bash your bleeding head in, so are you going to lower your rates?’

  Don shook his head and they stared at one another and then Tom moved quickly but Don was quicker and the blow caught Tom on the side of the head. Here was another, hard into the stomach and Tom felt the breath go from his body and was surprised at Don’s strength; at his speed. He stepped back quickly. It was not going to be as easy as he had thought to stop the bloody fool from meeting a few men on a dark night.

  He closed and they slugged punch for punch, their breath mixed in harsh pants and the yard reeled round them as they pushed and punched from wall to wall. Tom’s lip was bleeding and he had blood on his shirt but Don’s was worse. His nose was pumping blood and Tom backed off.

  ‘Come away now, man. That’s enough.’ But Don came after him and the fury that was in both of them exploded and they knew nothing but darkness and blows and grunts. They went down, their arms round one another, their fists still punching into sides and backs.

  Tom’s knuckles were bruised and one hand was caught between Don and the ground and he feared for his painting and reared up with his body, punching Don to the jaw, until he rolled over and then was able to snatch out his arm, then he grabbed Don’s hair and pulled him back to lie flat beneath him.

  ‘Lower your bloody rates will you, man,’ he shouted, his breath coming in gasps.

  Don just looked at him through swollen eyes and Tom’s heart broke for this man who had always been his brother and the heat left him. He released his hair and instead gripped Don’s shoulders and shook him.

  ‘For God’s sake, Don lad, I don’t want you bloody killed. Can’t you see that? We care, of course we care, that’s why I’m here.’

  He sighed at the blank look in Don’s face, the lack of response and he clambered off him, dusting his trousers down with hands that trembled. His legs were weak and his lip was swelling. He ran his hands through his hair and looked again at Don, then reached down with his hand. There was no movement from Don, he just looked back up at him and then, as Tom dropped his hand he raised his.

  ‘Give us a hand up then, lad,’ he said through lips that were swollen. His clasp was strange to Tom. He had never held Don’s hand in his before and he pulled him up, helped him back inside to the darkness of the kitchen and his chair. Neither of them spoke and the air was loud with laboured breath as he moved to the sink and poured them both a drink and hoped to God that Annie never heard about this.

  ‘Don’t tell Annie about this, Tom,’ said Don, mirroring his thoughts. ‘She’d give us both hell.’ He looked at Tom and winked, if that swollen lid could wink and Tom tried to laugh but his chest hurt too much so he just slumped down in the chair and they sat for minutes in silence.

  ‘What’ll you do Don, lad?’

  Don sat hunched forward, his hands between his knees and said nothing for a while. The fire was out now, grey and lifeless in the grate and Tom was too winded to riddle it back.

  ‘Since you’ve asked me so nicely, I reckon I’ll lower the interest rate.’

  Don’s voice was thick and Tom smiled, then stopped. His lip was too painful.

  ‘And I’m right sorry about what I said,’ Don went on. ‘I get clumsy, living here. I forget about people.’ His movements were slow and painful and Tom nodded.

  ‘I know, it’s all right, but we didn’t want you to get hurt, see. We’re all family, aren’t we?’ They looked at one another and at their own bruises, shrugged and laughed. Tom could not remember the last time they had laughed together.

  Don rose stiffly and took a towel from the fender. ‘Come here then, lad, and I’ll do your face, then you do mine. We’d best get a bit of cold on these before we both look like footballs.’ He dabbed at Tom’s lip and his cut brow, then handed the towel to Tom who did the same to him.

  The afternoon turned into evening and they sat at the table, cold cloths pressed against their faces, talking of the years gone by; the horses on the moors which galloped so smoothly that you did not know you were on one, the early morning exercise, the feeling when a race was won. They talked of growing up, of Betsy who Tom had still not seen. They talked of Archie and his death, of Annie’s continuing bitterness. Of Sarah and Georgie and now Don knew and would never again talk of him as he had. They also discussed Albert and Don said he liked the old bugger and thought he could turn the business round and the old boy at the same time. It was worth a try.

  He wouldn’t come to the pub with Tom.

  ‘Another night,’ he said as Tom opened the gate. ‘You’ll not get me involved in your crazy ideas,’ and as Tom left he called: ‘Thanks, lad, and how about you doing as Annie wants and make up with Betsy?’

  Tom waved back but did not go to the pub because, as he approached from Enderby Terrace, the disaster siren rose above the town, wailed and tore through the early evening air and he ran, ran back down the street, his ribs hurting but he did not notice. He ran and the breath jogged in his chest like a knife but he knew he must keep on because it was Lutters Pit, Davy’s pit, and he could see the coal which was above him this morning piling down on top of the men, on top of soft flesh, grunting and grinding the life from them.

  It had been Davy of course, it had to be him, May kept saying as they carried him back to the house much later when the bodies had been dug out. She washed him, wiping the dead blood from his ears and nose and mouth. Henry had straightened him out while Tom stood at the side of the front room watching and felt the fear and grief building up as though he were a dam. He remembered Annie screaming and shouting when her da had died and he wanted to hang back his head and do as she had done.

  He turned from the house, walking at first, past the drawn windows that lined the streets like dead eyes. The town was in mourning but that wouldn’t bring him back, bring his young body back, whole and strong, bring back the light in those blank eyes that looked just like houses. He walked quicker now; he wanted to reach her, to feel her hold him, to cry and weep and have her make it better.

  His boots struck sparks as he moved over the cobbles; his feet were heavy and the night seemed black as pitch but when he lifted his head it was a deep blue and the stars were out alongside the moon.

  He was nearly there now and he began to run, thrusting open the yard gate, past the stable and in through the door, his hands finding the latch as though it was yesterday. And she was there, gazing into the fire, her arms plump where the sleeves had been rolled up, her hands motionless on her lap. He stood in the doorway and the tears were coming now, loud shaking sobs. She had turned at the noise of his entrance and moved to take him in her arms.

  ‘Oh Mam,’ he wept. ‘Our Davy’s dead,’ and felt her hold him close and he sank into her warmth.

  CHAPTER 17

  Tom changed gear as he roared Davy’s motorbike, which May had said he could take, up and over the hill as he left Wassingham that same night. It was midnight but he had to get to Gosforn to see Annie and tell her about Davy, tell her that things had changed now, that the future was to be different. He pushed up the goggles and wiped his cheek with his finger where the sweat and grime from the road had started to chafe the cut that he had received in his fight with Don.

  The villages he rode through were dark and quiet and the hedges of the road and the fields beyond stood out black against the navy of the sky.

  He thought of his mam whom he had left just a few moments ago; of the feel of her arms as she drew him into the kitchen when he was desolate and in pain. The room had been brighter somehow than he remembered and he could not think why until he noticed the patchwork cushions on the hard wooden chairs, the bright tablecloth. Even his cut-down chair had a cushion and he had been surprised that Betsy had kept it.

  She had taken him across to the fire, sitting him in her chair, stroking his hair. She had heard of cour
se but listened as he told her again and again, in short bursts. It had all come out. Davy who was so quiet and dead and black, and later there had been Annie who had gone, a mother who had given him away. It all came out, bursting and stopping then coming again and his head had lain against her body and she had held him to her, rocking him, her apron smelling of clean boiling, not the greasy staleness of the days gone by.

  He had said how he had wanted to come before but could never do it and she nodded, understanding him better than he did himself. Her hair was grey now and there were lines around her eyes and down to her mouth, deep as though carved with a chisel but the blotchiness of the booze was gone, there was no smell on her but that of baking.

  She had made tea; thick and brown and they talked of Joe who was in bed and she had smiled at him as she told him of Annie’s room which was now hers. Done up with me own money, she had said, and he had reached over and taken her hands, gently because he could feel the throbbing heat of their pain.

  He had asked her not to give May money for him any more because he was earning now but she had shaken her head and explained how she wanted to, needed to, because she could not forgive herself for not keeping him and Annie.

  Over cheese and bread he had told her how he liked the room and she had laughed and he had no recollection of hearing that sound from her before. As he leant into the bike to take the sharp bend which meant he was halfway to Annie’s, he shook his head at the thought. But she had laughed and said that she had finished the patchwork before her fingers packed up for good.

  They had talked of Davy again, so young, so much to give and he had felt lightheaded and restless, unable to sit, unable to eat and had put his plate down on the table and paced the room, touching the dresser, free of dust now, moving to the back door and looking out, up at the sky. He had heard Beauty in her stable, shuffling and stamping and had walked out into the warm night air and leant in, running his hand down her neck, stroking her soft nose.