After the Storm

by Margaret Graham

  ‘Business any better with Ramsay in power?’ Bob Wheeler asked.

  Archie stirred, about to speak but it was Albert who replied. ‘Business would have been better if the mines had stayed under the eyes of the government,’ he grunted, settling himself back in his chair. ‘Bloody stupid handing them back to the owners with exports down. The wages come down and that makes my business difficult.’ He pointed to Archie. ‘We were saying as we came along that the owners did all right out of the war, not like the rest of us.’

  Bob Wheeler caught Archie’s eye and they exchanged nods.

  ‘Where are these papers then?’ Bob asked, and took them from Archie as he passed them over. ‘Shall I stick my name under both of yours as witness? Is that the idea?’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Archie pointed to the area with his finger. ‘The owners have iron and steel interests as well, I think you’ll find, Albert. They sell cheap to the plants and get even better profits from their iron companies as well as exploiting the miners. What do you think Bob?’

  Bob twisted his pen round and round, his long face thoughtful. His hair which was greying at the temples had receded slightly giving him a broad forehead and an elderly air but Archie guessed that they were much the same age, about 40. His brown eyes matched exactly the colour of his hair but his moustache was more red than brown.

  ‘I think you’re right Archie.’

  ‘How come the South is getting all the new industries? After all the unions supported Ramsay’s campaign and most of the strong union men are up here. Why can’t the chemicals and radios come North for a change?’ Albert slapped the table. Scotch had spilt down his chin.

  Archie had to admit to himself that Albert had a good point. Chemicals had come on greatly during and since the war and there was talk of the small companies merging to form Imperial Chemical Industries to make them more efficient but that would not take place up here, there was no doubt about that. If only they had brought the car industry up North. The steel works were up here after all and so were the men. It was crazy.

  ‘I know why,’ Albert cackled and answered his own question. ‘They’re afraid our lad’s will get to like the feel of clean hands and light work, then they’d have no bloody coal or steel at all.’

  His face was very red, his eyes now bloodshot and ugly. He breathed Scotch across the table at Archie. ‘Ain’t that right Archie? But then you never liked dirty hands did you? Had to keep ’em clean up in that hoity-toity office at the top of the heap. Didn’t matter that I got mine dirty in that poky little shop, did it?’

  He was beginning to slur his words and Archie felt his face flush with embarrassment at the scene that was developing. Embarrassment and guilt because it hadn’t mattered to him that Albert got his hand’s dirty, but for God’s sake, he was not his brother’s keeper.

  Albert had not finished. It was as though a dam had burst and he could not haul the words out fast enough.

  ‘Mr Wheeler’s big too, you know, in the union. Works in the office of Bigham colliery but is rising faster in the union. Clever to juggle the two like that. But I was forgetting, you’re not big any more, are you, Archie, you’re just like me now. You and your bairns are just like me. Especially Don.’

  At last Archie began to feel a stirring of unease. The children, he had forgotten the children when he had decided he could no longer be hurt. He tried to gather his thoughts but Wheeler coughed and looked at Archie.

  ‘I quite enjoy the work you know, but it’s the union side that matters. The men need more than they’re getting on the dole.’

  As he spoke, Archie let go of his children. He would return to them later, but now he would listen to this man who he felt held something he needed: a possibility of companionship.

  ‘They need something more than soup kitchens, there’s nothing for them to do, nothing to remind them that they are human beings.’

  He accepted another tot of whisky from Archie.

  ‘They need something else.’ He tailed off in thought.

  Archie was glad that Bob Wheeler had scooped the conversation out of the scene that had promised to develop and now Albert seemed to have lost his thread and was slumped quietly in the chair.

  ‘I was thinking before you came of that problem,’ he sucked at his pipe, prodded the tobacco with a match. ‘I used to arrange football behind the lines – I wonder if … ’ he looked out of the window. ‘Yes, I wonder.’

  Silence fell momentarily, Albert slurped the last of his drink, then slapped the glass back on the desk.

  ‘Partners now, Archie.’ His voice was slower and he was lisping. He thrust the papers over the desk to Archie.

  Archie did not look at them, just longed for Albert to go now, but if he did, so would Bob and he didn’t want an end to the discussion which seemed about to begin. The air in the room was heady with tobacco smoke which mixed with fumes from the oil lamp, whose wick had not been burning clean.

  ‘You want to trim that you know,’ Albert said. ‘Get that lad of yours to do something to earn his keep.’

  ‘Were those the children we passed as we came down the street?’ Bob asked, as Archie eased open the lower sash-window. Immediately there was a breeze and the sound of the fair increased.

  ‘That’s right,’ nodded Albert. ‘Off to the fair, were they Archie?’ He gave him no chance to reply but turned to Bob with a truculent face. ‘What’s the government doing then, you never said. Bloody Labour in and nothing’s changed.’

  Bob Wheeler appeared to be marshalling his thoughts for he said nothing for a moment, but his face became set in bitter lines.

  ‘I’ll admit Ramsay’s been a disappointment. He’s more set on joining the establishment than doing much for the likes of us but I suppose, in all fairness, he’s sensible to take it steadily. Labour’s a new party and after the revolution in Russia people are afraid of the same thing happening here. Perhaps he doesn’t want the country to think that’s what the Labour party is, a bunch of revolutionaries in disguise. Remember too, Albert, that his is a minority government so he needs to persuade the Liberals to support him if he wants to change things, and that’s easier said than done. Remember they’re a bosses’ party.’

  ‘It’s hard to explain to the miners though, isn’t it, Bob,’ Archie said gently, ‘especially when they threw their weight behind Labour in these elections?’

  Bob nodded. ‘You’re right there. It’s not too bad because some coal’s still selling abroad at the moment so let’s hope that goes on. It’ll keep the job situation stable though it’s pretty poor I grant you.

  Archie nodded. Albert seemed to be asleep, thank God, his head was slumped on to his chest. ‘Once the German and French fields are back in full production though, we’re in trouble.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And if we go back on to the gold standard?’

  Bob looked up in surprise. His face took on a look of respect. ‘Then, my friend, the North is in deep trouble. If the external value of the pound is raised, exports will fall even further. Production will decrease, our men will be out of work in droves. We need customers for our coal. If there aren’t any customers, why should the owners pay miners for coal they can’t sell?’

  ‘What about the modern pits?’

  ‘They’re not up here though. Nottingham should survive. They’ve the latest machinery and high production from good seams. Good seams and good conditions mean good working relations. They’ll be all right down there but up here it’ll be a different story.’

  And so the talk swayed between them through another glass of Scotch until Albert woke.

  ‘Wages still going down, aren’t they,’ he spluttered ‘and talk of another strike an’ all. Christ, if that happens …’

  ‘Then,’ said Archie slowly, ‘perhaps we’ve done the right thing to come together at last Albert.’ He felt the need to reconcile himself with this man.

  ‘Clutching at bloody straws, I reckon,’ grunted Albert, and Archie wondered if he me
ant the partnership or his own deeper meaning.

  ‘It’s new owners we need,’ urged Bob, ‘one’s that’ll put money in and stop shoestring mining that kills and maims.’ He was still with his miners, Archie realised, a long way from the partnership he had just witnessed. ‘Owners that will give a decent wage and invest to improve efficiency and safety. State control and ownership must come.’

  He stopped himself and raised his hands. ‘Sorry, my hobby-horse. I forget where I am somethimes.’ He smiled at Archie. ‘Well, I wish you luck with the shops. Who knows you could be founding a business which the children will take over and expand. End up employing some of the poor devils round here.’

  He pushed himself out of his chair. ‘I must get off to a meeting now. Are you coming, Albert?’ He looked to see if he was ready to leave.

  ‘Aye, we’ll get off now.’ Albert rose without looking at Archie. He lurched towards the door and was through it and on his way down the stairs without a backward glance.

  Archie watched and bit his lip. Bob walked on ahead of him, stopping in the doorway. He smiled at Archie.

  ‘I enjoyed our talk,’ he said.

  ‘And so did I,’ agreed Archie. As the door closed, he said again, ‘And so did I.’ He smiled and cradled his amber glass. He felt as though he had touched something interesting for the first time in a long while tonight and because of that he pushed the unease that Albert had evoked into the background.

  So much of the time he felt shut away, he mused, shut away to one side of the life that went on around him. But sometimes life almost touched him as it had done just now and during the meal when he had decided he would go to the fair with his family. But the children had seemed so preoccupied, he had felt an intruder. Lethargy had claimed him and it had all seemed pointless again. He felt invigorated now though, his horizons had widened. Just so long as the gold standard stayed a fiction, maybe they could still pull through. And how he had enjoyed meeting Bob Wheeler.

  There was a further knock at the door. He finished his drink, savouring the heat of its passage. He wondered what on earth Bert would be offering as a pay-off for his debt this time. Surely not the pony again? From now on, he was determined that credit was not going to be extended beyond a repayable sum for anyone. After all, exports had improved slightly, as Bob had said, but maybe not for long.

  Annie was gloriously weary, her skin was singing with pleasure and a good tiredness, the lights were busy behind the crowds of people who were still milling as Don and Georgie took Grace to the toffee-apple stall. She had met them at the entrance to the fair and Don had not spoken out of turn once. Annie and Tom had wedged themselves up against the edge of the firing-range, waiting. Annie flexed her spine on the sharp edge of the upright.

  ‘Give us a scratch, Tom,’ she said and squatted down as he was doing. ‘Have you had a good time, bonny lad?’

  ‘It’s been the best day of my life, Annie,’ he told her, his eyes solemn. ‘And I didn’t have no trouble with me coins, did you?’

  She laughed. ‘Not even a sideways look.’

  They stayed on their hunkers, Annie drawing her skirt up so that it was squashed between her thighs and calves; better that it was creased than became too dirty sweeping the ground, she reasoned. They clasped their arms round their knees and waited for the others. The sounds were raucous and indistinct but if she relaxed she found that bits floated to her as people passed; private soppy love-words that sounded right on a night like this. The cracks from the rifle stall melted in with the general muddle and all she could see were legs; heavy-booted men’s and stocking-covered or barelegged women. She had not noticed how much people moved their feet when they were supposed to be standing still. She nudged Tom and pointed to one pair which seemed to be wriggling like a pair of stung ducks.

  ‘Reckon he needs a tiddle,’ she whispered but Tom couldn’t see past two sets of heavy ankles.

  ‘As long as no dog comes along who needs one too,’ groaned Tom and she laughed.

  Annie peered at the barrier of mottled hefty hair-covered legs, grimacing at the bulging and knotted blue veins, then up at the face. Bye, if it wasn’t Mrs Maby from Sophie’s road, aye and with her eldest, Francy, and if she isn’t a fast one I’d like to know who is, Sophie had always said. She was about to pull at the uneven hem but preferred to lean back and let her ears pick up their talk. There was little flow as yet but their heads bent forward.

  ‘Hasn’t he grown, that young Don,’ Mrs Maby was mouthing loudly to her companion. ‘Eeh, he was nought but a bitty bairn when she did you know what.’

  ‘I don’t know what, Mam. Come on, tell us?’

  ‘Well, you know, the mother. Mary Manon it was, did herself in she did. The baby died you know, soon as it drew breath. Well, some do, some don’t and her in that posh nursing home an’ all. They should have known better than to leave things like that unlocked.’ She shrugged her head into her neck and clicked her tongue. ‘They say she went off her head and took poison from the medicine cupboard. Burnt her guts out, they say, with acid. I mean, it’s not right, is it, with those two bairns at home. That little Annie Manon was only a wee one. Sight too fanciful she was, that Mary. Should have thought of others. They say he’s a ruined man now, taken to drink he has, but then he’s lost his wife and all his money. I mean, look at that Don, looks like a ragamuffin, and them so posh once.’ She sniffed. ‘I hear he gives that Betsy a dog’s life. Taken to drink she has an’ all. Not right, is it? Still the mighty shall fall they say and bye, he’s come a cropper.’

  The legs shuffled away, mingling in with the stream of passing revellers, but Annie did not watch them go. She just sat with her eyes fixed on where they had been, sensing her mind floating high above her body and away, taking all her feelings with it and leaving her stuck in the ground amongst a world which seemed to have slowed and become silent. Tom had gripped her arm, his hand was stroking her face. She reached for it and held it tighter and tighter.

  She looked up and saw Don there and knew he had heard it too because his face looked still and thoughtful. She tried to stand but couldn’t and Tom pulled her up. She was stiff and her feet tingled and hurt with her weight. The toffee-apples dangled heavy in Don’s hand and he did not notice as Grace took them from him.

  ‘We’ll go home now, shall we Annie,’ Tom said and Georgie nodded at him and pushed Don before him. The lights had lost their colour and people their faces as they walked free of the place. The noise pursued them and she wanted to swat it away so that she could think but when they had moved out of its sphere no thoughts would stay in her head long enough for her to grasp and shape.

  Their footsteps sounded hollow as they approached the back and they did not notice Georgie and Grace leave. The only light in the street was from their kitchen; all else were back in the spinning light and frantic music. Annie felt a spurt of rage which tensed even her eyebrows; the bloody bugger couldn’t even unbend enough to come out on a night like this, be a real father. Too afraid of getting his spats dirty. Well, she hated him, hated them all, hated her for dying, hated the legs with blue veins. Oh God, oh God, I want me mam, she wanted to shout, I want me own mam. She cried then, tears that raced hot and sharp and shook her body so that Tom was frightened. He kissed her hand, again and again.

  ‘There now, there now,’ he soothed. ‘It’s all right, I’m here, I’m here.’

  And she knew she would always love him for those words but the pain peaked again and she tore from him, from Don who tried to stop her and ran, ran through the years, into the house past him and her and up to her room, way up across the rag rug into the high bed with its patchwork quilt. Her hands held her head and she rocked and moaned through the jagged slashing hurt and still there was no colour.

  Archie had looked up with a start when the door banged open, as the latch snapped up and Annie hurtled through, her face contorted and her limbs swinging wildly. He started after her but turned, grabbing Tom’s arm as he ran in behind her and made to follow.
His face was white and drawn.

  ‘For God’s sake, boy, what’s happened?’ he demanded. Betsy had risen and rushed to turn Tom’s face to her. His eyes were confused and he looked from one to the other, unable to speak. He shook his head.

  ‘Donald, what’s happened?’ asked Archie urgently as Don came in, putting out a hand to stop Betsy following Annie until they knew more but she looked past him to Don who stood in the doorway. His face was pale too. Betsy shook free of Archie and gathering up her skirts ran after the child, her heart thumping with fear; Annie had never cried in all the time she had known her.

  Her legs were heavy as she reached the top landing and she put out her hand to steady herself and draw breath. It was dark here and the wooden boards creaked beneath her feet as she placed one foot before the other, the dark unnerving her. She felt along the wall until she reached the oil lamp on the sill and, striking a match, lit it. She could hear the frantic sobs and putting her hand to the doorknob called to Annie.

  ‘Can I come in, pet?’ She waited but, receiving no answer, went in regardless. The landing light shed a dull glow into the room but it was not enough to pick out the girl. Perhaps it was as well, Betsy thought. Problems were sometimes better spoken out loud to a faceless shape. She sat on the edge of the bed, the quilt soft beneath her; she could feel its seams with the fingers which supported her as she leant over to Annie. Her own mother had made it before she died of the flu in ’19 and she could picture the colours in her mind. Annie had it because she liked it so much and that had pleased Betsy.

  ‘Now, my bonny lass, my little Annie, what’s the matter?’ She lifted the crumpled body on to her lap and sat crooning and stroking the damp hair away from the hot wet face. The sobs gradually stilled but Annie said nothing; her eyes felt heavy and it was as though she was almost asleep and then the wracking sobs began again. They seemed to have a life of their own and she was a small voice inside this strange frantic body, apart from it but linked to the noise and leaping shudders. She wanted to escape from it, to leave all the distress here, in a little heap, while she walked free, back to the allotment and this morning, back to the time before the lady with the ugliness of the blue-veined legs and loud words. Back she would go and then come this way again, remembering nothing of what had happened.