After the Storm

by Margaret Graham

  ‘Us all together, you mean,’ Grace corrected her.

  But Annie knew that was not what she meant. She looked back again and still she thought of the town and its people as them. She wished she did not. She wanted to feel that she belonged somewhere and then she looked at Tom and felt a surge of warmth; here was an us, she thought.

  Even across the unbroken wasteland there was no wind, and there was a hush because the pit wheels were idle, over on the other side. They couldn’t even hear the bleating of the sheep as they grazed on the grass-covered slopes of the older slag-heaps. Poppies sagged in the heat at the side of the grass track and Grace said she would pick some on the way back, but Tom said they would die and that he would paint her one instead. Annie saw that the boys had reached the lane now and were about to disappear into its darkness. Tom had seen too and wriggled free of the stirrups.

  ‘I’ll get down now, Annie, and give the old lady a break. I want to run a bit and Georgie said he’d show me how to blow on grass and make it whistle.’

  He was already throwing his leg over the saddle and was on the ground and away before Beauty could stop. He flung the picnic over his shoulder as he ran.

  ‘Crumbs for lunch,’ Annie said, laughing, and slipped round the front of the pony so that she was walking with Grace. She slipped her arm through the other girl’s. Grace always smelt nice and she let her look at her arithmetic in class. It saved her getting caned too often by that old witch Miss Henry. Old Dippy Denis had never hurt them and he’d let Grace come up a grade into his class even though she was a year younger than the rest. She’d be 9 now, thought Annie, but she’s better than the rest of us. Quick at her work, but not a swot.

  ‘It was a shame about old Dippy,’ she said to Grace who nodded.

  ‘I wonder why he did it.’

  ‘Me da said it was the war.’ Annie remembered her da’s hands when he’d heard about it and how they had started shaking. ‘When the lorry hit the playground wall and the bricks came down he must have thought it was a shell. That’s what me da said anyway, and the boys who stood and watched must have looked like Germans.’ She saw again how Dippy had thrown himself on the ground in the playground, screaming, then crawling towards the bricks, then on to the boys who had stood rooted to the spot. He had grabbed at two but had not had time to kill them.

  ‘He’s still in the loony-bin, isn’t he?’ Grace asked, fanning herself with her hand. ‘It’s so hot.’

  Annie thought of Dippy being locked in a dark room with bars away from the sun and the sky and the birds. He had been 26, her father had said. There were so many years to live, she thought, shut away.

  She said. ‘He looked so kind. When they took him away there were tears all down his face. It was raining but I know they were tears.’

  She looked up at the sky. It was so blue with light white clouds. War could only happen when it was grey and wet. People could not fight on a day like this, no one could do anything but feel this feeling. She drew a deep breath. This feeling that she thought perhaps was joy. Sophie had always called her a joy and delight and a day like this sounded like those words.

  She looked sideways at Grace to see if she felt it too but Grace looked uncomfortably hot. Some of her curls had stuck to her forehead and cheeks. She walked over on the sides of her feet as though they hurt. It was a shame she would never put on a swimsuit, otherwise they could have had a swim in the beck. Betsy had told Annie to put hers in with Tom’s, but she had not. She knew Grace would be upset. She said it was because her skin was so fair that she wouldn’t strip off, but Annie knew it was because she felt fat and ugly. But she wasn’t, she was lovely. Grace pulled her blouse in and out trying to get cool and, as they entered the lane, Annie snapped off a beech twig from the hedge that ran along between them and the fields of corn. She found one with plenty of leaves and handed it to Grace.

  ‘Fan yourself with that, bonny lass.’ She dug into her pocket and fetched out a piece of apple. It was warm and covered in bits, but Beauty wouldn’t care. It was cooler here with the branches locked into one another over their heads like fingers creating a church and steeple. The birds were louder than she had ever remembered, caught as they were in this tunnel of leaves. The boys had slowed and were not far ahead now and, as they approached, they heard the screech of Tom’s grass whistle.

  Georgie had stopped altogether and was peering into the hedge off to the left. Annie saw him beckon to Tom and together they bent down. She saw that Tom’s face was still but his eyes were dark with concentration. She pulled Grace with her and they trod softly up behind.

  ‘Get a look at this then, Tom,’ Georgie was whispering. ‘See the hind legs?’

  It was a bee, its head deep into a cornflower and pollen stuck so thickly to its back legs that it seemed impossible that it could ever fly. But it did and soared out and up, past Tom, who flinched and then Georgie who did not move a muscle.

  ‘It might have stung you,’ hissed Annie, pulling at Georgie, frightened for them both.

  He turned and shook his head. ‘Suicide for them. They only sting if there’s no alternative. They can’t take their sting out again you see. It’s a once and only weapon. Protection of the hive is what it’s all about, deep inside their heads, I reckon.’

  Annie had not heard death mentioned since the fair six weeks ago. How strange to think that it could be discussed so casually by other people.

  Georgie strolled forward, on to the meadow with Tom. Annie and Grace brought Beauty, Don had gone before them. ‘They fan themselves like you to keep cool you know, Grace,’ Georgie said. ‘With their wings, in the hive.’

  ‘Clever, aren’t they, Georgie?’ marvelled Tom.

  ‘Do the others miss them when they sting and you know …’ Annie faltered.

  Georgie dropped back to walk beside her. ‘’Spect so, but it’s life really. It’s happened, it had to happen.’ He paused. Grace had walked on to be with Tom. Beauty was swishing her tail to be rid of the flies. ‘A bit like your ma really. Perhaps she felt there was nothing else to do and the rest just have to go on. Just like the bees.’ He coloured now, and took her hand in his as they walked, squeezed and was gone. She watched him catch up with Tom who was chasing Grace with a spider.

  No one had spoken of her mother since that night and she was glad now that someone had. Her face was relaxing again and she allowed herself to notice the birds above her and the corn which waved in the slight breeze that had now appeared. Bees could die and still the sun came out. She wouldn’t think about people yet but she could still feel the heat of Georgie’s hand around hers.

  The hives lay across the other side of the beck in Mr Thompson’s land. He owned the meadow too, the one in which they sat and which ran up to the beck. He had said Georgie could bring them all today.

  ‘We come all the time anyway,’ boasted Don. But Annie thought it was nice not to have to post a look-out for once.

  She was sitting on the bank of the beck with her feet flopping in the water. Tom was in his swimsuit, the one that Betsy had knitted before her hands had slowed her up too much. He had brought a jam jar tied round the neck with string; it had made red marks on his hands where he had wound it round so that he could hang on tight as the water tried to tear the jar from him. The beck was not more than a foot deep here in this hot dry end of the summer but already his costume was sagging with the wet and he looked like a sack of potatoes.

  ‘Caught any yet?’ she called.

  He shook his head but did not look up. His legs were so pale they could do with a good dose of sun and she wished she was in there too but down at the deep pool which lay beyond the willow that hung in the water just by Tom. Instead she pulled her dress up over her knees and lay back on the grass next to Grace. It was rich and warm and green. She turned over, pulling herself further on to the grass with her elbows, then lay on her face, breathing in the freshness.

  Grace spoke lazily at her side. ‘Me mam says that’s what they get the consumptives to do. Pur
e oxygen, me mam says. The grass eats our breathings out and spews back good pure stuff. Gives you rosy cheeks, me mam says.’

  ‘Someone should bottle it then,’ said Annie, too lethargic to speak clearly. ‘Give it to the miners with the black spit.’

  ‘Me mam says they can do that, in the hospitals.’

  Annie raised herself on her elbows so that she could peer out through the high grass across the meadow. There was a sheen of yellow from the buttercups; black-eyed daisies sat in wide clumps. She could hear the thud of Don and Georgie’s boots as they kicked the balls and their shouts as they gave directions. The plop of Tom’s jar sounded behind her as he scooped it out and back in again when he had checked on a catch.

  ‘Your mam talks to you a lot,’ she remarked to Grace as she turned on her back, flinging her arm over to shield her eyes. She saw red spots dart themselves across the inside of her lids and hoped Grace hadn’t heard the note of irritation in her voice.

  ‘She wants me to get on, see,’ Grace said, stirring at Annie’s side. Annie knew that Grace was too hot but could not imagine ever feeling that way herself. The heat oozed into her and she loved it.

  ‘What will you do then, Gracie, when you’re grown?’

  ‘Me mam wants me to go into the library I reckon. It’s clean and quiet with a nice sort of people.’

  Annie laughed out loud. ‘It’s quiet right enough, Gracie. Remember being chucked out for giggling when Don got the hiccups.’ They both lay back grinning. ‘But what do you want, Grace?’

  Grace flapped her beech twig, the air stirred over Annie too. ‘Seems good enough to me,’ she said. ‘But what about you, Annie?’

  There was a scrabble of stones and then a splash and Annie was up and over to the water before Tom could cry out his fear, but then she saw that he wasn’t going to. He was sitting up grinning, water dripping from his hair into his face, his body drenched.

  ‘I think I’ll do a wee while I’m here, Annie,’ he called and splashed her as she stood on the bank laughing. ‘I should have brought the soap and saved meself the trouble of bath-night.’

  Annie splashed him. ‘Come on out for your bread when you’ve finished poisoning the fish, you little toad.’ She turned and waved to the other two boys. ‘Come on, you two. Or we’ll eat the lot.’ She was ravenous.

  They all lay on the grass, close to the water looking over at the hives where there were a few bees hanging in the air. Tom had taken his pad from Beauty’s saddle-bag and was drawing.

  ‘So what about this mating you wanted me to see, Georgie.’ Annie peered closer at the other bank.

  Georgie pulled at the grass about him, throwing it up into the air and letting it float down. ‘It’s the queen, you see, she mates once in her life on a sunny day. I’ve never seen it happen.’

  ‘But you’ve been coming for years to help here, haven’t you?’ Grace asked.

  He nodded. ‘But I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘Well, you won’t from here, will you,’ mocked Annie. ‘Their private and personals are a bit too small.’

  Georgie laughed. ‘It’s not like that. Hardly anyone has seen it. She leaves the hive on just the right day, circles over it so she’ll recognise it again and flies way up.’ He pointed with a grass stem. ‘Then the drones come out after her and the lucky one does it there, right up in the air.’

  Annie looked up into the sky above the hive. White-streaked clouds seemed miles above them.

  ‘Lucky old drones,’ Tom murmured.

  Don said, ‘Well, I hope he thinks it’s worth all that flapping about, that’s all I can say.’

  Georgie looked at them sideways. ‘Aye, it needs to be a bit special. It’s a dance of death really because his gubbins breaks off inside her when he’s done and she drops him off dead, on her way back down.’

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ protested Grace, her face screwed up. She stood up and made her way down the shallow bank into the stream. She pulled up her skirt and paddled. Her thighs were dimpled and wobbled as she moved.

  Annie pinched Don as he started to giggle and frowned at him. He turned his back on her.

  ‘I’ll tell you something,’ Don leered at Georgie. ‘She’s got to be something for them to chase her around like that with the big black nothing at the end of it.’

  Annie wondered at the way death seemed to poke its nose into everything, or did it just feel that way to her at the moment?

  ‘Is she,’ she asked at last, ‘is she something special?’

  ‘Aye, she is that,’ answered Georgie. ‘She’s a whopper.’

  Again Don looked at Grace and sniggered. Once more, thought Annie, and I’ll pull your bleeding hair out.

  Tom had put his pad down and was looking out across at the hives.

  ‘How though,’ he asked, ‘does one of them get to be so special?’

  ‘It’s just luck, lad. The queen lays her eggs in small and big cells. The ones in the big cells are fed with royal jelly when they become larvae and the first to become a bee kills the others, the rival princesses, and becomes queen.’

  He showed Tom how to make a daisy-chain.

  ‘And so,’ urged Annie, ‘what about the old queen?’

  Georgie looked up, ‘The queen has to leave the hive and find another. That’s when they swarm. She takes some of the bees with her.’

  ‘That’s what I like to see, the women doing well,’ Annie called to Grace who laughed and nodded. Her hair was wet from the water where she had been dipping in her hand and patting her forehead.

  Georgie looked out from under his brows. He looked like the tailor of Gloucester, Annie thought, with his legs crossed and his fingers busy making slits in the daisy stems to thread through the next link in the chain. Tom was too clumsy to continue with his and turned instead to his drawing.

  ‘I’ll do something that takes a bit of skill,’ he muttered putting his finger under his nose and thumbing it.

  Georgie punched him lightly.

  ‘It’s only the queen, remember, who has a life of luxury. The workers are all females. They work their guts out in the hive, cleaning and feeding the growing kids and all the drones of course who have to be fit for their only use in life – to fly up to the sky for that big moment.’

  ‘Quite right, too,’ said Tom, ‘they know their place,’ and he braced himself for Annie’s slap, which came.

  ‘But don’t they ever get out?’ Annie persevered.

  ‘Oh aye, they’re off out after nectar or pollen, like the one we saw, then they rush back to roll their sleeves up to make the honey and wax.’

  Annie was red with anger and flounced up to join Grace in the stream. The pebbles hurt and she wobbled. ‘Just like Betsy it is. Work, and nothing else. It’s a bloody disgrace.’ She raised her voice so that the boys could hear. ‘It’s a bloody disgrace, I tell you.’

  ‘Calm down, hinny, you’ll stampede the pony,’ drawled Georgie.

  ‘Never,’ called Don. ‘Never will that pony stampede anywhere. Just look at her.’

  ‘It’s a him,’ snapped Annie, and scrambled out of the water and marched away across the meadow, away from the hives. She picked a bunch of black-eyed daisies.

  ‘Only take a few from each clump,’ shouted Georgie. ‘Helps them to make up their numbers.’

  ‘Can’t you think of anything but breeding?’ she retorted and their laughter restored her humour.

  She collected a few buttercups, then saw the smoke from a train as it appeared and ran along the track way off into the distance. She could hear it surprisingly well and wondered where it was going; what the world was like away from here. I had forgotten, she thought, that there was anything apart from the streets, from the pits. She looked around the meadow. I must come more often and perhaps one day I will get clean away from here.

  ‘Come on, then,’ called Tom. ‘Let’s see who likes it and who doesn’t.’

  Annie wondered what he meant and then remembered the buttercups hanging limply in her hand.


  Yellow bounced off all their throats and they licked again at the remains of the bread and dripping and pretended it was butter. She threw the buttercups on to the water and watched them float out of sight.

  Grace dried her legs as she sat down near Tom. Don had moved along the bank and was trying to play ducks and drakes with flat pebbles but the water was too fast-flowing. Tom was drawing a picture of the willow tree and Georgie had finished his daisy-chain.

  Annie turned from them and looked across towards the train but it had gone. The oaks at the end were absolutely still, there was no breeze at all.

  ‘Did you see any clover?’ Georgie asked, as he rose to his feet. He came to her and tossed the chain over her head. It was so long that he looped it over her a second time.

  ‘Better than pearls any day, lass,’ he said and strolled away, head bent, searching. He stopped and called her over. Crouching he pulled out the clover petals from the plant between his thumb and forefinger and sucked the moist white ends. She moved over and watched as he did it. He pulled out some more and handed them to her but they loosened and showered to the ground as she reached for them.

  ‘You do it,’ she said.

  She wanted to watch his strong brown fingers against the soft pink and white and see how he had not bruised them at all. He held it to her mouth and she sucked. She was not sure if she could taste the clover at all but she had felt his fingers against her lips and her tongue had caught the essence of his skin.

  ‘It’s nectar,’ he said. ‘The bees like it.’

  By four the mating had still not burst into the air and Annie felt a disappointment as sharp as Georgie’s. Don was restless and paced round Georgie who dug into his bait-bag and brought out a jar sealed with muslin.

  ‘It’s honey-comb,’ he said and untied the string around the top, peeled back the muslin and, using a spoon from the bag, levered out a piece of honey-dripping comb. He gave it first to Annie and she felt her face flush. He smiled, then passed pieces round to Tom and Grace. Don and he shared the last. The white comb was waxy and stuck in her teeth. The honey was sweet and sticky. Some had dripped on to her leg and she scooped it up with her finger and licked it. Tom looked at a piece of comb he had saved. ‘It’s perfect,’ he said. ‘Look at that shape. It’s quite perfect.’