Annie's Promise

by Margaret Graham

  Annie held his hand, slotting her fingers between his, holding him tightly. ‘There aren’t many people of our age running anywhere right now,’ she said, but she understood, and from his kiss she knew he realised that she did.

  ‘She’s a little devil though, isn’t she? Just listen to all this,’ Georgie said, but he was laughing. ‘Davy’s just told me he wants to do textile design so that’ll please her majesty – I’ll bet any money you like they’ll be going to the same college, so they’ll keep one another company and we can easily get to Newcastle to see them, make sure she’s not getting out of hand.’

  ‘Getting out of hand, I just hope she’s not already there,’ Annie said walking towards the music, seeing the candy floss stall and feeling the relief spreading through her at the thought that Davy and Sarah would stay together, and close to home.

  ‘We must do this more often,’ she murmured, ‘it brings us luck.’ Because she had feared they would disappear to London and it seemed so far away, especially in today’s world.

  Sarah and Davy ran with Geoff and Paul through the crowds, feeling the heat on their faces, hearing the music blasting out from the huge speakers, almost drowning the chugging of the generators, smelling the diesel, candy floss, hot dogs. They stood on the steps, watching the cars crash and thump, the drivers grimace and jerk, waiting until the music slowed, then running for a car. Sarah and Davy in the yellow one, Geoff and Paul in the green, chasing one another as the power came on, screaming, screeching, groaning, jolting.

  They ran off to the Big Wheel and flew through the air, and Sarah felt the wind rush through her, like it did when she tumbled over the bar at the allotment and she gripped Davy’s arm. ‘Isn’t life wonderful, just so wonderful and you’re right, we should go to your da’s college. It’ll get us away from here, give us a change. This is what London will be like – the two of us and music like this, and people who understand op art, and like it too. Oh Davy, I can’t wait.’ She turned and looked out across the flashing lights to the sea.

  On the coach back Sarah and Davy conducted the singers in Hound Dog and Living Doll, then organised them into groups using their voices to create rhythms, singing Platters songs, and Coasters numbers while Rob sat next to Annie and talked about Ban the Bomb marches and the escalation in the United States military aid to Vietnam until his father reached over and said, ‘Shut up and sing.’

  Annie saw Davy turn towards them, he had heard and the love in his face was for Tom. She smiled gently. Everything was going to be all right. It wasn’t until the next morning that Sarah told her about London, about Davy’s need to go to his father’s college, about their need for a change.

  Annie merely straightened her daughter’s collar, gave her a kiss and said that of course she understood, they would all understand. She walked to the allotment and wouldn’t allow the ache to take hold, she just hoed and dug and watered, and thought of the places she had been, and how Sarah Beeston had let her go with never a murmur – how Georgie had travelled far further and his mother had allowed him – how Tom and Gracie had spent three years in London.

  By the time the evening came her back ached and her hands were blistered but she was comforted, because London wasn’t so far away, Sarah would be practically an adult and she must learn to let go, it was as simple as that and this is what she told Georgie as they made love. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s what I’ve been thinking. I’m quite looking forward to life on our own while we watch her grow. It’ll be a new stage for them and us.’

  His lips were as soft as his voice and she held him close to her because she knew that he was right.

  Throughout the summer the kids worked as packers again, standing alongside the machinists who had voted to take turns in the packing room to ring the changes during the day.

  In the autumn the kids bought second-hand amplifiers and fixed them to plywood, taking them to the Youth Club for the Christmas gig which was the only one they had secured.

  They had new guitars for Christmas, ones with good solid wide bodies and black inlaid trim. They had cutaway necks for easier manoeuvrability on the lower frets of the finger board, or so the man in the shop had told Gracie and Annie.

  They sat round the table, fingering them, playing desultory chords, talking of the geometric patterns of op art, the visual effect they created, and Annie asked Tom if they could be incorporated into the soft furnishings they were considering for the summer if they found they could afford new printers.

  He shook his head. ‘Too adventurous.’

  ‘Oh Da,’ groaned Davy.

  ‘Oh Da nothing, just think what it would be like to live with. Interesting to create, a problem to sell, just you remember that, both of you, when you’re down there in that big city.’

  ‘And just remember too,’ said Annie, pouring the last of the beer, ‘that nobody’s going anywhere unless these exams are passed, so rehearsals are restricted until July.’

  The kids didn’t groan, just nodded because they had their guitars, they had their amplifiers and after their ‘O’ levels they would have two years to penetrate the clubs of Newcastle before they left for London, then they’d have everything.

  In the spring of 1963 Annie took on a cutter because there was too much work for just one. They took on two machinists, a bookkeeper and a clerk and at last her office was tidy, Georgie’s and Tom’s too.

  ‘I feel like a real boss now,’ Georgie said that night. ‘I really must get myself a cigar.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Annie replied.

  In the summer there was no maintenance for the inspector to throw at them, just profits, and so the bonus was higher, but not too high because they’d decided at the monthly meeting to invest in new printers, pad mangles, and a boiler so that they could respond to the upholstery requests which were pouring in.

  ‘Next year,’ Annie said, ‘our turnover should be so much higher that the bonus, and the salary increases, should be much bigger. Hang in with us, everyone, we’ve nearly cracked it.’

  At the end of June, Don rang and she told him of their expansion, of their increased bonus for the workers, the escalating graph, the lack of repairs on the inspector’s list.

  ‘So the consortium can go and take a jump,’ she said and he was pleased for them, really pleased, she could tell from his voice.

  ‘Come over,’ she said. ‘We haven’t seen you for ages.’

  ‘Can’t, we’re going to the Canary Isles tomorrow.’

  Sarah said, ‘Tweet, tweet,’ when Annie told her and Annie asked Georgie that night whether London knew quite what was going to hit it.

  In July, they reorganised the factory, reshuffling, making room for the two flat-bed printers, one Buser printer, two pad mangles, a step and repeat machine and the boiler. They could now print eight colours, not just two. It took a month to set up and start producing and they took on three extra print workers and a machinist called Pat who was a newcomer to Wassingham but who needed a break, Brenda said. They also took on a van and driver for distribution.

  ‘Should we try our own retail outlets?’ Bet asked.

  No, they said, they couldn’t cope. Not yet.

  ‘Should we try wallpaper?’

  No, they said, not yet, next year perhaps because they must recoup their outlay first and then they would reconsider. Now they should start building up their reserves because the new machinery had taken their capital, though there was no loan involved and that in itself was a victory. ‘It’s going to be good, just up and up from now on,’ Annie told everyone.

  On 1 August Sarah showed Annie details of a talent competition in Newcastle in three weeks’ time. ‘We want to enter. We want to get as far as we can while we’re here. It’ll improve us so much, hold us in good stead for London. They’re more sophisticated there, sharper. We’ll need much more experience.’

  That night in bed, Annie and Georgie lay and worried and the next day as she cooked breakfast Annie said, ‘Where is this music taking you – will it p
ush aside your art? Do think carefully, you need qualifications to fall back on, and we hear such stories of the music world.’

  She turned the bacon, hearing it spit, watching the fat cook, the rind warp, waiting for her daughter to reply.

  Sarah was reading the paper, turning the pages, speaking with toast in her mouth. ‘Oh, we’re only going to use it to earn a bit of extra money. It’s just a hobby, Mum, like Da’s birds, then we’d like to come back here and help in the business, if that’s all right, because the north’s our home and besides you’ll need us when you start the retail outlets and the wallpaper.’

  The bacon was burning. Annie flicked it on to the plates. ‘That’s all right then,’ she said quite calmly, though she wanted to leap in the air and cheer.

  The kids practised in Annie’s front room because Tom’s neighbours had complained about the noise coming from the stable. Mrs Anders complained about the noise coming from the front room, but no more loudly than Georgie did, stamping into the kitchen on Friday night, storming out into the yard, talking to his pigeons, complaining to Annie that the whole thing was ridiculous.

  Annie laughed gently. ‘It would be ridiculous if it was serious, just remember that, but they’re being sensible, so count your blessings.’

  Georgie slumped down on the step. ‘I’m tired, you’re tired. We can do without this bloody racket. There’s so much to do at work, there’s the pigeons to race …’

  ‘There are the children to nurture,’ Annie interrupted. ‘And that’s the most important thing of all, Georgie Armstrong.’

  She joined him on the step, putting her hand on his false leg as he leant back against the door frame. ‘And what about that dress she’s made for the show, Annie? It’s above the knee, for goodness’ sake. It’s a disgrace. She’ll get herself into all sorts of trouble, and imagine that in London. I suppose you made it for her.’ He was leaning forward now, holding her arm.

  ‘No, I didn’t make it for her, I just showed her how to do it, so stop being so stuffy. All the girls are dressing like that now.’

  ‘But she’s only –’

  ‘Sixteen,’ Annie interrupted again. ‘Not a child, so stop panicking and treating her like one. Give her some freedom and she’ll … oh, come back and perch, just like your youngsters do. Lock her up and she’ll break out. They might not want to come back to Wassingham if you start all this, just think on that.’

  Georgie rubbed his forehead, then rested his back against the frame again, looking up at the sky. It was so clear, the stars so close.

  ‘What can we do then? I can’t stand this noise, and neither can the Anders.’

  Annie stood up, brushing the back of her jeans. ‘I know and I’ve been thinking about it for a while. We’ve got space in the packaging area. Let them use that. There’s no one there.’

  Georgie moved his head slightly, looking at her, and she bent down and kissed his mouth. ‘Give them a hand, we’ve only got them for two more years,’ she said.

  He nodded, putting his hand behind her neck, holding her mouth against his. ‘You look very lovely in those jeans, very, very lovely, and I adore you.’

  ‘Then get up, go in there, give them the good news and then we can have some peace.’

  She handed him his stick and went to the pigeons, put her fingers in the wire. ‘Poor little birds, I’m surprised you came back to this mad-house each day,’ she crooned, laughing as she heard the whoop of joy from Davy and then, ‘Oh, Dad, you’re brilliant,’ from Sarah and wished that she had been able to say that just once to her father.

  After work that day Annie waited in the office, looking out across the car park, seeing them struggling along with their guitars, their amplifiers. She showed them the packaging room, reminded them of the no smoking rule, gave them the keys and drove Georgie mad at home, until Sarah came in and said everything was as Annie had left it. In the morning, she found that it was.

  They practised there each evening for the next two weeks and sometimes Annie would stay late at work to listen to them. They were good. Sarah explained that they were practising the descending introduction to Move It, a Cliff Richard song.

  ‘We’re trying to get the question and answer lead breaks right at the end of each line.’

  Annie nodded, though she didn’t understand a word.

  ‘We’re trying to broaden our appeal, Aunt Annie,’ Davy said. ‘We’re covering Living Doll as well as rock ’n’ roll. We don’t know what we really want you see, which way we want to go.’

  ‘One doesn’t,’ Annie murmured, ‘but you seem to be doing better than most.’

  As she walked away she recognised Blue Suede Shoes and felt very proud of these children – only they weren’t children were they, not any more, but neither were they quite grown up. Was anyone every really grown up? Annie wondered, as she sat at her desk, drawing doodles, filling them in. Did anyone ever feel fully wise and in control, because she didn’t, not when she looked at her daughter and knew that one day she would leave.

  Three days before the talent show Georgie came into her office with Brenda. He held slips, pants and bras. ‘We’ve got a problem,’ he said, passing them to her. ‘And I’ve got a meeting in Newcastle in two hours. We can’t have this, darling. I think you should sack her, whoever she is.’

  Annie looked at the burn marks on the garments, touched them with her fingers, looked up at Brenda. ‘For God’s sake, what’s been happening?’

  Brenda shook her head. ‘I can’t understand it. There’s your check mark on those …’

  There was a knock at the door and Tom came in, with tea towels in his hands, showing her the holes, sticking his finger through them, shouting at her, ‘What the hell are we going to do? I’ve had Jones on the phone. These are his returns. He’s furious – says can’t we run a proper business.’

  Annie stood up, taking the tea cloths. ‘Keep your voice down, Tom, for goodness’ sake. I’ll sort it out, go and soft talk Jones, tell him it won’t happen again.’

  She hurried out into the machine shop with Brenda, walking round slowly now, calmly, both of them looking for cigarette ends, trying to smell smoke. It couldn’t have happened here, they were sure, the workroom was under constant supervision. Annie reached the end of the room. No, nothing. It had to have happened where people worked alone, which only left the packing room.

  Annie felt sweat start on her hands. That was where the children practised but they wouldn’t, they didn’t smoke. Surely they didn’t. She’d told them, again and again. She’d told them. She walked ahead of Brenda, down the machine shop, down the corridor into the room. What would she say to Georgie? What would he do? What would she do?

  They were at the door now, opening it. Pat was in there, packing clothes, her forefinger nicotine-stained against the white of the cotton. Her clothes smelt of smoke. Brenda touched Annie’s arm and Annie nodded, feeling relief swamp her, walking round, checking the boxes, moving to the corners of the room, seeing Brenda doing the same and Pat packing all the time with those fingers.

  Brenda stooped, picked up a cigarette butt and brought it to Annie. It was still warm.

  ‘When did you come on packing duty, Pat?’ Annie asked, standing with the cigarette butt in her hand, hating the smell of it, glad that she’d given up.

  ‘Few minutes ago,’ Pat replied, not looking up, just packing.

  Brenda checked the duty roster on the wall. ‘Half an hour ago, according to this.’

  ‘So, it might have been.’

  ‘Pat, what do you know about these?’ Annie said, standing quietly in front of the woman, whose roots were dark against her bleached hair.

  Annie held out the damaged goods, showing the holes, the burn marks. ‘You do know don’t you that there is a no smoking rule? We explained – I can remember both Brenda and I telling you.’

  ‘Course I know. That’s not me, and I don’t know whose that is either. All I know is that it isn’t me.’

  ‘Feel it, Pat.’

 
She watched the fingers touch it. ‘It’s cold.’

  Brenda touched it and nodded. ‘Yes, it’s cold now, but it wasn’t.’

  ‘I can’t have smoking. It’s not just the damage to the goods, it’s the fire hazard. There’s so much cloth in here and chemicals that it would be a disaster if anything happened.’

  Pat turned from her.

  Annie put the butt in her pocket, watching as Brenda brought over other butt ends from beneath the shelves. They were a different brand, Kensitas.

  ‘See, it’s not just me. I smoke Players, not those. Those are someone else’s, probably your kids. I didn’t burn anything, anything at all. OK, so I had one but that’s all. You know yourself they’re all stacked up when you’ve checked them. It’s them who’ve done the damage.’

  Annie looked at Brenda. There was doubt in her eyes, and in Annie’s too, she knew. She took the butts, looked at them, then at Pat. ‘OK then, Pat. You’ll have a warning. If I ever find you smoking, you’ll go. I shall speak to the children tonight.’

  Annie said nothing when Sarah arrived home, and would not allow Georgie to either. She said nothing as they washed the dishes and Sarah did her homework, just smiled and said she’d be spending the evening at home tonight, they’d have to practise on their own, without the benefit of her wisdom and experience.

  Sarah laughed and left them.

  One hour later with Tom and Georgie, she entered the machine shop quietly, stood outside the door of the packing room, listening to the chords, to the singing, the coughing, and Annie felt her shoulders tighten with tension as Georgie opened the door.

  The kids were moving, right foot forward, backwards, sideways, trying to keep their steps in time with the music and with one another. Davy’s hair was too long, she thought. But then Geoff’s and Paul’s was also and she was smiling because there was no smoke, no thickening of the atmosphere, their throats were just dry from too much singing.

  ‘Just thought we’d drop in, see how you’re getting on.’

  Tom took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘I found these, anyone want one?’