After the Storm

by Margaret Graham

  Tom read the letter which arrived in the morning as he was cleaning his boots. It was his day off from the pit.

  October

  India.

  Dear Tom,

  It will be early December when you receive this. Annie will be in England now. Look after her for me. She thinks I don’t understand but I do now. I love her you see, I always have and I always will. I want to come to her but won’t unless she decides she wants me. Her da comes between us, Tom. Makes her scared of loving me. Help me, Tom. Help her.

  Georgie.

  Tom put on his boots half cleaned and threw the letter on the table. Grace looked across from the sink, her sleeves rolled up, her hands red from washing.

  ‘We’ll not be going to Betsy’s for lunch,’ he told her as he took down his crash helmet and goggles. ‘Read the letter, bonny lass, then go and tell me mam we’ll be there this evening, Don too and that I’ll be bringing Annie round in the afternoon. I want to show her a few things.’ Bobby was playing by the table with bricks Bob had made and Tom had painted. He looked up at Tom and laughed as a pile fell over. Grace put the letter down again.

  ‘Be careful, Tom. You can’t go interfering in people’s lives.’

  He turned as he went out of the door, his face firm and set. ‘It’s about time someone did,’ he said.

  Annie stood by the wire. This new cock was as arrogant as the last had been. It strutted backwards and forwards just as the camp commandant had done. The wire dug into her hands and she made herself loosen her grip, rubbing at the deep red grooves it had made on her fingers. She didn’t hear Tom until he was almost by her side and then she turned and his face was grimy where the goggles had been.

  It felt so good, so very good to have his arms round her, his blue eyes smiling down into hers. He was grey at the temples and he had far more lines than when she had last seen him. His leather coat was cold against her cheek and she felt a calmness, a coming home. The hens were clustering at the gate and the cock was preening and flapping.

  ‘I was just going to feed the hens.’ She stood back and smiled at him. ‘You have always been such a bonny lad, Tom.’ She felt her voice begin to break so stooped and picked up the bowl, passing it to him.

  He laughed. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have come.’ He held open the run gate and stood with her and they threw corn from the bowl. He saw that she used her right hand, that her left had a finger which was crooked and misshapen.

  ‘So someone didn’t like your Ruby Red then, eh bonny lass? You and me is gimpy together.’ He tapped her hand gently and she smiled. The hens were pecking at the ground which was bare of grass now and hummocked like a bomb-blasted moor which had been rounded in the wind.

  ‘Is Don home yet?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, we’ll be seeing him later.’

  Tom lifted his head and tilted back his cap. He looked steadily at her but she turned from him, throwing the last of the corn to the furthest corner of the run.

  ‘Let’s go to the shed,’ he said softly and she nodded. They walked together past the laurel, its waxed leaves moving in the wind. She looked at her watch, it was nearly midday. The rice would be … She stopped herself and shook her head. Tom opened the door. Creosote still stained the wood but the smell was only there if you brushed close. The bike was rusted and the rubber grips had perished right through and lay on the floor. She moved to the window and rubbed at the glass and her finger came away grey. She looked out over the Thoms’ garden up into the sky.

  ‘So, my bonny lass, you came back. I always knew you would.’ Tom was squatting near the pile of sacks and dust rose in clouds as he picked at the frayed edges.

  She nodded. ‘I wanted to come home. We have lots to do, Tom. I thought we could start on the house first. Try out some ideas, then go into production.’ Her breath was misting the glass and she rubbed at it but the moisture smeared so she pulled her sleeve over her hand and wiped it dry.

  Tom said nothing. Just sat on his haunches picking at the hessian and the smell was acrid.

  She turned and his eyes were still looking at her steadily and this time she knew she had to answer the question he was asking her.

  ‘I had to come home without him. I needed to think, to get things sorted out.’

  Tom still looked at her. ‘Get your coat on, lass,’ he said. His face was calm but firm. ‘We’ve some places to visit, you and me. It’s time we nailed this shadow, time you faced things once and for all. You can’t go on hiding.’

  Annie stood rigid, gripping the cold steel handlebars of the bike. She squeezed the brake and it hurt her finger. She squeezed it again. She wanted the pain. It stopped her sinking beneath the fear which crept through her and lodged in her chest. Her stomach was tight and her shoulders rigid. She wouldn’t go. There was no way she would go back, even with Tom.

  ‘I’m not coming with you, I have too much to do here. The walls to strip.’ She thought of the cool green stripes for the dining-room but suddenly he was up off his haunches and standing before her. ‘Get your mac, hinny, you’re coming with me. We’ll take the Morris. You might as well come back as you left.’ He did not touch her, just looked and his eyes were dark and they saw right through her to the box and she knew there was no hiding from him.

  The Morris breasted the hill and Tom drove it down towards Wassingham and there were the slag-heaps, bigger now but still with carts churning up the slopes showering dust on to the mountain which was growing each year. He drove her down into the streets which pressed together and shut out the pale December sun. There were no daffodils on window-sills to relieve the black-coated red brick and the windows were blank without the lights of evening shining out on the cobbled streets.

  Down through the town, past Mainline Terrace and the bombed-out Garrods used goods shop. She and Tom had not spoken since they had left Gosforn. She did not want to. She was busy wallpapering the hall, but now as they rattled over the cobbles she could not hold the striped paper in her head. Could not hold the walnut table and the gong tightly to her. Women were walking with shawls over their heads, children were playing football in the street and Tom stopped near the school, close to Wassingham Terrace, Sophie’s old street.

  He switched off the engine and it jumped before falling silent. They sat and she rubbed her hands together. They were slimy and she ran them down her mac until Tom leant over and took them in his.

  ‘Don’t do that, bonny lass. You’ll wear out that posh mac of yours.’

  She focussed on him then, on his warm hands as they held hers, on his eyes as they creased in his gentle smile, on her mac which Prue had given her. ‘I’m so very tired, you see, Tom.’ Her lids were heavy, she wanted to sleep, not to climb out in this place.

  ‘I know you are but this has to be done, my little lass. Out you get now. I’ll come with you.’

  He took her to where she had first seen her father. She turned and looked down the street, bunching herself deeper into her mac, leaning back against the railings and their chill sank into her back as it had done that day all those years ago. It had been misty then and Don and a small man in a brown coat had come down the road, out of the mist. She saw them again, the boy and the man with his thin face and his hazel eyes; drawn and tired he had been, so tired. She held the railing behind her and it was so cold it hurt, but not as much as it had done on that cold winter day. There was no wind to chap licked lips today. She looked at Tom, her bonny wee bairn, but he was a man now, standing taller than her and holding her arm as the day turned dark and she saw the man and boy coming closer and closer through the mist.

  ‘It’s a fine day today, Annie,’ Tom murmured, and she saw the boy and the man stop and slowly go back into the mist which lifted as shadows of lampposts took their place and lay long across the cobbles and were crossed by the colours of the women who passed by them. She saw that two children were sitting on the kerb playing marbles; she heard the click as two collided. Tom looked at her and she nodded though she knew he had not yet finished.
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  The Morris started on the second try and Tom’s boots seemed too large on the pedals; she saw that one was shiny and one was dull.

  ‘Is this the new way of wearing boots these days, bonny lad?’ she asked, her voice strained, but he laughed as he steered the car away from the school and that misty day.

  They stopped outside the front door. There were no railings now.

  ‘Gone for the war effort.’ Tom explained.

  So Don and she would never know now whether they were sharp enough to pass right through someone. She sat still, wiping her hands, feeling the seat at her back hard along the seams where the leather was pulled into panels. Tom was out now and coming round to her door but she would not leave the car and go into her da’s house. No, that was too much of him to expect. He opened the door and the cold struck. She shook her head and he leaned in.

  ‘Come with me, we’re not going in yet, Annie. I have something else to show you.’ He smiled and his face was so dear that she pushed herself from the seat and held out her hand to him. He did not take it though, but took instead her arm since her distorted finger broke his heart almost as much as her eyes set so deep in her strained thin face.

  They walked down the back alleys and although there was no frost it was almost the same as before but they were not carrying trays which stretched their arms and froze their hands. The smell of coal was in the air and decrepit back-gates hung in frames at the back of yards. Down they went, on through the lane which led out to the field, but it seemed so small now and there were only boys playing football in bright red shirts and they aimed at proper goals. She stood silent.

  ‘I ran away when we brought the bread and cheese. Do you remember, little Annie?’ Tom stood next to her and looked across the field to the slag beyond. His cap was pulled down and his scarf was tied in a knot at his neck.

  ‘I found it hard to forgive meself for leaving you here. It was something I kept feeling I had to wipe away, but I couldn’t. I just had to grow into it somehow.’

  He put his arm through hers and she gripped his hand. How strange, there were no large men walking towards them with dragons’ breath, not any longer. There were just boys and white marked lines. No dog pulling at the coat which marked the goal, no Da standing before her, just green grass and so much more sky than she remembered. More light.

  ‘You have always been so brave, my bonny lass, and I cannot go on without you.’ Tom said. ‘Your da is dead. He’s found some peace. You must too, Annie Manon.’

  She tried to pull away now, tried to push the picture to the back of her mind, into the box, but Tom was hanging on, making it all come back, making her see her da.

  ‘You must have wanted peace, Annie.’ He had swung her round to face him now. There were the shouts of boys in the background. ‘You must know how he felt. For God’s sake, Annie, you must understand the man.’ He held her chin so that she must look at him.

  But she shook her head free. She wouldn’t listen to him. She would carry on stripping the paper, pulling it down strip by strip, piece by piece. She would not let him into her head, would not let him pull out her box, lift the lid, take her secrets out and make her see them. She wouldn’t see the field, only the hallway that needed stripping, but he kept on pulling her back to the black box. He kept on, his voice was pulling the box closer, pushing aside the hall at Gosforn until she could stand no more and screamed until the sound filled her head and she could not hear him any longer but his mouth was opening again and this time she tore from him and his words and ran from the field as he had once done, down the lanes, the alleys but he was still behind her but she couldn’t hear his words, thank God she couldn’t hear his words, but there was his voice as he called:

  ‘Annie, wait.’

  But she couldn’t, not for what he had to say. She could hear his feet, his uneven tread closer now. She ran and ran, her breath hard in her chest, in through the gate past the stable and then Tom reached the yard gate, gasping and clinging to the upright, watching as she checked at the door.

  The door was ajar and she stood there, her head on the wall, her breath quick and heavy in her chest. She rolled her head against the brick and felt him come to her. She was home but she could not go in.

  ‘Beauty’s here,’ Tom panted, and led her over to the stable and Beauty was so small. Her mane was still coarse and she wound it round her fingers and couldn’t see clearly because her eyes were full and the tears might fall and she was not going to cry over him, over her da. He had left her. He had killed himself and left her and it hurt too much to love and then be left. She could not bear it again, ever again, even with Georgie, and she hated her da for making her as she was.

  ‘I hate him,’ she shouted, turning to Tom. ‘I hate him. He left me and I hate him for it.’

  Tom watched her lips draw back. Her skin was almost transparent, her cheekbones seemed to be breaking through.

  ‘You don’t. You loved him and he hurt you. You must understand how he could do it. You of all people should understand now.’ He was shouting too. ‘After all you’ve been through, you should understand.’

  He was holding her shoulders, shaking her and her hair fell down and across her eyes. She brushed it aside. Anger was forcing its way up through her stomach which tightened against it but still it came, up and through and into her chest and then her head and there was the box again.

  ‘He filled himself up with gas, didn’t he? And yes, I understand the need for peace, but how am I to have any from him? He’s dead, he can’t hear me when I ask him to leave me alone.’

  Tom was still holding her. His lips were as stiff as hers were, his throat felt as though it was swelling.

  ‘You must just tell him, Annie. It’s up to you,’ he cried. ‘Tell him and then yourself. If you don’t, there is nothing for you but to run away for ever, for the rest of your life. Free but alone.’

  ‘We’ve always been together, you and me. Why can’t it go on like that?’ She was holding his arm now, her lips were still drawn back as she shouted and her eyes were so dark that they were hazel no longer.

  ‘That is not enough for you. I don’t ask anything of you and ours is not that sort of love. You need Georgie, you bloody fool. You need the man you’ve always loved. You must let yourself love, Annie, if you are going to be any sort of a person, have a life which means anything. Don’t let your da spoil that.’

  His voice was filling the yard, her head. He would not let her think of green stripes, of lamps that must match. His voice was bringing the box closer and closer to the front of her mind. Her da would come soon.

  ‘Come in with me.’ He was still shouting and she pulled back.

  ‘No, I can’t face that.’ She held on to the stable door. She would rather be alone, free and alone. She had already decided.

  He turned and wrenched her hand away. It was her broken finger but he didn’t care. ‘Get in here with me.’

  He pulled her now, took her hand and put his arm round her and forced her to the door which now opened fully.

  ‘There’ll be no need for that,’ Betsy said, and came to Annie and took her and held her against clothes that smelt of freshness and arms that were soft. Annie tried to find air to breathe as she walked into her father’s house with the wife whom he had despised.

  On through a kitchen which was no longer bleak and bare but full of light and colour with Tom’s old cut-down chair still by the fire. Patchwork cushions lay everywhere. On through they went, she and Betsy, up to the hallway and past the clock which had chimed so loudly that first day. She did not want to go further but Betsy would not stop. On up the stairs which were gently lit until they came to the room. The door was shut and the box in her head was opening now. The lid was coming up and he would be here soon, in her head. She would see him coming out with his gaping yellow face if she went into the room which he had filled with gas rather than live with her.

  Betsy opened the door and Annie would not look but then she did. The study was gone; the
dark table, the prints so faded that there was no picture; all were gone. His chair where he had lolled, yellow and dead was gone.

  Tom slipped past them into the room holding out his hand to her. ‘Come into our studio, Annie.’ He would not come and fetch her this time and she had to walk in by herself. And she could not.

  Tom watched her, then turned to the easel. ‘This is Bobby,’ he said. ‘I’m doing it for Gracie.’ The smell of linseed oil was strong and from the window he could see the washing hanging out in the yards. He moved on then. ‘Here are the designs I’ve done for the first batch of wallpaper. I thought we could work from here to begin with.’

  He was over by the table that stood against the wall, flicking through the paper. It was cool because the room was unheated. His hands felt cold and his foot hurt. His ears strained to catch the sound of her entry and he did not know what more he could do if she did not come in. How else could he bring her back to them?

  But then, at last, there she was, next to him and she reached across and took the top design.

  ‘It’s good, bonny lad,’ she said and there was a shaking in her voice.

  He leant over and did not take the paper but held her hand so that it was steady enough for them to look together. ‘Aye, better up the right way though, lass.’ They laughed and it was a gentle sound and Betsy walked back down the stairs. She had a meal to cook for them all this evening.

  They stayed in the studio, for that is what it is now, Annie thought, and felt the shadows lift and her stomach was no longer tight and the black box was growing fainter. Her da was not in this room, he was dead and gone. She said it twice and finally believed it.

  Slowly, haltingly, they talked about fear, about pain and anger and it was like a river which washed through them both carrying away the debris of years and, as the light waned, it was time for the planning of their future, their dream which they had held for so long. They talked until the sun moved lower in the sky and the shadows were longer, casting themselves across the yard and then she knew it was time for the place she had still to visit, the peace that she still had to make.