Annie's Promise

by Margaret Graham

  His shoulders were tense again but then Don said, ‘I’ve heard that Manners is straight, shouldn’t have any trouble. I should go for it.’

  She felt Georgie relax, felt herself relax too at those words. Please God, let it be true. Don took out a cigar. ‘Mm, taken out the lease have you?’ He was rolling it under his nose.

  ‘No smoking, dear,’ Maud said and Annie was glad that she’d bitten back the very same words.

  ‘Good luck to you both anyway. Thanks for coming. Hope it goes well – business is a tricky game.’

  He was putting the cigar back into his pocket, shaking their hands, kissing Annie and she hugged him because it was the first time her brother had done that for more years than she cared to remember.

  They worked day and night until the end of May but there were no more headaches because Georgie held her when she did finally fall into bed and touched her when she passed him. He sewed on the roses sitting next to her, and kissed her when the final set of underwear was completed, then handed them to Sarah and Davy to box.

  ‘Brilliant, wonderful, you’ve been so good,’ Annie told the children and Sarah said, ‘Now he’ll come out of the pit, won’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he’ll come out, my love.’

  ‘That’s all that matters then.’

  This time they didn’t go to the beach, they bought champagne and drank it in Bet’s kitchen with the homeworkers and Brenda while the kids played their washboards in the yard and sang Hound Dog though Georgie called for Mona Lisa, or Red Sails in the Sunset.

  ‘You’re so square,’ Sarah groaned. ‘And we really need guitars for rock, not washboards.’

  Annie looked at Tom. ‘Maybe when the cheque comes in?’

  He grinned. ‘Maybe, after all, they could end up making us a fortune.’

  They drank a toast to Manners and Annie downed hers in one because even Don had vouched for Manners and both he and Georgie could not be wrong.

  During the next week they continued to provide stock for the stalls but there was no longer the need to work into the small hours and Annie put Brenda, Meg and Irene back on to the retainer but there were no complaints because they all knew it was temporary.

  They submitted the plans to the planning office and Annie went over their figures and offered discounts to all traders to try to make amends and draw back those who had left them. But it was too late, they would not reconsider, and they were no more friendly than they had been last time.

  Georgie shrugged. ‘Who cares,’ he said but Annie cared very much, and worried about it, but she wouldn’t allow it to come between them again.

  She looked at second-hand guitars but they seemed so large and she decided that there would be time enough for guitars when the children were older. But a gramophone at Christmas would soften the blow and maybe the adults’ ears.

  In the second week she hoovered the house free of threads, wielded the rotary cutter and sewed in the afternoon, helping Betsy with the supper, helping Sarah write up her project comparing the yearly pattern of an oak and a horse chestnut.

  She slept eight hours again that night as she had done for the last ten days. ‘I’d forgotten what it was like to be lazy,’ she murmured to Georgie who was on late shift and could sleep in for much longer.

  She packed Sarah’s lunch, and checked her project, her collar and her nails. ‘Good, sparkling clean, though I’m surprised you’ve any left after all that washboard work.’

  ‘If I had a guitar I wouldn’t have to suffer like this.’ Sarah put her hand to her forehead.

  ‘Out,’ laughed Annie. ‘Wait and see what Father Christmas pops into your little stocking, and no, it won’t be Elvis Presley, so you can wipe that smile off your face.’

  Sarah slung her satchel over her shoulder. ‘Don’t want Elvis, only his guitar.’

  ‘Out.’

  She washed the dishes, wiped the floor, heard the post. Picked up the letter. It had a Newcastle postmark and was addressed to Wassingham Textiles. She opened it. It was from Mr Manners telling them that their goods were of inadequate quality, that they had therefore defaulted on the contract and he would be returning the whole order later today. There would be no payment of course.

  CHAPTER 6

  Georgie passed the canteen walking in the midst of the other men, though not with them, Jesus, not with them. He took his lamp, handed in his tag. He stood still for frisking. No cigarettes, no matches – no bloody nothing – not any more. He’d lost them the lot. It was his order, he was the big I am who’d thought he’d cracked it for them all, thought he’d pushed them up when all he’d done was shove them down.

  ‘Get on with it, man,’ Frank said, pushing him forward into the cage. ‘Left your brains back home, have you?’

  Georgie nodded. ‘Something like that,’ but his throat hurt to speak, it felt swollen with rage, with anger, with hopelessness. The gates crashed into place, the surface disappeared, the cage dropped, dropped, thumped and they were out on to the paddy train.

  ‘We’re down the old workings today, setting the props.’ Frank was squashed against him and Georgie wanted to break free, to smash his fist into the brickwork they were churning past. It was he who had pushed his way into the chair, taken over the meetings, insisted on the exclusives. God, if only he’d listened.

  They walked inbye, crouching down, beneath the roof, the bloody creaking roof which could come down at any minute, which had come down on Wassingham Textiles. They stripped, ducked under the roadhead, their lights playing against the side, their faces in darkness, thank God, because he could feel the tears on his cheeks, dropping down on to his chest. She’d just held the letter out to him – ‘it’s part of the game’ she’d said. ‘Just part of the game. We’ll get back on our feet,’ and she’d smiled, held him. ‘He’s a bugger, we nearly made it, we very nearly made it, we couldn’t have known, just think of that, nothing else.’

  Georgie crouched lower, lifting his feet above the dust, feeling for uneven surfaces. There were broken props here, the roof had been working overnight.

  ‘The old cow’s splintered the buggers,’ Frank said stopping, his lamp playing on the weakened props. ‘There’s another.’

  Georgie turned away, wiped his face. No, she was wrong, she had feared it, had wanted to wait, had wanted to keep the markets but he’d pushed them – for Christ’s sake he’d pushed them because he’d given her no choice, he’d shown her how he felt about this hot, dirty great hole which he had insisted he worked in. They’d never get back now, their name was gone – how long would he be down here now? A lifetime is what he bloody well deserved.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, man, let’s get on with it.’ Frank was heaving at the prop which had been left by the early shift. Georgie nodded. Yes, let’s get on with it, there was nothing else to do.

  He measured a prop, sawed it, erected it, tightening it into place, hammering it into position, feeling the judder up his arm, glad of it. He hit harder – harder – harder, feeling the coal dust falling on his face, in his mouth. Again and again …

  ‘For Christ’s sake, man.’ Frank grabbed his arm. ‘D’you want to bring the old sow down?’ Frank’s face was coal black, streaked with sweat, angry. Georgie dropped the hammer, heard it clang, coughing now, his mouth claggy with dust, his eyes sore, sweat and grime filled.

  ‘You do the bloody thing then,’ he snarled, snatching his arm away, wanting to smash his fist into the face of this pigeon man who held him, wanting to kick and pound the prop into nothingness.

  Frank stood silently, watching him, then reached down for the hammer, handing it back. ‘For Christ’s sake, Georgie, leave your rows with the missus at home and remember you’re in a bloody pit. It’s not just yourself you’ll kill, it’s your marrers.’ Frank turned his back, tightened in his own prop, stopping, listening to the roof, watching for the fall of dust, and Georgie felt the hammer cold in his hand, felt the sweat running down his forehead, his chest, back, legs and arms.

  He swun
g the hammer again, more carefully now, tightening the prop into place, hammering in a wedge of wood at the top, making sure it was straight, making sure that the pressure came down true and he felt the heat not just of the mine, but of his shame because he was part of a team, or at least while he was down here. Up there … but what was the point of thinking about up there any more?

  They propped until all was secure, then drank in deep gulps of cold tea because the heat and the dust were thick. Frank went under the head with his pick, turning back what he’d loosened, cursing, swearing, toiling while Georgie shovelled the coal into tubs because there was no conveyor at this old, small face. And for once he longed for the noise of the conveyor’s rumbling, or the harshness of the cutter because they filled his mind and his body, killing thought and feeling. ‘Down the bloody drain,’ he murmured, ‘Down the bloody drain.’ But he mustn’t think of it, not now, not down here. Annie had said that. ‘Don’t think of it, we’ll sort it out. Concentrate, Georgie, no need to worry, just concentrate.’

  She hadn’t wanted to show him the letter until the end of the shift, but he’d seen her face when he came down, and before that he’d heard Tom’s voice, but by the time he reached the kitchen Annie was alone with the door open and a draught blowing at the ashes on the hearth. Her eyes had been guarded, her kiss intense, her hug too tight, her laugh too loud as she called him a lazy toad who probably wanted a three-course breakfast now.

  Frank was easing out from beneath the head. ‘Your turn now, let’s see what you’ve remembered.’ He was panting, his elbow had been rubbed raw, his side grazed. Georgie was glad to be handed the pick, glad to crawl beneath the coal, to lie on his side, dig the pick in, heave it out again, burrowing into the seam, panting in the heat, feeling his breath sore in his throat through thirst, not tears, straining his back, grazing his side because it kept him from thinking of her face smiling, her arms comforting him, her eyes shadowed and desperate, but not as desperate as his.

  It kept him from thinking of her voice telling him it wasn’t as bad as it looked, they could start again, work on the traders, repair the damage, go further afield where their name wasn’t damaged – her voice telling him to concentrate, for God’s sake concentrate. Calling him back as he crossed the yard, begging him not to go in, stay at home, get over the shock.

  They stopped for snap but he couldn’t eat. He sat back on his haunches and listened to Frank, hearing his words but thinking only of the future, which was this, nothing else. Christ, oh Christ. He thought of her eyes, her smile. What if she couldn’t cope, what if she broke down again? Why hadn’t he listened to her?

  They moved on after snap.

  ‘Roof’s bad down at number six,’ said Frank.

  ‘No, it’s fine now,’ called a passing deputy.

  It wasn’t fine, the floor was dirty which meant the roof was a bugger. They crouched lower ducking under the jagged outcrops, by-passing the props bent out like crooked elbows.

  ‘Jesus, that’d twist out soon as look,’ Frank swore. ‘Careful there, Georgie.’

  Georgie didn’t reply, just nodded; looking, feeling, listening, just as Frank was doing, then calling out. ‘There’s a bad one to your left, Frank.’

  It was six feet to the face conveyor but the roof was so low they had to squeeze between the motors of the two conveyors.

  ‘Timber up, the man said, so timber up it’ll be but we’ve drawn the short straw today, Georgie.’

  Georgie nodded. He knew that already. His lamp played on the props in the new track, all pushed out of the vertical by fifteen degrees, even the new ones. They eased along the track under four yards of unsupported roof.

  ‘Four broken.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Georgie snapped, then shook his head. ‘Sorry man, bad day.’

  Frank just nodded. ‘I’d never have known it, but never mind, we all have ’em. Sometimes me birds don’t win, sometimes the squeakers die – yes, we all have ’em.’

  Georgie laughed. God, if only it was a question of a couple of bloody squeakers and he felt fury rise again at Manners, at Frank, at everyone, but most of all himself – then shook his head. Concentrate, the lass had said. Concentrate – and don’t blame yourself. It’s no one’s fault, only Manners.

  There were two middle sets broken too and they sawed, hammered, wedged, tightened. Georgie dug down to the solid floor to stand in the last prop, putting it side by side with the old broken one. He had to use his hands because there was no room between the props and the conveyor; he cut the prop with the tadge, set it, listening, always listening for the roof, watching for dust trickles, concentrating, always concentrating like the lady had said.

  ‘Got to move on down to the undercut,’ Frank grunted. ‘Bloody long shift this is, with all this bitty work.’

  Georgie nodded. He didn’t want to go up now, he wanted to stay here, wedge, tighten, listen, look, hide because he didn’t know what to do any more up in the open air, in the world of high finance he’d thought he’d conquered.

  They cleared the gum beneath the undercut, shovelled it on to the conveyors and the noise was kind to him, filled his head, made it ache. His hands were kind to him because they were cut and sore. They worked in the heat and the dust and the noise, stopping, drinking warm water, wiping sweat from their eyes, easing their backs, stretching their arms. Frank looked across at him and grinned, his teeth white in his black face. Georgie realised that the anger was oozing out of him along with the sweat and he smiled now when Frank joked, nodded as he panted and talked of his squeaker.

  It wouldn’t be so bad Georgie thought, spending years down here. It wouldn’t really be so bad, especially working with Frank, and he could go on the training schemes, work his way up. They could pay back the debts, they could supply distant traders, he could apologise to the local ones. Yes, perhaps after all, they could manage.

  Just before the end of the shift was called they picked up their bait tins and started to walk to the paddy train, then stopped, they had no clothes. They were still in a pile down by the old face and they laughed as they trudged back down the jagged roofed roadway, crouching, wheezing, grinning in the light of their lamps, slapping one another’s arms as they finally dressed, then eased their way back for the tadge which they had also forgotten.

  ‘Let’s take the tub road, catch up with the paddy train further on,’ Georgie said, the laughter still in him, and hope too, because he still had his body hadn’t he, he was still a pitman wasn’t he – one who could read this old sow like a book.

  They stepped over the tub rails, walking close into the walls, passing the manholes, easing back into one as a run of tubs trundled by, feeling the wind and Georgie remembered when he’d been a lad and they’d had a runner and he’d thrown himself hard back into the recess, almost cowering and had been ashamed until his father had told him that anyone who didn’t do that was a bloody idiot. ‘Bits of coal are a damn sight easier to pick up than bits of Georgie Armstrong.’

  They were scrunching down an incline now, Frank ahead, his head down, his shoulders rounded. They were tired, and Georgie thought of the shower he would have and longed instead for a bath in front of the fire with Annie scrubbing his back. He would hold her when he clumped home, he would tell her how sorry he was, how he wished he’d listened. He didn’t mind the pit any more, now that he knew it was for good, now that he’d stopped playing games with ‘the edge’, with the business.

  He thought of the letter, felt the anger again, deep inside, churning, twisting, and he didn’t hear the tubs behind him, way behind him, thundering and clanging, but suddenly he felt the ground, looked up, heard Frank yelling, ‘Runner! runner!’ There was nothing but darkness ahead though, he’d lagged too far behind Frank. Where was the bloody manhole? Georgie ran, stumbling, dropping the tadge, dropping his bait-bag, looking for the manhole.

  The tubs were closer, louder, his lamp beam was jogging up and down, seeking safety, trying to hear Frank’s voice above the noise, sucking all th
ought from his head except the need to hide because there was a bend in the track, he knew there was. How close was it? The tubs would come off – they’d come off over him.

  He was running, running but they were close, so close and then there was the manhole, Frank was standing there, his light guiding him. He’d make it, thank God he’d make it.

  But the leading tub leapt the track, the others smashed and spilled and there was only dust and debris and silence and Georgie thought that at last a bomb had got him, at last he’d been clumsy, that the CO would curse, Annie would cry and he wouldn’t be able to tell her that there was no pain, just a growing lapping darkness.

  Annie knelt on the floor, checking through the returned underwear box by box, the tissue paper piling high around her, but there were no faults and the workmanship was excellent as she had known it would be. She also knew that there was nothing that could be done. She sat back on her heels, then leaned forward, smoothing out the tissue paper, flattening it. It could be used again. She laid piece after piece on the pile, flattening, smoothing, not thinking, just for a moment.

  She heard Tom enter the kitchen, heard him come through to the hall, heard the heaviness of his tread and called out quietly, ‘Don’t worry, lad, I’ll think of something. We’ll sort it out, but not today. Today, when Georgie and Sarah come in let’s all go to the sea, blow the cobwebs off, paddle, let the kids drop seaweed down our backs. We’ll leave the thinking until tomorrow – what d’you say?’

  She turned. He stood so still, so white and there was no need for him to speak – she knew. The moment she saw him she knew.

  There were no words either as he drove to the hospital, just agony at the slowness of the car, the length of the journey, the thought of the tubs, the coal, on top of Georgie, on top of the man she loved more than life itself.

  She picked at the threads on her skirt, rolling them into balls, dropping them on the floor. Clenching her hands into fists, gritting her teeth, urging the car faster, faster. ‘They don’t know,’ Tom had said. ‘They don’t know if he’ll live.’