We'll Meet Again

by Patricia Burns

  ‘All right, all right, so it wasn’t you. Just tell your brother.’

  ‘I will, really, I will—’

  He didn’t want to hear any more. He turned away and ran back past Silver Sands and up the sea wall. From there he ran as fast as he could along the top, until he was out of breath. As he ran he looked out across Marsh Edge Farm. Somewhere down there was Annie, and this evening he would see her for the last time. No one—not Beryl, not his mother—was going to spoil that.

  ‘You all right, Mum? Can you manage?’

  Annie hurried to help her mother with the heavy galvanised bucket of water to scrub the kitchen floor.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ Edna assured her.

  But she winced as she lowered herself on to her knees.

  ‘It’s not right. He shouldn’t treat you like that, the bully. That’s what he is, a vicious bully,’ Annie burst out.

  Edna looked frightened. ‘Don’t talk about your father like that, love. A few bruises don’t matter. Men are just like that. It’s their nature. They can’t help it.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ Annie said.

  Tom wasn’t like that, she was sure. And Gwen never came to school with bruises on her.

  ‘He’s a good provider. That’s what matters.’

  Was it? Was that all that a man had to do—provide for his wife and children? Gwen’s dad did that, and he was nice to them all as well. Beastly Beryl’s dad was a much better provider, come to that, with enough money to run a car and send them all to the grammar. Did he beat Mrs Sutton and Beryl and the younger boys? She didn’t think so.

  Annie sighed. ‘Right, Mum,’ she agreed.

  Because it was no good trying to discuss it with her. She’d tried it before, many times, and got nowhere. Her mother simply accepted the beatings as her lot. Sometimes she even claimed to have deserved them, because of her own shortcomings.

  The one good thing about her father’s explosions of temper was that for a few days afterwards he was always calmer and quieter. Annie had no trouble getting away that evening to meet Tom. She put on a shirt with a high collar to hide the bruises on her neck and shoulders and set off for Silver Sands, practising controlling her hurt side so that she did not limp. Last—day—last—day—her feet went as she hurried across the fields. Tomorrow Tom was going home, back to the magic land of Noresley, and she might never see him again. It didn’t bear thinking about, so she pushed it to the back of her mind. Now—she would just think about now, and the next hour or two.

  When she was nearly at the last gate, Tom suddenly appeared from round the side of one of the other chalets. He took hold of her hand and started pulling her along.

  ‘This way,’ he said, ‘where they won’t be able to find us.’

  ‘Who won’t—?’ Annie asked, trying not to flinch as he tugged at her poorly arm.

  ‘My beastly family. They know to look for us over the sea wall. And if we go along the prom that Beryl girl or her ferrety brother might be spying on us.’

  ‘Beryl? What’s Beryl got to do with it?’

  Tom opened the gate to the chalet garden.

  ‘This one’s just right. I had a recce this afternoon. They can’t see us from Silver Sands.’

  He spread a raincoat on the wet grass and sat down in the shelter of a tall patch of willowherb. Annie eased herself down beside him, carefully arranging her bad leg.

  ‘What’s up? What’s this about Beryl?’ she demanded.

  ‘Nothing, according to her, but I’m not so sure. She says her brother saw us on the prom the other evening, and he told his mother, and she told my mother. Then my mother said I wasn’t to see you again.’

  ‘Not see—?’ Annie was appalled. This was a disaster. ‘But why?’

  The next time she saw Beryl and Jeffrey, she was going to give them what for.

  Tom looked uneasy.

  ‘Oh, you know what mothers are like. They get these bees in their bonnets. She went on and on about me being too young.’

  ‘Too young?’ Annie was mystified.

  ‘To—er—to have a—you know—girlfriend,’ Tom said gruffly. He could not meet her eyes for embarrassment.

  Girlfriend? She was his girlfriend? Like people in the pictures? Annie could feel herself going all hot.

  ‘That’s stupid,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Tom looked relieved. ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? If we want to be friends, then we can. Never mind what they say.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Annie agreed, though her stomach sank with disappointment. Not a girlfriend then, just a friend.

  ‘Not a good day, yesterday, was it?’ Tom said. ‘First my mam trying to put her oar in, then a problem up at your place. What was going on? You looked terrified. I was really worried about you.’

  Years of covering up what went on in her household came into play. Part of her wanted to confide in him, but a larger part was ashamed to reveal what her family was like.

  ‘Oh—nothing. My dad was in a bit of a temper, that’s all.’

  ‘Really? It looked like it was worse than that, as if you were afraid something dreadful might happen,’ Tom said.

  ‘No, no … it’s just … like you said—they get bees in their bonnets, parents. If he’d seen you, he might’ve blown his top.’

  ‘So you’ve not—’ Tom hesitated. ‘I thought, well, you were limping when you came out to see me, and I thought your dad might’ve hurt you. He didn’t, did he?’

  ‘No, no—’ Annie shook her head to emphasise the point, and caught her breath as pain shot from her neck right down her bruised side.

  ‘He did!’ Tom’s voice was filled with concern. ‘Was it bad? Come on, show me.’

  ‘No, really—’

  Annie tried to move away, but Tom took hold of her hand and carefully undid the cuff of her shirt. Dying of embarrassment, Annie watched his face as he drew back the sleeve. Horror was closely followed by anger as the ugly purple bruises were revealed.

  ‘Annie, this is terrible—you poor thing—and this was your father? How could he? Are you hurt anywhere else?’

  ‘No, really—it’s nothing—’

  Annie tried to move away, but Tom let go of her arm and caught her foot. He pulled back the leg of her working trousers, which she had kept on today in order to be covered up. He drew in his breath sharply as more injuries came to light.

  ‘Annie, Annie, how can he do this to you? We’ve got to stop this. We’ve got to tell someone. The police—’

  ‘No!’ Annie squealed. You mustn’t—my mum’d die of shame—’

  ‘He hits your mum as well?’

  Silently, Annie nodded.

  ‘The bastard—Oh, I’m sorry, Annie, swearing in front of you, but—I want to go and tear his head off—’

  Tom’s hands were balled into fists. His face was contorted with anger.

  ‘Don’t—’ Annie cried, seized with fear. ‘Don’t—you look like him when you say that—’

  Tom looked ashamed. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  ‘I’m sorry—it just makes me so mad, to think of you getting hurt like this. I want to help you, Annie. What can I do to help, to stop it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Annie said flatly. ‘There’s nothing. My mum says it’s just the way he is and we have to put up with it because he’s a good provider.’

  ‘But there must be something.’

  ‘No. Maybe one day I’ll be able to go away. But till then … Look, it helps just to have you as a friend.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like a lot of use,’ Tom said gloomily.

  ‘It is, really,’ Annie assured him. She tried to put her feelings into words. ‘It’s been really … nice … coming to see you each day. It’s made everything sort of … brighter … you know? Knowing I’ll talk to you at the end of the day.’

  Tom’s face was glowing now. ‘Yes! That’s just it! It’s made everything different, knowing you. Like—even very ordinary things like walking along the prom are special when I
’m with you …’

  He stopped abruptly, scarlet with embarrassment.

  ‘That sounds right daft,’ he muttered.

  ‘No, it doesn’t. It’s—nice. It’ll be a nice thing to remember when—well—things are bad,’ Annie told him.

  A phrase from the Bible came to her. She treasured it up in her heart. She would treasure up those words of his in her heart, and warm herself with them when life was cold.

  ‘Look—we’re not going to let them stop us, are we?’ Tom insisted. ‘It’s like in Romeo and Juliet. They didn’t let their families stop them.’

  ‘Who are they? Were they in a film?’ Annie asked.

  ‘No, it’s Shakespeare.’

  Shakespeare. He’d written things, she knew that much. Plays. They’d never done them at the elementary, but she would get them from the library and find out what Tom was on about.

  ‘Yes, of course it is,’ she said, to cover her ignorance.

  To her relief, Tom did not pursue it any further.

  ‘We’ll write to each other. Would you do that? Write to me?’

  Delight bubbled through her.

  ‘Oh, yes! That’d be wonderful. But …’

  She thought through the difficulties. Her father always sorted through the post, since it was mostly bills and stuff for him. She could not explain away a personal letter to herself from Nottingham.

  ‘… send them to my friend, Gwen, and she’ll give them to me.’

  ‘All right. Where does she live?’

  Annie recited Gwen’s address. Tom committed it to memory.

  ‘What about your mum? Is it all right to send to your house?’ Annie asked anxiously.

  ‘I said I’m not going to let her stop me and I’m not. You write to my address,’ Tom insisted.

  Annie repeated it after him till she had fixed it in her head.

  Satisfied that they had done all they could, they talked and talked until the light had drained from the sky.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Annie said reluctantly.

  This was it. The last moment.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  A whole year till they saw each other again. It was so long that she could hardly bear it. Going back to life without seeing him at the end of each day was like a prison sentence.

  Awkwardly, they got up. They looked at each other in silence. Then Tom swooped forward and planted a quick kiss on her lips.

  ‘Remember—write to me!’ he said.

  ‘I will,’ Annie promised.

  And as she walked home alone with his kiss still warm upon her mouth, loneliness stalked beside her, cold and dark and bleak. She refused to let it in, pushing it away by holding on to the thought that she still had Tom as a friend, even if he was far away. It wasn’t like having him at Silver Sands, but it was something. Whatever else happened, Tom thought she was special.

  She began planning the first letter she would send to him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘THOSE poor people in London,’ Gwen said, as she and Annie snatched a few minutes’ conversation outside Sutton’s Bakelite before she went back in for the afternoon shift. ‘Do you know they’re sleeping down the underground now, because of the bombing? I seen it on the newsreel at the pictures. Hundreds of ‘em, all lying on the station platforms. Must be horrible.’

  ‘It must,’ Annie agreed, though she found it difficult to imagine what it must be like. Unlike Gwen, she had never ridden on the underground.

  ‘Still, the war’s all right for some. Sutton’s is expanding. Mr Sutton told us all this morning. We’re doing such a lot for the war effort, we’re moving to a bigger factory, out on the edge of town.’

  ‘I s’pose that means the Suttons’ll be richer than ever,’ Annie said.

  ‘Yeah, but who cares, eh? Would you really want to be old fattypants Beryl?’

  Annie laughed. ‘No, I would not,’ she agreed.

  ‘Coming to the pictures tomorrow?’

  ‘If I can get away.’

  ‘You must. Oh, look, everyone’s gone in. Got to go. I’ll get my pay docked if I’m late. See you outside the Roxy.’

  Annie waved goodbye and cycled off to do her errands. She sang at the top of her voice as she bowled along. At this moment, life was good. It was a dull and damp October day, the heavy old bike would soon be even heavier with a load of shopping in the front basket and at home ahead of her there was her father, but for now she was happy. She enjoyed her Thursday afternoon buying provisions and delivering some of her mother’s alteration work, and meeting Gwen was always a treat. But best of all, here in her skirt pocket, warming her thigh, was a letter from Tom.

  She put her hand on her leg, feeling the outline of the envelope through the layers of clothing. It was a huge temptation to stop and tear it open, but she controlled herself. It was better if she spun it out. First the pleasure of just having the letter in her possession, then the anticipation all evening, knowing it was hidden under her mattress upstairs, then finally the delight of opening and reading it after her parents had gone to bed. Then she allowed herself a whole week of rereading and planning a reply before starting on the equal but different pleasure of writing back. The letters, together with her outings into town and meetings with Gwen, lit up the drudgery of her day-to-day life.

  As she turned into the track up to the farm later that afternoon, she was surprised to see someone cycling down towards her—a man in a raincoat and trilby hat.

  ‘How odd,’ she said out loud.

  They had hardly any visitors at the farm.

  It was only when he got really close that Annie recognised him. It was Mr Sutton.

  ‘Evening, young—er—’ he said as they passed each other.

  ‘Annie,’ she told him. ‘Evening, Mr Sutton.’

  She longed to ask what he was doing at Marsh Edge, but he did not show any sign of stopping.

  When she went into the kitchen with the shopping, she found her mother in a fluster.

  ‘We’ve had a visitor. I’m so ashamed. If only I’d known, I could have at least made some scones. To have a visitor and not even be able to offer some cake! And the state of the place as well—’

  ‘It looks fine, Mum,’ Annie assured her.

  Her mother always kept the kitchen scrupulously clean and tidy, however much mud was walked into it over the course of each day.

  ‘Oh, but the Suttons have such a lovely house. All modern, with a gas stove and one of those geyser things for hot water. Imagine! This must look so old-fashioned.’

  ‘It’s nice,’ Annie said loyally, though really she wished her mother could have modern appliances to help her. ‘But what was he doing here—Mr Sutton? I was so surprised to see him cycling down the track.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know that, dear. He came to see your father. Now help me get the tea on the table, will you? Or we’re going to be late.’

  They both bustled about getting the meal ready. Being late with Walter’s tea was simply not an option. When he came in they all sat round the table in silence as usual, listening to the wireless. It was only when they had finished their last cup of tea and the plates had been cleared away that Annie dared approach the mystery of their visitor.

  ‘I saw Mr Sutton as I was cycling up the track,’ she remarked.

  It was no use asking a direct question, but an observation sometimes got a reply.

  ‘Ha.’

  Walter got out his tobacco tin and began rolling one of the two cigarettes he allowed himself each day. Annie hurried to fetch an ashtray. Walter licked the paper, poked the protruding strands of tobacco inside with the end of a match, then lit up.

  ‘I sent him away with a flea in his ear,’ he said with satisfaction.

  ‘Did you?’ Annie said.

  Edna looked mortified. Mrs Sutton’s visits for dress fittings were as much a highlight of her life as Tom’s letters were of Annie’s. She didn’t want any risk of spoiling them.

  ‘Thought he could palm off his unwanted bit of land
on me. Must’ve taken me for a fool. But I’m not. He might have that fancy factory of his, but I know a thing or two. Oh, yes. Showed him the door, I did.’

  Annie stared at him. Silver Sands! He must mean Silver Sands. That was the only bit of land that the Suttons owned, as far as she knew.

  ‘You mean the chalet by the sea wall?’ she hazarded.

  ‘‘Course. What else? Rubbish corner of scrub with a hut on it. He thought that just because it’s running with my land that I’d want it. Must be off his head. Or think I am. I soon told him his fortune.’

  ‘Summer visitors are nothing but a nuisance,’ Annie said sadly, quoting his often-repeated words back at him.

  To have had the chance of owning Silver Sands, only to have it thrown away! It was heartbreaking.

  ‘Too right. Walking all over my land, leaving gates open and worrying my stock. Ought to be shot on sight,’ Walter agreed. ‘And he thought I’d be interested in holiday lettings after the war was over! I told him, flaming townies are like the plagues of Egypt. I won’t have nothing to do with ‘em.’

  Walter went on for some time, telling them what he thought of holiday-makers and giving examples of the dreadful things they had done in the past. Annie just sat and made affirmative noises, her face carefully blank. It had never occurred to her in the past that there was any real possibility of their owning Silver Sands, however much she had wished it. Now it would have been even more wonderful, for Tom had said that his family were thinking of coming back next year. If her father had bought it, she could have been the one who got it ready for them and went to see if they were all right. She would have had the right to stroll in there and visit them, instead of hiding from Tom’s family. And her father had thrown that all away. She felt quite sick with disappointment. Only the thought of Tom’s letter waiting for her upstairs kept her going through the evening.

  She needed the letters to get her through the following months. As autumn turned into winter and Walter Cross was forced to change his farming methods by the local War Agriculture Committee, it was Annie who bore the brunt of the extra work. One Saturday late in November, she was out cutting cabbages in the field nearest to the road. It was a foul afternoon with a wet wind coming in from the sea. The continual bending was making her back ache, the sticky mud clung to her boots, making it difficult to lift her feet and the cold was cutting into her exposed fingers and face. On top of this, she had left her mother in a flap about the Suttons. Both Mrs Sutton and Beryl were coming to order dresses for Christmas, and Edna was tying herself in knots trying to stretch the meagre sugar ration enough to bake a batch of biscuits for them.