After the Storm (55 page)

Near the bloody end, she sang to herself. Can it really be near the end? Was there still a world out there beyond the wire and, if so, would their guards let them live to see it?

The guards pinned up black-outs and the beatings became more savage and Annie’s finger was broken again. Prue had a bad sore throat and couldn’t eat her rice. It was diphtheria.

Annie nursed her in the doctor’s room, swabbing and sponging, straining the water until she could smell nothing but disinfectant, but still the disease ravished what little was left of Prue’s body. For weeks the bombs came but never hit the camp. The ground shuddered, not every day or night but enough to make the guards more cruel and the women more frightened, for now they all asked the question; would they be allowed to live if Japan was defeated? Long into the night Annie sat and held Prue’s hand and somehow she lived but lost her mind and sat winding her hair round and round her middle finger and smiling and doing as she was asked but only for Annie.

Annie cut her hair and streaked the fringe and took her to
tenko
and made her bow when she should and stand when she should so she was not beaten. She made her eat her rice but Prue whimpered unless the rabbit was made to find its hole.

‘She could pick up, Annie,’ the doctor told her as they wound the bandages in the evenings. The smell of the coconut oil lamp was not unpleasant. It was the same as it had been for three and a half years and perhaps it kept the mosquitoes away.

‘It’s not exactly a world anyone in their right mind would rush back to, is it?’ Annie replied. ‘So perhaps she is the only sane person here.’ She put her hands on the table; they were trembling badly again. ‘Do you think the Allies will ever come and, if they do, will we be alive to see them?’

Doctor Jones patted her hand. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I dare to hope that we’ll survive but at others …’ She shrugged. ‘I just don’t understand these people.’

‘At least they’ve broken the sahibs’ rule, haven’t they? They’ve pricked the bubble now. We’ve been coolies too and we bleed like the Malays do. We’ve spoilt it for the ladies who danced at Raffles, spoilt their image haven’t we?’

‘Perhaps not before time?’ the doctor murmured and Annie was surprised.

‘I worked in Liverpool in the thirties, before I went back to Sydney. Those bloated little bellies were not so very different to these in the camp.’

They sat in silence for a while. Moths flew at the flame and one was caught.

‘Will you go back to England or Australia?’ Annie asked.

‘I’m not sure yet. What about you?’

‘I have a house and I’m going to decorate it but I want the sea as well. I want to walk by the sea again where the wind can clean me and my eyes can stretch forever. I want to run my business and to live with Georgie.’ She said it quietly, rolling the bandages again, feeling the creases and smoothing them out.

‘In that order?’ the doctor asked.

Annie could not answer.

Bob and Tom sank yet another beer. It was still watered down but it tasted like ambrosia and, bugger me, thought Tom, if I don’t feel like a bloody God. VE day had been grand with lights blazing from windows out into the streets for the first time in years but this was even better.

‘July 5th and Labour’s in.’ Tom drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Hitler would turn in his bunker if he knew, eh Bob. Socialism in England when he wanted to kill ’em all. Bye, makes you feel grand doesn’t it, man?’

Bob chuckled. ‘Aye lad, it does, that it does. No depression after this war and if there is, no one will starve anyway.’ The pub was full of men, sun streamed in through windows and there were banners on all the sills.

‘Have another drink, Bob.’ Tom wiped his mouth with his hand. A toast to Clem Attlee, eh, and how about one for Wainwright, wherever he may be.’

Bob laughed ‘We’ve had enough, Tom. Let’s get back to see Bobby before Grace takes him to bed.’

Tom sprang to his feet, his face breaking into a grin. He shoved his change into his pocket. ‘It’s all been worth it then, Bob. War’s over and Labour’s in and Don’s bloody livid.’ He showed Bob Don’s postcard. He would be demobbed by August.

The pub had filled since they came in and they pushed their way through the groups of excited miners, slapping backs and grinning, until they reached the door. The sun was still hot and the light creased their eyes until they adjusted to the glare. The streets they walked down were humming with activity. Women hung around their front doors, aprons on and sleeves rolled up, some with bairns on their hips. Men laughed over cigarettes,
dark from the pit still, unwilling to go home until the victory was talked into manageable size.

Tom and Bob turned into the back alley and then through the yard gate. The kitchen door was open with Bobby sitting on the step. Grace turned from the wall; Mrs Fenney was leaning over and they were laughing.

‘Now you’re here, Tom Ryan, you can wind down this line for me,’ ordered Grace and collected together the last of the washing. ‘Staying for a bite are you, Bob?’

As she carried the basket into the house, Tom slipped up behind her and kissed her neck. Mrs Fenney laughed and Grace squealed.

‘Tom, I can smell beer on you. You can just behave yourself.’

But by now Bobby was pulling at his trousers and laughing. He weighed nothing at all as Tom swung him into the air, then back close into his arms. He blew gently down his neck and nuzzled his son, who had skin which was almost too soft to feel.

Working as a checker gave him more time for the lad and it pleased him. The committee work at the pit consumed one evening a week and was as interesting as Bob had promised it would be and still gave him time for his painting class with the lads.

‘Come on Bob, get sat down.’ He steered him into his usual chair to the left of the fire which was a dull glow on this hot day. The irons were already heating on the hot plate. He slapped his cap on the table and, still carrying Bobby, sat down and stroked his brown hair as they gathered their thoughts in silence. The beer had made his body loose and he kissed his son’s head. The clock was ticking on the mantelpiece.

‘It was the bombers really, wasn’t it?’ Tom said eventually. ‘That’s what won the election. It dragged lice and smelly kids into posh homes all over the country. Bye, I bet some noses had a shock. The old ’uns too, bombed out and nowhere to go. Made a few people think, I reckon. Think about how the posh lived, how the poor lived.’

‘The press certainly splashed it all over the papers,’ agreed Bob.

‘Free milk, free school dinners, they’ll be keeping those on, I reckon, and Davy should have been here since I dare say they’ll be extending that Family Allowance the evacuees had.’

‘Archie will be the one turning in his grave if you’re not
careful, Tom. Can’t you hear him saying, “Lunch, if you don’t mind, Thomas.”’

They both chuckled now but their eyes were thoughtful at a picture of a man defeated by a life that would not be allowed to happen now.

‘Tough on Winnie, though. Must feel like a kick in the teeth,’ mused Tom, watching as Grace brought the washing in and then wiped a flannel over Bobby’s face, which was sticky with toffee Betsy had made. He was asleep now on Tom’s lap and Tom kissed Grace’s arm below the elbow as she reached across.

‘Nationalisation must feel that way to him anyway. Poor old soldier and now it’ll come, thick and fast.’ Bob patted his lip with his forefinger.

Grace nodded. ‘It doesn’t seem fair somehow.’ She was folding the clothes into a neat pile, ready for ironing, then smiled at them. ‘Come on, you two, get up the allotment, the pair of you, while I do a spot of ironing and then put the bairn to bed and fix a bit to eat. You can sort out the world up there. The birds will appreciate a few crumbs of wisdom.’

Bob and Tom raised their eyebrows at one another.

‘We’ve had a better audience than this when we’ve been canvassing. Cheered I was, on the waste land,’ puffed Tom.

‘Out!’ Grace laughed.

So they linked arms, bowed and ducked the cloth that Grace aimed towards them. Tom curtailed his limping stride to fit in with Bob’s frail step as they walked up the hill. They did not hurry but nodded to Sam Walker, as they passed, before continuing in a contented silence until they reached the allotment bench, which Tom had angled in between the shed and the wall so that Bob could have a windless patch when he joined Tom here on Sundays.

The bench was warm from the sun and they leaned back against the wall. Bob filled his pipe, still with tea leaves. He had said he’d only use tobacco again when nationalisation had taken place and Tom was right glad that it looked as though it was on the way; the smell was dreadful. There were still a few hearted lettuces but the cabbages were young yet and the beans were beginning to hang heavy on the poles.

‘I suppose the government will have to buy the owners out?’

Bob nodded. ‘Yes, they’ll be offered compensation. It’ll be
better than the way you once proposed. A revolution with a temporary dictatorship?’ He looked at Tom sideways.

‘Aye, and you could say the war had one and look at what was achieved.’ But he put his hands up as Bob started to argue. ‘I know, I know, I was only mithering. Wish to God the buggers would put some of their compensation into newer industries up here though, Bob. That’s always going to be the trouble in coal you know. Heavy industry is vulnerable. Even if mining is nationalised it will always be vulnerable. It’s a declining industry.’

‘I know, lad, but one thing the men’ll have to do is to have a national union, not the various groups making up the Federation.’

Tom nodded. ‘That’ll be more work for you, Bob. Can you handle it? The campaign took it out of you.’

He looked with concern at Bob who had door-knocked and spoken on street corners alongside Tom and that had tired him enough, damn it. The man couldn’t be far off 60.

‘I’ll do a bit, lad, but what about you? Could be a great opening for you. You’d make a grand union man.’

The sun had dipped almost out of sight behind the slag but it was still light and the honeysuckle which climbed the wall to their right made the air heavy with its fragrance. A sparrow was busy where the chicken meal was kept. Tom stopped and threw a pebble towards it. As it flew off in a flurry of fear, he said, ‘No Bob. It’s time I was off out of it now. Me foot hurts, me mind goes round in circles. I want to get on with our own ideas now.’

Bob stopped sucking on his pipe and turned to look at Tom.

‘Your Annie’s not been found yet, Tom. They’ve opened a few camps, found such dreadful things. You must not be so sure of the future.’

Grace had spoken to him, asked him to make Tom consider that Annie was probably dead, try to get him to think of life without her. He patted Tom’s knee. ‘You must think in terms of yourself, not ourselves, lad.’

Tom shook his head. ‘Don’t you fret, Bob. She’ll be back. There’s a lot for us to do. Houses will be rebuilt, they’ll need decorating and it will give a great deal of work, half of it to women. She knows that. She’ll be back, I tell you.’ It was now the half-light of a summer’s evening and the birds were still
swooping over the allotment and, in the honeysuckle, a finch was fluttering.

‘Georgie’s going when Japan is finished and he won’t stop until he finds her. I can’t live without her. I couldn’t work at the business unless she’s with me.’

Bob felt a cold shaft cut down through his body.

Tom tapped his arm. ‘Let’s get back, shall we? Grace will mither us for letting the food get cold.’ He took Bob’s arm as they walked out of the allotment, past the alley that led to Betsy, on down the darkening streets which could now be lit with street lamps.

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?

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.