After the Storm (30 page)

‘For God’s sake girl, I’m doing you a favour. Get yourself over, will you, before you break me bloody back.’

But he grinned as she scrambled over and jumped down the other side. She was flushed and panting and pulled her dress down where it had hitched up above her knee.

‘You can get yourself over, and the bags,’ she stormed and stalked across the grass, her head up, her hands busy trying to tuck stray curls back into the curves and hollows of her plait.

Aunt May had packed bread and cheese and a flask of tea and the bag banged against his side and against Grace’s which hung over his shoulder too as he caught up with her. As he took her arm, she sniffed then glanced sideways at him. He grinned, then so did she.

The farm was half a mile away now, he reckoned. It was strange coming here on their own. It had always been a race to the top with the other two. Georgie always won, he was second, though Annie had beaten him twice and Grace had insisted on walking with the bags. She said it was undignified but they all knew that she didn’t like the wobble of her body and loved her for it.

The oaks near the road were the only trees on which leaves remained, though even they clung in shrivelled clusters and would come down if the wind increased. The sheep grazed all around them as they walked and those in front moved away as they approached. Tom liked the farm, liked the walk to it, the picnic in the hollow on the far side of the hill and the view from there which he had sketched again and again. Each time it varied; the cart was not there or had a different load and the sky behind was blue or grey or flecked with rain. He patted his pocket. Yes, they were still there; the pencils Annie had sent with her last letter. She’d been to Woolworth’s, she’d said, where everything was under sixpence.

They were breasting the hill now and the wind snatched at their breath as it whirled across from the sea over to their right, but too far for them to see. There were no sheep up here on the top but rocks showed through the scant soil and the wind tugged at what grass there was and pulled and pushed at the dark spiked gorse-bushes that almost, but not quite, reached the crest. The farm lay at the bottom.

Tom looked at Grace, at her hair with its escaped curls leaping and flicking about her face and reached across and
pulled the collar of her thick cardigan up round her neck. They dug heavily into the ground with their heels as they began the descent.

He took her hand loosely, wondering if she would pull away but she did not. He tightened his grip and she did also and then they looked at one another and smiled. It was not so bad after all, thought Tom, coming back here without Annie and he whooped into the air, scattering the sheep and making Grace laugh.

He pulled her faster and faster until they were running and she was with him and laughing and not pulling him to stop. Leaping from hillock to hillock, avoiding the molehills and the sheep which thudded away from their path until the breath bounced in him and they were taking great gulps of air and laughter. He lost his footing half way down and dropped her hand as he rolled over and over, seeing the grass, the sky, his sketch-book as it flew from his hand, his bait-bag as it leapt as he rolled. Over and over he went until he fetched up on the flattened area that was theirs. He lay flat, his arm out, his bag and Grace’s flung over his chest, laughing and panting until gradually he was able to heave himself up on his elbow and look for her.

She was running along the hill, not down it, chasing the loose pages from his pad which the wind was sucking and blowing into the air, turning them about and letting them swoop, but always too far for Grace to reach.

‘Leave them, Grade,’ he called. ‘Leave them and come on down.’

He watched as she turned and cupped her hand to her ear. Her skirt was blowing up over her knees and tight against her legs.

‘Leave them,’ he called again, then beckoned her with exaggerated hand movements and she saw and came down but not running now, though she was laughing. He could see that and hear her.

‘Oh, you great daft thing,’ she said. ‘No wonder Wainwright gave you a belting. I’m surprised he didn’t expel you for breaking his cane.’

She sat down next to him and they edged up so that their backs were against the slope.

The sheep were tearing at the grass all around them, calm again.

‘Our Davy had a word with him, or so May said, so he only stopped me from painting, but Mr Green lets me take paints home with me so it doesn’t matter that much.’

Grace shook her head and reached for her bag. ‘It’s as well you’ve got Davy now. He’s taken over from Annie.’ She brought out some bread and dripping.

‘He’ll not do that, nobody’ll take over from Annie.’ His voice was devoid of laughter now. It was hard and firm. Grace looked at him sideways, sinking her teeth into the crust, it was tough and with her fingers she tore a piece and chewed it.

‘Not even me?’ she asked, looking down at the farm this time.

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s common.’ He slapped her leg and pulled a face. ‘You’re not me sister, are you? I feel something different for you.’

He felt the ground cold through his trousers and brought out from his bag an old knitted baby blanket. ‘Lift your backside and stop being daft.’

He put the blanket beneath her and she handed him what was left of his book. The pages were askew and out of order. ‘All that’s left after the wind had a look.’

‘Never mind lass,’ he said leafing through them, straightening the pages. ‘I’ll do the farm again. They were just sketches of the yard.’

‘Have something to eat, for God’s sake,’ she said. He looked at her bread and dripping and handed her some of his cheese that he had dug out of May’s parcel. The wind was far less raucous where they sat sheltered by the slope behind and it seemed unnaturally quiet. Even the rooks settled along the branches of the elms around the farm were silent as though bowed in sleep.

‘You’re on dripping then? Are the boys out of work again?’

Grace nodded. ‘All but young Frank and he brings in a pittance. Me da’s getting right fed up and me mam wants to know how she can feed a family on a few shillings a week. That’s why I’m starting at the library next week. At least I’ll bring in a little.’

‘Do you mind?’ asked Tom, taking some bread from her and laying some of his cheese on it before passing it back.

She shook her head. ‘It’s what I want. It’s stupid staying on when I know what I want.’

Tom nodded and lay back, his arms over his head, listening to the sounds of the sheep; there were no insects to buzz and click in his ear at this time of year.

What was it Davy had said last night when he had sneaked him into the snug with his mates? He frowned as he went over the scene, trying to capture the flow which had rolled round and across the table.

He could still taste the beer which had bulged down his throat and the excitement of being included and what Davy said had made sense, all that about families needing an extra allowance from the state to make sure that no one starved. Frank, Davy’s mate, had been right too when he’d said that would be a chance for the owners to drop the pay again.

Tom sat up and stared down at the farm, not seeing it, not hearing Grace as she told him to sit still, for God’s sake, she was trying to have a sleep. She settled down again, pulling her cardigan tighter round herself. He took off his jacket and put it over her.

Aye, it had been interesting right enough and it had been grand to see Davy’s face when he’d suggested that along with the allowance the unions should press for a decent basic minimum wage so that the bosses couldn’t try that trick. Tom grinned to himself as he recaptured the look of surprise on Davy’s face, surprise which changed to respect but after all they were only ideas which Davy himself had taught him. Davy had gone along with that but had come up with an even better idea himself; that the allowance should be paid to the women so there was no way the bosses could carp that it was supplementing the men’s wage packet. Tom looked across at Grace. It wouldn’t half help her ma, an idea like that, help everyone, especially up here, whether they were in work or not.

Davy still had no job but he was talking about taking one at Lutters Pit. There was talk of the owners opening it to get what they could out of the bottom seam. It was better than nothing, Davy had said, when May protested and Uncle Henry had banged the table. It was danger money Uncle Henry had shouted. That pit’s been closed too long, there’s too much water to weaken the props and loosen the coal.

Tom had said to him later that night that he should go away
like Georgie, like his brothers, but he wouldn’t. Who would help with the union if he went, he had replied? He was in line for union representative and someone had to stay.

Tom turned now and looked down at Grace. ‘Our Davy says, if you start at the library, get ’em not to black out the racing in the papers will you?’

She laughed. ‘Tell him I’ll bring round the dailies after work if you like but I can’t stop them blacking the runners. Can’t have men on the dole finding a bit of pleasure in gambling, can they! Anyway, your Davy likes coming into the library. It gets him out of the house and he can find more facts to cause trouble with.’ She poked her tongue out at him and grinned. Aye, the lad liked the library right enough, and tinkering with his old motor bike which he refused to sell however much he needed to.

The farmhouse was bordered by outbuildings and today there was washing on the line and a dog lying over the back doorstep. The cart was slewed at right angles to the barn, half full of sawn logs; its wheels looked as though they were growing out of the mud which covered the yard. There was an old plough rusted in the lee of the barn, almost grown over with nettles. He took out his pad and drew in sweeping lines.

‘I had a letter from Annie today,’ he said.

‘Another,’ replied Grace. ‘I had one too last week.’

‘Aye, she told me. She sent me the pencils and another pad. The hens are laying well and now she sells some off to the old sisters who live next door. Their cat got stuck up the monkey-puzzle tree further down the road and they had to get the fire service out. Caused quite a stir.’

Grace smiled and moved her arm arcoss her eyes as she lay back, almost asleep.

He still missed Annie, he thought, though it wasn’t such a raw ache and it helped have Grace to walk with on a Sunday, though she hadn’t let him kiss her mouth yet. He chewed his lip as he wondered how he was going to tell Annie that Georgie had left.

‘Does she know Don’s back?’ Grace asked through lips heavy with sleep.

‘I wrote and told her,’ he replied. ‘I dropped into Albert’s the other day to see him. He looks well enough and has taken to the shop like a duck to water.’

Grace clambered on to one elbow. ‘Can you pass us the tea then, Tom?’

He unhooked the cup from the top and poured the brown milky liquid, took a sip first, then handed it across. ‘There’s no sugar, Grace.’

She shrugged and sipped.

‘I had a letter from Annie.’

Grace laughed. ‘You’ve just told me that.’

He put his pencil down and balanced his pad on his knee whilst he dug the blue paper from his pocket. It was written in pen and the ink was black. ‘She talks about Betsy. I’ll read you that bit if you like?’

Grace was looking at him quizzically and nodded when he looked at her. She tucked her hair behind her ear and adjusted his jacket over her legs.

He smoothed the pages and looked through the first one, then put it to the back and stopped halfway down the second page.

‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘ “I’ve been thinking about your mam, Tom. Just imagine how it must have been having to slave away for me da, putting up with all the work, the booze and the misery. Looking after Don and me as well as her own bairn and it wasn’t until the end that she belted me, when her hands were like balloons and the booze had got to her.

‘She must have felt so beholden to Da because he had taken you too. That’s why she could never say what she felt, never stand up for herself, so she got drunk and angry. Then he killed himself and left her with the mess and nowhere to go. At least Joe gave her a job and some money so she can pay May for your keep. She couldn’t keep us, you must see that. How could we have lived in some poky room on a pittance she picked up skivvying?

‘I feel bad about the way we didn’t go to her. We should have done and I’m going to write to her. I think you should go and see her Tom, I really do. She loves you and what else could she do?

‘See you when you come next week. Is Grace coming too? Thanks for telling me Don is back. I’ve written to him at Albert’s. I hope he’s all right there. It worries me to think of him with that man but he always seemed to like him.

‘All my love to you, Tom.” ’

He handed the letter over to Grace and looked again at the farm. The farmer was out now, loading more logs from a pile by the cart. He used his hands and never seemed to pause between swinging the logs through the air and picking up more.

‘Will you then?’ Grace asked, when she had finished reading through it again.

Tom shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

He took up his pencil again and shaded in the side of the barn.

‘Did you know she paid towards your keep?’

‘Oh yes, me Aunt May told me when I was going on one day, just after I moved in.’

He tore the page out and handed it to Grace. ‘What do you think of that?’

He was drawing again, this time trying to capture the farmer in action. It wasn’t working and he threw himself back and watched the clouds as they scudded darkly against the grey sky. It wouldn’t rain though, the clouds were too high.

‘I wonder what me da was like,’ he mused. ‘Poor old Barney.’ It was hardly his fault he’d been killed in the war but what would he have thought of Betsy palming off his son. He thought of his mother, blowsy and overblown and he could not imagine, did not want to imagine, her locked in passion with a man; that gross body all panting and eager. He shuddered and flopped over on to his side, pulling at the grass.

He remembered her clouting Annie, shouting at her and at him, again and again. She was ugly, in the same way that the woman with the veins at the fair had been ugly. Her hands bulged and he didn’t want to go and see her, didn’t want to go and have to be touched by her. Annie didn’t understand. Betsy was not her mother, she was his and had given him away. He wasn’t interested in whether she felt beholden, she should have kept him.