After the Storm

by Margaret Graham

  Tom felt the sweat break out on his face and undid his jacket. The noise was so loud that he could not hear Frank when he spoke so the man leant forward and mouthed into his ear. ‘Let’s wait and see what the man in black has to say, shall we?’ and Tom nodded but his mouth was dry as he watched the stewards in their black uniforms circling the hall, beating truncheons into the palms of their hands.

  The stage was dark until the lights were dimmed in the hall and silence fell. Spotlights prodded the side of the stage then picked up the slim dark-moustached figure in a neat black shirt and suddenly the noise was deafening and Tom felt the mass of feeling sweep from behind, in front and all around him and felt a fear that drenched him, that was different to the pits because it rolled over him in sharp waves in time with the rhythm of the cheers and then the man spoke and it was as if he had waved a wand for silence.

  He spoke for ten minutes until the first heckler interrupted, but a spotlight found him and the blackshirts moved in. There were more and more disturbances and more spotlights, more men in black and Tom set his shoulders as Frank tensed by his side.

  ‘Sings like a bloody canary, doesn’t he, this little man. What do you say to breaking his rhythm, Tom lad?’

  Tom nodded but he wanted to run away far from the men who looked and listened all around him, their faces turned to the stage as though it was a god who spoke from the platform. He felt suddenly the cold of that football field, saw the trays which he and Annie carried, watched as the men came closer with steaming breath and then there was his own breath jogging in his chest as he had run, run as far from the field as he could go, leaving her, his Annie, there alone.

  It was easy now in this hall and he drew himself up.

  ‘What about democracy in this corporate state of yours, then? What about liberty, man?’ His voice was loud into the blackness and he heard Frank’s echo of his words and then the murmuring men around him moved as the spotlight found him, blinding him so that he held his arm across his eyes. He did not move or try to twist out of the beam. ‘What about freedom?’ he called and the stewards found him then, gripped him on either side and though he resisted there was no chance because there were four of them and thousands more besides and they were dragging him so that his feet could find no purchase.

  There were faces and fists shaking at him, spit hit him on the face and still Mosley talked on and on until the sound stopped as the doors swung shut and he was in the passageway. Dark it was as they flung him first to one wall and then the other. The light from the solitary lamp which hung at the end of the corridor wall did not reach them here except for a stray glint on the large belt buckles and the gold tooth of the man who faced him. He was smiling.

  It was the smile that crystallised his fear; he wrestled hard now against arm-locks which held him almost immobile. ‘Oh Christ,’ he groaned, as a truncheon broke his nose and pain exploded like a great noise. He could see nothing, not even the smile now as his eyes filled with the tears of pain, and so, as the fists and truncheons drove into his ribs and stomach, and grunts thudded against his ears, he reached back and brought out Annie standing in the cold, standing facing her da and the steaming breathing dragons of men. A boot caught his thigh and twisted him half round, knocking him free of the clasp which had held him upright.

  The floor seemed no distance away but he hit it hard. He dragged himself up on his arms until they were kicked away and he tasted the blood pumping from his nose and mouth and again he hung on to Annie. The floor was linoleum, he knew that because of the feel and the smell and he curled up against it as the kicks developed a pattern of pain which swallowed him, leaving only his fear, and Annie. He knew he was weeping, he could hear himself, but he curled up round his hands and they were unhurt and that was his victory, you buggers. Me bloody victory and then he heard them laugh and then he didn’t. Away and back they came and the light at the end of the corridor was there and then not and he was here and then not. On and on it went until he felt the hands as they lifted him by his coat and the sudden draught as the door opened and he was rolled on to the sun warmed pavement into the light June evening. It was over. It was bloody over and then the boot crunched into his back and it was too bad even to scream.

  Frank and the others found him after searching round the building inside and out where the police were arresting the demonstrators, not the blackshirts. They half carried him to the station and the train and laid him on a seat and Frank sat with him and held his hand and cleaned his face but the blood still came from his nose and mouth but not so much now. Tom smiled at Annie on the field, smiled at her as she stood and held out her arms to him. I knew you’d stay, she said. I knew you’d stay and face them with me, my bonny lad.

  ‘We should have taken him to a London hospital,’ hissed Jack to Frank but he shook his head.

  ‘Nay lad, he wanted to get home, get to his sister’s hospital so that’s where he’ll go.’

  They sat hunched on the long journey back. They were bruised only, they’d been lucky. Tom moaned now as the train lurched round bends and scrambled over the points. His foot was burning inside his boot. He wanted it off, oh God, he wanted his boot off and his chest hurt. It hurt when he breathed as though knives were slicing through his lungs but it was his back that swamped him, that chased Annie away and then allowed her back as it eased. He held on to her face, held on to her voice and the feel of her hands as she stroked his hair and told him she would make the pain go away, but how could she do that, out here on this field with all these men around? He struggled to tell her, to push them back but then the pain came again.

  Annie was asleep in the room she had shared with Julie before she had gone straight back with Trevor, back to the South to meet his parents and make sure he didn’t trip over a Southern lily, Annie had thought wryly as she had waved them off and William too. She had kissed him, remembering the good times but unable to forget the things he had said.

  She woke at the first shake. It was Staff Nurse Norris, her finger to her lips. ‘Come to casualty, Annie. We have your brother in. Quick now, he won’t settle until he sees you.’

  It was Tom, she knew it must be Tom and her hands trembled as she put on her uniform, checked her belt and her shoes and ran down the stairs. Running is only for fire and haemorrhage, she chanted to herself; and Tom, and Tom. The wards were dark with just dim lights at the sisters’ desks and she trod quietly past but still ran down the corridors and more stairs until she was in the glare of the white tiles, stretchers, screened examination-beds, drunks who lolled on benches.

  It was Frank she saw first, his jacket creased and his boots loud as he paced up and down, his face grey with tiredness. He was large here and stood out strongly in the unsparing light. His jacket was rough as she gripped him, pulling him round, shaking him, saying:

  ‘What’s the matter with him, Frank, what’s happened to him?’

  Before he could answer, Staff came through from the screened-off bed. Her face was thin and she was older than Annie, nearly 30 someone had said and still unmarried.

  ‘Nurse Manon,’ she called softly, ‘the doctor hasn’t been yet, he’s on his way. Your brother’s conscious, on and off and he wants to see you. Keep him calm until doctor comes, there’s a good girl. He’s in great pain.’ She smiled and patted her arm as Annie moved towards the screen, noticing where the red material was pulled slightly to one side of the frame and stopping to adjust the top. The trembling was back in her hands. She turned and Staff Norris smiled. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘He needs you,’ but Annie was too afraid of what she might find.

  The screen frame was cold in her hand and she held it as she slipped through and walked to the bed. He was still dressed but his boot had been sliced off with a razor and his foot was swollen and bruised and she could tell that it was broken, badly. His eyes were closed and his nose was also broken and his lips were swollen and bloody. She slipped open his shirt, checked his ribs and knew there was damage. She ran her hands along his legs and left h
is hands to last and they were untouched.

  She held one and kissed it, stroking his hair, smelling the sweet scent of shock and knew that Tom was hurt, badly hurt and she leant over and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Well, I leave you for a minute, bonny lad, and look at the mess.’

  She watched as he struggled to open his lids and took a swab from the enamel bowl on the trolley and wiped away the trickle of blood from his split lip.

  His eyes were on her now and she moved herself above him so that he would not have to turn his head.

  ‘You’re all right now, bonny lad. I’ll make you better.’

  He smiled.

  ‘They were buggers, Annie,’ he whispered.

  ‘Aye, and you were all mouth, as usual.’

  His eyes creased fractionally. ‘Aye, like you.’

  Then the doctor was there and Annie was sent away. She boiled the kettle in the small kitchen and gave Frank a cup of tea, then sent him back to Wassingham to tell Bob and Betsy. Then on to Grace and Don.

  So this is respectability is it, William, she said to herself and was glad again that he had gone.

  Tom was operated on immediately. His kidney was damaged and there was internal bleeding. It was removed. His foot was set and his ribs strapped. He was in Men’s Surgical and Annie asked for and received a transfer to nurse him.

  He was white against the pillowcase and was in the bed nearest Sister’s desk. There were screens around and Annie sat with him checking his pulse every fifteen minutes and his blood pressure. His drip was set up at the head of his bed and she held his hand, talking to him, coaxing him back, telling him Grace would come. Betsy and Bob would be here. Don would bring Maud. Sarah and Val would bring toffee. She had to leave to dish out the lunches but his hand closed on hers and he whispered, ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ she assured him and was, to sit with him through the afternoon.

  Bob came with Betsy and they were asked to wait in the corridor. Annie left him again and again he said, ‘Don’t.’

  Sister Grant waited by the ward door. ‘I’ve spoken to them, Annie.’ And Annie was grateful for the use of her name. ‘But you have a word. They may see him briefly. He is very poorly, you know, my dear.’ Her eyes were kind and Annie nodded.

  Her head felt light and she was one step removed from everything, from all of them but Tom and was impatient to return to him; after all, she had said she would.

  She pushed the door and Betsy was sitting on the bench with Bob beside her. Annie heard her shoes on the floor; they sounded brisk. There was a clatter from the sluice and she sat down by Betsy.

  She had aged, had Betsy. Her hair was a little grey but there was something that wasn’t to do with age in her face. It was fuller, somehow more complete. Annie took her hand. ‘He’ll be all right Bet, he’s a fighter.’

  Betsy nodded, ‘Aye, lass.’ She could not say more, her throat was too full and Annie put her arm round her and let her cry, looking over her shoulder to Bob.

  His face was drawn, his eyes deep and he fingered his hat, round and round. ‘It’s his kidney, you see,’ Annie told him as she patted Betsy. ‘A broken foot and ribs and his nose.’

  She smiled at Bob. ‘That’ll teach him to poke it in where it’s not wanted.’ She patted Betsy again as he nodded and tried to smile back.

  ‘He’ll be all right though, I promise you, Bet. I’ll make sure he is.’

  Grace came later that night and she and Annie sat by the bed but still Tom didn’t really wake. All night they sat and next day Grace had to work or she could lose her job. Sarah came in the afternoon with Val and they stayed as Annie took round the tea. Don sat with him in the evening.

  It was the next day when he rallied and took some liquid, but not much because of his kidney. Bob came and brought in papers which protested at the violence of the fascists at Olympia.

  ‘At last,’ he said and, in the weeks that followed, support waned for the blackshirts.

  Tom was in hospital for ten weeks and they talked each day and each evening. Talked of the future and Annie told him she had had enough worry over him, that he was to go to art school now, do textile design and, if he didn’t, she would break his other foot. He laughed at her and told that he had already decided he must do something of the sort.

  She spoke to Sarah that evening, while Grace and Tom kissed quietly and sat together talking of bairns and art.

  ‘He’s agreed to go, Sarah. In fact he had already decided, so all our nagging won’t be needed.’ They laughed together. ‘But it’s the money.’ Annie heard the strain she had been feeling transmit itself to her voice.

  Sarah tapped her sharply on the arm. ‘It’s no problem, you know that. Tom hasn’t had his share yet, has he, so that’s that.’

  Annie sighed. ‘I know that, Sarah, but I can’t begin to pay you back for Tom until I’m qualified in 1935 and I still haven’t finished Don’s money yet.’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘It’s no use me saying don’t, so what I will say is that you can pay me back when you are able to. There’s no hurry because we’ll be jogging along for years yet.’ Annie looked down the corridor, at the nurses who pushed trolleys or backed into kitchens and sluices, at a world that she felt a part of and turned to Sarah. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have had all this.’ She leaned forward and kissed her.

  ‘Nonsense. You would have made it happen somehow. And how’s Georgie, while I remember?’ She was embarrassed and tucked her arm into Annie’s and listened to the news that he had been on exercises and had also written about the walnut trees and Sarah’s hall table.

  When Tom was close to going home in August and the ward was quiet with the lights low above the beds, Annie straightened his sheets and then they sat for a while, listening to the sounds of the ward, the coughs and muted conversations, the laughter. It was then that he told her of a conversation he had held earlier with Bob. He told her of her father, of the man who dragged at his leg, of the still air that made the gas fall, of his heartbreak over her mother and Annie felt her skin grow cold and she took her hand from his but he took it back.

  ‘You must forgive him some time, Annie, for your own sake. Try and understand.’

  But she could not because the hate was too strong. After all, her father had killed himself and left them as though they were nothing, but she didn’t tell Tom that, just nodded and said that she would be qualified in two years, he would be finished in four, which took them to the back end of 1938.

  ‘So you see,’ she said. ‘1939 will be our year. We’ll give you a year to produce some designs and earn a bit of money for capital. I’ll probably be a Sister by then and will have saved a bit and in the meantime I’ll keep my eyes on the administrative procedures and see how things are run.’

  She put the thermometer in his mouth to stop him bringing up her father again.

  ‘It’ll be grand, lad, to do something for the people here. Give them an alternative to coal or steel. It’s exciting, isn’t it, Tom?’ He shook his head and pointed at the thermometer and she laughed, taking and checking it. ‘The rudest of health, my lad.’

  She put it back in its container.

  ‘And what about Georgie?’ he asked.

  She leant over him and tucked the sheets in around him. ‘He’ll be here when he’s ready and I’ll be waiting for him. He’s the man I love, the man I’ll always love.’

  She reached over to turn off the light. He was looking better these days, the pallor was gone but he’d be weak for a while yet. London would do him good and Grace would go with him, though they neither wanted to marry yet and Grace’s da didn’t seem to mind. She pictured him laughing at the pink mice all over the floor.

  ‘So, 1939 it is, then,’ Tom whispered and she nodded.

  ‘The back end,’ she said. ‘When the summer has gone and the nights are drawing in. It’s my favourite time of year.’

  Tom laughed. ‘See you in September, Annie Manon.’

  CHAPTER 21<
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  Annie remembered Miss Hardy and piano lessons today. It was August 1939 and newspapers spoke of war over the Polish crisis but she could not believe it. There had not been war over Czechoslovakia last year so why should there be one this year? She shrugged the thought aside and walked towards the bus-stop which would take her from the Manchester Cancer Hospital where she now worked to the restaurant where she was meeting Sarah.

  Don was to be married this afternoon in Wassingham and Sarah had promised to buy her an early lunch on her way back from the Lake District where she had been holidaying. They could then travel up to Wassingham together.

  She took the lift up from the bottom floor of the department store and was shown to Sarah’s table.

  ‘My dear,’ said Sarah, kissing her and patting the chair next to her. ‘You look so well and I do like your hat.’

  Annie smiled and touched the net with her fingers. ‘And you’re looking pretty grand yourself, Sarah. It takes a wedding to bring the smart ones out of the cupboard, doesn’t it? I hope mine doesn’t smell of moth-balls.’ Sarah looked better for her holiday. She had come to the nurses’ home when she travelled through, two weeks ago, and Annie had thought she looked tired. Her hair was now very grey and her skin was pale and translucent but she’ll be 50 in two years’ time, Annie thought, and wondered where the years had gone because, as she had reminded herself just last week on her twenty fifth birthday, she was no chicken any more. Sarah had sent her a five pound note and Georgie had enclosed a piece of Indian silver in his letter. She showed it now to Sarah, her face alive and full of hope. She knew it off by heart.

  January 1939

  Central Provinces.

  My darling lass,

  Well, it looks as though it could be any day now. My transfer to the Engineers has been accepted and my C.O. is supporting my application for a commission. By the way, did I tell you his daughter is nursing in England?