She rubbed her face with her hands, trying to shake the past from her head and moved first to the fire to add more coal, and then to the window searching with strained eyes through the mist and, dimly, they came, three figures emerging so sparingly from the dark of the street that it nearly broke her heart.
The years since 1914 had made a mockery of so much shining promise, she thought savagely, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Her impotence drew back her tension, her headache increased, but she drew herself straight and moved to the front door, spilling the light into the thick darkness and drawing the now recognisable figures into its beam.
Annie blinked, warmed by the promise of familiarity and the scones which she could smell even as she crossed the stone step that clicked against her father’s shoes as he followed her into the glinting hallway.
‘Go through, Annie love,’ Sophie coaxed as she kissed the hair which was cold and hung with minute droplets of evening chill. She pushed the thawing child gently from behind, only patting Don on the shoulder and smiling. He had told her last time that he was too old for kisses.
Annie, relieved that tea was as usual in the kitchen and not in the starched and strange front parlour, hurried past. She grinned and, shrugging herself free of her coat, flung it and the now lifeless leather glove onto the airer by the range and lolled kneeling against the guard. Her cheek pressed against the linen towels and the smell of boiling was still deep within them. With her face protected from the heat her knees and feet roasted themselves free of numbness until the itch of chilblains drove her further back to the chair in which she usually sat.
She glanced quickly at Don who had taken her place. His thin face was blotched with cold and his brown eyes were half closed. His light brown hair was dry now and flopped down towards his eye. She reached for the winter-green from beside the clock on the mantelpiece. Its tick was loud close to, but once back in her seat at the table it became lost in the hiss and spit of the fire. The mirror above the fire reflected the gas lamps which spluttered on the walls and the pictures of Whitley Bay that Eric had found wrapped up in old newspaper on a train.
‘D’you think,’ she pondered, her voice muffled as she drew her leg up and pulled off her sock, ‘I should let a claggy skunk like you have any of this?’ She held up the winter-green and dared him to reach for it. She hoped it would gain a response and it did.
‘It’s that or a damn good clout,’ he murmured, scratching his throbbing toes and making a lunge.
‘Now, now, Don lad,’ she taunted him, her voice full with laughter, her mouth rounded into posh. ‘Is that any way to treat a young lady especially when her father is outside ready to save her.’
She rolled her eyes and clutched her hands to her breast and was helpless to beat off Don’s attack which came and soon they were both tingling with suppressed laughter.
Don tossed it back for her to put away, as Annie knew he would. Bye, she’d get the beggar one day she vowed, happy that he was here and that, for this moment, he was as he had been before he went to Albert’s. She leant her mouth against the knee she liked to hug. The smell of her skin was pleasing to her and she resisted the temptation to make a bum of it between her fingers. He might walk in.
In the pause they heard the lowered voices in the hallway and it drew their eyes to one another.
‘D’you remember him, Don?’ she whispered. ‘And why is he here?’
Don shook his head, his finger to his lips. ‘He says he’s come home,’ he mouthed. ‘I hope so, then I can live back home.’
Annie nodded. So perhaps he didn’t like it at Albert’s after all. She was pleased. The winter-green was interfering with her sniffing and making her eyes water. Reluctantly she pulled her sock back on and allowed the leg to drop. She settled back into the chair, sitting on her hands and feeling warm all over, with no gaps at all. He seemed old, she mulled. It wasn’t that he was different to the man she had imagined for she had never thought about him. She watched Don put more coal on the fire and didn’t want this moment to pass. There was something so certain about the heat, the smell of winter-green. Something so certain about scones and Don rubbing his hands free of coal marks. It wasn’t exciting but it was the same as last Friday and the Friday before. The dresser was up against the wall, the rag mat was by their feet. The walls were still cream, the scullery was through the brown door.
She looked at Don. ‘But where is his home?’
Don shrugged, pulled his socks back on and searched in his pocket.
‘Give over Annie, they’ll tell us when they want us to know.’ He held out the smooth Jack stones. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a game. Best of three and if I lose, I’ll get a pennyworth of chips tomorrow and you can have a few.’
‘You’re a tight one,’ she accused and smoothed the table cloth which she had rucked as she had turned her chair. Her back was now to the fire and it felt good. ‘Don’t you like it at Albert’s then?’
‘It’ll do,’ he said as he tossed the ball, ‘but he’s the one who’s as tight as a mouse’s whatnot. Won’t let me have any sweets unless I pay for them.’
He was feeling the table cloth now.
‘The stones will lie steady but it gives the ball a low bounce,’ he remarked.
‘Well, I think it’s lovely.’ She looked at him. ‘Is that why you want to leave, because he’s a skinflint?’ Hoping that he would say that he missed her.
‘It’s like this see, if we’ve got a da, why not live with him. It’s right isn’t it, then I won’t have to work for me pocket money.’ His voice was impatient.
Annie sat back in her chair watching as he threw up and grabbed three pebbles. She couldn’t see at all why it was right to live with a man she didn’t know.
‘But …’ she began.
‘This is the one they used for the vicar,’ Don interrupted. ‘The tablecloth, you daft nellie.’
He threw again and Annie said nothing, knowing that he did not want to talk about it. It was finished as far as he was concerned and Annie wondered whether he really had feelings or just bounced like his jack ball was doing.
She heard the click of the front-room door and thought how wonderful it would be to be able to melt into invisibility, slide under the door and sit close to Auntie Sophie, rubbing her face against the softness of her jumper. She wondered if someone would feel an invisible stroke or would it be as light as gossamer. She frowned.
‘What’s gossamer, Don?’
‘Don’t talk daft, Annie.’ His small blunt fingers were steady as he readied to catch the last stone. His nails were dirty from the coal and she hoped that he would wash his hands before they had tea. She traced the pattern of the satin stitch which edged the table cloth and it was smooth and raised and cool. She eyed the bare corners of the table; the cloth had never been put round that way before. So, an extra place must have been laid and there it was, at the end. It would be Uncle Eric at one end, and him, her father, at the other. She fidgeted and folded her arms across her stomach holding her breath knowing it was coming but unable to prevent it. The rumble escaped.
‘For Pete’s sake, Don, hurry up,’ she snapped, a blind anger sweeping over her but he just laughed and dug her with his elbow.
‘Still as noisy as an empty barrel,’ he sniggered, handing her the stones. ‘Your turn and let’s have some hush while you’re at it. Eeh, I’m right hungry, what are they doing in that room anyway?’
Sophie had closed the front-room door behind them. The fire was still well built up and Archie stood before it, rubbing his hands in its warmth. He turned and stood quietly looking round the room as though familiarising himself with a place he had once known but had now forgotten.
It was lit by a small table lamp which left the corners in darkness. The antimacassars showed up clearly against the dark maroon of the settee and chairs. There were just two occasional tables, one which held the lamp and a photograph of Annie and Don; the other, set to the left of the settee, held several; one of Eri
c in uniform before his injury, one of Sophie and Eric on their wedding day. The other was of his own wedding with his cousin, Sarah Beeston in attendance. He looked away quickly, away from his Mary, back to Sophie.
‘This room’s hardly changed at all, my dear,’ he said after a moment.
Sophie smiled. ‘But we have.’
They looked at one another and were comforted. She sat and beckoned Archie to the other fireside chair. He sat down carefully as though he were a person who had been ill.
‘It was all such a rush last time,’ she murmured. ‘It was difficult to …’ she paused, searching for words, ‘to approach the future.’ She gestured helplessly. ‘I didn’t know how to help you.’
‘Sophie, it’s all right. I’ve sorted things out a bit now, made some plans.’ He paused. ‘They’ve grown so much. Don’s a real lad now, though it’ll be good to get him away from that shop.’
Sophie nodded, her eyes darkening. Archie continued.
‘It was a mistake. Albert is not the one to look after children. I was wrong to agree but he seemed to want it so much, but that’s in the past now. And Annie, well Annie’s so like Mary isn’t she?’
He leant forward resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly. Sophie watched the taut face with concern. The fire’s half-light accentuated the shadowed eyes.
‘Damn it Sophie, I still find it so hard.’
He pressed his fist to his mouth, his eyes dark and years away. She leant across and held his other hand, saying nothing, letting the minutes drift by along with her thoughts. She knew now that he had come for the children and logically, emotionally even, it was right that he should. Dear God, he had little else and he was a good man, but how broken was he, she wondered anxiously. She pushed the thought away to the back of her mind. Eric was still talking of Australia; it had been their alternative should the worst happen and there could be nothing worse than losing Annie. They had the money saved and they would go, go as soon as Annie was gone.
Her headache was throbbing and there was an ache which filled her throat, one which she knew would spread this evening and which would always be with her no matter whether they were here or in the heat of a new land. I must not think about this now, she told herself. I will think about it in small pieces, that way I can bear it. She forced her shoulders down, taking deep breaths, composing her body into a calmness which was essential for them all.
She wished Eric would come home soon, his shift must be nearly over. It would be so much easier if he were sitting on the settee, his hands held loosely, his eyes gentle and calm.
‘Tell me about your ideas, Archie,’ she prompted. ‘Will you stay in the army for a while. I never expected you to stay in after the armistice. You could have been back two years ago. It seems strange?’
Ignoring what was really a question, Archie explained that he had finally left the service. ‘There was,’ he added awkwardly, ‘the chance to rent back one of my father’s shops.’
He brought out his pipe, knocking it against the hearth before he unfolded his tobacco pouch carefully, just as he used to, Sophie noticed. The pungent moist smell was one she had not thought of for six years. It had always been their Christmas present to him, a two ounce tin of Player’s Navy Cut.
He pushed the dark shiny fibre neatly into the bowl before lighting it, relishing the absorption of the task but knowing that he must speak to her of the things he had arranged. How to tell her that in what he planned there was no disloyalty to her dead sister since he dealt only in practicalities these days. Since the war had seen fit to pass him along to the end he had to exist but his survival made him bitter.
There was that time when he should have died, the day there was no wind to blow the gas across. The day he had been called a murderer by someone whose hand he could still feel clutching at his leg. He ran his hand over his face, snapping the shutter down. Would he never shake off that voice or this tiredness which now dragged at his heels? Though it must drag even more for those who stood on street corners, filling in empty days in this land fit for heroes. He, at least, had a job to go to now and it was all comparative anyway, he told himself briskly. For God’s sake though, it was hard not to think of the good years but the love of my life is not here any more so let’s get on with the next bloody lifetime.
Sophie was startled when he spoke, he had been silent for so long.
‘You see Sophie, this shop is owned by Joe Carter who bought it off us when we had to sell out. He’s had enough and wants to lease it.’
‘But what about the children?’ she interrupted.
‘I’m coming to that.’ He smiled nervously. She was so very much like her sister. ‘Elisabeth Ryan housekeeps for him.’
‘So you’ll employ her?’ she interrupted again.
‘Not exactly. You see it’d look bad, her being young and with the lad.’ He finished in a rush. ‘I’ve asked her to marry me.’
Sophie was stunned, then perturbed, at a loss for words.
She eventually asked slowly, ‘But do you love her Archie?’
He drew on his pipe, tilting his chin as he exhaled. Her blue eyes were confused as he explained.
‘No, I don’t love her and I doubt that she loves me but without Joe she’s homeless. Not many want unmarried lasses with bairns these days; there aren’t that many men around any more. I want my children with me, then maybe I can make sense of things, and I can’t have them without help. Let’s just say we need one another.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘Barney, her fiancé, was killed at Ypres in ’15. I was there but later.’ His voice tailed away.
Sophie shuddered thinking of Eric’s leg which had been saved even though he had been in a Somme shell-hole for thirty-six hours after being shot. They said it was the maggots which had kept it clean, free of gangrene, but she preferred to consider it a miracle. A shaft of compassion for the girl went through her. At least she’d been lucky enough to have her man return and if Elisabeth had a child of her own she would know how to care for the children. She found it helped to concentrate her mind on the facts.
‘When will you take them?’ she asked, meaning when is my Annie to leave me.
He stood up. ‘I thought a week on Saturday might suit us all, I’ll have a word with Albert about Don. I can get moved in by then and Elisabeth has agreed to marry me that morning. Don’t want to close the shop longer than necessary; can’t risk losing custom. I must get on my feet you see.’
She saw his hands clench and unclench at his sides and nodded though suddenly she was unable to sympathise with his reduced circumstances because a violent spasm of outrage had gripped and held her. She fought to keep it from her face but she wanted to scream at this man for taking Annie from her, just because he was her father. And it was this word which cut through the anger and made her shoulders sag and her lips tremble. She forced herself to rise calmly, banking the fire carefully and repeating that word – father – because of course Annie was not her child. Annie was Archie’s. Replacing the shovel, she turned towards the door, still unable to meet his eyes but she repeated the question she felt she had a right to ask and which he had not yet answered.
‘But why have you stayed away so long?’
Her hand was on the doorknob; she would not pass through until she had an answer.
Archie paused a moment. ‘I couldn’t come earlier,’ he pleaded in a whisper, fearful that the children might hear the conversation, now that they were so close to the door. ‘I had to sort something out first, have something to offer the children.’ His long slender fingers sought her understanding. But inside he knew it was nothing so honourable, just a long blank series of weeks, months, years, where responsibilities were ignored, buried beneath the noise of ghosts. He was ashamed that it was still without any real interest that he had finally come to take up the pieces. It was simply that there was nothing else to do; he was finished as a soldier; the shaking and the nightmares were too bad. Now he needed to cling to something which belonged to him, to t
ry to find a measure of peace. Therefore he had come to claim his family and rent his shop.
Sophie waited but he said nothing more.
‘Will you tell them your news or shall I?’ Her voice reflected her troubled doubts. Every breath was difficult now.
‘Perhaps we both could,’ he replied, laying his hand on her arm, delaying their entrance. ‘And Sophie, I will never be able to thank you enough for taking Annie in for these four years. There is a spark in those eyes of hers which makes me feel,’ he searched for the right word, ‘interested. Heaven alone knows what would have happened to them both without you to sort it out.’
‘Your cousin, Sarah, helped a great deal you know. She’s always been there, should I need her and she has, without fail, sent the children Christmas and birthday presents. I thought you should know.’
Archie smiled. He was not suprised. Sarah, the daughter of his father’s cousin, had always been a good friend to Mary since their marriage and to him as well.
Sophie continued. ‘One thing I haven’t yet done, although Annie asked so often in the early days, is to tell her how Mary died. She never mentions it now but one day she may hear from someone else.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps you should be the one, not some spiteful gossip.’
Glad that she had found the courage to say what she had long felt, but not hopeful about the result, Sophie opened the door into the hall and then walked through into the kitchen and the throb of young life met them instantly, softening the tightness of their faces.
‘Anyone for scones,’ she called, smiling love as Annie won the last game of Jacks and Eric’s voice called from the yard.
After the Storm Page 2
