After the Storm (14 page)

‘I’ll stoke the fire, Mam,’ offered Tom.

‘Right lad, we’ll need the gas and the range today.’ The rolling-pin crunched her swollen hands as it travelled beneath them, thinning the pastry. Annie saw the tears fill her eyes as she lined two tins with lard. She left Betsy to finish, to fold the pastry into the tins, load in the vegetables and a few scrag-ends of lamb and seal the edges. She held the oven door as Betsy put one in the range. The other was put into the gas oven.

Betsy stood up and sighed, stretching her back.

‘I’m off to the shop now. Can’t leave it locked all day,’ Betsy called, as she left the room. And can’t go on much longer without a beer, thought Annie, as she and Tom sat on by the fire.

‘Did you have a good time, Tom? Was May good to you?’

Tom sat on her right, his legs splayed as he relaxed in the heat. He had hung his coat on the end of the fender but it was beginning to smell of burning.

‘Move your coat, Tom. Keeping it warm is one thing but it’ll be a puff of smoke in a minute.’

He nudged it off with his foot and kicked it on to Betsy’s chair.

‘Oh aye, May’s right good to me. So much to eat. Here.’ He struggled to bring from his pocket a piece of apple pie. ‘It’s a bit squashed, but good.’

Annie laughed and ate it. ‘You should go there more often.’
She looked at the fire as she spoke, not at him. The heat thrown out made her shield her eyes.

‘I’d rather be here with you, trying to keep your ears out of trouble.’

‘Don’t be daft, I’ve got too much to do without bothering with a scruffy little tyke like you.’ She leant across and pinched his leg gently. ‘You must go more often Tom. I’ll see you do.’

Tom said nothing and neither did Annie. It was nice to sit here and have nothing to do for half an hour she thought, though she should really be washing the dishes; but she made no move to do so, just wriggled her toes and enjoyed the heat. We’ll have to get up to the slag-heap again soon and try and sort out some bits of coal.

Betsy came in when Annie was feeling her lids drooping, her hands heavy. Her face was flushed and her lips slack from the drink. She tipped the pies from the oven on to the trays. Annie nudged Tom and pointed to his coat. She took hers from the peg.

‘Get these off now and no messing mind.’ Betsy threw the towel on the table and sank into her chair. ‘And shut the door behind you,’ she called as they left.

They carried the weighted trays out over the yard, past Beauty who stamped in her stall, and down the back alley; the steam was white in the colourless chill although the pies were covered by two layers of boiled white cloth to retain the heat.

Annie turned down Sanders Alley halfway down the street. They had passed no one yet this morning. It was too cold to go out unless you had to.

‘Where are you going, Annie?’ called Tom, as he stayed, uncertain, at the mouth of the alley. ‘You’re going the long way round.’

‘We’re going this way today, Tom,’ Annie ordered, her voice tight.

He took a step forward, then stopped. ‘But it’s too cold,’ he wailed.

‘Just do as you’re bliddy well told,’ she shouted, her shoulders bent under the weight of the tray. ‘We’ve got things to do today, Tom, important things you and I. It’s time you learnt a few facts of life, a big boy like you.’

She continued, knowing that he would follow. His tray was
the smaller of the two and would not be too much for him on this longer route.

They moved through the alley into Sindon Street with Annie stopping at different doors while Tom’s eyes widened in horror until Annie was finally ready for the field. Tom had not spoken at all. When they arrived they put the trays on the frost hard ground. A frost that had whitened and stiffened black smutted grass that crunched beneath their feet. There was no one else watching the game and there were no pitch marking but the men cheered and slapped when a goal was scored between two old coats. The final whistle was blown by Archie and Annie turned to Tom.

‘Go home, Tom. Now.’ The sky was grey and pressed down on them. They could hear the laughter of the men as they gathered together, shaking hands.

He hesitated, his eyes travelling from her to the men, who were now ambling across the field towards them. They looked big and were getting nearer. Fear made his legs feel weak. He should stay with her, he knew he should.

‘Go home,’ she repeated, shouting at him. She pushed him from her. He was crying now, silently. He turned and looked towards the football field then to her. He should stay, she looked so small here on the big field with men closer and closer looking like dragons breathing smoke as their breath met the cold air. God, he was scared, too scared.

‘Go,’ she said, turning from him to wait for her father and then he fled. His feet turned on the frozen ground but he didn’t stop. He ran and ran, hating himself but not going back. She heard him but did not take her eyes off the men. Her feet were very cold but not numb yet. She wriggled her toes and transferred her weight from one foot to the other.

Her da was feeling the cold too, she thought, watching him walk towards her, rubbing his hands, his scarf wrapped up round his chin. She saw him stop and wait for the men, herding them towards the trays.

‘We’re ready for this, aren’t we, lads?’

‘Right enough, Captain,’ the men laughed and blew on their hands.

Makes him feel big, Annie thought. Captain this and Captain that but I suppose he hasn’t got much else so who can blame him. She could smell the booze on him and all around
him and he was a good five feet away. The men stood round her now, their breath blowing white; they blocked out the light and hemmed her in. She stepped back, out of the circle.

‘Come on then lads, take a slice and let it warm you.’ Her da pulled aside the cloth.

The bits of bread and dripping were very dull, Annie thought. They didn’t steam like the pies had, like the men as they turned to face her. They looked cold like the air and the ground; like her feet; like her father’s voice as he said:

‘What’s the meaning of this?’

Annie set her feet and braced her shoulders, her small breasts sore in the chill wind. The men seemed larger now.

‘The meaning is that it is just not fair,’ she blurted. ‘You run around chasing a little ball and having hot pies when the families have this muck while they’re stuck inside four walls. They cook and wash and never get out of the rut. It’s like a bliddy hive.’

She stepped back as her father moved. He stood still.

‘If you don’t like this, why should they?’ she challenged.

There was a dog barking over by the coats which had made the goal. It pulled one along, tossing it, then barking again. The slag-heap in the distance was grey with frost. No one spoke.

Annie turned back to her father, her anger under control but her resentment still present. ‘Who’s thought to give the women anything like this? Don’t you think they have longings too?’

He was looming above her. His face was red and there was sweat on his nose. He found his voice at last. ‘That is enough, more than enough.’ He had his hand up like a bloody policeman, she thought. ‘Go home to my study and I shall see you there.’

She stood for a moment, there was more to say but she could no longer find the words. She pushed her head down into the bitter east wind and left, but twisting her head she called:

‘I told them that you men had decided to do a swap. It wasn’t their fault.’ Her words were whipping back in her face; her face felt frozen with the cold.

‘It wasn’t their fault,’ she shouted again.

‘Go home,’ her father replied and she knew then that he had heard.

Betsy was sitting at the table as she opened the door. Tom leapt to his feet from his chair by the fire and rushed to her;
putting his arms round her. His warmth pressed into her. She held him close.

‘It’s all right, bonny lad. It’s fine, everything’s fine.’ She stroked his hair. He might be tall for 11 but he was all skin and bone.

Betsy had heaved herself out of the chair, her mouth working soundlessly, then she shrieked. ‘You bloody little fool!’

Beer froth was lying on her lips. She slopped the jug she held in her hand and beer ran over the table.

‘What did you want to go and do a thing like that for? When will you think before you act? You’ve made him look a fool and he’ll lather you.’

Tom clung tighter to Annie. ‘I’m sorry,’ he wept. His voice muffled. ‘I should never have left you.’

Annie took him by the shoulders, pushing him a little from her and looked into his face. ‘I’ve told you everything’s fine and when have I ever lied to you? He’s not cross.’ Her gaze was steady, she shook him slightly and looked over his head to Betsy. ‘Tom should go to May’s tonight, Betsy. He could do with a good meal after today.’

Betsy looked at her, her hand resting on the mug that now stood on the table. She looked confused and beer had splashed down her bodice; she dabbed at it. ‘Oh, perhaps you’re right,’ she said abstractedly, her anger gone as fast as it had come, tiredness taking over and making her slump back into her chair. She didn’t want him to go, he was her son but there was not enough food any more; she always felt hungry and if she did, he did.

She looked through bleary eyes at Annie and Tom standing there and saw the red welt on Annie’s cheek that was still there from that backhander this afternoon. She knew she shouldn’t do it, but Annie was his child – that bugger who lived up those stairs and had brought them all to this. She would have been better off with Joe; at least he knew how to run a shop and would Archie listen to her if she tried to help? Not bloody likely. She wanted to hit him, to slap his pompous face but she couldn’t and all the time she had this anger inside. The drink helped, but it made her even more tired. Life was too much of an effort. The kids were too much of an effort, they got under her feet, they never stopped wanting, and when the rage got too bad she had to hit, had to shout, had to drink even though she
could see that it made Annie cut off from her. She had loved her once, loved them all once. She supposed she still cared for Tom but inside there was only this anger.

‘Can he go then, Betsy?’ Annie’s voice interrupted her.

She sipped at her beer and enjoyed the taste. She waved her hand at Tom. ‘Get on over to May’s then,’ she said.

Tom looked up at Annie and she winked at him, wiping his wet cheeks with her hands. ‘Go on, Tom, and bring me back some apple pie as a present in the morning.’

After wrapping him into his jacket and shooing him out of the door, she went on up the stairs to sit on the study chair for the two hours it took for him to come home.

She had tucked her feet beneath her and wrapped her coat around, glad of its extra layer in the bitter room. She realised that she had never just sat before in this place, which was essentially her father’s den where stale tobacco had threaded into the curtains and lined the walls, and she felt an intruder. It made her sit upright in the chair, stiffly uncomfortable and nervous in case he should come in and find her lolling as though at her ease.

So little sunlight reached this spot and today was worse than usual with its grey cold cloud. She wanted to set up the oil lamp, to throw some of the shadows back into the deepest corner, but dare not. She felt she must make as little impression on this room as possible, rather like her attitude to her father over the last few years. He was there, around the place but not of it. She swallowed; never before had she directly involved herself with this man and she felt small and vulnerable and friendless. She sank her chin on to her chest and wondered what Don would say when he heard as he undoubtedly would, for in this neighbourhood it would be round like wildfire, and a letter would be sent. Maybe he would tell Georgie, but would he remember their day at the hives and understand? She didn’t know because he was too busy with his grown-up life to see the kids who used to be the gang.

It was silent up here; there were no sounds drifting up from the alleys. It was not drifting weather, she thought with a sigh, and ran her hand along the top of the desk. The green leather square which slipped into the sharp edged mahogany top was warm in comparison with the cool shine of the desk. Papers were everywhere, some in piles, some just scattered as though
abandoned. There were two photographs, one of her and one of Don but none of their mother. I wonder what she looked like, she pondered. There was nothing to give a clue to their father except his pipes and feather cleaners.

She looked more closely at the papers before her. They were a jumble of figures which held no interest for her since they did not speak to her of the man who was her father. Leaning forward she poked her finger under the corner of the nearest stack and laying her face sideways against the desk she could see spidery writing stalking across the paper. Lifting the top sheets she started a landslide and slapped her hand down on the top. The desk was damp where her breath had skated across the surface. She wondered why her father had been writing to Joe about coming back to take over in the event of ‘my demise’. Demise was an odd word, she thought, and wondered what it meant.

When is the man coming? she sighed, then whistled tunelessly through her teeth. The waiting seemed endless. She wondered if they would go to the pantomime in Newcastle this year, probably not after today’s little effort, she thought, especially with things being so bad. But it was such a delight, so bright and exciting, with Betsy in her hat, her stockings held up instead of rolled down round her ankles and Happy Harry in his spats and striped trousers.

Suddenly she longed for Tom to be downstairs waiting by the fire for her. She rubbed her nose harshly. No tears, she had promised herself long ago; they did no good.

Then she heard her father on the stairs and rising, she edged away from the chair to stand next to the wall, her hands pressed against the cold plaster and her chin lifting; she chewed the inside of her mouth. The door opened slowly. He said nothing to her as he entered the room and she wondered whether he had remembered her. He sat heavily in the chair looking only at the papers which he tidied absently, not acknowledging her presence in any way. She waited, fascinated by the small pale hands which first patted the papers into squared layers, then fingered a pipe, the wide-bowled one; and after he had drawn the pipe-cleaner through he prodded tobacco into it, lit a match and sucked until it glowed red. She had never seen this private ritual before and felt as though she was watching him clean his teeth. She fidgeted.