After the Storm

by Margaret Graham

  He saw again the girl standing by the school, saw her run towards him with her shoelace undone; felt again the coal squeeze his breath and kill Martin, heard her voice.

  A dog barked and children ran out of one street and on to the pavement behind them, laughing and kicking at a ball. She’d come back, he nodded to himself. Annie would always come back.

  Bob rubbed the back of his left hand. There were age spots on the translucent skin now and his knuckles ached much of the time. He felt immensely weary. What would happen if Annie did not come home again?

  CHAPTER 28

  It was morning and Annie woke and undid the rope which tied Prue to her wrist for the night, since she had been found wandering in the compound one night and was lucky not to have been shot. Annie sat her up and washed her hands and face. The sore at the corner of her mouth was larger now.

  ‘Come on, lass, it’ll be roll-call in a moment and then it’s time for the rabbit again.’

  She took her hand and Monica stood with Prue while Annie straightened their pallets and put Prue’s net under the blanket to hide it from the guards. They turned as the leader came into the hut.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ she said, her voice full and tears running down her face. ‘The gates are open and they’ve gone. It’s over. It must be over.’

  Annie caught at Prue’s hand and pulled her to the doorway then out on to the verandah. It seemed so quiet. Women were walking slowly out of their huts and into the compound, their clompers causing dust to rise. There was no cheering. The gates hung open and the guard-towers were empty. The plantation began just outside the wire and women were at the gate but not going through.

  She took Prue down the steps slowly at first and then faster, edging sideways through the others, easing her way to the front. There it was, the open gate and the dark tumbling trees beyond.

  They were free, at last they were free but the air was still that of a prison, the wire still stretched around the camp and they must pass beyond it and so she walked with Prue out into freedom. She held her hand and slowly they passed from the baked earth to the undergrowth of the rubber trees. Others now followed, taking different paths. She felt tired as she stepped over a fallen tree; she was free but she still felt tired. How strange.

  ‘Mind the undergrowth,’ she warned Prue. It had tangled and woven itself up and over the trunks of once-tapped trees and the musky smell overrode the latex. She stood still and lifted her head high and watched the branches link overhead like a steeple and for a moment she was back in the lane leading to the beck, back listening to Beauty’s hooves and watching Georgie as he showed the bee to Tom. But here there was really only the chatter of the monkeys, the crackle of other feet now, on other paths. Voices which had at first whispered were now shouting because there was no one any more to crash a rifle butt into your head.

  ‘Come on, hinny,’ she said gently and Prue smiled and stumbled alongside her. Annie could no longer find some of the graves which were now hidden completely beneath the fast-reclaiming jungle. Prue’s hand lay in hers and, when Annie finally stopped, she did also.

  ‘I want to be able to tell Mr Anderton where Mavis was buried, but I can’t find the place.’ Her stomach was tightening again. Prue’s face screwed up into tears because Annie was sad.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ said Annie gently and so she stopped.

  The jungle had come down into the plantation. There were creepers as thick as ropes hanging from the trees and green moss everywhere. Annie ran her finger down a rubber tree and looked at the green lichen on her finger and then at the smear on the bark which would be overgrown by tomorrow.

  ‘We’ll go home now,’ she told Prue who obediently followed her back to the cookhouse where they were queueing for rice.

  The doctor was counting packets in the hospital when they had finished. ‘We’ve broken into the store. Camp leader brought these over, marmite tonight for everyone please, Sister. Monica is already giving some to the beri-beri cases. One way of getting Vitamin B into them anyway. The fluid will pour out of the dropsy cases.’ Her voice broke. ‘The Red Cross parcels were here all the time. We could have saved so many.’

  Annie felt her own eyes blur. ‘Shall I tell everyone to eat only a little, they’ll be ill if they dig into the parcels straight away, won’t they?’ The doctor nodded.

  There were boxes stacked in the middle of the compound as they stepped out into the sun. ‘What are those?’ Annie asked.

  ‘Our postcards,’ replied the doctor. ‘They were never sent.’

  The allied trucks arrived seven days later. It was strange to hear English spoken by male voices, to hear rounded vowels which rolled off the tongue rather than harsh words that spat at you from the conqueror. It was strange to see khaki and if they weren’t all so ill and tired they would have minded being dressed only in bras and shorts or torn dresses held together by the merest of threads.

  There was nowhere for them to go, they were told, so would they mind awfully staying here until repatriation could be arranged. They did in fact mind awfully, but there was no strength left in anyone to complain. Clothing and food were trucked in and the sick taken to hospital.

  The doctor insisted that Prue should go, though she screamed and cried when she was taken from Annie, who kissed her and said it wouldn’t be for long. She must go home now, to her da.

  Annie lay that night beneath Prue’s mosquito net which was so much cooler after the blanket that she had used for the last three years. The real cigarette tasted wonderful and kept the mosquitoes away better than the leaf tobacco. She could not hear them buzzing all around now but her head was swimming with the pungent inhalation. Her wrist felt strange without its tether and she felt frightened now that she was quite alone.

  With no duties, they all had little to do and Annie’s mind was full of thoughts and dreams and shadows that darkened with each day, leaping from the black box and then disappearing before she could keep them long enough to examine.

  Early in September, the heat of the day was rising and her sweat dripped on to the verandah floor. Monica was bartering for bananas from a native down by the gate. More jeeps were driving into the compound, racing up to the Union Jack which now flew where the Rising Sun had done. Georgie climbed out of one and the doctor spoke to him, touched his arm and pointed. He was tanned in his shorts but dust lay on him in a light layer and only her eyes moved as she watched him walk towards her through the heat. She felt the verandah sag as he climbed each step but she sat quite still; so tired, so very tired. He sat beside her and took her hand. It was the same hand that it had always been. After this time, it was still quite the same.

  ‘You never change, do you, bonny lass?’ He held her head between his hands and his eyes were as brown as they had ever been, though lines dug deep. His eyelashes were as thick as hedgerows, if hedgerows still existed. His smile was still one-sided.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she replied. ‘I do change, my love.’ It took time to form the words, her mouth felt stiff these days and her voice sounded as though it came from someone else.

  ‘Not to me, my bonny lass,’ and he kissed her tired thin old face and rested his head on hers so that she should not see how his eyes had filled and his mouth trembled.

  Annie sat just as she had been but rested her head in his hands and breathed him in and wanted to sit like this until she died and the dreams that were so dark went away.

  She didn’t look back at the camp as she left. It was her home and she was leaving her friends but this had happened before, hadn’t it, long ago, and Georgie had said that she would see them again anyway, so she would, wouldn’t she?

  In the Raffles Hotel she lowered herself into a full bath; her legs lifted and floated, her arms did the same and her body sank into the warmth while the water blackened. She rinsed herself again and again but still she felt unclean. In the mirror the face that was reflected was an old skull with yellow skin and eyes that were sunk too deep, and there was no life in them.

 
She lay that night with Georgie on a bed too soft for sleep but she did not want to sleep for then the darkness came and the black box bulged and struggled to open. She lay beneath the net and he held her hand but on the other wrist she could still feel the tether and hear the noise of the hospital hut and smell bad burnt almonds. He took her in his arms and held her close and her love for him was in every part of her body but she was dead to his touch because passion was a luxury and she had no strength for luxuries. No strength to do more than see and feel him from a distance. She heard his voice, felt his touch, watched his lips as he talked softly to her, but he could not come inside her head and help her with the black box and that was what she must concentrate on, all the time, keeping the black box closed.

  The next day, the jeep took them to the blackened airfield past platoons of Japanese soldiers who guarded buildings, directed natives, dug at bombed buildings.

  ‘We haven’t enough soldiers, my love, so we are using the Japs for now to keep things ticking over.’ She nodded and looked straight ahead. She would not look at these men who had kept their marmite from them and stolen Lorna’s head.

  Bombay burst in on her as she stepped out of the aeroplane, the heat surged against her face and the smell of the continent was all around. Diphtheria did not creep up gently on her but suddenly with violence, that first day in India. It closed her throat and hurled darts of pain to every nerve-end and here, in this strange clean white hospital, dry fingers held her and gave her injections of something called penicillin. Soft hands bathed her and there were no insects, no moans from other huts, no guttural screams from booted guards, no lover. Just a fan that purred.

  She ran her fingers softly round and over the raised embroidered laundry mark. The fan moved round, her arm was brown against the turned-down crisp sheet and only her eyes played with the branched shadows which flickered and rushed silently across the pristine white tiles, and she wondered what tree it was that so silently teased the everlasting sun and denied its passage to her room.

  Four weeks it had been, the nurse had said. Four weeks of gentle hands, four weeks with no need to speak, with sips taken from cool glasses and a head which was held up by another’s efforts. Four weeks of protection and now there was a world out there forcing its way in. Along the corridor she could feel it march, hear the ringing of its heels and then feel finally the click and rush of sound. Holding the door open, Georgie smiled. How brown he is, all brown, she thought. His uniform was khaki, his belt was brown but no, she was wrong. His shoes were coal-black, his buttons were icy yellow. So, she smiled, he’s not just brown, nobody’s just anything. But what does it matter anyway.

  ‘You’re coming home, my love,’ he said, his mouth buried in the palm of her hand.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I want to go home.’ She touched the bleached streaks of his hair. I’m coming, Tom, she called silently. I’m coming at last.

  ‘Next week, the doctors say, and I have arranged the ceremony here and we will spend two weeks in Kashmir. Do you remember me telling you about it and how you’d love it? The waters go on forever, Annie, but never seem to flow. The mountains lie and wait and when you are there you will wait with them and recover.’

  She stroked his face and it was rough. ‘I’d like that and then I must go home.’

  He kissed each finger. ‘Yes, I’ve found a nice bungalow. It’s all ready and Prue is back on station with her father. She’s so well, Annie, and young Sanders seems to have taken quite a shine to her. He’s a good sort and she’s blooming again. A bit quiet perhaps. A bit strange but well. She’s coming to the wedding, blonde hair and all.’ He laughed, his face was close to hers. He held her hand tightly to his chest. ‘I’m so happy that at last we’re to be together. Each day has been an agony, not knowing if you were alive or hurt. I shall never let you go again, my darling Annie. I shall look after you from now on and nothing will hurt you ever again.’ He laid his head against hers and she felt his breath and wondered why he could not hear her screaming. Why no one could hear her screaming.

  She wanted to go home, to have space around her to breathe. Could no one hear her screaming?

  Kashmir was high above the plain of India, nearer to the sky than she had ever been. The houseboat nestled quietly and gently in its berth. Georgie wore a white shirt, the sleeves of which he rolled up above his elbows and she watched his sinews, his strong familiar arms and clung to him as he carried her over the threshold.

  ‘Kiss me, darling,’ she pleaded desperately and he did, his lips soft at first and then hard and urgent and he carried her to the bedroom, past the bearer who stood to one side. He laid her on the bed and she watched as he dragged his clothes from his body and, gently then, removed hers. He kissed her and stroked her, licked her breasts which were fuller now. Kissed her thighs and she ran her hands down his back, his stomach until she held him in her hands, large and hot and he groaned and entered her and she cried out to him, ‘Deeper my love,’ but he was still not far enough into her. He could not push back the heat of the compound, cast off the tether from her wrist or the blood that shot two yards from Lorna’s body. She wept as he came inside her and he held her and tears were on his cheeks too as he cradled her in his arms and kissed her hair as they lay together.

  ‘You’ve made me so happy, my darling,’ he whispered and she smiled and looked at the curtains which hung round the walls of the bedroom. Yes, she still had the dining-room to sort out. Still the wallpaper in there.

  That evening, they sat out on the verandah and the bearer brought them gin. The glass was heavy and cool. Georgie’s wicker chair creaked as he reached forward to take her hand. He turned the plain gold ring which he had placed on her right hand. He reached over and touched her broken finger gently with his. His wrist was strong and she wondered if he would like to take the tether for a while but did not want to trouble him.

  That night, she did not want to close her eyes, so lay there planning a pale green cool dining-room but her lids were heavy and soon there were shapes which squeezed out of the box because she couldn’t keep the lid down. She pushed and pushed and cried for Georgie but he was on the outside of her head and could not hear. They were tumbling out now, secrets which slithered out and over the floor of her mind. She pushed them back: Lorna, varicose legs, broken fingers, Albert’s hands which lunged at her, panting men on a playing-field, a hosepipe which writhed out gas and her da, mostly her da, his face yellow, his mouth gaping. She pushed them back, her screams so loud that it made her head ache. Slowly, steadily, she pushed them back with her hands inside her head but now her hands were slimy.

  The bungalow was square, its edges cut through the parched bleached air. White stones marked the pathway.

  ‘Welcome, memsahib,’ bowed the bearer, bearded and dark.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied and entered Georgie’s home wiping her hands down her skirt.

  Prue was on the station, rounded now, with a bloom to her cheeks.

  The days were long, movements were slow and the plains seldom varied. The heat rolled across the earth and Georgie was often late because he was in bomb disposal again and busy with the troubles.

  The bungalow was painted plain white and the floors were tiled black and white and her feet left damp impressions as she walked.

  ‘What would the memsahibs say, darling?’ Prue asked as they sat one morning in floral-covered chairs with cane tables scattered between each one. ‘One really does not bare the feet in front of the servants,’ she mimicked.

  ‘Well this one does,’ Annie rejoined. Her voice was quieter these days and each morning she woke unrefreshed, but Prue was the golden girl again though she would never be without the extra lines. She was better for them, Annie decided. They sat opposite one another. Fans disturbed the air and made the heat bearable.

  Prue tapped her half-full glass of lime juice. ‘You will come to the club for tiffin, darling, won’t you?’

  ‘Must I?’ asked Annie, her legs curled up beneath her. She
wiped her hands down her skirt and then rose.

  Prue said, ‘Yes, you must, and where are you off to now?’

  ‘To wash my hands.’ They were slimy again.

  The water was not cool. Prue called from the sitting-room.

  ‘You must come, Annie. It will do you good. Your mind is obviously on Georgie and there’s no need. They’re not using too many explosives in this area. The troubles are further from the border. Come on.’ There was a smile in her voice. ‘They are dying to have a proper look at you.’

  Annie dried her hands and walked back. She liked the cool of the tiles.

  ‘That’s not much of an incentive.’ She felt better when she was with Prue somehow. The tether had slipped from her wrist now that Prue was well but she wouldn’t think of the rest because they would be here again tonight as always.

  ‘Very well.’ Prue sat forward, her finger pointing. ‘I suggest a trade. You want to ride? I shall take you. You will come to the mess – and before you object – I have some jodhpurs but wear your topee. It’s cracking down outside.’

  The plain shimmered in the distance, the scrub clung in parts to the wide-cracked surface and the pony shambled beside Prue’s. The palace on the hilltop brooded as they passed. Their escort stayed behind them at a suitable distance, the stirrup leather pinched her inside leg and the sound of their shifting harness was all that disturbed their progress. Annie wondered if Tom still had Beauty. She had written to him but had not heard back yet and would not try and picture him because the missing was too much.

  ‘The maharajah hardly ever comes now,’ said Prue, lifting her crop to the palace. ‘He lives in Bombay and sends his sons to school in England.’

  ‘Crazy, isn’t it,’ mused Annie. ‘While the British sent their daughters to live in India to find a husband. How is Lt. Sanders by the way? You haven’t mentioned him yet today, or perhaps only a hundred times!’ She smiled as Prue blushed.